by Laura Briggs
Eliot trailed after the rest of the crowd, Bella tugging him down on a settee near the hearth. He sank back against the cushion, his gaze taking in the impressive fir tree with its strands of dried almonds and raisins. Small, unlit wax candles dotted the limbs, along with satin bows.
A Yule log waited for burning inside the stone hearth, presumably as Miss Austen related charming details about life in the Regency period. Any other time, he would have been thrilled by the experience, but now it only reminded him of the disastrous ending to the book adventure.
Next to him on the chaise lounge, Bella rummaged through her knapsack. “Rats. I think I left the camera in the car.”
“I’ll get it,” he volunteered, eager for a brief escape. He made his way past the crowded rows of visitors in their seats, slipping through the half-open door.
In the parking lot, he gulped the cool air and avoided glancing in the direction of the bistro, reminding himself that Julia had the evening off. Probably spending it with her family, hunting a copy of the book she believed he was dangling like bait to steal her savings.
Snatching the camera from the front seat, he paused to close his eyes. Father, help me put these worries aside for just one evening, he prayed. Help me to find a way to speak to Julia, to explain that things aren’t the way they seem.
When he pushed open the front door to the Steventon House, he caught a glimpse of a woman descending the main staircase. Dressed in a creamy white gown and delicate slippers, she carried a book pressed against her body, her finger marking its page. Her gaze flickered in his direction, her parted lips emitting a small gasp as she recognized him. She whirled towards the upstairs again, but not before he recognized the delicate profile from the portrait in the gallery.
The same wide hazel eyes, the same dark locks. Even the same velvet bonnet draped over her arm with a heavy winter cloak.
“It’s you.” The words tumbled from his mouth in an urgent tone. “Wait,” he called, hurrying up the stairs after her. “I have your book. The one you dropped in the park.”
The woman froze, her fingers clutching the banister. Slowly, she turned to face him again. Her features were visible beneath the glow of lamplight, no tree shadow obscuring her face from his eager gaze. Soft auburn curls and rosy cheeks. A pair of deep hazel eyes he recognized instantly—but not from the snowy path in the park.
His heart turned over in his chest. “Julia?”
****
How am I ever going to explain this? She wanted to run, but her feet were glued to the step. With her lips incapable of forming words, she merely nodded in reply.
“This is crazy,” Eliot murmured. “What are you doing here? Are you—” His glance fell on the book in her hand, the cloak draped over her arm.
“I never thought…” he trailed off, rumpling his hair in a confused gesture. “You were the mystery woman in the park. The woman I saw in the Regency gown.” His gaze traveled over her dress and elaborate hairstyle, flickering over her face with a warm and eager gaze.
“I should have mentioned it before.” Her voice trembled, as heat rushed to her face. “I—I usually get such a weird reaction. A shabby artist playing dress-up in ball-gowns. So I sometimes hesitate—”
“Don’t apologize. It’s just that, well…” he reached into his pocket. “I have your book. It was you who dropped it in the park, wasn’t it? Under the sycamore tree.” He pressed the package into her gloved hands, the warmth of his fingers tangible to hers, even beneath the fabric.
“Open it,” he said.
“I should go down; they’re waiting for me.” Her voice choked as she stalled, afraid to talk with him any longer as the walls around her heart crumbled. The murmur of voices in the parlor was audible, the faint strains of a recorded string quartet performing Regency Christmas songs.
“They’ll wait,” he whispered. “Open it.”
Her fingers fumbled with the wrapping and string, pulling it off to reveal the book beneath. Her white gloved hand traced the familiar maroon cover of Northanger Abbey.
“I placed an ad in the paper,” he said. “When the guy at the bookshop told me how valuable it was, I knew nobody would ever leave it on purpose. I turned it over to the police, hoping I would find you again.”
“And all you got was an artist girl showing up looking for the same copy,” she said. “Somebody who wouldn’t own an Austen first edition, much less lose it in a park.” She lowered her eyes, her mouth pinched with emotion.
“You seemed so familiar,” he said, softly. “I was sure I’d met you before. When the book went unclaimed, I wanted you to have it. So you could fix whatever mistake happened with the first one.”
“Well, I guess you know, now,” she said a slightly bitter note in her voice as tears pricked her eyes. “I should never have assumed you were lying to me. All those things I said outside the shop were so unfair.”
He shook his head. “It’s OK.” Reaching up, he touched her cheek, cupping her face. “After my ‘bohemian’ comment in the past, you had a reason or two to think less of me.”
“That’s not true,” she said. “You complimented my paintings. You actually made me feel that somehow a modern artist could appreciate Jane Austen, not just make fun of her work. I know what I do seems a little different to someone like you—”
“But that’s what I like about you,” he whispered. “You’re unique and passionate.” His face was close to hers, his eyes pleading with her to believe him. “I know I’m just a boring book guy to you.”
“Don’t say that.” Her hand touched his arm, stopping him from saying anything else. “Intelligent and funny, yes, but never boring.” She blushed, despite the tear that escaped down her cheek. “I meant it when I said I look forward to attending that lecture, by the way.”
“Better reserve judgment on that.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers in a tender gesture.
To her surprise, she wrapped her arms around his neck, returning his kiss. The winter cloak and velvet bonnet slipping from her grasp to the floor, along with the cheap paperback edition.
“Merry Christmas, Julia,” he whispered, when he drew back.
She gave a shaky laugh, breathless from the unexpected kiss. “It’s Miss Austen, remember? Until nine p.m., that is.”
“Got it.” He drew her arm through his own. “Allow me the honor of escorting you to your public,” he said, reaching down to scoop up her things.
****
As they descended the staircase, Eliot’s gaze turned fondly towards the elegant figure beside him. Strangely enough, he missed the sight of strawberry-red in her hair, the raggedy tights and tie-dyed skirt she’d worn during her shift at the Starry Night Bistro.
Between the mystery Regency figure and the real-life artist who showed up at his office, he knew which one held his heart. Definitely the paint-stained fingers of the latter.
Clearing his throat, he paused just outside the parlor door, where the Steventon House’s guests awaited. “So Miss Austen…do you think Julia would be willing to spend the post-recitation Christmas Eve with a book historian and his Regency-obsessed sister? Because they planned on enjoying a quiet glass of cider afterwards, and more than anything, they’d like for her to join them.”
“I think she’d love it,” Julia answered, her hazel eyes glowing with emotion as they swept into the parlor to the sound of eager applause.
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