What Would Jane Austen Do?

Chapter Ten

Eleanor met Beatrix on the landing. “Where is your mother?”

“Already downstairs,” Beatrix answered. “She didn’t want me to wait, but I stood my ground for once and insisted I would go in with you. I wanted to thank you for all your help and for switching roles.”

“You’re welcome, but it’s nothing. I’m happy with the changes too.”

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You look a little pale.”

“Just a bit nervous.” Eleanor reached for her necklace as she often did in times of stress and remembered she had taken it off earlier and left it inside the decorative ceramic box. She made a mental note to retrieve it as soon as she returned to her rooms.

“I know the feeling. I get butterflies every time I see Teddy—I mean Lord Digby. And Lord Shermont is so much more … intense.”

“Oh, no, it’s not him. It’s … it’s …” Eleanor couldn’t explain she was anxious because she was about to face the woman she had come so far to meet.

“Keep your secrets. I don’t mind.” Beatrix took Eleanor’s arm and linked elbows. “Everything will be fine. We’ll go in together.”

The parlor had been expanded. What Eleanor had thought were wooden walls turned out to be floor-to-ceiling sliding panels. The parlor, adjacent music room, and library at the rear of the house were now one large space filled with people.

Deirdre must have been watching for them because she immediately sought them out. Beatrix excused herself to join her mother.

“Let me introduce you to your favorite author,” she whispered in Eleanor’s ear. Deirdre took Eleanor by the arm and led her to a group of three women near the pianoforte. She slowed her steps so as not to interrupt the conversation in the middle of a sentence.

Eleanor tried to determine which woman was Jane Austen since no real portrait had ever been made. Her sister Cassandra had done a sketch, and during the Victorian period an artist had added details to that, but no one could say for sure if the second artist had ever seen the famous writer. There was a serious question as to the accuracy of any depiction.

One woman was tall, taller than Eleanor, big-boned, and ostentatiously dressed. Eleanor counted her out. The other two must be Jane Austen and her older sister Cassandra. The one with the darker hair must be Jane.

She was tiny in stature, not even five feet tall. Slim. High arched brows, straight classic Grecian nose, small mouth with thin lips. Ordinary. Someone you might pass by without a second thought. Except for the lively sparkle in her eyes.

She wore a lilac dress of smooth cotton fabric historically referred to as sarsenet. It had black satin ribbon trim. A lacy cap covered most of her hair, but a few unruly curls peeked out around her face.

Eleanor knew Jane Austen was thirty-nine years old in 1814. She was saddened to see the patch of pigmentation below Jane’s lower lip and an irregular area of darker skin with white spots under her chin. The blotchiness was a symptom of Addison’s disease, the likely cause of her death in July 1817.

“I can’t really say much on recent fashions,” Jane Austen said to the robust older woman seated across from her. “We rarely socialize anymore except for family functions, but I was in Bath … April last. Satin ribbon trim on dresses was all the rage there, and I cannot see the styles in London being much different.”

“Very nice. But so plain. I like the what-do-you-call-it … the froufrous.” She patted her large bosom adorned with ruffles, lace, ribbons, beading, and lots of jewelry. “I have the physicka for it, no?”

While the tall woman brayed with laughter at the joke only she appreciated, Deirdre pushed Eleanor forward. She introduced her cousin from America to the Countess Lazislov from Russia, Miss Austen, and Miss Jane.

Eleanor was tongue-tied, but Deirdre picked up the slack as would any competent hostess.

“We’re having a light informal supper tonight because we have a special entertainment planned. Eleanor is in our play and made many of the costumes,” Deirdre said to start a conversation before she excused herself and left Eleanor on her own.

“I love homespun theatricals,” Jane Austen said. “We used to put on plays at home when we were growing up.”

“We’ve seen some that rivaled professional productions,” Cassandra added.

Eleanor shook her head. “I’m afraid this one involves more enthusiasm than actual talent.”

“Good,” Jane said with an impish grin. “That sort is always more entertaining.”

“Oh, my,” Countess Lazislov said. “Who iss dat?”

Without being as obvious, Jane and Cassandra looked toward the door. Eleanor peeked over her shoulder. Shermont had entered, and the man looked good. The high collar of his charcoal gray cutaway coat framed the fall of snowy linen under his strong chin. The silver embroidery on his sky-blue brocade vest was several shades lighter than his form-fitting silver gray slacks. The subdued hues stood out among the red uniforms and peacock colors of the other male ensembles.

“I vant him for a dinner partner,” the countess said. She immediately stood and went in search of Deirdre to make it happen.

“Definitely eye candy,” Eleanor said without thinking.

“That’s an interesting turn of phrase,” Cassandra said.

“Ah … that’s what we call stunningly handsome men where I come from. In America.”

“Well, Lord Shermont is that,” Jane said. “I always thought he had something more important than looks. Character. Moral fiber to back up his charm.”

“Then you know him?” Eleanor asked.

“Pardon me. I should not have spoken. We’ve met a few times, but my opinion is merely an intuitive evaluation.”

Eleanor was trying to think of a way to bring the conversation around to books. Two elderly women joined the group, inquiring about Jane and Cassandra’s family. Then Teddy arrived.

“I’m sure you’ll excuse Eleanor,” he said. “I must have her resolve an issue between myself and Alanbrooke, a bet, if you will, concerning America.” He held out his arm.

“Oh … I’d rather not,” Eleanor said, even though the others demurred to Teddy’s request. She was perfectly happy where she was. “I … I …”

“Come, Cousin. Dinner will be served shortly, and I would like to take care of this before then.”

“Lord Digby is the author of our play tonight,” she said, hoping to open a conversation on writing.

Teddy chuckled. He picked up her hand, put it on his arm, and held it there. “A fact you should reveal only after the play is a rousing success. By your leave,” he added with a bow and literally pulled Eleanor away.

She tried to ease her hand out from under his.

“You can thank me later,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For rescuing you from the old maid’s corner.” He jerked his head to indicate the area behind them.

“I was perfectly happy with the company and would prefer to go back,” she said. “Now release my hand before I cause a scene.”

He dropped her hand as if it had turned red hot. “Bit ungrateful, I’d say.”

“Then let me thank you for your previous concern, albeit misplaced. I’m quite capable of walking away from a conversation if it is not to my liking.” She turned on her heel and took several steps before she realized the dinner gong had rung. Everyone else was moving toward the door.

As on the evening before, Eleanor was seated near the middle of the table that had been expanded with additional leaves to seat twenty-eight guests. On her right, her dinner partner was a very young lieutenant so awed by his surroundings he could barely manage to stutter one-word questions and answers. On her left, Mr. Foucalt, the dancing master, had been drafted to fill out the table despite his sniffling and sneezing. She did learn he planned to hold a dancing lesson early the following morning.

From her position she could clearly see Shermont, now at the opposite end of the table. The countess had gotten her wish and spent much of her time fawning over him, apparently to his amusement and enjoyment. Eleanor ate little and emptied her wineglass a number of times. Nerves over the coming play, she told herself. Thankfully, Deirdre’s definition of casual dining meant there was only one remove before she led the women into the parlor.

Eleanor expected another chance to talk to Jane Austen, but her efforts were foiled again. Deirdre turned her hostess duties over to Aunt Patience and herded the female cast members into the ballroom, so they would have plenty of time to don their costumes and disguises. The women were already lined up stage left when the gentleman arrived in costume and awaited their cues stage right.

Shermont’s pirate outfit consisted of a loose white lawn shirt open at the neck, a red satin sash under his sword belt, well-fitted black leather breeches, and knee-high boots. A wide-brimmed hat with a large blue ostrich feather worn cocked at a jaunty angle completed his costume. Eye candy. With difficulty, Eleanor pulled her gaze away.

She heard the audience come in and get settled. Eleanor peeked through the curtains. Deirdre, as the goddess Aphrodite, followed by Fiona and Hazel, walked solemnly up the center aisle and mounted three steps to line up on the audience’s right.

“Our story,” Deirdre said in a serious tone, “as are many stories, is of the quest for love. Our hero is an enchanted prince cursed to bear the likeness of a frog by a wicked witch. He has traveled the world seeking a cure and has almost given up hope, until he meets a gypsy fortune-teller.”

“A gypsy fortune-teller,” Fiona and Hazel said in unison.

Two footmen stagehands pulled open the curtains. Center stage, Mina danced and twirled in a circle.

The Frog Prince paced wearily across the stage carrying a well-used portmanteau. The hideous green mask covered his entire head, but the protruding jaw gave room for his words to escape. “My heart is filled with despair,” he said, bringing his fist to his chest. “I have searched far and wide for the cure to this terrible curse. Please help me. I must know if I will ever succeed.”

Mina sat at the small table and gestured for the Frog Prince to do the same. “Cross my palm with gold, and I will tell your future.”

He handed over a small pouch that clinked. The gypsy tucked it in her belt. Then she waved her hands over her crystal ball, actually an overturned opaque glass bowl, but a reasonable facsimile.

“I see the witch who cursed you living in a cottage in the woods near here.”

The frog jumped up. “I will—”

“That is not all,” the gypsy said. “Sit down. The witch holds a beautiful princess prisoner. The princess is the key to your salvation. Only a kiss of true love from her will cure the wicked enchantment.”

“But how can she love me when I am so ugly?”

“You will be tested five times, and if you prove worthy, she will love you. But beware. You must outwit, outfight, out-reason, out-trick, and out-charm your opponents to win the princess’s love.”

The frog jumped up. “I will do it.”

He exited.

As the curtains closed, the gypsy fortune-teller called after him, “Good luck.” Then she added in a stage whisper, “You’re going to need it.”

Eleanor scrambled to her place on a three-legged stool by the pretend fire, and Beatrix sat on a thronelike chair.

Deirdre said, “And so the Frog Prince searches high and low until he finds the witch’s cottage in the woods. He enters, ready to claim his true love.”

“His true love,” the chorus echoed.

The curtains opened and the Frog Prince entered and knelt in front of the princess. “Your kiss alone can break this terrible curse.”

She turned to the witch. “Must I kiss him? He is so ugly.”

“A kiss that is not freely given is worthless,” Eleanor said in a high trembling voice.

“Then I choose not to kiss you,” the princess said to the frog.

“Begone,” the witch said. “You have your answer.”

“I will fight for your love,” the frog said to the princess.

“You will take the Five Tests of Worthiness?” the witch asked slyly.

The princess gasped. “Don’t do it. If you fail, you will forfeit your life.”

“If it is the only way to end this curse, then I will do it,” he said.

“Very well. The first test is one of wits,” the witch said. “Bring on the wise man.”

Parker, wearing a monk’s cowled sackcloth robe and carrying a book at least six inches thick, entered stage right.

“Ready?” the witch asked. “What has four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, three legs in the evening, and is weakest when it has the most legs?”

Both men acted as if they pondered a weighty matter. Eleanor rolled her eyes, but fortunately, no one could see beneath her mask. It had to be the oldest riddle on earth, literally, since Sophocles had posed it in Oedipus Rex. She was surprised everyone in the audience didn’t shout the answer before Teddy had a chance to respond.

“A man,” the Frog Prince answered triumphantly.

“I am rightly and justly defeated,” the wise man said with slumped shoulders. He left, dragging his feet.

The frog knelt before the princess.

She leaned away from him. “That was only the first test. I still choose not to kiss you.”

“The second test is harder,” the witch said. “A test of your fighting ability.”

The pirate entered with long strides. “I have come to claim the princess as my prize.”

The frog stood protectively in front of the princess with his arms spread. “The princess is no man’s booty.”

The pirate drew his sword. The frog drew his. They sparred back and forth across the stage. Shermont had the bigger sword and longer reach, and for a moment Eleanor thought the fight was in earnest. She scooted her stool back to the edge of the stage, and Beatrix jumped out of her seat and cowered against the curtain.

The script predetermined the winner, and so the pirate finally had to drop his guard. The frog smashed the sword out of his opponent’s hand and stabbed him in the heart. Even though the tip of his sword was blunted, the effect was quite realistic due to a chicken’s bladder filled with blood fastened under Shermont’s shirt. The pirate fell to the floor, dying with dramatic flair as he crawled toward his sword and ended by rolling off the rear of the stage.

The audience spontaneously applauded, and as Teddy took a bow, Eleanor could not help being concerned for Shermont. Was he really hurt? She leaned back to look over the rear of the stage. Suddenly the stool slipped from beneath her. With a yelp of surprise, she tumbled backwards, feet over head.

Shermont had been squatting behind the stage, wondering how to make a dignified exit without being seen, when the witch did a backward somersault off the stage. He lunged forward, got his right arm and shoulder under her, wrapped his left arm around her legs, and stood.

The audience broke out in applause and cheers.

“Put me down.”

“Not just yet.” He shifted her so he could hold her with one hand, turned to face the audience, and said in a loud voice, “I do believe I have the real princess.” With his free hand he picked up his sword and jammed it into the wooden stage. “Let that be a warning to any who would follow.” He exited around the back carrying her over his shoulder.

Eleanor braced her hands on his waist and pushed herself up with her arms. The other players stood stock still with their mouths hanging open. Deirdre at least had the presence of mind to smooth over the incident.

“And the witch enchanted the pirate into believing she was the princess, and he carried her away.”

“Carried her away,” the chorus echoed.

Shermont did not stop at the edge of the stage, but strode the length of the ballroom.

“Off to his ship,” Deirdre said.

“To his ship.”

Shermont turned at the door. “The play must go on,” he said.

“Must go on,” the chorus said.

Eleanor didn’t know what happened to the play after that because Shermont carried her out of the ballroom and into the hallway.

“Put me down,” she said again, her voice strained due to the fact that his rock hard shoulder pressed into her stomach.

He hitched her up a bit higher.

“Ho, there. What’s this?” someone asked. Eleanor recognized Patience’s voice, though her words were quite slurred.

“I’m taking her to the library,” he said. “To recover from her faint.”

“Faint, my—” Eleanor stopped speaking when he placed a hand on her derriere. “Hey!”

“She might have hit her head and could be delirious,” he said.

“Then by all means, carry on.” Patience giggled. “See, I can be witty, too. Carry on.”

Shermont started walking, and Eleanor looked up to see the older woman taking a long swig from a flask. Obviously not her first. Some chaperone.

Suddenly it occurred to her that Shermont believed her to be Mina, who had originally been cast as the witch. Was this the seduction that had resulted in the duel? Despite her tingle of excitement, or maybe because of it, she didn’t reveal her identity as he carried her into the library. He closed the door and set her on her feet.

“I have thought of this all day,” he said, cupping her face and lowering his lips to hers.

The feel of his kiss through the silk of her mask was an interesting sensation and just as magical as it was in the meadow. She leaned into the kiss, but as much as she enjoyed it, something was wrong. And it wasn’t the silk that separated their lips. She couldn’t get past the fact that he thought she was someone else. As much as her body screamed for more … more, she forced herself to push away from him.

She spied the blood on his shirt and looked down to see a blotch had transferred to her costume. Suddenly she realized it might have seeped through to her beautiful dress. The seams of her tunic, merely basted together, had already been torn apart in spots by the rough handling, so she ripped it the rest of the way off. And breathed a sigh of relief.

Shermont watched her with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t stop on my account,” he said in an amused tone.

“We should get back to the others now.”

“I don’t understand. First you kiss me—”

“You kissed me.”

“Merely semantics, but I’ll rephrase that. You kissed me back with true fervor, and then seconds later you want to walk away. You run blazing hot and then freezing cold like—”

“Me? You’re the one who ignores me one minute and then tries to seduce me the next.”

“Oh, come on, Eleanor. You can’t—”

“What did you just call me?”

“Eleanor. Your name. What is your—”

“How do you know it’s me? I mean, Mina was supposed to play the witch, so why don’t you think I’m her?”

“Did you not think I would recognize you? The tilt of this stubborn chin …” He touched her bottom lip and drew his finger down to her neck. “The curve of your cheek that my palms itch to caress.” He took her face in his hands. “And even if I had not recognized your scent and the feel of you when I carried you in my arms—”

“Over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes,” she corrected, her dignity still bruised.

He ignored her sarcasm. “One kiss and I would know your lips, the taste of you.” He kissed her long and gently before breaking away. He pulled on the ribbon ties of her hat, and the bow under her chin disappeared as fast as her resistance to his charms. “Please take off that mask.”

She stepped back, removed her hat, and worked on the knots of the mask.

“I can’t believe you’d think I didn’t know who I kissed.” He shook his head, then stopped and looked at her with a quizzical expression. “As a matter of fact, I cannot fathom why you’d even consider my seducing Mina as a possibility. She’s little more than a child.” By the end of the last sentence, his eyes narrowed and a muscle in his jaw clenched. “What sort of man do you think I am?”

Eleanor could hardly explain that she knew it had happened. Now she thought it wasn’t Mina after all and had been Deirdre, the older of the two sisters, he had seduced. “Based on the evidence—”

“Your so-called evidence was circumstantial at best. I should think you would have believed better of me despite the situation.” Even as he said the words, he realized he’d made judgments concerning Eleanor, believed she might be one of Napoleon’s agents based on evidence that was shaky at best. He ran his hand through his hair. “My apologies. I’ve never felt … whatever this is between us.” He turned away, unable to think clearly while looking into her eyes.

Eleanor couldn’t define what was happening between them, but she knew it had no future. Long distance love affairs were an uphill struggle at best with a gaping chasm at the summit. When the gap to cross was two centuries wide, any relationship was impossible. She’d never thought of herself as a one-night stand, but if she didn’t grab this chance to be with him, she might never have another. At least she would take the memory of him back with her.

She stepped around his body to face him. “I’ve never felt this way before either. I burn for your touch.” She put her hands on his chest. “Does my boldness shock you?”

He sucked in a breath, and the muscles beneath her palms tensed. “Your audacity enthralls me. But I cannot promise you—”

“I’m not asking for promises. No strings, no regrets.” At least none he would ever know about.

He whispered her name and wrapped his arms around her with a groan. Then he set her away from him and rested his hands on her shoulders. “If we aren’t back for the curtain call in fifteen minutes, your reputation will be ruined.”

“Not yours?”

He shrugged. “It is the way of the world.”

“I don’t care about my reputation.”

“Ah, so you say now, but if you’re judged guilty of immoral behavior, the other guests would shun you. You might even be forced to leave the house. Is that what you want?”

“Oh.” That would mean she wouldn’t have another chance to speak to Jane Austen. Hmm … hot sex or the real, live Jane Austen? Hell of a choice. Eleanor backed away to put space between herself and Shermont so she could think clearly. If she had to leave the house, how would the ghosts find her to take her back to her own time? Damn.

“I want more than a few stolen moments with you.”

What did he mean by that? His words sounded suspiciously like a brush-off. She sat properly on the edge of the seat, her back yardstick-straight, ankles and knees together, hands folded in her lap. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I don’t know.”

He ran his hand through his hair as he sat next to her, close enough for her to feel his body heat but not touching. He knitted his fingers together as if to keep from reaching for her and rested his forearms on his knees.

“I am not habitually inclined to spontaneous, ill-considered conduct, however …”

She recognized his attempt to distance himself from her. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, speak plain English.”

“It was a spur of the moment decision.”

At least he was honest. They sat in silence. She couldn’t fault him. He’d only caught her when she fell. She placed her hand over his.

“I forgot to properly thank you for saving me yet again.” She used her free hand to turn his head, so she could place a kiss on his lips.

He looked surprised.

“Did I shock you?” she asked.

“Your boldness enchants me beyond measure.” He embraced her and kissed her long and hard, tasting her, teasing her tongue with his.

She wrapped her arms around his neck. He lifted her onto his lap and ran his hand up her leg.

Eleanor smiled against his lips. Regency women didn’t have an article of clothing similar to modern panties, and he would find no impediment. She concentrated so hard on willing his hand higher … higher, she nearly missed the sound of a scratch at the door and the latch opening. Shermont didn’t.

Suddenly, he stood with a twisting motion that dropped her flat on her back on the sofa.

“Yes, Tuttle,” he said, his voice a lot calmer than she felt.

“Pardon, milord. Mrs. Aubin said Mrs. Pottinger fainted. I’ve brought cold compresses, a vinaigrette, and the housekeeper. Mrs. Otto has some skill dealing—”

“That will not be necessary,” Shermont said. “You may leave the cart by the door.”

Eleanor realized he was trying to keep the servants from coming far enough into the room that they could see over the high back of the settee. And discover his obvious arousal.

She quickly made sure all her clothing was in place and then stood, forcing Shermont to take a step back. She assumed a position between him and the door, flashing a smile at the butler and housekeeper.

“Thank you for your concern,” Eleanor said, making sure her tone was gracious. “I was a bit light-headed for a minute, but I’m fine. We will be rejoining the others now.”

“That will be all,” Shermont added, and the servants bowed their way out of the room without any change of expression.

The brief respite had brought Eleanor back to her senses. What was she thinking? Anyone could have interrupted them.

“Eleanor?

She turned to face him. “I’m afraid our time is up.”

“Can we meet later tonight?” he asked. “After everyone has gone to sleep? I will come to your room.”

“Yes. No. I mean, yes, we can meet, but you can’t come to my room. I’m sharing a suite with Deirdre and Mina.” If one night with him was all she was going to get, she would grab the chance. “We must be discreet. I’ll come to you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You never cease to surprise me … delightfully so.”

She ducked her head. “You make me want to be daring, wild, and wanton.”

“The next few hours without you in my arms are going to be hell, and I am not usually a patient man.”

She looked at him from underneath her lashes. “Maybe I’ll make it worth your wait,” she teased, stretching onto her toes to kiss him on the chin before dancing out of his reach. She picked up her hideous hat, discarded the ruined mask, and paused at the door. “Ready to return to reality?”

If he had asked her that question, her answer would have been “no.” She wasn’t ready to go back to her world. Not yet. Please, not yet.