If what the letter said was true, if my father really was Herman Strepel, then he knew about whatever magic had a hold on Nevermore Bookshop. When I thought about it rationally, I didn’t believe my mother knew anything about it; otherwise, she would have tried much harder than she did to keep me away from the place. She was living in Barchester when she was with my father, so she didn’t connect him to Argleton or Nevermore.
She doesn’t know. The certainty hit me like a punch in the gut. Whatever secrets my father was protecting, he’d kept them from her, too. That made me feel a little better, and I hated myself for that.
I withdrew my hand from my pocket and bent down to clean up the broken mug. “I left it at the shop. I didn’t want to look at it, you know? He said that he still loves us, and he left us because he was a danger to us. It kind of sounded as if someone was after him.”
“How dare he? After all these years.” Mum slumped down in her chair. “I suppose it was some elaborate poem surrounded by fiddly drawings. He fancied himself an artistic soul, did your father. Really, he was just a crooked second-rate criminal.”
“What kind of crimes? Please, Mum, you’ve never told me anything about him. Was he a druggie? A thief?”
“Counterfeiting.” Mum gritted her teeth, as though she couldn’t bear to get the words out. “He sold copies of Banksy paintings and old medieval manuscripts.”
I wasn’t expecting that. It fit with Herman Strepel’s unique skills. “What was he like? What about his family?”
She sniffed. “He didn’t have any family, but he got on well with my parents. Dad wanted him to join the family business, but he kept insisting we’d get rich one day off his manuscripts, and he wouldn’t need to peddle drugs anymore. Apparently, he was working on a masterpiece. Some never-before-discovered work by Hester or Horatio or something.”
“Homer?”
“Maybe. I don’t remember. He was always talking nonsense about old writers and artists.” I picked up the bigger pieces of broken cup and tossed them into the rubbish bin, my mind whirring. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Herman Strepel’s copy of The Frog-Mouse War had shown up in the shop when he was counterfeiting Homer in my time. Was it a message from my father somehow?
“That would make sense, then. The letter was handwritten, and there were drawings in the border.” I hunted out the brush and shovel and swept up the tiny ceramic fragments and as much unicorn poop as I could. My hands shook with excitement. This was more than I’d ever found out about my father. “Do you have any idea what he might be talking about when he says he’s in danger?”
Mum shook her head. “He’s a criminal, Mina. He’s probably pissed off the wrong people. If he writes any more letters to you, he’s going to be in danger from me.”
You never told me before that he was an artist and a writer. That he was a reader.
All my life I’d been the opposite of my mother. She had no imagination. She thought books were stupid and had barely ever set foot in Nevermore Bookshop (except to drag me away as a child or to sell her pet dictionaries), whereas I had practically been raised by those fictional characters. She was the one who talked me out of my English degree at Oxford because she thought I had a better chance of making it as a fashion designer than as a writer. Even when I was being bullied and I hated myself and I felt so completely alone, she never told me that there was someone else out there like me – my father.
Rage boiled up inside me, turning my veins to lava. My hand balled into fists at my sides. I hated her. She kept this from me, and I needed it. If I’d known I wasn’t so completely alone, if I hadn’t felt like such a freak, things might’ve turned out so differently for me…
I slid into the chair across from her. On the stove, the kettle boiled, but both of us ignored it. I studied my mother’s face, noting the bags under her eyes, the vein throbbing on her temple – the same one that throbbed when I did something naughty. My fingers itched to slap the expression off her face. How dare you be angry with me? I have every right to hate you right now.
“You’ve never told me this,” I whispered, the words hard. “You never told me that I was like my father. All my life you made me think I was a freak because of the things I liked. And it was all because you were angry with him. When you looked at me reading or drawing, you saw him. The only reason you wanted me to pursue fashion was because it was something you liked.”
“Don’t turn this around on me, Mina,” she snapped. “He’s the one who walked out on us and left me to raise you. I did the best I could with what I had. I put you through school and I let you hang out at that musty bookshop you loved more than our home. I did everything I bloody could to give you the life I didn’t get to have. And you get one letter from him in twenty-three years and now you hate me.”
“Don’t you think I might have liked to know I had a father who loved to read? Don’t you think I would have wanted some kind of relationship with him? But you made me think he was an evil criminal just so I’d hate him as much as you. Well, congratulations, Mum. I hated him, all right, but not as much as I hated myself!”
“He was a criminal!” she screamed. “Just because he did his crime with pretty pictures instead of drugs doesn’t mean he was a person you should have in your life.”
“I’m twenty-three years old. You don’t get to make that decision for me.” And you don’t seem to have a problem with Morrie even though he’s more than implied he hasn’t obtained his fortune legally. A smartly-dressed rich criminal is still a criminal.
Mum’s gripped her head in her hands, her whole body trembling. “This is exactly why I hoped he’d never contact you. Can’t you just trust that I know what’s best for you? Don’t try to see your father. Don’t answer his letter. If you think you feel lonely now, wait until you love him and he leaves you. You don’t know what lonely is.”
I glanced up at the glitter-stained ceiling. It took every ounce of self-control not to roll my eyes. “I’m not you, Mum. I won’t fall to pieces just because of some guy. I’m strong enough not to fall into that trap, and you should know that.”
“Oh, you are, are you? Then why did you come crawling back from New York City so I could look after you?”
I recoiled, my cheeks stinging, as though she’d slapped me. “I can’t believe you said that. I can’t believe you just threw the fact I’m going blind back in my face.”
“Fine,” she sniffed. “Do what you want, Mina. You always do. After everything I’ve sacrificed to give you a good life, go back to the man who abandoned you when you were a baby. But don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart.”
“Suits me.” I stood up. “Don’t expect me to come home again.”
“Wait, Mina—” Mum grabbed my wrist. I wrenched my hand away, flung myself into the hallway and grabbed my rucksack. It took me all of two minutes to throw in some clean clothes, my current book, my journal, and my tickets for the Jane Austen Extravaganza.
“Come back inside. You don’t know who he is, what you could be walking into—”
“Of course I don’t, because you won’t tell me. You gave me an ultimatum. I’ve made my choice.” I shoved my feet into my Docs and stepped on the front porch.
“You ungrateful bitch!” Mum slammed the door in my face.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. I walked to the corner of the street and called for a rideshare. Fuck you. If you don’t want to tell me about my father, fine. I’ve solved two murders over the last six weeks. I can solve this, too.
Chapter Nine
I was still fuming about the fight with Mum on Friday as Heathcliff, Morrie, Lydia, and I approached Baddesley Hall along a wide avenue lined with ancient oaks. Another Christmas snow fell during the night, blanketing the vast lawn in a white carpet. I shivered in my red trench coat, thick scarf, two pairs of gloves, red merino sweater, homemade ‘Jane Austen is my Homegirl’ t shirt, red tartan wool mini skirt, and fleece-lined leggings.
I hope that big old house has modern heatin
g.
“You might have called a carriage,” Lydia sniffed at Heathcliff as her silk shoes sank into the snow. Despite how comfortable she’d become in modern clothing, Lydia was back in her empire-line dress and bonnet for the occasion, only with Morrie’s leather jacket draped over her shoulders to ward off the chill.
“You might have dressed weather appropriate,” he shot back.
“Only another mile to go,” I said, my teeth chattering. Stupid rideshare refusing to go up the driveway because of a tiny amount of snow. Something heavy fell on my shoulders. Smiling gratefully, I tugged Heathcliff’s coat tighter around my body and squeezed his hand. Although his expression remained surly, he pulled me closer, allowing the reassuring warmth of his bulk to heat me through.
Yes, I think this weekend might be good for all of us.
At the end of the avenue, the high and handsome Baddesley Hall awaited us. Backed by a ridge of wooded hills – the trees now bare and glittering with snow – the grand facade stretched out in two high wings, flanked with decorative turrets from which flew flags bearing Jane Austen’s likeness. Elegant columns flanked a set of wide marble steps leading up to double-height wooden doors, where a crowd of people in period costume milled about, waving as cars and carriages navigated a tight turning circle around a grand fountain.
Even Lydia was warm in her admiration. “It’s as fine a house as I have ever seen. I should think it even finer than that prig Mr. Darcy’s Pemberley estate.”
“Remember what we told you,” Morrie said. “For this weekend, the guests believe this is Pemberley, which never actually existed except for in the book. It’s very important no one guesses you’re a fictional character come to life. If you can make it for the whole weekend without shattering their illusion, I’ll let you buy that Prada handbag.”
“Yes, yes,” Lydia said crossly, leaning into Morrie’s arm. “One doesn’t like to be constantly reminded of one’s impermanence. I have come for the dancing, not to make conversation about books!”
We passed a visitors’ parking area off to the left. A stream of people in Regency attire flowed around the fountain, heedless to the traffic as they ambled toward the house. Hired staff from the village in period uniform rushed about, collecting luggage and handing out room keys.
“See?” Lydia pointed to one of the parking attendants, dressed as a footman. “I told you grand families would never give up their servants.”
We pushed through the crowd and entered the lobby, which was even grander than the exterior. Twin staircases swooped down from the upper story, framing a small fountain at the center of the room. My boots clack-clacked across the marble as we made our way to the crowded information desk, taking in the decor and soft furnishings that adorned the impressive space.
In the elegant and handsomely-proportioned room, Cynthia Lachlan’s “additions” stood out like a nun at a Clash concert. A wingback chair covered in leopard-print fabric sat under one of the windows. Fashion magazines stacked on the reception table. An industrial-looking lamp on the card table beside it. A rug in a garish shade of pink delineated a short hallway. I’d heard from Mrs. Ellis that some people in the village looked down on Cynthia and Grey for being new money pretending to be old money. Looking at this room, I could kind of see what they meant. But at the same time, I liked that Cynthia was having fun with her home. That was what a home should be for.
“Mina, I’m so pleased you could come.”
I glanced up. Cynthia descended the stairs, wearing a lilac empire-waist gown and matching bonnet blinged up with sequins. She kissed me on the cheeks and made me re-introduce her to my party. Morrie and Lydia both gave the customary Regency bow and curtsey, but Heathcliff only grunted in acknowledgment. If Cynthia noticed, her meticulous study of Heathcliff’s impressive muscles straining against his black dress shirt had convinced her to ignore his rudeness.
“I have your rooms all ready for you,” she said, removing a set of keys from the hook on the wall behind the information desk. “You have our finest suite. It won’t do for our VIPs to be with the rest of the riff-raff…” her voice trailed off as her eyes swept over my t shirt. “Are your costumes in your bags? You haven’t left much time to change before the opening plenary.”
“No costumes,” Heathcliff barked, moving closer to me as if my body would shield him from rogue cravats.
Cynthia frowned at my tiny backpack covered with band patches and Morrie’s slim-leg trousers. “No, no, those outfits won’t do, not for our VIPs. Not to worry, we’ll pop along to Adelia Maitland in Netherfield. That’s the marketplace room. We’ve renamed all the rooms after famous places in Jane Austen’s books, just for the weekend. Isn’t that fabulous?”
“What fun!” Lydia exclaimed.
Cynthia beamed. “Adelia will sort you out with the perfect attire.”
“But I don’t want to wear—” Heathcliff’s protests fell on deaf ears as Cynthia ushered us down a wide hallway and into an enormous receiving room. People bustled back and forth, examining the stalls lining the walls and extending down the center of the cavernous space. Throngs of bonneted women perused the aisle, while yet more costumed ladies stood behind the stalls, selling everything from Austen branded teas, costumes, jewelry, fans, leather notebooks, and even self-published works of Jane Austen erotica. I smirked as my eye caught the title of one woman’s book – Spank Me, Mr. Darcy. She had a long line of eager customers in front of her stall.
As we went past, Lydia’s hand snaked out to grab a copy of the erotica book. Morrie slapped it down.
We stopped at a large stall in the corner. Racks burst with period dresses, cloaks, and breeches. A plump woman with dark cheeks and a yellow bonnet that gave her the appearance of a bloated sunflower bustled over to meet us. “Mrs. Maitland, this party is in need of proper attire. They’ll have both outfits for the day and something more dramatic for the ball. Please see to it, and bill me for the rental.”
Mrs Maitland gave a short curtsey. “As you wish, M’Lady.” She grabbed Heathcliff and thrust a jacket into his arms. “You. Wear this.”
“I prefer my own jacket.” Heathcliff glowered at her as he whipped his coat off my freezing shoulders and held it in front of his chest like a shield.
Unperturbed, Mrs. Maitland wrestled it from his arms and tossed it into a pile of dirty clothing. “Now you wear this.”
“You knew about this?” Heathcliff growled, accepting the stiff blue top-coat with all the terror of a soldier handling a live grenade.
I grinned. “Maybe a little.”
“If you’re to dance with me, then we shall match.” Lydia dragged Morrie over to one of the other racks and flung clothes at him.
Heathcliff tore off his shirt, grumbling under his breath as he fumbled with the collar of the white one Mrs. Maitland handed him. Every female head in the room turned to admire his broad shoulders, toned torso, and the dip of his ab muscles as they descended into the waistband of his jeans. My mouth watered, and a pang of desire shot through my chest. By Astarte, even if I went blind tomorrow I didn’t think I’d ever forget that body. Everything about Heathcliff oozed danger, wildness, and unbidden passion.
Mrs Maitland dragged me away from my glorious view to a rack of dresses, pulling out gown after gown and holding them up to my face. “No, not the cream, or the yellow, or the blue. Red, for you, with your hair and complexion,” she cooed. “Are you happy with red? In the Regency era, it was a color mainly reserved for older ladies, for white and pastel were all the rage with younger women. This dress would have been seen as quite daring.”
“Sounds perfect.” I accepted the silk dress with black lace detailing. Mrs. Maitland pulled aside a curtain to reveal a small changing room. I slipped inside, pulled off my t shirt, pullover, and skirt (leaving on my fleece leggings, because it was freezing inside the Hall) and shimmied into the petticoat. My teeth chattered. Women’s clothing in the Regency wasn’t exactly designed for insulation.
I pulled the red dress over
my head. It sat perfectly over the petticoat, nipping in just below my breasts. The scoop neck pushed my tits together so I actually had cleavage. I turned this way and that, admiring the way the skirt swirled around my legs.
Mrs Maitland poked her head inside and handed me a blush-colored gown. “The red is perfect for the ball, and I’ve set aside matching silk flowers and a string of pearls for your hair. Here are your gloves and a matching fan, but I don’t think you’ll need the fan in this weather. For daytime wear, you want this simpler dress.”
I wasn’t a fan of pastel pink, but when I pulled the muslin dress over my head and arranged the puffed sleeves and neckline to best show off what little cleavage I had, I realized how pretty it was. The blush picked up reddish hues in my hair and the color of my cheeks. I tucked my phone and my father’s letter into my decolletage and smiled at the girl in the mirror. “I feel ready to land a husband of at least five-thousand a year.”
“That’s the spirit.” She threw the curtain open, setting a pair of slippers down on the floor. “Slip your feet into these and you’re ready for your Jane Austen Experience.”
I winced as I tugged on the silk slippers. They were paper thin and super flimsy. As I stepped out into Mrs. Maitland’s stall, every piece of lint and every imperfection in the marble was revealed through the fragile soles.
I miss my Docs already. I am definitely not cut out to be a Regency lady.
I wasn’t the only one struggling. While Lydia twirled about in a new cream dress with a neckline so plunging it would be sure to divert attention from my ‘racy’ color choice, the boys were getting a lesson in pulling on stockings. Morrie had his twisted around his ankle, while Heathcliff had knotted his into a noose and was pretending to hang himself with it. Behind them, a small audience of younger Janeites and an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair that matched her muslin dress stifled laughter. I recognized the woman’s face from somewhere, but I couldn’t place it.
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