The Austen Playbook

by Lucy Parker

  “I have every intention of avoiding The Henry, but I’m working from Highbrook for a couple of weeks.”

  Poor thing. The arduousness of having to work from your family mansion, surrounded by roses and peacocks. Weathered-but-gorgeous country estates were just wasted on some people.

  “You might want to keep your door locked at night, then,” Freddy said. “And check your morning coffee for traces of cyanide.”

  “Planning to exact revenge for the safety scissors comment after all?”

  “I’m a forgiving soul, me.” She grinned down at him. “Can’t say the same for some of that lot out there. And it’s a murder-mystery play. All the suspects gathered together for a house party. It could give someone ideas.” She twirled in a circle centre-stage, enjoying the faint breeze that fluttered the hem of her skirt. “The sarcastic critic with his poison pen and scores of embittered enemies. If this was Midsomer Murders, you wouldn’t even make it to the opening credits. If you hear the faint strains of ominous music, come find me. I’ll protect you.”

  “I can’t tell you how reassured I feel.” When he set his mouth in long-suffering lines, his lips disappeared. “Do your thoughts always bounce around your brain like a pinball game?”

  “I think of it more like ten-pin bowling. Pick up an idea, chuck it at the rest, and hope for the best.”

  Griff looked up at her in speaking silence before he shook his head. “When you encounter my brother later, introduce yourself. You’re soulmates.”

  Chapter Four

  Freddy encountered the less scowly Ford-Griffin brother sooner than expected. When she returned to the lawn for the cast meeting, the largest circle of people had formed around Sadie and Dylan, so she gave them a wide berth and went to say hello to Maya Dutta.

  Tall, with deep olive skin, high cheekbones, and an abundance of thick black hair, Maya was the Sadie antithesis in Freddy’s work circle. She had a sarcastic sense of humour that made Freddy laugh, but she was often shy with strangers, one of the professional actors whose parents had originally put them in drama classes to get them talking. And she was an all-around general good egg. She had been cornered by a muscular man with red hair and laughing blue eyes, and was flushing and playing with her fringe while she slipped the occasional word into his stream of chatter. She turned to smile at Freddy with a certain amount of relief. Freddy wasn’t in the least shy, but after seeing who else was in the cast, they were obviously both thinking the same thing: thank God, a friendly face.

  “Hi, Freddy, how are you? Have you met Charlie? He’s our resident host.”

  “Just think of me as the ginger, British equivalent of Julie from The Love Boat,” Charlie said. “At your service, here to answer any question and solve every problem.” He wiggled his brows. “Day or night.”

  “Can you instantly recast a few principal roles?” Freddy asked, not entirely joking. Sadie was shooting malicious little peeks in their direction, and looking entirely too pleased for Freddy’s peace of mind, and Dylan was staring at her boobs again.

  Maya glanced over at Sadie and winced. “They didn’t miss a trick casting her as Emma Woodhouse, did they? Hopefully the audience votes her into an early, grisly demise before she has to stretch her acting abilities and take Emma from insufferable meddler into an actual growth arc.”

  Charlie blinked. People who encountered only the quiet side of Maya were often taken by surprise when she felt at ease enough to share her full personality.

  “Sadie’s playing Emma?” There had obviously been a lot of last-minute swaps in the casting. On the bright side, from what Freddy had memorised of the colossal script so far, Lydia and Emma had very few scenes together.

  Except in one variant of the storyline. And why did she suddenly have a sinking premonition that would be the way the vote would play out.

  She clutched at her rapidly shredding optimism.

  “Unfortunately, the Fleshlumpeater isn’t an Austen character,” Maya said, “so they couldn’t completely typecast her.”

  Charlie’s crack of laughter was contagious, and several heads turned curiously in their direction.

  When she’d regained enough of her composure to speak without a quaver, Freddy said, “And you’re still playing Elizabeth Bennet?”

  “Correct, little sis.” Maya grinned at her.

  “You almost got to snog Jeremy Bury,” Freddy said, and they both took a moment to reflect wistfully on that.

  Maya glanced at Dylan. “In this instance, I reckon Elizabeth was dead-on with her response to Darcy’s initial proposal. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, Fitzwilliam.” She wrinkled her nose. “I hope the theatre is as adorable as promised, because this production has some serious ground to make up.”

  “It’s amazing,” Freddy murmured, her attention momentarily snagging back on the rooftop visible through the trees.

  Charlie cocked his head. “Have you had a look already?”

  “I—” Her mind finally caught up with Maya’s brief introduction. Their host, she’d said. “I think I considerably worsened your...brother’s day?” Her voice lifted on the query, and the twinkle in Charlie’s eyes deepened.

  “Griff busted you, did he?”

  Curiously, she studied Charlie’s face, cataloguing similarities and differences—there were few of the former. “Fortunately, my ego is battle-hardened where your brother is concerned. Older brother?”

  “Does that really need corroboration?” Charlie spread his arms in a self-deprecating gesture. “We’re an embarrassing pantomime of the dictatorial elder and feckless younger.”

  It wasn’t difficult to deduce which of them shouldered most responsibility around here, no.

  Not that she personally had a leg to stand on when it came to being a forthright, take-charge member of her own family. Grumpus over yonder could be right. She and Charlie probably had all sorts in common.

  He offered immediate confirmation of that fact by producing a random roll of sweets from his pocket and offering them around. She was all for people who came with portable snacks. Maya was hailed by the assistant director as she took one, and headed in his direction, her shield of reserve back in place before she’d taken two steps.

  “She’s sharp,” Charlie said admiringly, and offered Freddy another sweet. “I can’t really imagine her as a soppy romantic heroine.”

  Freddy licked grains of sugar from her thumb. “I’m assuming you haven’t actually read Jane Austen.”

  “Careful.” Charlie tossed the rest of the sweets into his mouth. “Your prejudice is showing.” He nudged her. “See what I did there? Prejudice?”

  “It’s going to be a long couple of weeks, isn’t it?”

  “I think your captain is summoning the troops.” He nodded towards the area where people were setting up a marquee, and Freddy saw a distinctive topknot of grey curls.

  Somewhere under that mountain of hair was Maf Reynolds, one-time political activist turned exceptional theatrical director. She rarely worked outside of New York these days, and her attachment to the project had been another big selling point for Freddy. Maf had been her first ever director, in the long-ago days of Oliver!, and she’d never forgotten the woman’s ability to both coax out strength and quell bullshit.

  With Maf’s first words to Dylan, Freddy’s afternoon took an upward curve. “Regardless of whether your wife has divorced you, if I catch you putting any particle of your anatomy near any other member of this team and it’s not explicitly instructed in the script, there’s going to be a short, painful meeting between you, me, and the end of this paperclip.”

  Maf eyeballed him for a good five seconds, then addressed the assembled cast, cutting through the hum of voices. “We’ll have a first read-through tomorrow morning at nine, in the theatre. Inclusive of all scene variations. If you’re not yet word-perfect, start taking your mammoth scripts to bed with you
, folks, because I want everyone off-book in precisely one week. Every person here has extensive experience in live theatre or television and film, or all of the above. Very few of you will have combined the most intense aspects of all three media and performed for a public broadcast. The night of the performance will be stressful, chaotic, and if all goes well, the highlight of your working year.” She slammed a hand down on one cocked hip, and the weathered dark skin around her eyes and mouth creased further into forbidding lines. “Take the rest of the day to get to know any unfamiliar faces, and if there’s anyone here that you’d fancy dropping in the lake, maintain a professional distance, because I have exactly zero tolerance for actors who behave like overgrown, ego-swollen toddlers.”

  “Was that the typical pep talk you get in theatre?” Charlie was still hovering at Freddy’s side, watching with fascination as the cast drifted into two main groups—the West End regulars and the various TV and film actors who’d been brought in as the main audience draw. Everyone was taking each other’s measure with various degrees of condescension. “It sounded about as morale-boosting as being hit over the head with a two-by-four.”

  “It depends whether you need to be spoon-fed instructions and verbally patted on the head before you can turn in a good performance,” said a silky voice, and Sadie joined them. She somehow managed to make an entrance in all situations. Even when she was just rocking up and interrupting someone else’s conversation, she generated a vibe of a starlet flinging open double doors or posing at the top of a grand staircase.

  She cast one brief, disparaging glance over Charlie before she dismissed him and focused her attention on Freddy. She definitely looked pleased to see her. Ominous.

  “Charlie, this is Sadie Foster. Sadie, Charlie Ford-Griffin. Our host,” Freddy said bluntly, and was unsurprised by the blink-and-miss-it alteration in the other woman’s attitude.

  Sadie’s lips moved into the smile she reserved for theatre management, the press, and young men whose families owned multimillion-pound property. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Yeah.” Charlie hadn’t missed the changing dynamic, either. He’d stopped bouncing around and shifting on his feet like a child hyped on sugar. “You too. I saw you in Oklahoma! recently.”

  “Oh?” Sadie studied him through long lashes.

  “Treated myself after a bad week at work.” The breeziness of Charlie’s voice had taken on a suspicious note. “After my brother’s review, I thought it would help me put things back into perspective.”

  Freddy didn’t make eye contact with either of them. She’d read his brother’s review of that production, as well.

  It was never a good sign when the first sentence contained the phrase “self-flagellation.”

  Sadie tossed back her glossy waves of blond hair, refrained from audibly sniffing, and looked at Freddy again. “I was so thrilled to hear that you’d signed on for this.” The words were verbal syrup, slick and sweet.

  “Were you.” Freddy’s response emerged flatly, but at least it wasn’t the “Oh, yeah?” that tickled her throat.

  “It’s been forever since we worked together.”

  Three years. They’d done a short run of From Vita to Virginia after Freddy had finished up in 1553. She’d been twenty at the time, and she’d come out of the experience with stress-induced shingles, something she’d previously associated with pensioners. Sadie’s constant transformation from her warm, witty persona onstage to the nasty viper backstage had given Freddy mental whiplash.

  “I was just thinking about you recently.” The saccharine tone was turning into a purr, and Freddy had the creeping sensation of standing on a rug and feeling someone take an experimental pull at it, waiting to rip it out from under her feet. “I did a festival run of Cymbeline at the Globe.” There was a gleam in Sadie’s eyes. “Great team. It’s always a pleasure when you work with such...knowledgeable people. When you’ve been in this business for a while, it’s so fun to realise you can still learn something new. Don’t you think?”

  That crawling feeling was an itch at the base of Freddy’s neck, sliding down her spine. “I suppose.” She felt as if she was navigating a path in the dark, stepping gingerly to avoid the landmines.

  “Yes.” Sadie’s smile widened. “I’m sure even you must find that, and you’re an actor of such vast experience.”

  Annoyance was starting to fizz under the apprehension. Freddy had never had any patience for the bullshit mind games in this profession. She had no idea what Sadie thought she knew—whatever it was, she was just about hugging herself with the secret—but she’d seen too many poor puppets dancing on the other woman’s strings over the years to let her slip the knot around her own neck.

  She was about to say something short and rude that would probably act like lighter fluid on the situation, when Charlie shifted and spoke at her side. “Sorry to interrupt the shop talk, but I have to head out soon, so if you still want to see the library, Freddy, this would be a good time.”

  She felt the light squeeze of his fingers around her elbow and looked at him.

  “You wanted to see our Wythburn Group first editions?” Charlie prompted, lightly, and she latched thankfully on to the rescue attempt. It was much more gracefully managed than the suggestions her own mind had rapidly offered, which ranged from four-letter words to taking Maf’s unintentional suggestion and kicking Sadie into the lake.

  “Are you sure you have time?”

  One side of Charlie’s mouth turned up. Somehow it seemed like a comradely high-five. “Never let it be said I disappointed a lady.” He tucked a strong arm cosily through hers. “Sorry,” he said to Sadie. “I’m going to steal her for a while.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” Sadie infused the light comment with layers of meaning. She saved her subtlety for the stage. “Plenty of time to continue our chat.”

  They left her humming with self-satisfaction and headed past the rest of the chattering cast towards the main house.

  “Charming girl,” Charlie remarked. “I considered trying for the stage for about five minutes when I was a kid. Glad I let Griff’s litany about the number of unemployed actors in London and my complete lack of follow-through push me in the direction of commerce instead. The brutality is more transparent in finance. People usually don’t bother to plaster a smile over the blatant self-interest.”

  Freddy glanced at him, then away. “Fortunately, most people in the West End aren’t like Sadie. She’s in a class of her own.” In the interests of honesty, she added, “She’s, like, next-level talented, though. I was twelve when I worked with her for the first time, and I still remember being literally speechless with awe watching her.”

  “I’ve seen you perform. I much prefer watching you.” There was no flirtation or calculated flattery in Charlie’s statement. “I’m looking forward to seeing this show. I’m not into period dramas, but I went to your production of Beauty and the Beast years ago and you made me give a shit about dancing teacups, so I reckon I can get on board with a bit of bodice-ripping and bodies in the library.” They crossed around the side of the house and he held a wooden door open for her. “Sorry, I don’t express myself as well as Griff.”

  “But you’re a hell of a lot better for my ego.” Freddy stood in a cool, dimly lit hallway, breathing in the faint smell of baking bread. “Speaking of the library, I appreciate the save from Sadie’s baiting and I bow to your lightning-fast ad lib, but if you don’t mind, I actually would like to see your library.”

  She was still feeling unusually unsettled, and she found few things as calming as floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

  A back scratch and having her neck kissed by a sexy man, maybe, but the only person on this property who was likely to oblige was Dylan, and there were not enough nope gifs in the world.

  “I live to keep the ladies happy.” Charlie gestured down the winding passageway to their left. The interior of the hou
se was typical of stately homes of the period: ornate, impressive, chilly, and so low-ceilinged that she could just about reach up and touch the curlicues in the joinery. “This way. If you’re picturing rolling stepladders and ancient maps, I’d lower your expectations. It’s not quite the Bodleian. Although my great-aunt did have a fancy for illustrated manuscripts, if you’re into posh calligraphy.”

  As they passed an open doorway, two people came out carrying a dollhouse between them. The biggest dollhouse Freddy had ever seen. She looked enquiringly at Charlie. “Do you have kids here?”

  She was trying to imagine his older brother as the doting dad of screeds of tiny, shrieking tots, and failing miserably.

  Charlie held another door open for the dollhouse procession to pass through, with a word of thanks. “No. That’s one of my parents’ designs. A comparatively simple one, for them. Must be an early prototype.”

  “Your parents make dollhouses?”

  “The term probably isn’t grand enough. Doll estates. Towers. Castles. Entire fortified medieval towns. Think cobblers, blacksmiths, and apothecaries. Or the Parisian series—little couturiers and patisseries.”

  Freddy’s hands rose to her cheeks of their own accord.

  Charlie gave her an amused look. “Oh dear. A kindred spirit.”

  “Your parents design tiny working worlds? For a living?”

  The glow of his smile dimmed. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a living, no.” He pulled open a large wooden door. “Here we go. Highbrook Wells Library. Most likely filled with books about your gran right now.”

  “Why would—” Freddy cut herself off as she walked past him into the open, airy room. A massive picture window flooded the space with so much bright light that it hurt her eyes after the comparative gloom of the hallway, but she wasn’t so blinded that she could overlook the icy stare coming her way from the central desk.