What Would Jane Austen Do?

by Laurie Brown

  “I don’t want to dance with anyone else. Shall we walk out on the terrace?”

  “Fresh air sounds appealing,” she said. She turned and practically ran toward the open French doors. Shermont beat her to the exit.

  Stepping outside was like entering an air-conditioned movie theater for a summer matinee. Cool and dark with music seemingly all around. Several couples ambled leisurely across the length of the terrace from one curved stairway leading down to the garden to the other. Shermont guided her to a corner of the stone balustrade overlooking the grounds.

  “The garden was designed especially for a moonlit night such as this,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we take a stroll?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. The countess had appeared determined, and if she had seen them exit, she was sure to follow as far as the terrace. Eleanor wasn’t sure why she didn’t want that woman to dance with Shermont. Obviously he hadn’t learned to dance in a vacuum and he’d had other partners. She just didn’t think she could stand by and watch him hold another woman in his arms. Not right after their intimate dance. “That sounds perfect.”

  She placed her right hand on his forearm and they descended the terrace steps to the path leading into the gardens. The white shells beneath her feet were crushed almost as fine as sand. Her fabric dancing shoes made no noise, his steps only a slight crunching sound.

  “It’s dark.”

  “That’s by design. To enhance the experience, no lanterns are lit along the path. Another reason why it’s so popular among young couples.” He gave her an exaggerated leer before relaxing into a grin. “The designer of a moonlight garden chooses plants with white flowers that bloom at night and foliage that provides delight for the sense of smell,” Shermont explained as they strolled along the path, bowing and nodding politely as they passed couples returning to the ballroom. “Such as this night-blooming cereus from the West Indies with vanilla-scented blooms.”

  “Lovely.” She paused to touch one of the large flowers that lent an aura of magical fantasy to the garden.

  As they strolled from one garden “room” to the next, he pointed out the intensely fragrant night jasmine, evening primrose, angel’s trumpet, and Nottingham catchfly.

  “I didn’t know you were so into flowers,” she said.

  “Into? Oh. I understand. I’m not really into gardens. Although I admit to spending an hour with the gardener this afternoon in the hope I would entice you into taking a stroll with me. In fact, I hate gardening. It took forever to get the dirt from under my fingernails.” He gave her that oh-so-charming smile that made her toes curl. “Are you into gardening?”

  “I enjoy flowers but I know practically nothing about them. I’ve had little opportunity to garden,” she said. The sum of her gardening knowledge was a few unfortunate potted plants that she’d received as gifts and had quickly killed by overwatering or forgetting. No green thumb.

  He glanced around and saw they were alone. He cupped her face and kissed her lips. “I’ve been waiting all day for that.” He slid one hand to the back of her neck and moved the other to her waist. “And this.” Tightening his embrace, he kissed her jaw just under her ear.

  Shrill laughter signaled the end of their privacy. Shermont jerked away.

  Unfortunately, a button on his sleeve snagged on her necklace. She caught the amber cross before it fell. The clasp of the chain was broken.

  He apologized. “Let me have that repaired. I know a trustworthy jeweler in town and I’ll get it back to you in a few days.”

  “No.” She shook her head. She would be leaving tonight after midnight and would never see him again. She blinked the tears from her eyes as she put the amber cross and the chain into her reticule.

  “The necklace obviously means a lot to you. I’m so very sorry.”

  “Easily fixed,” she said. “Don’t give it another thought. Shall we continue our stroll?” The Cinderella time limit made each minute with him more precious.

  The group of laughing people passed, soon out of sight beyond a curve in the garden path.

  “Let’s wait a few minutes,” he said, leaning against a marble pillar carved to resemble a Greek ruin. “What shall we do to pass the time? No chess set handy. Can’t dance. Let’s see. Read any good books lately?” he asked with a lopsided grin.

  Guessing he didn’t really expect an answer, she shook her head. Her eyes had adjusted from the brightness of the ballroom to the gentler illumination of the full moon. In the moonlight, colors paled to shades of gray, yet she could see clearly, like being inside the classic black and white movie version of Pride and Prejudice from 1940. She almost expected Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier to approach along the garden path.

  Shermont looked so yummy standing there in the moonlight. Eleanor clasped her hands behind her back to keep from reaching for him. She had to look away. Another couple approached and passed with polite nods.

  “No ideas for an activity to pass the time? Well, then I have one,” he said, taking her hand and leading her at a quick pace to the far corner of the garden, where a humongous plant took up the entire area.

  “What’s this?” she asked, touching one of the large three-foot leaves.

  “To be truthful, I’ve forgotten.”

  She chuckled. “You know, you could have told me anything, and I wouldn’t have known the difference.”

  He brushed an armful of leaves aside and with a bow waved for her to go in front of him.

  With a quizzical look, she ducked under his arm and walked through a green tunnel. Across from the entrance, two walls made of rough stone met behind a small bench. The plant itself formed a semicircle, making a third wall and a partial ceiling, enclosing the area into a cozy fairy room about ten feet across.

  “How did you find this place?”

  Shermont walked past her. “I gave a gardener twenty shillings and asked where he went to take a nap after lunch.” From under the bench in the corner he pulled out a folded quilt and spread it on the ground. “I thought it would be a nice place for a moonlight picnic.”

  “I suppose I should count myself lucky he doesn’t nap in the toolshed.”

  From a basket beside the bench, Shermont took out a bottle of champagne, opened it, and filled two crystal glasses. He held one out.

  “You’ve thought of everything,” she said before taking a sip of the cold bubbly. His machinations looked suspiciously like a seduction. Not that he needed to go to so much trouble. She hadn’t been shy about her desire for him. But it was flattering. Anticipation shivered deliciously up her spine.

  “Won’t you have a seat,” he said with a courtly bow worthy of the grandest courtier.

  She hesitated. Rolling around on the ground would wrinkle her precious dress beyond repair. The material alone had cost her two months of brown-bagging her lunch, and she had invested uncounted hours into sewing the intricate pattern of beads on the bodice. To risk ruining it was unthinkable. And no matter what happened, they would return to the ball.

  Eleanor practically heard the minutes tick away toward midnight. Just like Cinderella, she would have to go home, so she made the decision to enjoy what little time she had left. She set her glass on the bench. After taking the beaded reticule from her left wrist and the ivory fan from her right, she set them beside her drink. Then she added her folded turquoise shawl and gloves to the neat stack.

  Then quickly, before she could change her mind, she undid the hooks and snaps and slipped off her amber silk gown, laying it gently next to her accessories. Her chemise, corset, underdress, and stockings covered her more than if she had worn a pair of shorts and tank top to the grocery store. Not to mention what she would wear to the beach or at the pool. When she turned to face Shermont, he raised an eyebrow.

  “One should never wear a ball gown to a picnic,” she said in imitation of Mrs. Holcum’s most proper upper crust tone. Eleanor retrieved her glass and sat on the blanket, her legs decorously curled to one side.

  “Cor
rect attire is always essential,” Shermont agreed, removing his coat and laying it on the bench beside her dress. He sat down on the blanket across from her.

  Eleanor clasped her hands in her lap. “What does one do on a moonlight picnic?”

  “Drink champagne,” he said, holding out her glass after topping it off. He raised his glass in a toast. “To your beautiful eyes.”

  “Thank you.” Although she had a good idea where he was leading, she wasn’t going to let him off easy. “What else?”

  “Your delectable lips.”

  “No,” she said with a little shake of her head. “I wasn’t fishing for another compliment, but I do thank you. I meant, what else do we do?”

  “I thought we might get to know each other. You are quite a mystery.”

  “Me?”

  “What do you enjoy doing? I only know you don’t play the pianoforte or croquet, and you don’t shoot a bow.”

  “Was I that bad at croquet?”

  “Actually, you did quite well for someone who watched others for direction on what to do.”

  “You noticed that.” She ducked her head.

  “I am aware of everything you do.”

  Unsure how to respond, she directed the focus of the conversation to him. “What do you like to do?”

  “You first.”

  “I like to read and sew.” She could hardly tell him she liked to rollerblade or go bicycling with friends. “I like to watch the sunset on the beach.” And drink margaritas on the patio of a little Mexican restaurant. She smiled at the memory of the bon voyage party her friends had thrown there.

  Shermont furrowed his brow. “If you live … how could …”

  Oops. She realized she couldn’t have lived on the West Coast of America during the Regency period, and the sun would rise over the water on the eastern shore. “It’s something I remember from my childhood and hope to do again soon. When I get back to a place where that’s possible,” she said to cover her faux pas.

  “Oh. Do you have a trip to the coast planned? I remember Huxley said something about going to see the butterflies in a fortnight.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “I hope to be hard at work in a few weeks.”

  “Work?” He was taken aback.

  Another slip of the tongue, but one she couldn’t cover easily. “I’m starting my own dressmaking business. I suppose you think that scandalous.”

  He shook his head. “No. And that’s one reason I’m fairly certain I wasn’t born to the aristocracy. I don’t have their inbred aversion to commerce.”

  “Enough about me. What do you do for recreation?”

  “The usual. I typically ride in Hyde Park early in the morning before the see-and-be-seen set hits the Serpentine Path. Spend time at my club. I spar several times a week at Gentleman Jim’s. Keep up with social obligations.” He shrugged. “I enjoy the racing season.”

  “You play cards?” she prompted.

  “On occasion.”

  “That all sounds rather frivolous. And you don’t impress me as a trivial person.”

  He gave her a sharp look that said he wasn’t used to his façade being questioned. His astonishment was quickly replaced by a bland expression. “I am cognizant of the responsibilities of my title. A great number of livelihoods depend on the success of the Shermont estates. If Parliament is in session, I attend to my duties in the House.”

  She sensed he was hiding something. “And do you find that fulfilling?”

  Shermont glanced down at his now empty glass. Her question went directly to the heart of his issue with the title. He understood hobnobbing with the nobility was the only way to ferret out those who bad no problem betraying their country for Napoleon’s gold, the privileged few averse to doing an honest day’s labor. Scovell was certain the foreign agents reached into the highest level of the aristocracy.

  If she had been any other female of his acquaintance, he would have brushed aside her question with a witty reply, dismissing good deeds. But, for whatever reason, he wanted her to think better of him.

  “To my surprise, I found myself involved in the cause of compulsory education for all children,” he said. “Although we are years away from passing an act, the groundwork is laid. I think nationwide literacy will influence the future for the better, and I find that rewarding.”

  “I think that’s admirable.”

  Although he basked in her approving smile, he knew he should change the subject before he revealed too much. His goal was to get her to divulge her secrets, not vice versa.

  “We are too serious for a discussion held in the moonlight.” He pulled the basket toward him and unpacked it. “One must have food on a picnic. Sandwich?” He held out a plate.

  Eleanor was baffled by the sudden change. Yet her time with him was limited, and she wanted to get to the seduction part of the picnic that she’d expected and hoped was coming. She played along. “What kind of sandwich?”

  Shermont opened one. “Some sort of pâté.”

  Although the little triangle and circle shapes were attractive, she declined.

  “Here we go. Biscuit?”

  Eleanor took a cookie from the second plate and nibbled on the edge.

  “And the pièce de résistance.” He removed two more objects from the basket with a flourish. From one bowl he chose a perfect strawberry, dipped it in the smaller dish of clotted cream, and held it out.

  Her hands were full, so she opened her mouth to take a bite. Thankfully, she didn’t close her eyes. A big dollop of cream slipped off the strawberry. With a small cry of dismay, she dropped the cookie and caught the gooey blob in her palm before it landed on her clothes.

  Shermont tried to prevent the messy accident by lunging forward. Halfway prone, his outstretched hand came up underneath hers.

  That spark, no less intense because of its familiarity, leaped at first contact.

  He gazed at her and after a heartbeat flashed a mischievous grin. He tipped her hand toward him and licked the cream from her palm, lapping with quick thrusts and then using the length of his tongue.

  The touch of his mouth sent goose bumps up her arm. He followed with warm kisses from her wrist to her shoulder, stopping at that sensitive spot below her ear. Strange how shivers could heat her blood so quickly.

  She tipped her head to allow him easier access. She melted and raised her arms to wrap them around his neck.

  Suddenly he rolled away, thereby avoiding the stream of champagne she would have dumped inadvertently down his back.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, watching the wet stain spread on the blanket and scrambling backward to get out of its path. “I totally forgot I had the glass in my hand.”

  “No harm done,” he said. In truth, he’d been saved only by a stroke of luck. His attention had been diverted by the sound of heavy footsteps nearby, as if the owner of the large feet had wanted to be heard approaching. Then he’d recognized that the nightingale he heard was actually warbling “La Marseillaise.” Napoleon might have banned the tune for its revolutionary associations, but it was still the French people’s unofficial anthem. Was it a signal for the foreign agents to meet nearby? Or was it a warning for Eleanor? “I think the possibility of interruption has passed.”

  But the magical mood had been spoiled.

  “We should get back to the others before we are missed,” he added.

  “Just what I was going to say,” Eleanor lied.

  She turned her back to him to slip into her dress, gather her accessories, and regain her composure. A few more hours and she would never see him again. Perhaps it was for the best that he’d turned cool toward her again. She could think the words, yet her heart still ached.

  She turned and headed toward the entrance, but the broad leaves had closed ranks. She couldn’t see a way out. He grabbed her hand and spun her into his arms.

  “I’m sorry we must leave,” he said.

  “Me too.” Her words held a different meaning than his, but her regret was g
enuine. She forced herself to breathe through her mouth, hoping to forestall her tears.

  “We will have another chance to be alone later,” he said, promise in his voice.

  “Possibly.”

  “We must make it happen.”

  Eleanor nodded, unwilling to trust her voice.

  He gave her a long, gentle kiss and then stepped away to push the leaves aside and clear the path back.

  As they walked up the steps to the terrace, she spotted Jane Austen and her sister Cassandra wandering around the terrace, looking for something on the stone floor.

  “Can we help you?” Eleanor asked.

  Miss Jane looked up. “Oh. Are we intruding? I’m sorry. We’ll come back later.”

  “No. What’s wrong? Did you lose something?”

  She put her hand to her throat. “My necklace. An amber cross, similar to the one Cassandra is wearing. Our brother Frank is in the Navy, and he brought them from Spain. The chain on mine must have broken.” She looked around her feet. “I was wearing it when we came downstairs, but we’ve looked everywhere.”

  It seemed a bit presumptuous for Eleanor to ask what Jane Austen would do when the very woman was standing in front of her. She knew Jane would take the honorable path even if it hurt, and in her heart Eleanor knew what was right. She took her necklace out of her reticule and held it out. “Is this yours?”

  “You found it!” Jane picked up the amber cross reverently and held it to her breast with both hands. “How can I ever thank you?”

  Eleanor felt a sharp spasm of loss, but that was quickly replaced by a glow of satisfaction. The necklace had been returned to where it belonged. “No thanks are necessary.” Giving joy to the woman who had provided her with so many hours of reading pleasure was enough.

  But when the Austen sisters turned to reenter the ballroom, Eleanor could not let the opportunity slip past. “Please …”

  Jane turned. “Yes?”

  “May we speak privately?”

  She nodded, and they walked ten paces away from the others.

  “I just wanted to …” Eleanor paused. How could she tell Jane Austen how very much her novels meant to her without revealing she knew Jane was the author? “I wanted to recommend a book. My favorite. It’s titled Pride and Prejudice.”