The Jane Austen Marriage Manual

by Kim Izzo

  34.

  It’s My Party

  And I have nothing to regret … nothing but my own folly.

  —Sense and Sensibility

  I once again slipped into my Chanel dress, now as comforting as an old slipper, a very expensive old slipper. I stood in front of a gilt-edged mirror and examined my reflection. The dress was as elegant as ever, but something was missing, and I knew what. I picked up the pearl necklace that Ann had given me at Christmas and did up the clasp. There. Perfect. I was ready for anything.

  A knock on my door told me that it was time. Sure enough, Scott stood on the threshold in his bespoke tuxedo and held out his arm for me.

  “Darling,” he grinned.

  I swallowed hard and forced a smile. I was suddenly afraid to leave my room. Nothing seemed real—it was as though I were an imposter about to be unmasked, which wasn’t too far from the truth. Scott gently kissed my forehead as if he understood.

  “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “You’re with me.”

  I smiled up at him and tried to relax as we descended the staircase and entered the ballroom. My eyes widened at the room’s altered appearance. It had been given the wedding planner treatment; everywhere were flowers and ribbons in my colors of blush pink and white. Peonies and roses practically leapt out of vases and urns. Candelabras lit the entire ballroom, their flames emitting warmth in all directions. The room was packed with people. I scanned the crowd for familiar faces and realized that I had only my small entourage—none of whom were visible at the moment—and that the rest belonged to Scott.

  “You invited a ton of people,” I said with panic.

  “Don’t be shy, you’ve met most of them; they’re mainly business associates,” he explained nonchalantly as he paraded me through the sea of middle-aged men and women. He was right; most of the people I had met before over endless lunches and dinners and they greeted us enthusiastically. There was lots of “Kate, we’re so happy you met Scott …” and “Scott needed a wife with a touch of class,” or my very favorite, “You’re such an improvement on that Slovenian girl; thank God he didn’t marry her.” It wasn’t long before my nerves faded and my confidence returned. I was about to become a permanent member of Team Madewell and I had to enjoy it. But as I stood surrounded by well-wishing strangers, I wondered if Scott’s crowd would consume my life as it had done in London. The thought made me want to be with my friends—people who knew me, the real me. I politely excused myself and went in search of my gang, who weren’t exactly tough to locate. All I had to do was find the bar.

  “You look gorgeous,” Brandon said and kissed me gently on the lips.

  Clive shook his head and gestured to Scott. “Does he ever stop working?”

  “I was surprised he’d invited so many people,” I admitted, and seeing Scott scan the room for me, ducked behind my friends to avoid detection. “All clients and financial types.”

  “That’s not the only type he invited,” Fawn scoffed and pointed to a far corner. I turned around and my jaw dropped.

  “Tatiana!” I said in disbelief.

  “Who is she?” Marianne asked. “And what is she wearing?”

  “That’s his ex,” I said stiffly. Tatiana was wearing the shortest minidress I’d ever seen, and worse it also had a plunging neckline. “Tsk, tsk,” Marianne said in her best fashion editor voice. “You should never show that much leg and that much boob at the same time.”

  “Yes,” agreed Emma. “One or the other, never both.”

  But Clive, Brandon, and Marco couldn’t stop staring. Clearly, they weren’t offended by Tatiana’s crime of fashion. Emma eventually stepped on Clive’s toe.

  “Why would he invite her?” I asked, puzzled and angry.

  “Don’t look now,” Fawn advised. “But she’s coming this way.”

  Sure enough, Tatiana was moving toward us, swaying her hips and running her hands through her hair as if she were in a music video.

  “She’s going to knock someone over swinging those hips like that,” Brandon said with a gulp.

  “Pick your tongue up off the floor,” Marianne snapped.

  Then we were face-to-face.

  “Hello, Kate,” Tatiana purred. “Congratulations.”

  “Hello, Tatiana,” I said with fake warmth. “So nice of you to make it.”

  “So nice of you to invite me,” she said.

  The girl had nerve.

  “I didn’t,” I said honestly and tried to sound snooty.

  She looked surprised. “But Scott said you wanted me here,” she said, dismayed. “I would not have come otherwise.”

  No one knew where to look, least of all me.

  “Well, you’re here now,” Fawn said, smiling. “What are you drinking?” With that, she escorted Tatiana out of my field of vision and to the bar.

  “That bastard!” I seethed. “Why would he invite her and not ask me first?”

  “She looks harmless,” Clive piped up.

  We women rolled our eyes. “She looks many things and harmless isn’t one of them,” I said.

  “Are you going to say anything to Scott?” Emma asked.

  My mind raced over the past month. Who knew what he had been up to in London? All those weekends he was too busy to visit me? All this time I was feeling guilty about Griff and he’d been spending time with Tatiana or at least talking to her enough to invite her to my wedding.

  I spotted Scott in a small circle of people, puffing on a cigar.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said staunchly and marched over to him. “Can I speak with you a moment?”

  “My fiancée needs me,” he said, grinning at his friends.

  Once we were out of earshot, I whispered angrily, “What were you thinking, inviting Tatiana?”

  “She’s a friend,” he said with feigned seriousness. “Besides, I thought you liked her.”

  “She doesn’t belong at my wedding,” I insisted.

  “It’s my wedding, too,” he reminded me coldly. “She called me when she got back from Slovenia, poor kid; she doesn’t know many people in England, so I invited her. Big deal.”

  I was fuming but it was clear that I wasn’t going to get any real answers. Not now. Just then Marianne interrupted, trying to stop the situation from getting worse.

  “Excuse me,” she said politely. “Brandon has taken over DJ duties and he’d like you two to dance.”

  We looked over and saw that Brandon had indeed taken up the post at the DJ table. He waved as the old jazz standard “A Sunday Kind of Love” came over the speaker system. Scott rolled his eyes.

  “I don’t dance,” he said firmly and smiled. “Now, I have to get back to those people. I handle millions of their dollars and they deserve a little face-to-face time.”

  “But what about me?” I stammered. “Don’t I deserve it?”

  “They have real concerns about their financial statements,” he said angrily, implying my concerns weren’t real. “It’s my responsibility to ease their stress.” Then he walked away leaving me there to fume; this was our first fight and I wasn’t winning. I became aware that I was standing there like a fool but I didn’t know what to do next—run after him or run away from him? I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Marianne, I need to be alone,” I began, but a man’s voice cut me off.

  “May I have this dance?”

  I turned to find Griff standing in front of me wearing a tuxedo.

  “I have to get another drink.” Marianne smiled and scurried off.

  I stared at him in disbelief. I hadn’t expected him to show up, let alone ask me to dance.

  “I thought you’d be in London by now,” I stammered.

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  “But don’t you have to pack?” I asked stupidly.

  “I’m not a fashion plate like you are, remember? Or so you keep saying.” He smiled. His hair, though slicked back, still managed to fall across one eye. There was something wild about his appearance that unnerved me: something dangerous and
glamorous at the same time. “The song will be over before you answer me.”

  “Yes, I’d love to.” I smiled reluctantly.

  “A Sunday Kind of Love” is without a doubt one of my favorite songs of all time. Brandon wasn’t holding back. I looked over to see if he knew it wasn’t Scott he was inspiring. Brandon nodded and grinned. He knew, all right. I should explain that “A Sunday Kind of Love” is a romantic ballad that I’m sure was the 1940s equivalent to “Stairway to Heaven,” with lyrics that were impossible to ignore. The words spoke of a love that went beyond one night and that first blush of romance, a love that endured beyond Saturday date night and into the reality of Sunday.

  As the song played I was suddenly all nerves and self-consciousness and couldn’t bear to look at Griff, so instead I buried my head in his shoulder, which didn’t help because it reminded me how good it felt to be this close to him. I tried to distract myself by being thankful he didn’t smell like the barn, but it was no use. Then the song ended. As the music faded, I worked up the nerve to look at Griff. He gazed back and the corners of his lips curled up ever so slightly into a smile. Both of us stood there, motionless and speechless, but still holding on to each other. I knew he wanted to kiss me, and worse, I wanted to kiss him. The fight with Scott was affecting my judgment. Any concern about what we might do vanished very quickly. Remember what I said about Brandon’s talent for breaking up awkward moments? Out blasted Tony Bennett singing “Rags to Riches,” all about love making you feel rich, like a millionaire. That did it. Griff and I leapt apart as if we were on fire.

  “I have to get back to my friends,” I blurted out awkwardly and practically ran away. I needed a drink and fast. Oh God, no matter how much I’d tried to deny it, I was still attracted to Griff. I grabbed a glass of champagne and drank it like water. What was I going to do? Loads of people repressed feelings for one person in order to marry another, I was sure of it. I couldn’t think of Griff, not now, not ever. Scott would take care of me. He didn’t still love Tatiana. She was just a friend. I was being petty. I repeated the above over and over as I drank and drank.

  The party continued and I was quite drunk as I circulated among the guests, avoiding Tatiana. I had watched Griff sitting next to Clive and Emma. He was no mingler. I supposed that was expected; they were his only true friends in the room. I slumped onto a sofa next to the rest of my group and sighed heavily.

  “I think you’ve had enough,” Brandon said and pulled a half-empty glass from my hand.

  “They call it a cup of courage,” I slurred.

  “You have enough courage by now,” Fawn added.

  Before I could protest any further, the unmistakable sound of silverware clinking crystal reverberated around the room. The crowd parted and in the center was Scott, a cigar in one hand, a champagne flute in the other. He had brought the room to silence.

  “Go to him,” Fawn said and gently pushed me forward. Everyone’s eyes were on me as I walked toward him. The loud echo my heels made on the hardwood made me quicken my pace awkwardly.

  “There you are,” Scott called out and grabbed me by the waist so that I was practically in his lap. The smoke was too much for me and I swatted it away.

  “She’s not a fan of my cigars! But you’ll have to get used to them, sweetheart!” He laughed, and the crowd laughed uncomfortably. It was obvious he was drunk, even more than I was. I’d never seen him like this and I didn’t like it. “But when true love happens, what’s there to complain about?”

  He clutched me to him and kissed me hard on the lips. The crowd applauded awkwardly. I couldn’t breathe, his grip was so tight, and the smoke so powerful, I could feel myself struggling to get free. At last he let me go and I stumbled, teetering on my heels. I wiped my mouth as subtly as I could and as I did I spotted Griff, not six feet away, staring at me with an expression I couldn’t put my finger on. Was it pity?

  “To my fiancée,” Scott said triumphantly and raised his glass, but as he did so the cigar dropped from his hand and fell toward me. I tried to catch it. But my reflexes were too slow and I missed. The cigar struck my thigh and instantly burned through my dress and singed my flesh. I gasped, but it wasn’t because of physical pain. It was the hole in my Chanel dress that caused the agony.

  The room went deathly silent. I quickly brushed off the ashes but it was no use—seared through the fabric was a hole the size of a quarter. I stared at it in disbelief. I looked up at Scott. He was still grinning. My whole body shaking, I ran my hand over the hole and poked my finger inside. I could feel skin. The cigar had burned through the wool and right through the silk lining. My Chanel dress was ruined. The dress my grandmother had bought me. The dress we had fought over, and made up over, and that I treasured dearly because it reminded me of her. Now it was destroyed. I stood like a statue, not knowing what I should do next, when all of a sudden I sniffled, once, then again. It was as though I was struck by a sudden head cold. Another sniffle. Then I knew I was crying, tears were streaming down my face, salty and hot. They ran into my mouth and down my neck. I hadn’t cried in months and now I couldn’t stop. Scott’s voice boomed, cutting through the silence.

  “Don’t be silly, my dear,” he said with a laugh. “It’s just a dress. We can buy you a new one.”

  That did it. I began to sob uncontrollably. “My grandmother bought me this dress,” I cried. “It can’t be replaced.”

  “You’re overreacting!” he snapped and grabbed my arm again and whispered angrily. “Stop behaving like a child. You’re embarrassing me.”

  He had never spoken to me like that before. I wanted to snatch my arm away but I didn’t have to; someone else had my arm and was pulling me free. I watched Scott shrug in defeat and turned and saw Griff leading me away and then the ballroom door closed behind me.

  “Put your arms around my neck,” Griff said gently, just as he had after my accident. I did as I was told, only this time I did it without objection. He lifted me up and carried me down the long hallway, past the great room and morning room and dining room until we were in the entranceway. But we didn’t stop there, nor did he carry me upstairs to my room. Instead, he kept walking until we reached the mahogany doors. He put me down and, taking a key from his pocket, opened the lock. The huge door creaked open, revealing an enormous library with floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases, oriental rugs, leather armchairs, and a ruby red fainting couch.

  “I thought we weren’t allowed in here,” I said through tears. “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

  Griff didn’t answer. He led me to the sofa and there I sat and watched as he locked us in, then went to a sideboard where there were glasses and decanters and poured two glasses of wine before taking up residence in one of the leather club chairs opposite me.

  “Drink this,” he said and handed me a glass. “It will do you good.”

  I nodded and sipped. It was a full-bodied cabernet; its strong taste warmed me up. We sat in uneasy silence. Where was Brandon when I needed him? Even though my tears had dried, I didn’t know what to say, so I turned my attention to the room. It was spectacular, more so than any other in the house. But I was struck mostly by the color of the walls. They were a dusty pinkish grey; it was soothing in an all too familiar way.

  “My bedroom was painted a similar color,” I explained. “It was called …”

  “Smoked Trout,” Griff finished my sentence. “This room has been this color for nearly three hundred years. Farrow and Ball took samples for their reproduction.”

  I looked at him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

  “Englishmen don’t joke about heritage paint.” He grinned.

  “Wow, I knew Penwick was important.” I smiled then laughed. “Obviously more important than the name of a paint.”

  He smiled graciously and beckoned me to follow him to the bookcase, where he grabbed a very old volume and placed it in my hands.

  “First edition of Pride and Prejudice, as promised.” He smiled.

  I
gasped. I couldn’t believe it. I carefully opened the cover and read the date of publication—1813—and clutched it to my chest.

  “Not so fast,” he teased. “It doesn’t leave the room.”

  I smiled innocently.

  “You can visit it anytime,” he said. “Read it in this room, if you like.”

  “Is this the library where Mr. Penwick reads?” I asked and sat back down with the first edition on my lap. “When he’s here, that is.”

  Griff sighed in exasperation.

  “There is no Mr. Penwick,” he said bluntly.

  “There isn’t?” I was confused. “Doris said the family still lived here, in these rooms, when there wasn’t an annoying wedding going on.”

  “She’s right,” he said with a mixture of seriousness and anxiety in his voice, as if he didn’t want to tell me something but knew he had to. “The eldest son lives here mostly, the others only occasionally. But the name isn’t Penwick. That’s the name of the estate.”

  “You told me the family was Penwick,” I said, confused.

  “I made it up,” he said with a guilty look on his face.

  “Why would you do that?” I asked.

  “Privacy, I guess,” he said simply. “The name of English estates isn’t always the same as the family name.”

  “I knew that,” I said, trying not to sound foolish. Then holding the book up for added emphasis, “I mean, Mr. Darcy lived in Pemberley, not Darcy Manor. Oh God!” I stared at Griff. He took a deep breath. Oh God, why hadn’t I thought of it before? “What is the name of the family who lives here?” I asked even though I knew the answer.

  “Saunderson,” he said and smiled sheepishly.

  I blinked several times, letting this development sink in. “You mean?” I stumbled over the words. “You’re the, the, the …?”

  “Yes, to answer your almost question. I’m the heir of the estate.” He stood up and held his hand out for me to take. “The Eleventh Earl of Penwick, at your service.”

  I placed my hand in his and he bowed and kissed it. I laughed.