Bespelling Jane Austen

by Mary Balogh

  “Oh, bother,” she said.

  “In the meantime,” he said, “I will not willingly allow you out of my sight.”

  “Or I you,” she assured him.

  “I suppose,” he said, “we were allowed the great privilege of a glimpse beyond the veil this lifetime, Jane, because we came so close last time.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  They sat gazing into each other’s eyes for a long while, their hands clasped.

  “It is really you,” he said, smiling slowly.

  “It really is.” She smiled back.

  “It is a little overwhelming, is it not?” he said.

  “More than a little.”

  He got to his feet and drew her up with him, and they wrapped their arms about each other again and clung tightly as if daring the world or eternity to part them.

  Nothing could or would.

  Her father would not like it, Jane thought, but he would grow accustomed to it. Soon, no doubt, he would be slipping my son-in-law, Captain Mitford, the hero from India into his conversations.

  Lady Percy would not like it. But she genuinely loved Jane, and she would soon come to see that Jane was happier than she had ever been, and she would relent.

  Perhaps Robert’s family would not like it, but they would grow accustomed to her. She had always been able to make people love her. She would not fail with them.

  But even if the whole world was against them, it would not matter. They were together—again. And this time they would remain together. Until death did them part and—of course—long after that.

  Forever.

  “Robert.” She drew back her head and gazed into his eyes. She could see her reflection in them, and she knew he was seeing his in her eyes.

  Two souls.

  One.

  Soul mates.

  Was there a lovelier word in the language?

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I know.”

  And he tightened his arms about her waist and lifted her off her feet and spun her about in a full circle, whooping as he did so.

  And without the aid of his cane.

  Jane threw back her head and laughed out loud as the sun drew clear of the clouds overhead and beamed down upon them.

  NORTHANGER CASTLE

  COLLEEN GLEASON

  To Jane Austen, for making romance novels classics and keepers for generations.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Janet Mullany, who thought of me for this project—you know how much I adore you, dear tickler. I am thrilled to be part of this group of talent, and express my gratitude to Susan Krinard for the brilliance of the idea. I’d also like to thank Mary Balogh for taking a chance on a paranormal element and for helping to get this project off the ground.

  Thanks to HQN Books for doing such a fantastic job of packaging and putting together this anthology. I couldn’t be more delighted with how this has all turned out!

  And I’d also like to thank the fans and readers of the Gardella Vampire Chronicles. Although Victoria’s story is complete, I hope you enjoy this story of a different wing of the Gardella family just as much. Thank you for your support and enthusiasm!

  Dear Reader,

  I grew up reading Gothic novels, and alternately rolling my eyes at the heroine who creeps up to the attic in the dead of night with a candle, and holding my breath, sitting on the edge of my seat and flipping pages as fast as I could, while she did so. And to this day I am a sucker for the dark, brooding Gothic heroes who remained a mystery until the ends of those suspenseful books.

  Thus, when I first read Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey, I knew I’d found a kindred spirit in not only Jane, through her tongue-in-cheek rendering of a Gothic novel, but also a heroine I could relate to in Catherine Morland. Like me, Catherine sees stories everywhere, making up histories and Gothic tales in her mind. As a writer, I do that every day.

  When I was invited to be part of this group for Bespelling Jane Austen, it was a no-brainer for me to choose Northanger Abbey as the Austen novel I wanted to work with. Since I had already written a series about a female vampire hunter who lived during Austen’s time, I thought it would be fun to take the history of the Gardella vampire hunters and weave them into a summer at Bath with a dramatic young woman.

  Thus Caroline Merrill was born—a counterpart to Catherine Morland. A young woman who not only devours Gothic novels as Catherine Morland did, but also sees stories everywhere and in everyone. She’s not always correct in her assessments (nor was Miss Morland), but she rises to the occasion when necessary.

  I hope you enjoy Caroline Merrill’s adventures and my tribute to Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. Perhaps you’ll even see a bit of yourself in a young woman who loves her books and finds people to cast as those characters. I know I did!

  Happy reading!

  Colleen Gleason

  CHAPTER 1

  1845

  Bath, England

  MISS CAROLINE MERRILL SMOOTHED HER RUFFLED-HEM skirt as she settled into the chair against the wall. She quickly tucked her feet under the seat to keep them from being stepped upon or tripped over, and confirmed that the heavy, bulky reticule still dangled from her wrist. One never knew when one might need one of the accoutrements from within.

  And then she had her first chance to look around, to really see all of the excitement. The Pump Room was just as thrilling—and packed—as Almack’s had been, filled with people meant to see and be seen.

  Unfortunately, Miss Merrill was one of the former—for other than dear, dear Mrs. Argenot, by whose good graces and generosity had Miss Merrill come to be here in Bath, the young woman knew not a soul. It was only because Mrs. Argenot was a distant cousin and old friend of Miss Merrill’s mother, and that she had been desirous of a companion, that the younger woman had been invited to come. An event for which she still gave daily thanks.

  “My stars,” Mrs. Argenot said, leaning toward Caroline with an effusive wave of rosewater, “I declare, it’s cooler outside in the noonday sun than it is here in this room.”

  “And I would suspect the lemonade would be chillier, as well,” Caroline replied, eyeing the beads of sweat on Mrs. Argenot’s upper lip…and hoping she didn’t sport the same decoration. “Though not by much,” she added, recalling how warm the lemonade was at Almack’s, which, to her recollection, had never been this uncomfortably warm. At least, it hadn’t been, the single time she’d been there as a guest of Lady Jane Merriwether.

  “Why do they not open some of the doors and windows? Then we could have a bit of a breeze, at least,” said her companion over the roar of the music, laughter and voices pitched loudly around them. She was a tiny woman, who made Caroline feel like a large and bulky footman next to her, even though Caroline herself was the shortest member of her family.

  Granted, it was no surprise that her three brothers should be taller than her, but even her mother, the elegant Mrs. Evangeline Merrill, rose three fingers’ width above her daughter. “I do believe all the doors and windows are open, Mrs. Argenot,” Caroline told her. “It simply makes no difference when it has been so warm outside all day, and there are so many people in here tonight.”

  Caroline flattened her upper lip so as to determine whether she did have those glistening dots above it, and then, surrendering to her obsession, began to dig in her reticule.

  “I declare, Caro, that is the largest bag I’ve ever seen,” Mrs. Argenot told her. “You could fit one of your precious books in there, couldn’t you? Whatever do you carry around in such a thing?”

  “A variety of implements,” Caroline replied, rummaging past her reading spectacles and the palm-size silver cross in favor of the muslin handkerchief she’d been seeking. “One never can tell when one might be in need of a pair of scissors or a magnifying glass.” Among other things that she’d managed to stuff into the bag. Which, she could not deny, really was of an awkward size, especially as an accessory for a ball.

  Adding the wooden sta
ke had been the biggest problem and, even now, she wasn’t certain that the one she’d managed to fit within the bag was large and sturdy enough to do the job.

  If, indeed, she ever did come face-to-face with a Lord Ruthven, or, worse, a Lord Tyndale–type. Which, heaven forbid she should ever do. But since Caroline was a practical girl, she felt it important to be prepared for any eventuality, hence the silver cross that was simply too large and bulky to wear with her gown. Nevertheless, it would certainly be a deterrent to a vampire.

  Handkerchief successfully retrieved, Caroline dabbed unobtrusively at her upper lip as she scanned the room. There was no doubt in her mind that if there was a vampire lurking about Bath, he would be here in the Pump Room tonight.

  After all, according to Dr. Polidori’s fantastically horrid novel, the Lord Ruthvens of the world preyed on the innocent, rich-blooded young girls of the ton. What better place than Bath in the summer to stalk his victims?

  Caroline tucked the handkerchief back into her bag and scanned the room, searching for a likely candidate. She was not about to be taken unawares, even if the rest of the attendees had nothing to worry about but treading upon the hems of their gowns or finding a dance partner.

  “I vow, I’ve never been so exhausted in all my life!” exclaimed a shrill voice. Its owner collapsed onto the chair next to Caroline in a wave of pink ruffles and rose-colored flounces and began to fan herself enthusiastically.

  Caroline turned to the newcomer, who was a pretty young woman about her age with wheat-colored hair and a heart-shaped face. She looked exactly like a heroine in Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels: pretty and innocent and lively. “It is quite a trial to make one’s way through all of the crush and keep from getting one’s toes trod upon,” she agreed.

  “And my slippers! They’re ruined!” wailed the girl, lifting up her skirts just enough to show toes of pale pink silk. Which, as far as Caroline could see, were unblemished by scuffs, dirt or anything else.

  “Er,” she said, “I think they look lovely.” Perhaps she wasn’t the sort of girl who would sneak up to the attic to investigate a locked door during a thunderstorm…no, she would most likely be the Gothic heroine’s best friend and confidante. The one who had exquisite taste in fashion.

  The girl glanced at Caroline for the first time. “Oh, my word, can you not see the stains on them? Why, they no longer look the least bit pink! They’ve become as brown as mud!” She fussed for a few moments, adjusting her flounces and smoothing her already smooth skirt.

  Caroline watched in fascination, for the newcomer was quite a lovely young woman and her costume was just as pretty. She wondered if the girl was an orphan who’d found a kindly woman guardian, a member of the haute ton, perhaps a very distant cousin, childless, of course, to take her in and sponsor her into Society, and that was why she was so conscientious about her clothing.

  “Have you come here before tonight?” Caroline asked, in an effort to begin a conversation that had to do with something other than the state of the girl’s slippers and that might lead into more information about her history.

  Or perhaps she would have some information about the very proper-looking older man who lurked in the corner, his dark eyes scanning the room. He seemed just the type to have locked his mad wife away in a tower room and come searching for a new, younger bride. His nose was so sharp and his chin weak…and there was something furtive about him.

  “Oh, I have been here many times before,” the girl replied airily. “But as we have just arrived in town yesterday, this is the first visit we’ve made this summer.” Again, she looked up as if she’d just noticed Caroline. “We must find someone to properly introduce us, but until then… I am Isobel Thornton,” she said, still brushing at her skirts.

  “What a pleasure to meet you,” Caroline said. “My name is Caroline Merrill.”

  “Indeed,” Miss Thornton said, still fussing with her flounces. Then she turned to patting her hair, which had been swept into a smooth, moonbeam-colored twist with perfect little curls framing her pretty face.

  Caroline didn’t want to consider what her own honey-colored hair might look like, after the stifling heat and pushing through the crowd. She was certain it didn’t look nearly as fresh as Miss Thornton’s.

  “I do not know what’s to come of this visit,” Miss Thornton said. Now she was smoothing her gloves, first the left hand, all along to the elbow and then the right. “I have heard of no one in town at this time. It’s sure to be such a bore, but what can one do? My dear brother, James, must have his way and visit Bath in July.” She shook her head, curls bouncing charmingly. “He can be ever so frustrating, thinking only of his hounds and horses, and his club, and never once thinking of me.”

  Caroline forbore to point out that with the number of people crowded into the Pump Room, it could hardly be considered that “no one” was in town. And apparently Miss Thornton didn’t need a kindly sponsor if her brother was taking her under his wing. Perhaps it was his wife who’d stepped in to raise his younger sister….

  Then suddenly Miss Thornton was looking at her with interest. “Miss Merrill, you say?” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I recently had the pleasure of meeting a young man, a Mr. Robert Merrill.”

  “Oh,” Caroline said, delight coursing through her. “Why, that would be my brother!”

  “Your brother!” Miss Thornton’s eyes widened, and a great smile erupted on her face. “Why, I just knew the minute I saw you that we were bound to become bosom friends!” She clasped Caroline’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “And Mr. Merrill… Why, he was such a lovely man. So kind and charming and very handsome.”

  Caroline flushed with pleasure. “Robbie is my eldest brother, and I confess that he is my favorite of the three of them. I am so glad that you found him pleasing, Miss Thornton.”

  “Oh, indeed! He was the kindest, most charming, and most handsome man I have ever had the pleasure of walking with!” Miss Thornton said, squeezing Caroline’s hand even tighter. “And you must call me Isobel. I just know we are meant to be intimate, intimate friends!”

  Caroline responded in kind, “And you must call me Caroline, or Caro if you like. I am so pleased to have met you.”

  “And we shall walk tomorrow. And we must visit the Roman baths, too, of course. Oh, I am so delighted to have found such a bosom friend here, when it was sure to be such a bore! And my brother, you must meet my brother, Mr. James Thornton. He is— Why, there he is now!” She waved rather more energetically than Caroline would have, and apparently the gesture was effective, for moments later, an elegant gentleman stood before them. He wasn’t much older than Miss Thornton, and as Caroline looked up at him, she thought he could very well be one of the heroes in Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. Very smartly dressed, he was, with his dark blond hair brushed back neatly from a high forehead.

  “Mr. Thornton, may I present to you my dear, dear friend, Miss Caroline Merrill. The sister of Mr. Robert Merrill,” she added.

  “My pleasure,” Mr. Thornton said, sweeping a deep bow in front of Caroline. “Have you filled your dance card tonight, Miss Merrill?”

  “Why— Oh—” Caroline heard the squeak of surprise in her voice and took a deep breath before continuing. “Why, no, I have not.” She produced her card, which was, at the moment, completely bereft of any markings, due to the fact that neither she nor Mrs. Argenot had seen anyone with whom they were acquainted.

  “Then I am most privileged to have the first dance, Miss Merrill.” With a great flourish, Mr. Thornton marked off one of the spaces and handed the card back to her.

  Caroline glanced at Mrs. Argenot, realizing that she hadn’t been properly introduced to the gentleman before her. The heat seemed to affect him, as well, for his forehead and cheeks shone. But his thick hair was neat and smooth, his brownish whiskers were well trimmed, and he dressed quite elegantly. He appeared more than capable of riding to the rescue of an endangered heroine.

  Mrs. Argenot, as if pulled by a string, turned to
look at her at that moment, and Caroline ventured to present Isobel and her brother to her own chaperone, who was her mother’s cousin. Upon hearing their names, the older woman’s face lit up. “Thornton? Of the Bayleston Thorntons in Derbyshire?”

  “Why, yes, indeed,” Mr. Thornton agreed with a little bow. Caroline couldn’t help but notice how his hair gleamed and shone in the lamplight…almost as if it were slicked wet. If he had to rescue the heroine in a rainstorm, he would look quite handsome…although his hair would likely not be as neat as it was now. “Our family seat is Northanger Castle in Yorkshire, but we have a small estate in Derbyshire, as well.”

  Caroline’s ears fairly twitched. Northanger Castle? What an intriguing name for a family home! How fascinating it must be to live in such a place, with its secret passages and enigmas from years gone by.

  “How fortuitous,” Mrs. Argenot crowed, continuing the conversation. Her narrow little shoulders shifted as her hands flapped in delight. “Are you then acquainted with Maybelle Thornton?”

  “Our mother,” Isobel said gladly, putting to rest Caroline’s fears that her new friend was an orphan. But no, she lived in a castle! That was even more exciting. “You must know her, then?”

  “I schooled with her many years ago,” replied Caroline’s companion. “Do say she is here in Bath!”

  “But she is!” Isobel confirmed, quite delighted. “How happy this day is!”

  Caroline could not disagree, for now she had a friend, and a partner with whom to dance, and it was all most proper because Mrs. Argenot knew their mother. Delighted with the entire situation, she fairly sprang to her feet when Mr. Thornton turned to her and said, “I do believe our set is come up.”

  “I simply love the country dances,” Caroline said, resting her gloved hand on his arm.