The Dashwood Sisters Tell All

by Beth Pattillo

  “I believe she was special,” Tom said softly. “The owner of the tour company went to school with her.”

  “But you had to find all the daily routes. Figure out where to house us all, feed us.”

  “It's not that much different from the Air Force.” He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Except that I can't yell at the recruits.”

  “I doubt you had to do much yelling.” While he was not an intimidating man, he was definitely an authoritative one.

  “No.” Even in the dusk I could see his smile. It was a nice smile. “Not much.”

  I had the sudden urge to slide closer to him on the bench. To lean against him and let my head rest against his shoulder. The feeling startled me, and it brought back the memory of his kiss the day before. I forced myself to stay right where I was.

  “Do you miss it?” I asked. “The service?”

  “I miss the camaraderie, but, no, I don't miss that way of life. I was ready to settle down.” His shoulders tensed. “I should have done that sooner.”

  He was referring to his late wife, of course. “It's hard to know, though, isn't it, when it's time to move on? To do something different?” I’d felt that way myself almost every day for the past three years. My dream of owning my own store was within reach, but not without a hefty amount of risk. I hadn't had the courage to gamble everything I had on my dream. At least, not yet.

  “What about you?” Tom asked. “Are you happy in the life you’re leading?”

  He might as well have been reading my mind. “Yes. And no.”

  “Ah.”

  “What does that mean? Ah?”

  “Just ah.” I could hear the smile in his voice. Darkness had fallen, and I could no longer make out his expression. The anonymity of the night made confession all that much easier.

  “I want to go into business for myself,” I said.

  “What kind of business?”

  “A clothing store. A boutique. Something trendy but not too edgy.”

  “In Atlanta?”

  “I was thinking about going back home to Dallas.”

  Wait a minute! What was I saying? Hadn't I been thinking about New York every spare moment?

  “Why Dallas?”

  His question surprised me. “Well, I guess because it's my home.”

  “When we first met and I asked you about Texas, you didn't sound very enthusiastic.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “I guess if I’m going to put down roots somewhere, it might as well be a place that feels familiar.”

  “Would you ever consider living anywhere else?”

  “I guess it depends.”

  “On what?”

  “What the other place had to offer.”

  “Yes. I guess it would.”

  I thought he might make a move then, but he stayed where he was, still relaxed, still a comforting presence. My eyelids grew heavy, and my body felt so languid. I didn't know if it was all the walking, the heavy meal, or the company. My eyes must have drifted closed, because the next thing I knew, I felt Tom's hand on my shoulder.

  “Mimi?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I think we’d better get you inside. Otherwise they’ll find you here in the morning, sound asleep on the lawn.”

  “You say that like it's a bad thing.”

  He laughed then, and the sound of it warmed me. “Come on.” He took my hand in the dark and tugged me off the bench. We started toward the hotel, and to my surprise, he kept my hand in his. His grip was warm and firm without being controlling. We crunched across the driveway, and he opened the door for me. At the foot of the stairs, he squeezed my hand.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “What time is breakfast?”

  “They start serving at seven. Do you need a wake-up call?”

  “No.” Now that we were inside under the glare of electric lights, I didn't feel quite so comfortable with him. I pulled my hand from his. “I have a travel alarm.”

  “Okay then. Good night.”

  He turned toward the hallway a few steps away, and I watched him go with regret. I was surprised he hadn't walked me to my door, but maybe I had misinterpreted his interest. Maybe he was just being a good tour leader by following me into the garden. A few days ago, I would have wanted that to be the case. Now, though, as I made my way wearily up the stairs, I felt quite differently about Tom Braddock.

  Which was a bigger discovery, in a way, than the riddles in Cassandra's diary—and just as puzzling.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  At dinner the night before, Mimi and I had agreed to meet very early for breakfast to try to finish solving the riddles. I had left the windows open in my room to relieve some of the heat, so the birdsong at first light woke me bright and early. I sat up in bed and picked up the list of riddles from the nightstand.

  “What are you trying to tell us?” I was reduced to talking to an inanimate object.

  I took a quick shower and headed downstairs, but Mimi was already there, seated at the table in the bay window.

  “This is a first,” I said, nodding at her with approval. The night before, I hadn't been able to bring myself to tell her that the diary was missing. I was going to have to confess sooner or later. Probably sooner, and then I would have to admit that I should have listened to her suggestion about the hotel safe.

  She stuck out her tongue at me and then smiled. “Don't be so bossy, or I won't help you with the riddles.”

  “Can I be bossy enough to help myself to some of your coffee?” I nodded toward the French press on the table.

  “All right. But you owe me.”

  The easy camaraderie was as welcome as it was unexpected.

  “So did you have any blinding insights in the middle of the night?” I asked her. “Any symbolic dreams that would simplify this whole thing?”

  Mimi sighed. “I wish. What about you?”

  I poured my coffee and stirred in a lump of sugar. “Let's get to work.” I pulled the sheet of paper containing the transcribed riddles from my pocket. Mimi took it from me, unfolded it, and laid it on the table. She reread the first one.

  Along the narrow way it goes

  From house to house and back again

  A carpet for a traveler's woes

  That always brings one home again.

  “So what's it?” I asked her. “Along the narrow way it goes?”

  “From house to house?” She fiddled with the handle of her coffee cup. “A salesman, maybe?” she said with a smile.

  “I’m pretty sure they’d never heard of the Fuller Brush guy back then.” I laughed. “Really, what's narrow, goes from house to house, and has something to do with travelers?”

  Mimi smiled. “That's easy. It's a road.”

  “Good.” I let out a little sigh of relief. Maybe this part wouldn't be that hard after all. “What about the next one?” I picked up the paper from the table to read.

  A gentleman learns from an early age

  To play his part upon the stage

  His lines are crisp, his speech is clear

  He studies most from year to year.

  “That doesn't even make sense.” Mimi frowned. “Is she talking about a theater or something?”

  I took another sip of coffee. “Or it could mean ‘school,’ or something like that. Learns and studies. Maybe Cassandra meant where a gentleman gets his education.”

  “Okay, then we’ve got road and school. What's next?”

  I read the third riddle again.

  Couples crowd to dance in time

  A flower thus may last for years

  A wine must age to be sublime

  But first the grapes must run quite clear.

  “No clue,” Mimi said.

  “Wait.” Excitement rose in my chest, because I was starting to get a feel for Cassandra Austen's turn of mind. “What do the three things have in common?”

  Mimi scanned the paper again. “Well, I just read in Sense and
Sensibility about a ball with too many people to fit in the room being called a squeeze. And that's what you do to grapes to get wine.”

  “But not to a flower to make it last,” I said. “That you have to press.”

  We sat in silence for a moment, sipping our coffee.

  “Let's move on to the last one,” Mimi said. She read it out loud.

  Tailor, draper, seamstress all

  Needles, thread and trimmings

  Fashion, fair or rough or small

  With trunks and boxes brimming

  “I’ve been thinking about that one.” Mimi tossed the paper to the table. “It's clothes, of course.” She leaned back in her chair. “It doesn't make sense, though, when you put them together. Road, clothes, school and press. What do those things have in common? Maybe we don't have the words right.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well, that first one,” Mimi said. “It could mean road or street or even highway.”

  “Clothes squeeze,” I read. “But that doesn't make any sense. The closest thing I can think of would be a pants press.”

  “Pants press?” Mimi looked at me incredulously. “Like that thing in our hotel room in London?” The strange contraption—strange to us Americans, at least, who made do with an iron and ironing board—was a staple in British hotels.

  “That doesn't make sense, though, does it?” I studied the list of words again. What if we’d gotten the riddle wrong? We might have mistaken a stray mark for underlining. And now we didn't have the diary to be sure.

  “Besides,” Mimi said with a small laugh, “I think pants means underwear over here. Isn't it called a trouser press?”

  “We’ll never figure this out.” I wasn't usually so pessimistic, but with the prospect of confessing the loss of the diary looming over me, I wasn't feeling very positive. I had to tell Mimi the truth about the theft. “Look, Meems, I should have come to your room last night and talked to you.”

  Her face scrunched up in a funny expression. “It's okay, Ell. I don't need sympathy.”

  “What?”

  “I know I made a fool of myself with Ethan. I probably got what I deserved.”

  I hated that for her, but at least she was taking some responsibility for a change.

  “I’m sorry.” And I was. However strained our relationship might have been, I wanted my sister to be happy.

  “Thanks.”

  “But that's not what I meant about coming to talk with you.” I took a deep breath. “I guess I have a confession of my own to make.”

  She leaned back in her chair and smiled. “This should be good. Is it Daniel? Have you two gotten together?”

  “No. I mean, maybe. I don't know. But that's not what I should have talked to you about.” Oh dear.

  “What is it?” she said, exasperated. “C’mon, Ell. It can't be that bad.”

  “It's the diary.”

  Her face fell, and so did my stomach.

  “It's gone, isn’t it?” She didn't ask it as a question. In fact, it was almost as if she was expecting it.

  “When I got back early yesterday afternoon, it wasn't there. Someone's taken it.”

  Mimi's face went white as a sheet.

  At that moment, our tête-à-tête was interrupted by none other than Mrs. Parrot. She came into the small dining room carrying a glass of orange juice from the cold buffet outside the door. The color of the juice matched her hair.

  “Good morning, Ellen. Mimi. Would you mind if I joined you?” She didn't wait for an answer before pulling out a chair at our table.

  “Please do,” I said, although I didn't really mean it. I folded the notepaper and slipped it into my pocket. Mimi shot me a frustrated look. Then she sent Mrs. Parrot a more malevolent one.

  “How are you both feeling this morning?” Mrs. Parrot looked at us through the thick lenses of her glasses, as if examining two bugs under a microscope.

  “We’re very well, thank you,” Mimi said in her most prim and proper voice. “And you?”

  “Also very well, thank you.”

  Silence fell, and a waiter appeared. Mrs. Parrot ordered a pot of tea and brown toast.

  “Are you looking forward to Selborne today?” she asked.

  “I’m sure it will be lovely,” I said. How was I supposed to carry on as if this were a normal piece of breakfast chitchat? “Is there anything in particular we should look for on the walk?” It was hard to think about anything but Cassandra's diary and her riddles, especially when my main suspect for the diary theft was happily buttering her toast in front of me.

  “Anything special? No, no.” Mrs. Parrot poured out her tea. “Simply enjoy the beauty.”

  Mimi's gaze shot daggers at Mrs. Parrot, but I sent her a warning look. No way was I going to let her attack the woman without proof. Not after the awkward scene when Mrs. Parrot found me lurking in her room, and not when I couldn't be one hundred percent sure that this woman was the culprit. That was another thing Mimi didn't know about. She still didn't know that Daniel knew about the diary.

  Mimi sat down her coffee cup and looked at the older woman. “Mrs. Parrot, there's something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  Uh-oh. I could see where this was going. Mimi's style could be considered confrontational under the best of circumstances.

  I leaped into the fray. “Will you be walking into Selborne with us today?”

  “No, no, my dear. I’m afraid it's a bit too rough for me.”

  “Oh.” What else was I supposed to say?

  “Mrs. Parrot—” Mimi was not to be dissuaded.

  I jumped in again. “We’ve enjoyed seeing you this morning, but Mimi and I really need to run back to our rooms and finish packing.”

  “Of course, dears. Needs must.” She smiled at us quite fondly, really, which seemed strange.

  I practically dragged Mimi out of her chair. “C’mon, sis. We don't have much time.”

  Mimi's arm was rigid beneath my hand, but she cooperated, thank goodness. I knew I’d pay for my intervention later though.

  I led her from the breakfast room, away from Mrs. Parrot and the potential explosion of accusations.

  “You should have let me confront her,” Mimi hissed as we moved toward the stairs. “What if she took the diary?”

  “She wouldn't have admitted anything.” I shoved her up the staircase in front of me.

  “Maybe not,” she said over her shoulder, “but she would have given herself away somehow. We’ve got to get that diary back.”

  “We will, okay? But we can't just accuse someone of theft without proof.”

  “Then we’ll get proof.”

  I sighed and climbed the stairs after her. “I certainly hope so, Meems. I certainly hope so.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  My sister should have let me confront Mrs. Parrot. She had to have been the one who took the diary, because if she wasn’t…Well, she had to have taken it.

  Ellen hustled me off to my room and told me to leave finding the diary to her. I didn't want to agree, but she looked so distressed—and I felt so guilty—that I finally gave in.

  Thursday was our last full day of walking. I emerged from the hotel a little early so that I could get Tom to help me with my feet.

  “I’ll be glad to,” he said when I asked him for a little blister triage. He led me back into the garden and the bench where we’d sat the night before. His offer of assistance and the reminder of our nighttime confidences made me uncomfortable, but not in an uneasy way. It was more that I’d let him come too close, and now I wasn't sure how to put distance between us again.

  Somehow having another person tend to my feet, especially a male person, felt exceptionally intimate. Tom probably did this all the time in his role as tour leader, but I couldn't remember the last time someone had performed first aid on me like that. Actually, I could. My mother couldn't stand the sight of blood, so it was usually my sister who wound up having to squirt the Bactine on my injuries and apply the Ba
nd-Aids.

  Tom eyed his handiwork. “It looks like everything is holding up pretty well.”

  “I guess so.” I sighed. “Are you sure you can't just magically heal them?”

  He finished applying the last blister patch and patted the top of my foot. “I would if I could.” Then he winked at me.

  I would never have figured Tom Braddock for a winking kind of guy, but he did have amazing silver-blue eyes. The wink emphasized the lines around the corner of his eyes.

  Soon the others joined us, and Tom gave his now-traditional beginning-of-the-day introduction.

  “The village we’re visiting today, Selborne, was the home of Gilbert White,” he began. “He was a famous eighteenth-century naturalist. It's almost certain that he was acquainted with Jane Austen's father, as they were both clergymen and lived within a few miles of one another.”

  To my relief, Ethan didn't appear that morning. I overheard one of the Austenites ask Tom about him, but Tom's answer was noncommittal. “He may catch up with us at Selborne” was all he had said. I was relieved by Ethan's absence but also worried. What if he, and not Mrs. Parrot, had taken the diary? How in the world would I ever get it back?

  There was nothing I could do at the moment, so I focused on putting one foot in front of the other as we made our way toward Selborne. The walk into the village skirted fields and rambled down country lanes overhung with leafy tree limbs. We climbed our first hanger, or hill, as we made our way through Selborne Common, a wooded area with occasional open spaces. We mounted a ridge, crested the hill, and then descended once more into the valley. Underfoot, the ground was slippery with dried leaves. For all that I had dreaded coming to England, I had, despite my blisters, found a measure of peace in walking the footpaths and byways.

  As we drew closer to the village, we began to pass the most darling little cottages, all thatched roofs and climbing roses, and the sight of them lifted my spirits. Each one seemed to contain a breathtakingly beautiful front garden, and before we even reached the village, I was in love. How could anyone who ever visited this place contemplate leaving?