The Dashwood Sisters Tell All (7 page)

“It's not really about you,” I said.

“Then tell me what it is about.” She paused, and a look of horror crossed her face. “You’re not sick, are you?”

I didn't answer immediately, and her hands trembled.

“Ellen? Are you sick?”

“No. No, of course not.”

“Ellen, I’m sorry.”

“You don't have to apologize.”

She shook her head. “I don't mean about this.” She sighed. “We probably needed this. No, I mean that I’m sorry I wasn't more help at the end, the last six months with Mom.”

“You would have come if you could.” I didn't actually believe that, but we’d had enough drama for one day. Time to be magnanimous.

“No, I wouldn't have. I mean…I didn’t.” She paused. “It's just that…I was afraid.”

“So was I.” I grimaced. “I didn't mean that to sound judgmental. I just meant—”

“Maybe we’re more alike than we think,” Mimi said.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re afraid to show your feelings to the man you love, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I can't hide mine.”

I ignored her reference to Daniel. “Mom would never have expected you to be unemotional.”

“No, but you would have, Ell. If I’d shown up on the doorstep crying my heart out, you would have seen me as another burden to bear.”

“I wouldn't have.” But I knew Mimi was right. If she had come home during those months, I wouldn't have wanted her to be
her
. I would have wanted her to be like me.

“You’re right,” I finally said. “I’m sorry.” And then it occurred to me that maybe I was just as much to blame for Mimi missing Mom's last few months as she was.

We were both quiet for a long moment.

“You really should give Daniel a chance,” Mimi said, breaking the silence.

“A chance to do what?”

“C’mon, Ell. He's practically been glued to your side since the welcome dinner.”

“Just because he's on his own, and I’m the only person he knows.” Of course, she didn't know that Mom had basically hired him to be glued to my side, as she put it.

“Not true. He knows me.”

“But you’ve been glued to Ethan, so you’re not really an option. Daniel's just an old friend.”

“I think he came on this trip because of you.”

I laughed. “I appreciate your faith in my middle-aged charms.”

“You’re not middle-aged,” Mimi said.

“You only say that because we’re so close in age. You don't want to be implicated.”

Mimi giggled, a soft, melodic sound that could charm even a cranky older sister.

We sat beside a large bed of roses, and their heady perfume filled the air. In an English garden, it was hard to believe that bad things existed in the world. That all the problems in my life existed. If only I could have stayed there forever.

But we couldn’t, of course. At that moment, Tom appeared around the gate.

“There you are. We’d better get going.”

We followed him to the parking lot and climbed into the waiting taxi, since the van was already full. As we pulled away from the pub, I wondered if the confrontation between Mimi and me would help or hurt our chances of agreeing on where to leave Mom, much less what we were going to do with Cassandra's diary.

At least we were speaking to each other honestly, if a little guardedly. That was some improvement.

CHAPTER EIGHT

B
y the time we reached the Vyne, an enormous house that now belonged to the National Trust, I would have given my kingdom for a bucket of ice, and then I would have dumped it over my head. Even with the air-conditioning in the taxi, I was feeling the heat. Mimi, of course, looked as cool and beautiful as ever.

“Unfortunately, we only have a short time here,” Tom informed us as we made our way up a gravel path toward the house. The trees and grass were still green but had wilted in the heat. I could identify with that.

“The Vyne was the home of the Chute family, and Jane Austen dined here on occasion. We know that her older brother James visited here on Sundays, as it was the Chutes who gave him the living of the parish at Sherborne St. John, where we’re going next.”

The car park where we’d left the van and the taxi were in the rear of the house, so we approached the Vyne through an enormous garden that bordered an ornamental lake. Swans glided on the murky surface. As we drew nearer to the house, we came upon more formal gardens with well-tended hedges and flowers. Finally, the walk led us to the rear of the house.

The back of the Vyne was even more imposing than the front of the home, which we’d seen from the road on our way in. It was almost as wide as the lake, with an enormous central pediment supported by huge columns. On each end, smaller wings protruded from the main body of the house.

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Chute didn't care for Jane Austen,” Tom said as we gathered around him, “and so Jane's presence here was much more infrequent than her brother's.”

He came to a stop on the walk in front of the pediment. “Those of you who want to see inside the house can take the whirlwind tour and then ride in the van with Mrs. Parrot to Sherborne St. John. For those who prefer to keep walking, we’ll explore some of the woodland area of the park and then make our way to the village. Of course, anyone who would like to rest can remain with Mrs. Parrot while the others tour the house.”

While everyone else dispersed, I hung back. Could I question Mrs. Parrot without arousing suspicion, especially when I already thought she knew more than she was saying?

Mrs. Parrot raised a hand to shade her eyes and surveyed the lawn and the lake. “There's a bench in the shade.” She gave me a shrewd look. “Shall we?”

“Sounds good.” I followed her, careful to avoid the duck droppings that littered the withered grass as we crossed the large lawn that separated the enormous house from the lake.

“Mind your step,” Mrs. Parrot said over her shoulder, and I wondered if she was referring to the conversation we were about to have or the duck droppings.

I settled onto the bench. Though the temperature couldn't have been more than seventy-five degrees, it felt much hotter. A thin breeze wafted from the direction of the lake.

“Now then.” Mrs. Parrot settled her shopping bag at her feet. “You have some questions, I think.”

It was the understatement of the year, but I had to look like an ordinary Austen fan, nothing more. “I’m afraid I’m a little rusty on my facts when it comes to Jane Austen.” I kept my tone casual.

“Most people are, dear.” Her tone was condescending but not unkind. “How may I help?”

“I was wondering about her relationship with her sister. I mean, I know everyone says she and Cassandra were close.”

“
Hmm.
Yes, they were, by all accounts.”

“How do we know that?”

Mrs. Parrot looked off into the distance. “From Jane's surviving letters, for the most part. The bulk of them, at least the ones that remain, were written to her sister.”

“The ones that remain?”

A strange expression crossed Mrs. Parrot's face, a look of both weariness and a certain furtiveness. “Jane instructed her sister to destroy most of her correspondence after her death.”

“And she did?”

Again, Mrs. Parrot looked…odd. “That's the general belief.”

“Didn't Jane and Cassandra ever disagree?” I asked, although I had evidence of the very fact in my possession. Cassandra had clearly not approved of Jane's affection for Jack Smith.

“I’m sure they must have done. But if they did, they kept it between themselves.”

“So these letters don't give any hint of a conflict between them?”

“No. But then letters in their day would have been far more public. Their contents would have been read to the rest of the family around the fire in the evening.”

“All of them?”

“Not all, of course. But for the most part, such communications would have been shared.”

I let my gaze travel across the expanse of the lake. A few brave picnickers risked the sun and the duck droppings. If what Mrs. Parrot said was true, Cassandra Austen's diary, her authentic diary, would have information no one had ever known about the Austen sisters. It would indeed be a priceless treasure.

I hesitated over my next question, afraid to tip my hand, but in the end, I had to take the risk. “What about diaries? Is that where they would have kept their secrets?”

Mrs. Parrot didn't bat an eyelash at my question, but her feet shifted, brushing the shopping bag. “Ah, the holy grail of all things Austen.”

“What do you mean?” I hoped my face concealed my emotions as well as Mrs. Parrot's did.

“No one has ever offered any proof of their existence,” she said, “But it's also very unusual that they wouldn't have kept them.”

“So there might be one somewhere?” It hadn't even occurred to me to wonder about Jane Austen's diary. I’d been so absorbed in Cassandra's.

Mrs. Parrot shook her head. “There's no reason to believe such diaries exist.” She looked up at me, her gaze intense. “Although one never knows,” she added.

I knew from my mother that, occasionally, Austen-related items turned up from time to time. Most of them—like Jane's famous writing desk—had been in the possession of her brothers’ descendants before they were donated to museums and the like.

“So it's not beyond belief that her diary might turn up?”
Or Cassandra's
, I added to myself.

“Conceivable, yes. Likely, no.”

I didn't believe Mrs. Parrot's nonchalance. It was too…studied, as Jane Austen herself would have said.

We sat in silence for several minutes as I turned this new information over in my mind. The diary my mother had given me might actually be real. And if it were…

“We should be going.” Mrs. Parrot tapped the watch affixed to the lapel of her jacket. How she could stand to wear a tweed blazer in this heat, I had no idea. The English were made of sterner stuff than we wilting Americans.

“Okay.” I followed her back across the lawn and gave a last, wistful glance toward the magnificent house. I wondered how Jane Austen might have felt when she visited. The numerous windows, the huge columns, the vast pediment, and the sheer size of the place must have dwarfed anything else she knew, even her father's church. The Vyne was a far cry from her father's humble rectory in the obscure village of Steventon. I felt overwhelmed just looking at it.

We met up with the rest of the group on the path back to the parking lot. Mimi limped along, a forced smile plastered on her face. She shot hopeful glances at Ethan, but he seemed intent on what one of the Austenites was telling him about the care and cultivation of rose gardens.

We paused near the entrance, and I ducked into the small refreshment stand, looking for a Diet Coke. My stealth was rewarded—but when I emerged, I stumbled across a conversation clearly not meant for my ears.

“She asked about diaries.” Mrs. Parrot's voice came from behind the refreshment stand, but I couldn't hear the mumbled response, although the voice was clearly masculine.

Before I could walk around the corner to find out, Mimi appeared at my elbow. “Hey, sis. Where’d you get the Diet Coke?”

The other conversation stopped abruptly. It was too late to shush her.

“I got it in here.” I strained to hear any more from behind the refreshment stand, but all was quiet. “Come on,” I said to Mimi with a sigh. “I’ll buy you one.”

We went back into the refreshment stand, Mimi limping after me. As I forked over my pound coin and a fifty-pence piece, I could only wonder if anyone on this walking tour was who or what they appeared to be, and who else knew about Cassandra's diary.

CHAPTER NINE

E
ven my sister Ellen would agree that beauty worthy of Ethan took extra time, so I was a little late for dinner that night. Tom had told us that the dining room at Oakley Hall had once been a monument to Jane Austen, but as he explained before the meal was served, the management had recently redecorated. Gone were the portraits of the Austen family, various prints that depicted Jane's parents, sister, and brothers. The only existing portrait of Jane was a small watercolor sketch, currently housed in the National Portrait Gallery in London—a portrait that all of her family agreed looked nothing like her. So instead of eating dinner under the noses of the Austen family, we sat in modern chrome black-and-white splendor.

Ethan sat next to me. Even after abandoning me at the church at Steventon to wander in the churchyard, he couldn't have been more attentive. He collected art and antiques, owned a house nearby, was practically a descendant of Jane Austen, and made me forget the gnawing pain on my toes and heels. My skin still burned from where Ellen had doused my blisters with rubbing alcohol on the advice of Tom Braddock. Fortunately for him, Tom sat at the other end of the table.

“Is the lamb to your taste?” Ethan asked. He leaned toward me, grinning with a devilish air. “I don't suppose it can be as delicious as the company.”

If an American had said that, I would have found it cheesy, but a posh British accent tends to make everything more attractive.

“It's lovely. And the monkfish?”

“Adequate.” He winked, though, to take the sting out of his response. “But again, not nearly as tasty as—” He broke off and stared meaningfully at my lips.

I forced myself to stay seated, and not leap up from the table and do the happy dance around the dining room. The other members of the group were watching us. I could feel it. Some just darted glances, while others observed more openly. I didn't care. Why would I? Somewhere in the middle of a Hampshire wheat field, a miracle had happened. I had finally found the man of my dreams.

Now I just had to convince him that I was the woman of his.

I had been ignoring Ellen, who sat on the other side of me, but she seemed content to talk about all things Austen with the couple across the table. I’d long ago learned to tune out those conversations.

“I’m excited to see your house,” I said to Ethan. “I’m sure it's as charming inside as it is outside.”

“It's a bit of a mess at the moment, I’m afraid. But it does have the usual conveniences. As well as the requisite sheep.” He was enjoying this very much, but I didn't care if he was laughing at me a little. That house must have had at least twenty rooms, not to mention a breathtaking vista overlooking a good deal of parkland.

“How many sheep does it take to meet the ‘requisite’ standard?”
Careful, Mimi. Keep it light. And don't let him hear the
ka-ching
of the cash register in your head.

It wasn't that I was a gold digger. Most of the guys I’d dated over the years had made a good living, but none of them had been seriously wealthy. I was a modern woman, and while I liked a man to pull his own weight, I didn't expect him to pull mine. But even a modern woman didn't mind being spoiled from time to time.

“I think fifty meet the requirement. It would take that many again to achieve ‘extraordinary.’”

Really, how could I not fall for this man? Handsome, charming, rich. With a nicely dry sense of humor. True, he didn't seem to be too handy when it came to the mundane aspects of life, like blisters, but given his other attributes, I thought he could be forgiven that minor failing.

“When should we leave?” I asked. “We may have to sneak away from Tom.”

“Now? During dinner?” He laughed again.

“No, of course not. After dinner. Even a fabulous house isn't worth missing dessert.”

The truth was, of course, that by that point, I couldn't have cared less about dessert. But I had gotten to this stage in a relationship often enough to know that I had to achieve a delicate balance between interest and eagerness. Not enough of the first, and he’d wander off looking for a more appreciative audience. Too much of the latter, and he wouldn't be wandering off; he’d be running for the door.

He looked at me with an impish light in his eyes. “As soon as you’ve eaten the last bite of dessert, we’ll go.”

Ellen would have my hide, of course. We were supposed to read some more in that might-be-real-but-probably-isn't diary before we went to sleep. Surely, though, she’d understand that spending the evening with the man of my dreams had to take priority. Even Jane Austen would have approved of that.

Ethan's car was a low-slung, black BMW that raced along the two-lane road toward Deane with breathtaking speed. I forced my eyes to stay open so that I wouldn't look afraid. Riding on the wrong side of the road was nerve-racking enough. Doing it at a high rate of speed sent my pulse skittering.

Thankfully, the thrill ride didn't last long. What had taken a good part of the afternoon to cover on foot took only minutes in Ethan's car.

He turned into a side road by the pub where we’d had lunch and then into a driveway.

“How long ago did you inherit the house?” I asked.

“I just took possession last month,” he said. “It may be in a state with workmen everywhere.”

“At this hour of the night?” It was past ten o’clock.

He chuckled. “I doubt they’re present at the moment, but they may have left everything a bit of a mess. The house was in a terrible condition.”

I smiled to reassure him. “I’m used to…what did you call it? Chockablock?” I was glad to have a chance to return the teasing. It kept the balance of power a little more even.

He pulled up behind the house into a paved parking area. “Come on.” He didn't come around to open my door, so I did it myself and followed him through a wisteria-framed gate in a brick wall.

Even in the last remnants of daylight, I could see what a wonderland the garden was. Jewel-toned flowers spilled from containers and beds. Ornamental trees, a scattering of benches, and a fountain in the middle completed the idyll.

“It's breathtaking,” I said.

Ethan paused. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”

He took it for granted of course, this earthly paradise. If you were accustomed to this kind of grandeur, maybe it got tedious after a while. Maybe you flopped on one of those benches and yawned with boredom. All I wanted to do was slip off my sandals and perch on the edge of the fountain with my feet in the water. The scent of honeysuckle hung thick in the air.

“Let's go inside.” He took my elbow and led me to a wooden door that must have once been a servants’ entrance. We ducked inside, and I found myself in a kitchen straight out of my mother's favorite magazine, the
English Home
. Slate floor, a shiny new Aga cooker tucked into the enormous original fireplace, a battered farmhouse table, and a huge stone sink underneath the windows at the far end. It was a kitchen fit for Cinderella. Rustic and romantic at the same time.

“Do a lot of cooking, do you?” I said to Ethan with a sidelong look. “Or is this just to impress the women you bring here?”

“Definitely to impress the women.” He turned toward me and took my hand. Then he pulled me closer and looped his arms around my back. “Is it working?”

I didn't dare tell him how well.

“I assume there's more to the house than the kitchen.”

He chuckled. “Yes. If you insist, although I prefer the view here.”

Oh, he was good, but I wasn't going to let him go too fast.

“Show me the rest.”

He did, flipping on the lights as we went from room to room. He was right. The house did need some serious updating, not to mention a few minor repairs. The bathrooms were a bit of a mess, as he’d said, but the guest bedrooms retained their faded country-house chic, with lots of antique furniture, toile curtains, and chairs upholstered in fabric thick with cabbage roses.

“Did you inherit the house furnished?” I asked as we stood in one of the guest bedrooms, and I admired the four-poster bed and the jumble of collectibles on the mantelpiece—vases, figurines, even some wrought-iron pieces.

“Yes, it was fully furnished.” He laid a hand on a large cabinet, almost as big as a wardrobe. He ran his hand down the side of it. “Late Georgian. An Austen family heirloom from her niece, Fanny.”

“That's not a wardrobe?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly. And this”—he moved toward the small table that stood between two tall windows—“is a writing desk. See how this tilts?” He pulled the top toward him, and it lowered to form a flat surface. “Jane Austen could have written her novels on it.”

“Or her diary.” I paused. Ellen would kill me, but Ethan would be impressed. Besides, he might be able to help us with authenticating our supposed treasure.

“My mother left us an Austen heirloom. At least, we think it might be. We’re not sure.”

“Really?” He looked skeptical. “Something decorative, like a mirror or a soup tureen? I’m afraid there are a number of counterfeit—”

“It's Cassandra's diary, actually.” I tried to sound casual. I turned away so that my expression wouldn't give anything away. “Once we get it authenticated, we’ll put it up for sale.”

He nodded. “The smart thing to do, of course, if you’re not a collector.”

I turned back toward him. “No. I’m afraid that our mother's Austen mania didn't quite rub off.” I glanced around the room. “Maybe you might be interested in the diary?”

A private sale would be much easier, quicker too, but first I would have to convince Ellen. I’d also have to figure out a way to tell her that I’d done what she’d explicitly told me not to do—reveal the existence of the diary.

“I’m not sure if I’m in the market for more Austenalia.”

“Oh.” I had thought he’d be very interested. “Don't mention it to anyone, okay?” I said to Ethan. “Ellen's afraid of it disappearing before we figure out what to do with it.”

He smiled. “I wouldn't dream of it. I wouldn't get your hopes up though. Most of these things turn out to be well-meant forgeries or hoaxes. But I’d be glad to take a look at it for you.” He moved toward me and then put an arm around my shoulders. “Shall we finish the tour?”

We eventually came to a stop in what I supposed one would call the conservatory. The glass walls and ceilings housed a sea of plants, which in turn encased a comfortable-looking wicker sofa piled high with cushions, along with several matching chairs.

“This would be amazing when it rains.” I could imagine lying on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling and watching the raindrops as they splattered against the glass.

“Yes, I suppose it would. I hadn't thought about it.”

“You should try it sometime.”

“Perhaps I will.” He took me in his arms again, and I didn't resist. To be honest, I had to restrain myself from flinging myself at him.

“You’re a very special girl, Mimi,” he said.

“No, not really. I’m very ordinary.” I knew from experience that the surest way to get a man to repeat a compliment was to deflect it on the first try.

“Let's test that theory.” He leaned forward and placed his lips against mine. Softly. With just a light pressure. Oh dear, he was good.