by Laurie Brown
Omigod. Jane Austen!
In the course of her jobs in the costume departments at several major movie studios, she’d met, talked to, and touched a number of big-name stars without a single qualm. But now she had a whole flock of butterflies. Austenipolo nerviosi.
The clock ticked ever so slowly, and yet the minutes flew by. Suddenly, it was time to go before she’d thought of something to say.
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 lieut
enant 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 beli
eving 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.
