Pride and Premeditation

by Steffanie Holmes

  “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 heating.

  “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.

  “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 h
ad 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.”