The Jane Austen Marriage Manual

by Kim Izzo

  I pause and take another look back at Penwick Manor. I think of the guests inside. I could go back. There’s still time. I can dry my dress. Redo my hair. I could take Scott’s ill-gotten money and live the life. Instead, I merely stand there out of breath, soaking wet, and feeling hopeless when Ratina nickers at me. I smile. Within seconds I have her tacked up and at the mounting block. She stands patiently as I hike up my gown and swing onto the saddle. But as soon as I am mounted I realize that all I’d ever done was walk around, usually with Griff leading me. He had never taught me to trot, let alone gallop. My childhood ride from hell floods back but I shake it off. This is different. This is a matter of life and love. I lean forward and speak softly in Ratina’s ear.

  “I need to catch that man,” I whisper. “He’s riding a very handsome stud. One for me, one for you; do we have a deal?”

  She turns her head and looks at me as if she understands. I kick her gently with my bare heels and she takes off like a shot. I am completely out of control and desperately clinging to her neck when I spot Griff and Fred ahead of us. They are far away, maybe too far. Then, as though sensing my urgency, Ratina whinnies loudly and within seconds Fred answers. I watch as Griff and Fred pull up and pray that Ratina will stop when she reaches them. Fortunately she immediately slows down when she sees them stop and we slowly walk toward them. I must be a sight. My dress is now practically transparent and I can barely see through all the hair that is stuck to my face. But despite my appearance, Griff doesn’t seem all that surprised to see me.

  “Hello,” he says calmly, as though a wet woman in an overly revealing dress riding a horse were the most common thing in the world.

  “Hi,” I say back. “Going for a ride?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Good. We’d like to join you.”

  Griff urges Fred into a walk and Ratina follows without any direction from me.

  “Aren’t you otherwise engaged?” he asks after we walk a few strides.

  “I had a change of plans,” I admit and stare straight ahead.

  He stops Fred and Ratina pulls up beside him. Griff looks at me as if waiting for more.

  “And a change of heart,” I continue more seriously, this time looking him in the eye. “You were right. I can’t marry Scott. I don’t love him. And I don’t love money as much as I thought I did. I want to stay here, at Penwick, if you’ll have me, Lord Saunderson, or whatever I should say.”

  I bow my head as I imagine one does to aristocrats. Griff raises an eyebrow but the warm smile I expect doesn’t appear.

  “I’m not the bloody king,” he says solemnly and grabs Ratina’s reins, removing his raincoat and putting it over my shoulders. “That’s better.”

  I am dumbfounded. I admit a gooey happy ending all tied in a perfect bow is too much to ask but a little bit of romance is due. Or so I think.

  “That’s all there is to it, then?” Griff asks as he kicks his horse forward, his hand still gripping Ratina’s reins, leading her along beside him as though giving me a pony ride. “You jilt Scott at the altar and assume I’ll run into your arms, grateful you’ve come to your bloody senses at last?”

  Kind of. I don’t know what to say now. I feel my stomach knot up with each stride.

  “I thought you loved me,” I blurt. “Last night—”

  “Last night,” he answers, cutting me off and once again yanking us to a stop. His expression isn’t anger exactly, but if I’m not mistaken, it is grave disappointment. I imagine in me. “You were determined to marry Scott for his money. He was the answer to your problems. I was merely a distraction. You may have slept on it last night but so did I. I don’t want to be with a girl who shows such lack of character and judgment. I believed in you, Kate, even when I saw you chasing after that man in Switzerland. I thought you would realize what a fool you were. Despite all your pretenses of being Lady Kate, your behavior has been anything but ladylike.”

  I flinch at his words.

  “I do realize I was a fool!” I snap defensively. “And I love you.”

  We sit there not speaking. The only sound is an occasional snort from one of the horses. I won’t take my eyes off him and, for once, it is he who refuses to meet my gaze. I begin to get very cold. We have remained here long enough that the rain has penetrated his coat and I shiver. This at least gets his attention.

  “Let’s take you back.” He speaks calmly and leads us down the roadway to Penwick. His expression seems to soften and gives me hope. “But it’s too late for us. We’re not a romantic film or an Austen novel.” False hope, as it turns out, despite his voice finally returning to the soft warmth I’ve grown to love. “There isn’t going to be a happy ending. You should go home, back to America.”

  I don’t know what to do or what to say. Ratina falls a few steps behind Fred and with Griff’s back to me I begin to cry. With the rain falling in torrents no one would ever know that I am heartbroken.

  My friends help me pack. We are a solemn bunch. I have never seen Emma, Marianne, and Fawn so quiet. I have, of course, filled them in on every word, there were so few, that Griff had said to me. They listened but said little. What is there to say? That it’s all my own doing? That my blind determination to marry for money has cost me a fine man? I know the answers and don’t need to be told, just as I know that the Austenisms “good prospect” and “eligible match” mean something different than they once did. Griff is right. I am a fool.

  “Get a load of those two,” Marianne says and gestures for us to come to the window. We all peek out just as Scott and Tatiana are piling their luggage into the back of the limo. He takes her hand and kisses it as he helps her into the backseat.

  “That didn’t take him long,” Fawn says with a huff.

  “They deserve each other,” I say with a shrug and go back to packing. I really don’t care anymore about either of them.

  Fawn offers to fly me home on Mona tonight. She won’t take no for an answer, though I admit I don’t try very hard to decline. Marianne and Brandon will fly home with us. At least in front of them I can have a meltdown.

  “I will file my story to Jennifer by Monday,” I say finally, in a weak attempt at humor at my own expense.

  “Don’t worry,” Marianne says softly. “Leave it for a bit. We can hold the publication date until next issue.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I snap. “The June issue is all about weddings! And I’ve dumped my billionaire, remember? And the man I love, the poor Lord of the Manor, has dumped me. If nothing else I need to file the story so you can pay me!”

  Then I laugh. No one else does.

  “Besides,” I continue brashly. “I know the ending. I have my answer.”

  “What was the question?” Emma asks reluctantly as she folds my ruined wedding gown in the flattering shade of oyster, though now with watermarks, into my suitcase. I cross the room, yank it out, and throw it into the trash bin, much to the shock of my friends.

  “At forty years of age, is it too late to marry for money?” I repeat the words that launched my quest. “And the answer is yes, it is. I’m old enough to know better.”

  37.

  Hell’s Kitchen

  Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.

  —Northanger Abbey

  I stand outside and stare up at Ann’s window for a long time. It is just past noon on Sunday and despite the comforts of Mona, I didn’t sleep much on the flight home. Marianne and Brandon have deposited me here in the taxi, but I haven’t worked up the nerve to knock on the door. What will Ann and Iris say to me? Last they knew I was marrying a billionaire and all our problems would be over. Here I am, flat broke with a Louis Vuitton suitcase and no husband. The term “spinster” suddenly seems completely apt. At least I can always sell the suitcase.

  “Are you lost?” a male voice calls out to me. I turn to see its origin and watch as a man in his late forties steps out of an SUV. He is dressed casually but elegantly. Clearly, he is a ma
n who knows the meaning of weekend wear, even if he does look as though he’d stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. He isn’t handsome exactly, but attractive in a preppy, middle-aged, soft chin and even softer midriff way.

  “No, I’m waiting for someone,” I lie.

  He nods and begins to walk up the path to the building. I suppose he knows someone there, as well. But he hesitates at the door, turns, and walks back to me. I straighten my posture defensively, not sure what he is up to. Then he smiles warmly as if we are long-lost friends.

  “You’re Kate, aren’t you?” he says happily and extends his hand.

  “Yes,” I admit reluctantly and shake his hand. “Have we met?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve seen your photo.”

  My mind races to where he may have seen my picture and the horror of the sheer dress in the Daily Mail floods back. Before I can say another word he continues speaking cheerfully.

  “Your sister, Ann, has a few photos in her place,” he answers. “I have a good memory.”

  “And you are?” I ask a bit sternly.

  “I’m Doug,” he says. “I’m Ann’s boyfriend.”

  I must look taken aback for he chuckles at this. “You’re not the only sister that’s met a dashing stranger. At least I hope Ann finds me dashing.”

  What the …? Doug picks up my suitcase and, taking my elbow, leads me to the door and up the staircase. Ann has a boyfriend? Why hadn’t she mentioned Doug in any of her e-mails or on the phone when we last spoke?

  “Hey, Ann, I brought you a surprise,” Doug announces when we enter the apartment. I hear clanking in the kitchen—where else would Ann be, after all—and then the padding of footsteps.

  “What kind of sur—Kate! You’re home!” Ann shrieks happily and hugs me. She looks me up and down, then grabs my left hand excitedly. “Where is it? Your wedding ring? Your husband?” she asks, then, looking me in the face, her expression turns from anticipation to confusion. “What happened?”

  “I think I’ll see what’s happening in the kitchen,” Doug says, excusing himself.

  When he disappears into the kitchen I mouth “Who is he?” to Ann, but she shakes her head and mutters “Later.”

  “Where’s Mom?” I ask, not sure if I want to spill my guts to both of them at once. Ann, I can count on for sympathy, whereas my mother would no doubt resort to hysterics.

  “She’s out,” Ann answers furtively. “Come sit down and tell me what happened.”

  For the next while I can’t stop talking except to cry. She gets all the details that had been missed in the sporadic e-mails I’d dispatched. But when I get to Griff and his complete rejection of me, I break down again.

  “I failed completely,” I say tearfully. “All I wanted to do was meet and marry a man of substance, a man who would take care of me and of us. I wanted to get our home back. I had that man but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t marry for money and, oh Ann, how I tried! But then Griff lost all respect for me. I’m a complete Austen screwup!”

  “Kate, you haven’t failed,” Ann says kindly and rests her hand on my knee. “You just got the point of Austen all turned upside down. What you love about those books is that the heroine finds love, not money. Elizabeth loves Darcy. Emma loves Knightley. Fanny loves Edward. You love Griff. If he’s really Mr. Right, he’ll come back.”

  I shake my head. “There’s no such thing as Mr. Right,” I say indignantly. “But Griff was right for me. I only wish I’d realized that before it was too late. I wish you’d met him.”

  “Maybe I will, one day,” she offers hopefully.

  I shrug. A loud clang sounds in the kitchen and Doug calls out, “Oops! That was only an empty bowl. Nothing’s broken!”

  We both giggle, but the crash in the other room does bring up the point. I shake my head to clear the remaining cobwebs of Penwick from my mind and force a smile. “Come clean, Ann, who is Doug? Tell me everything.”

  And Ann does just that as the man in question can be heard banging about in the kitchen. She can’t stop talking except to laugh. As I listen I realize that I wasn’t the only one who had a plan. Ann had indeed taken her sauces to the Austin food fair and she had some interest from a few specialty food shops, but nothing to indicate she should give up her day job. But on the last day a man came to her booth and loved the sauce, all varieties of it. He loved it so much he stayed in her booth for over an hour. When it was time to close the booth he asked her to dinner. It was Doug. Douglas LaForce of South Carolina. He was an entrepreneur with an interest in gourmet cooking and was in Austin on business, but had read about the food fair in the paper. Now you can imagine where this is going. Sure enough, Doug not only paid for dinner for two, he offered to help her build her sauce business because he had investment money and he could literally taste a winner. He set up meetings for Ann with grocery store chains, starting with Piggly Wiggly in the South, which proved the perfect fit for her barbeque sauces and marinades. Before she knew it she had orders to supply the entire South Carolina Piggly Wiggly chain with sauce and she had a boyfriend. And Doug LaForce of South Carolina was a very good prospect indeed. Not that Ann needed his prospects so much because now hers looked so good. They were in the process of renting a professional factory kitchen in order to keep up with demand and were about to post an ad for help when yours truly arrived.

  “Will you do it?” Ann asks when her tale had been told. I’m no cook, and my interest in food resides solely in the eating category, but I need a job and, well, if the family’s prospects lie in a gooey substance to spread over meat, then so be it.

  “Can I at least get an apron from Chanel?” I joke.

  The door opens and in walks my mother, Iris. She looks at me, as shocked as Ann had been. Since we exist in the land of awkward family moments our reunion goes like this:

  “You’re here,” Iris announces not moving an inch toward me and clutching her handbag as though I might snatch it away.

  “I am,” I respond, not bothering to get up from the sofa.

  “Why?” Iris asks.

  “Mom, what kind of question is that?” Ann says wearily.

  “Because I dumped my fiancé,” I answer in as blasé a manner as I can.

  “Well, you know, we Shaw women never have good luck with men,” Iris says in her trademark way with words. “It’s the family curse.”

  I sigh. Then Doug walks in and sees the three of us staring at one another. He is carrying a tray with three champagne flutes full of pink bubbly.

  “I thought Kate’s surprise homecoming needed celebrating,” he says and gives each of us a glass.

  “Don’t you want a glass?” Ann asks, but Doug has grabbed his coat and is kissing her on the cheek.

  “When I get back,” he says wisely. “I think the three of you have lots to catch up on.” He squeezes Iris’s shoulder reassuringly on the way out. It is a gesture of kindness that surprises me.

  “He seems like a nice guy,” I say when he leaves. “And I don’t mean that in a bland way.”

  “Ann is lucky,” Iris says and takes off her coat and sits down in between Ann and me on the sofa. “Or I should say, Doug is lucky.”

  We clink our flutes and sip the champagne. With my lack of sleep and jet lag it doesn’t take more than a few sips to get the requisite buzz and with it comes a sigh of relief that I am home. As awkward, dysfunctional, and moody as the three of us are, it feels like home, minus one very important person, my grandmother.

  “Doug will need luck,” I say with a smirk. “If he’s going to spend any great amount of time with our family.”

  We all laugh and as we do my eyes rest on a photograph of my grandmother that was taken years before I was born. It is one of my favorites. She’s in a pencil skirt and fitted jacket and has a mink stole wrapped around her shoulders, very glamorous.

  “How old was Nana in that shot?” I ask and point to it.

  “I don’t know,” Ann answers and furrows her brow as though trying to guess.

  �
��She was your age,” Iris says with authority.

  I keep staring at the photo. My grandmother died at ninety-three. When this photo was taken she still had fifty-three years of life. That was a long time, long enough to make changes. Who knows how long I’d live but I have good genes. A woman can do a lot in fifty-three years.

  I’ve been home one week and I’m sitting across the desk from Jennifer. She has in her hands the hard copy of my article.

  “ ‘The Jane Austen Marriage Manual,’ great title,” she says. I only nod and think back to Griff’s disapproving tone when he’d said it and the memory instantly darkens my mood. “I love it,” Jennifer continues with her signature crooked smile that is more of a smirk. “Especially the stable boy bit.”

  “Thank you,” I answer, hoping her approval will get me a rush on the check.

  “But in the end your advice is Austen only works if you fall in love with the object of your desire.”

  “That’s correct,” I answer simply. There is no way I will change the ending.

  “You may be right. Remember Tina?” she asks.

  How can I forget? Tina is one of the most ruthless gold diggers I’d ever met. She could give Tatiana a run for her money, pun intended. I nod.

  “She fell head over heels in love with an auto mechanic and has moved with him to Minnesota.” Jennifer says all this with a wrinkled nose, as if she smells something rotten.

  “Good for her,” I say, though I’m loathe to admit that Tina is smarter than me.

  “So, your article is right-on,” she continues. “It will be a big hit, I can tell. But what about your personal ending? You don’t really say … no Darcy, no Knightley for you?”

  “I’m still looking,” I say vaguely. She agrees to rush my payment and I stand up to leave.