The Dashwood Sisters Tell All

by Beth Pattillo

  He grinned. “Of all the forests in all the counties in all of England…” He shook his head. “I can't believe it's you.”

  “Me, neither.” I didn't know whether to stick out my hand for him to shake or to give him an awkward hug. Neither seemed right. “What are you doing here?”

  He laughed, a familiar and somehow comforting sound. Years might have passed, but he still had the same good-natured, warm laugh. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Obviously you’re staying at Oakley Hall,” I said. He stepped forward, until we were a mere two feet apart. “Wait. You aren't on the Jane Austen tour, are you?” My stomach dropped to my ankles.

  “Actually, yes.”

  Panic exploded in my chest. “But, why…I mean, Jane Austen? You?” He’d been a business major, and the few announcements I’d seen in the alumni magazine had charted the course of his successful career as an international antiques dealer. After a few years, I’d quit reading the alumni magazine. “I thought you were more of a John Steinbeck kind of guy.”

  “I was. I mean, I am.”

  “So you’re here under spousal duress?” I refused to let my panic show on my face.

  “No. I’m here alone.” He flexed his left hand at his side, and that was when I noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. “Melissa and I…well, we’re not together anymore.”

  The thrill that went through me at the knowledge was wrong. Of course it was. But that didn't do anything to discourage it.

  He looked at me then, really looked at me. Our gazes met, and suddenly I wasn't thirty-eight but eighteen, meeting him for the first time at freshman orientation. My life had changed in that one moment. Irrevocably. Permanently. Eternally. And then Melissa had stepped up next to him, and he’d introduced me to his high-school sweetheart. They’d decided on colleges together, she’d said. They were planning to get married as soon as they graduated. And I had settled for friendship for the next four years.

  He stepped forward and caught my arm. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I didn't object when he led me to an enormous fallen log. “Sit down,” he said. “Should I get you some water?”

  “No. I’m fine.” I tried to breathe deeply, and after a moment my head cleared and I felt normal again. “It's just been quite a day.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “It's a long story.”

  He lowered himself to the log beside me and stretched out his legs. “I have as long as you need. Unless you’d rather be alone.”

  How in the world had all this happened? How had I come to be sitting on a log in the middle of England with the one man I’d ever loved?

  “No, I’m fine. Just surprised to see you.”

  He was silent for a long moment. I would have expected some forest rustlings, some birdsong from the trees above, but the world was still and quiet. And then I heard it, a lone bird with a rather plaintive cry. Too late. Too late, it seemed to say.

  “Daniel—”

  “Ellen—”

  We spoke at the same time and then stopped. Then we laughed, although my reaction was more from nerves than humor.

  “This can't be a coincidence,” I said. “I think I detect the hand of my mother in all of this.” Why else would Daniel have turned up on a Jane Austen walking tour?

  “You would be right,” he said with a rueful smile, “but maybe not for the reasons you think.”

  “Oh?” My cheeks went flame red. Was I that transparent?

  “Your mom contacted me before she…passed away. She said she wanted to hire me to come on this trip.”

  “Hire you?” Confusion tightened my chest. “I don't understand.” Most likely my mother had concocted some elaborate cover story just to get him to Hampshire, where she hoped I might finally catch the man of my dreams. How in the world had she known about his divorce?

  “In my professional capacity. She said you were coming here to dispose of a family heirloom. When she told me about her…situation”—he paused—“well, I couldn't say no.”

  Of course he couldn’t. He might have broken my heart, but he was a decent man who would want to do the right thing, especially when the request came from the dying mother of an old friend.

  “Daniel, I’m sorry she troubled you—”

  “I’m not.” He bumped his shoulder gently against mine, as though we were kids sitting in the schoolyard at recess. “I was glad for the chance to see you again.”

  The thrill that shot up my spine at his words scared me. I’d spent the better part of two decades getting over this man, and now my mother had reached out from the grave to set me up for heartbreak all over again. Because I had a strong suspicion that whatever this “family heirloom” might be, it was just an excuse for her to finagle a second chance at love for me.

  “So, what is this priceless artifact?” he asked. “Jewelry? A portrait?”

  “Actually, I have no idea.”

  Daniel gave me a funny look. “Do you have it with you? I mean, is it here? In England?”

  I pulled the envelope from my tote bag. “Right here. But the lawyer said my mother's instructions were not to open it until I got here.”

  Daniel scooted closer. “Well, let's see what we’re dealing with.”

  I pulled the tab on the envelope and slid out the contents—a book of some sort, covered in bubble wrap. I unwound the plastic as Daniel watched. The book was old, the leather scuffed and darkened to a mottled mahogany. I flipped it open, but instead of printed letters, I saw old-fashioned handwriting.

  “It's a diary of some sort,” I said to Daniel.

  I flipped to the front, wondering if it had been my mother's. But it wasn't her writing, and I quickly discovered that whatever my mother had hoped Mimi and I would do with this diary, there wasn't any chance of returning it to the original owner.

  On the flyleaf, the author had written…

  Private Property of Miss Cassandra Austen.

  Do Not Read.

  That Means You, Jane.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ellen would be proud of me. For once I was on time to a social event. My beauty routine usually put me in the “fashionably late” crowd, but that evening I entered the library of Oakley Hall along with most of the guests. Ahead of my sister, even.

  Tom Braddock was there by the drinks table, looking crisp in a green pin-striped oxford shirt and a pressed pair of khakis. I thought again that it was too bad he was so old. He had some very appealing qualities.

  “Festive or sensible?” he asked with a smile.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Festive. Sensible is Ellen's department.”

  He chuckled in response and gallantly presented me with a champagne flute.

  The library was beautiful—the long rectangular room boasted a thick blue carpet, yellow and white period-style furniture, gold chandeliers, and handsome wood paneling that framed shelf after shelf of books. The window at the far end of the room overlooked the terrace. Beyond it, the lawn led off into woods, with fields in the distance.

  “It's amazing. Like something out of a…well…an Austen novel,” I said to Tom.

  “We thought the tour participants would like it.”

  I studied him for a moment. “So you planned the tour?”

  He shook his head. “It was a special request, but once the company put it up on the Web site, it filled up fast.” He set his empty glass on a nearby table. “Would you like to meet some of your fellow walkers?”

  “Of course.”

  I met Carol and Ralph, a nice couple from Nashville, and a couple from Nebraska, who seemed very kind. Karen, from New York, was a television producer. Charlotte was a retired lawyer from LA. And there were a few others whose names I couldn't remember. Ellen and I were clearly the youngest in the group. I’d been hoping for at least one single man, just to keep me on top of my game, but I knew in my heart of hearts that the only men likely to turn up on a Jane Austen walking tour would be either husbands pressed into ser
vice by their wives or men who were probably as interested in finding a real-life Mr. Darcy as I was.

  “And here's the last member of the group. Besides your sister,” Tom said. I turned, and then I had to make a conscious effort not to let my mouth hang open.

  “This is Ethan Blakemore,” Tom said. “Ethan, this is Mimi Dodge.”

  The man wasn't simply gorgeous. He was drop-dead gorgeous. He was also about my age and wearing a very expensive silk shirt and well-tailored trousers. I dared a brief glimpse at his shoes. Italian loafers.

  Come to Mama.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Ethan said in a posh British accent that made my mouth water. Then he took my hand. At first I thought he was actually going to kiss it, but instead he gently squeezed my fingers in a courtly gesture that was far more enticing than a handshake.

  “Nice to meet you too.” Well, that wasn't very original. But from the way he was looking at me, I wouldn't have to be original. I’d suspected that the strapless, pink dress was overkill, but now I was glad I’d gone the extra mile.

  “You’re from America.” Ethan reached out and gently took my arm. “Which part?” Before I could put together a coherent reply, he’d neatly turned me away from Tom and the rest of the group. I wasn't about to resist.

  “I’m originally from Dallas, but I’ve been living in Atlanta.” I wish I could have said New York or Los Angeles. Atlanta sounded so provincial. “What about you?”

  Ethan smiled, which revealed brilliantly white teeth. “I live in London, but I recently inherited a property here in Hampshire.”

  Which meant he had some money, most likely. I knew I couldn't just come right out and ask him what he did for a living. “Did you grow up in London?”

  He nodded. “A city boy, I’m afraid.”

  “And you’re an Austen fan?” There had to be a catch.

  “Well…” He looked over his shoulder, like a naughty schoolboy, and leaned in to whisper his answer. “Perhaps I should say that I’m an admirer of the women who admire Jane Austen.”

  Color rose in my cheeks, and I resisted the urge to fan myself with my hand. I decided I might just forgive my mother for forcing Ellen and me into this charade after all.

  “That's always nice to hear,” I said with what I hoped was the right mixture of dignity and flirtatiousness. I’d learned years ago that British men were tricky to flirt with. They thought American women possessed universally loose morals, but they didn't want the girls from across the pond to be too forward or cheeky. It was a delicate balance.

  Ethan guided me into the far corner of the room. I tried not to let his obvious attentions go to my head. After all, I was the only woman under fifty in view.

  “So you routinely go on walking tours to meet women?” I said with a little laugh. “I wouldn't think you’d have a lot of difficulty in that department.”

  “It's not a question of meeting women. It's a question of meeting the right women.”

  I would rather he’d used the singular than the plural, but I could applaud the sentiment.

  “If you have a house here, I’m surprised you haven't done all this Jane Austen stuff before.”

  “I have. Bits of it, anyway. But the idea of walking the footpaths interested me.”

  “Not just the Austenites then?”

  He laughed and then drained his glass. “The house I’ve inherited came to my mother through the Austens. My mother married into the extended family late in life. I decided to take the tour to find out what all the fuss was about. It was obviously an excellent decision.” He smiled at me in a way that was surely designed to leave me weak in the knees. And it did.

  Warmth rose from my midsection, up to my shoulders and throat, and then into a thick fog that engulfed my head. I’d been so busy being angry at my mother for making me come on this trip that I hadn't given it a real chance. Ethan offered to get me another drink, and I decided that, really, it would only be sporting to try and enjoy myself. My mother might have sent Ellen and me on a rather morbid errand, but it looked as if there might be some compensation in store in the form of one genuine Austen-issue hero.

  Mimi was the one who was always late, not me. Yet here I was, hurrying from the stable block to the welcome reception more than fifteen minutes behind schedule. I felt I should be forgiven for my lateness, though, given the bombshell that had been dropped in my lap. What had my mother been thinking?

  The diary couldn't be real, of course. In all the years I’d listened to my mother ramble on about all things Austen, I’d never heard any mention of Jane Austen's only sister keeping a diary. I suspected it must be a fake, but Daniel hadn't been as convinced of that as I was.

  “We’ll need to have it authenticated,” he’d said. “No wonder your mom wanted me to come on this tour.” He hadn't asked to touch or hold the diary but had been content to peek over my shoulder while I did. “I don't have a lot of contacts in England, but I can make some calls.”

  “It can't be real, Dan.” Couldn't he see that it was bait? Daniel bait?

  “Your mother never struck me as someone who would lie about something like this.”

  “I know.” That troubled me. The hopeless romantic part of my mother might have stooped to a little trickery in the name of true love, but the Jane Austen devotee in her wouldn't have been inclined to manufacture a fake diary and sign Cassandra's name to it.

  Before we returned to the hotel, Daniel had agreed not to mention the diary to anyone until I told him he could. The first person I needed to talk to was Mimi, of course. Maybe she knew something about this mysterious family heirloom, although I doubted it. She was so eager to get her hands on our inheritance for whatever business proposition she had up her proverbial and fashionable sleeve. If she possessed any knowledge of an authentic, priceless Austen artifact in the family, she would have sprinted to the nearest auction house.

  And now that diary had made me late to the welcome reception. I picked my way across the crushed-shell walk between the stable block and the main building, and then dashed across the terrace. A set of French doors stood open to the waning afternoon, so I ducked inside, crossed through a conference room, skirted my way around the edge of the bar, and stepped into the library.

  I paused just inside the door to catch my breath and smooth the skirt of my sensible blue shirtwaist dress. My efforts didn't remove the suitcase-induced wrinkles. I should have stayed safely in my room, ironing, instead of opening mysterious packages and fanning old flames. My throat was dry, but I couldn't tell if it was from summer pollen or simply from nerves.

  I plucked a glass of champagne from the tray on a nearby table. My hand shook, but I was afraid to hold the glass too tightly. The last thing I needed was for the stem to snap. I’d spent my life not calling attention to myself. A champagne glass shattering in my hand was definitely not my style.

  I declined the offer of a shrimp puff from a server and forced myself to sip, rather than gulp, my drink. Composure was a matter of rising above one's circumstances. At least that's what my mother had always said. I’d believed her and made that my mantra. It's just that I never would have imagined having to follow her advice after she’d dumped a priceless Austen heirloom on me.

  “There you are.” Mimi appeared beside me in a strapless, rosy confection that showed off her lightly tanned shoulders. She twirled her glass between her fingers as she surveyed the room, perfectly at ease. “You have to come meet Ethan.”

  “Who's Ethan?” The glow in her cheeks came from something other than Elizabeth Arden.

  “He's a yummy singleton from London who's related to Jane Austen.”

  The sparkle was back in her eyes, but I had learned long ago to be wary of it. “Is he on the tour?”

  Mimi smiled. “That's the best part. C’mon.”

  She grabbed my hand and towed me across the room, but before we could reach her latest quarry, an older woman with vibrantly orange hair stepped in front of us.

  “You must be the Dodge sis
ters.” Despite the warmth of the June day, she wore a tweed suit that was neither brown nor gray but some unfortunate hybrid of the two. “I’m Gwendolyn Parrot.” She extended her hand as if she were drawing a sword.

  “I’m Ellen. Ellen Dodge.” I shook her hand and tried not to wince at the iron grip. “This is my sister, Mimi.”

  Mrs. Parrot studied us through the thick lenses of her glasses. “We’re delighted to have the two of you as part of our tour.”

  “We?” Mimi asked.

  “Mr. Braddock is the tour leader, of course, whilst I am the Jane Austen expert. I’ll be traveling with you to deliver the odd lecture, answer questions informally, that sort of thing.”

  Mrs. Parrot was no doubt nothing more than a sensible British matron, but for some reason, she made me uncom-fortable. “Are you a professor at one of the universities?” I asked.

  “Retired, dear. Tom asked if I would lend my expertise for the week, and I agreed.”

  Her answer was ordinary enough, but something about Mrs. Parrot didn't quite ring true. My mother had always had that typical British reserve, and Mrs. Parrot should have displayed the same thing, not such an obvious enthusiasm for meeting us.

  “We’re looking forward to learning more about Jane Austen,” I said and tried to move past her, but she blocked my way again.

  “Are you lifelong Austen devotees?” She was only making casual conversation. Given the chance to talk about their life's obsession, most people could chatter away forever. But something about this woman's eyes, the way she seemed to be sizing me up, made me uneasy.

  “Our mother was the true Austen fan,” I said. “I’m not sure either of us quite lived up to her hopes on that front.”

  She frowned. “Hmm. I see.”

  I see? What did that mean?

  “Our mother was British,” Mimi offered, but she wasn't looking at Mrs. Parrot. Instead, she cast her gaze over the woman's shoulder as she searched the room for the elusive Ethan.

  “Your mother couldn't join you on the tour?”

  I winced. Mrs. Parrot's question was innocent enough, but any reminders about my mother's death still stung.