“You roll them on your fingers, like this…” Mrs. Maitland demonstrated. Heathcliff copied her, and somehow shoved his thumbs through the silk, leaving two gaping holes.
Morrie, at least, got the hang of his, rolling up the stockings and managing to give Mrs. Maitland an eyeful of his crotch, likely on purpose. She didn’t even turn away. I guess in her line of work, you saw it all.
“These really do hug everything.” Morrie pirouetted, wearing only his stockings and a black flouncy shirt. At the sight of… well… everything, several members of our audience tittered and looked bashfully away. “I feel a pleasing sense of support and security.”
“Before you prance off, you’ll need to be fitted for your breeches.” Mrs. Maitland steered him back into the depths of her shop. As one, the audience let out a disappointed sigh.
“Oh dear,” the older woman said. “I know whose dance card will be booked solid at the ball.”
“I’m sorry for my friends,” I said to her. “They don’t mean to be so… licentious.”
“Nonsense,” she smiled back at me. “It’s good to see young men enjoying Jane Austen, even if they do need a few lessons in the proper decorum. Honestly, I think mandatory costumes are a little silly myself, but I can’t deny the organizers have put on a spectacular event.”
“Is this your first Jane Austen event?” I asked.
“Heavens, no. I’m Professor Michaela Carmichael. I’ll be giving a lecture on medicine and cosmetics in Jane Austen’s fiction this afternoon.”
“That’s right.” I remembered where I’d seen her face before – her picture was in the brochure as one of the invited Austen scholars. “You’re a physician turned Janeite. You wrote a famous book on Regency medical practices.”
“I’d hardly call it famous,” she said, with a dismissive flick of her wrist. “My royalties would barely keep one of the Bennet girls in bonnets and bonbons. People would far rather read James Patterson or Jane Austen erotica than any serious academic text.”
“I work at a bookshop. I know all about that,” I smiled, thinking of the tall stack of James Patterson books we had to send to recycling every month because we got more than we could ever hope to sell. “Still, it must be nice to be surrounded by so many adoring Janeites. I bet everyone in this room is excited about your lecture.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” her features turned stony. “They’re all here to see the famous and handsome Professor Julius Hathaway.”
“That makes sense. He’s the academic who discovered Jane Austen’s connection to Baddesley Hall. The local shopkeepers want to hug him for all the extra business he brings to the village with the yearly festival. Plus, I guess you’re always guaranteed to pull a crowd with a lecture on sex and sensuality in Regency novels, even if you are an academic and not an erotic novelist.” I recalled Professor Hathaway’s lecture topic only because it had set Heathcliff off in a tirade about the frivolity of Austen novels that included at least three curse words I’d never heard before.
“I’d hardly refer to Hathaway as an academic.” Professor Carmichael visibly stiffened. “His books pander to popular tastes. And between us ladies, that man would be the last person on earth I’d want to listen to on matters of sensuality. But you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Hear what?” I had no idea academics were so inclined to gossip.
“Far be it for me to speak ill of a colleague.” Her eyes lit up, as if that was precisely what she intended to do. “But Professor Hathaway has somewhat of a sordid past. His late wife, may she rest in peace, would turn in her grave to know he had to leave his post at Oxford after sleeping with one of his undergraduate students.”
“Heavens!” I gasped, in a perfect mockery of one of Austen’s characters reacting to such scandalous news. I remembered I was carrying a fan, and I held it over my face in an expression of surprise.
“Indeed,” Professor Carmichael nodded at my fan, acknowledging my joke. “The wife died of an aggressive hereditary bone disease when their daughter was very young, and his bed’s never been cold since. I’d watch out if I were you. His taste runs to young, pretty women with Regency manners and little sense, and he’s extremely charismatic and manipulative. There’s many a whispered story about inappropriate happenings at these Austen events and young women leaving his suite in tears.”
“I may not know how to tie a bonnet,” I said, resentment creeping into my voice, “but I have enough sense not to be seduced by an aging Lothario.”
“Oh, of course. My apologies, but I was referring to your companion.” Professor Carmichael pointed to Lydia, who chased Morrie through the crowd, yelling at him to wear his breeches. I nodded.
“Fair point. If Hathaway’s as bad as you say… that’s an abuse of his power. Why doesn’t someone report him?”
“A few brave souls have tried, but he’s beloved in the Jane Austen community, and he knows how to spin a story so he ends up as the victim. He fancies himself a handsome Bingley or Darcy, dancing with all the girls and leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake. In reality, he is worse than Wickham. Hathaway spends more time chasing tail than working on serious scholarship. It might be why his recent book, Chaste and Carnality, has been so heavily criticized.”
“It has?”
“Oh, yes. Outside of Austen circles, he’s something of a laughingstock. His academic work is often juvenile and full of holes, but this recent book is practically nonsensical.” Professor Carmichael gestured to the center of the market. “But I have monopolized you too long. It appears at least two of your suitors are now properly attired. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mina Wilde. I hope to see you at my lecture.”
I glanced over to where Lydia and Morrie danced in the middle of the aisle, while the string band in the corner played a Regency reel version of Lady Gaga’s latest hit. Morrie still wore only his stockings and shirt. Young women in bonnets crowded around, clapping their hands in delight while Lydia tried to pinch his bottom. Behind them, a group of older ladies whispered disapprovingly at the spectacle. We haven’t even got to our rooms yet and we’re already more scandalous than the Bennets at the Netherfield ball. This is going to be an interesting weekend. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“I hope you’ll bring your delightful friends.” Professor Carmichael curtseyed. “At least then I shall have four souls in attendance.”
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll drum up an audience for you if you cut me in on your book royalties.”
She laughed. “How about if I buy you a drink at the ball tomorrow night? You’re likely to come out better off.”
“It’s a deal.” I curtseyed back, nearly falling over in my ridiculous shoes.
“And stay away from Hathaway!” With a final wave, Professor Carmichael disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter Ten
Half an hour and five pairs of stockings later, Heathcliff and Morrie were properly breeched, buckled, and cravated. They looked amazing, even if Heathcliff kept scratching himself and Morrie’s voice had risen half an octave from the tight stockings.
Lydia’s performance had left her with no shortage of admirers. Young girls fawned about her, excited to make acquaintances with the gregarious socialite who was quickly becoming the talk of the event. But her attentions were diverted by three male graduate students – wearing the red-coated livery of officers – who competed for her attention and made dates for her to sit at their table at breakfast. Lydia Bennet was in her element.
After wrangling Lydia away from her entourage, we presented ourselves to Cynthia, who deemed us properly attired. Finally, she led us up the sweeping staircase and right to the end of a cream-paneled hallway. “Here are your rooms.”
I sucked in a breath as I stepped into an extravagant suite. A canopy bed made up with blush-and-gold linens and draped with matching curtains stood on a raised plinth in the center of the room. Delicate vanity screens in the corner surrounded a claw-foot Victorian bath, set beneath a window overlooking the main
drive and parterres. An alcove on the right led into a high-ceilinged study and opulent bathroom decorated in gold and white marble.
“Here is the second room.” Cynthia pushed open a door behind the bed, revealing a second room with a similar layout, decorated in teal and gold. A lounge suite was arranged around the high window overlooking the grounds. On the table in front of it stood a bottle of Champagne in a silver bucket and a tray of fancy chocolates.
“These are some treats from us. Grey is sorry he couldn’t be here to greet you in person. They’re pushing ahead with the King’s Copse development, and he’s on site at all hours trying to get as much done as possible before the weather turns completely dreadful.”
“Tell him we’ll happily save his bacon anytime.” Morrie was already working the cork off the Champagne bottle.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Cynthia held out four lanyards. “These are your passes for the weekend. Wear them at all times to ensure access to the events, except for the ball. You’ll find ribbon wristbands inside for that – we can’t have these ugly things ruining our outfits! If there’s anything you need, speak to one of the staff and they’ll accommodate your every whim. Have an Austentacious time!”
Cynthia left in a whirlwind of perfume. As soon as she was out of sight, Heathcliff loosened his cravat. I kicked off the silk slippers and slid on my Docs. Ah, comfort, how I missed you.
“The Lachlans certainly are going above and beyond to give us the star treatment,” Morrie said, handing me a glass of Champagne. I noticed he wasn’t in a hurry to remove his outfit. Heathcliff was already gulping from his hip flask as he stomped on his cravat.
“It’s just as well. From your little performance downstairs, I imagine this suite will quickly fill up with Lydia’s admirers.”
“Perhaps that was my plan all along, to divert her attention away from my own fragile body… speaking of the annoying wench.” Morrie held up a third glass. “Lydia, where are you?”
Lydia poked her head around the door. “I have decided Lord Moriarty and I shall take the pink room with the larger bed. It better suits my complexion.”
Morrie’s hand froze. “We’re not sharing a bed.”
“There are four of us, and but two beds,” Lydia pointed out. “How else do you propose we make our arrangements? Unless, perhaps, you are the kind of man who does not sleep, because he is awake all night taking care of his amorous duties?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Morrie said, his words careful.
“Silly goose! I mean that if you’re not to share my bed, then where will you sleep?” Lydia’s trilling laugh filled the room. “Because you’re not going to share with Mina and Heathcliff. Whatever would people say?”
“People wouldn’t say anything, because you wouldn’t tell them,” Heathcliff growled. “Our sleeping arrangements are none of their business.”
“And is your true origin none of their business, too?” Lydia asked sweetly, her eyes sparkling with malice.
I glanced at Morrie and Heathcliff, and read everything I needed to know on their careful expressions. Lydia’s presence had highlighted a key flaw in their operation – their honesty in the hands of the wrong book character might lead to their downfall.
I had assumed we three would share and leave Lydia on her own, but it occurred to me that even as flirtatious as Lydia was, she would not react well to the idea of a woman with multiple partners. And if Lydia chose to make her opinions public or make too much of a spectacle, as she seemed inclined to do, she could cause big trouble for all of us.
I sighed. Perhaps there’s a way we can solve this on Lydia’s terms? “None of us are married, Lydia. It wouldn’t be proper. Think what your poor father would say!”
She stamped her foot. “Damn their pomp and propriety. You have feminism now, you told me. And they’re not here! I shall never see them again.”
“Be that as it may, if you share with Morrie, word will get around that you’re committed to him, and your three suitors will quickly lose interest. The key is to incite jealousy, but not to deter them completely.”
“Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”
Ah, now I’ve got her. “You and I will share the pink room, and the boys will have this room.”
Lydia gasped.
“What?” I demanded. “What’s wrong with that idea?”
“Two women, sharing a chamber? Won’t people gossip?”
“Exactly,” I grinned. A slow smile passed over Lydia’s face as she contemplated my words.
“Oh, I do adore your century.” She downed her champagne in a single gulp and held out her glass for more.
Chapter Eleven
Between them, Morrie and Lydia polished off the rest of the Champagne, and we adjourned to our separate rooms to put our things away and prepare for the day’s schedule of activities. I took a moment to text Quoth and ask him how his day was going. A moment later, my phone beeped.
“The first customer today asked for a book called Far from the Maddening Crowd. He grew irate when I tried to tell him the title is actually Far from the Madding Crowd, and insisted on speaking it incorrectly even when I presented him with the book cover as evidence. It’s not even eleven am yet and already I long to defecate on people. I fear I’ve turned into Heathcliff.
Stifling a giggle, I sent back a text telling him how much I missed him already.
Once Lydia had fixed my bonnet and demonstrated the proper way to wear a muff, we met Heathcliff and Morrie in the hallway. The pair of them couldn’t have been more different. With his stiff collar and black shirt, Morrie had an air of the clergy about him, which was hilarious given his personality. His ice eyes surveyed my outfit with a piercing attention that – were he a real Regency priest – would’ve seen him excommunicated on the spot. I couldn’t help but think all that black would look particularly striking on Quoth, as well.
The military tailoring on Heathcliff’s topcoat perfectly flattered his physique, drawing attention to his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His wild hair hung free about his face, and the line of stubble along his chin that he refused to shave and the gleam in his dark eyes gave him an air of danger. His bronze buttons glittered, and at his side hung a thin sword.
“I thought Victoria had your blade?” I asked, touching the elaborate basket hilt.
“This is a spare.”
“A spare sword? In case you have more people to stab than weapons available for the task?”
Heathcliff was about to respond, but Lydia twirled around Morrie, dragging him toward the staircase. “Quickly! My new friend David is saving a seat for me.”
I linked arms with Heathcliff. “To Pemberley!”
In keeping with her word to name the event’s rooms after famous locations from the books, Cynthia had named the grand ballroom Pemberley. It was located off the rear of the entrance hall, accessed through a wide hallway between the staircases that led into a marble anteroom (Uppercross) where the refreshments and goody bags were stationed. Off either side of the entrance hall were two drawing rooms to be used for the smaller workshops – Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park, and just along from Mansfield Park was Netherfield, which we’d already had cause to visit.
We followed the train of costumed people into Uppercross, where we waited for the doors to the grand ballroom to be opened. While Lydia stole Morrie away for photographs, Heathcliff and I took a turn around the room (mostly for the benefit of scoping out the food being offered). A row of tall, narrow windows along one side let in bright light from the snow-covered lawns outside.
Although stately in proportions and decoration – the high ceiling boasted a mural of songbirds sitting amongst gilded vines – Uppercross bore more touches of Cynthia’s eclectic interior design, with some odd choices of furniture. Gilded portraits hung from the walls, and plaques beside each one described the exploits of its subject. That was where the English Heritage ended and the bling began. One wall was dominated by an enormous stone firepla
ce that had been gilded in gold. It reflected light from the enormous crystal chandeliers. In front of the fire, on a shaggy cream rug, stood a wingback chair in bright cherry red, the wings oversized, pointing up to the ceiling as if the chair hoped to fly away and join the birds.
“Do you think everyone in this room has their breeches up their arse?” Heathcliff muttered under his breath. “Or just me?”
“At least seven people have given me dirty looks for wearing my Docs under my dress,” I added. “We make quite the pair.”
“As long as you’re as miserable as I am,” he whispered back, “this weekend won’t be a complete turd.”
“Want to stuff our pockets full of tiny sandwiches?” I asked.
“Bloody hell, yes.”
Heathcliff and I made our way to the buffet. I lined the front pocket of my purse with tissue and dropped several sandwiches and four slices of brownie inside. Meanwhile, Heathcliff shoved macarons up his sleeves. All around me, conversation flowed, discussing everything from historical accuracy in the film adaptations to ‘fuck, marry, kill’ their favorite male characters. Gold necklaces glittered from bare throats and pearl earrings dangled from every lobe.
The Argleton Jewel Thief could be in this room right now, sizing up his or her next victim.
“… the old Don Juan is at it again. He makes me sick.”
My ears pricked at Professor Carmichael’s voice. She was on the opposite side of the food table, her head bent low as she spoke to a young Asian woman wearing a bright blue muslin dress and a string of colorful beads around her neck. They both frowned at a blonde man at the end of the table. He had his back to us, but from the way he kept bending down to touch a young Janeite on her arm and swipe a rogue curl off her face, I knew I was looking at the infamous Professor Hathaway.
Curious now, I moved closer to Professor Carmichael and the other woman. I hovered my hand over a tray of sweets and slices, pretending to be utterly preoccupied with the choice of red velvet cupcake vs miniature lemon curd tart (in reality, I had four of each wrapped up in my purse).
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