The Jane Austen Marriage Manual

by Kim Izzo

  Ann nodded and forced a smile. “Did you remember to pack your pearls?”

  “I did one better,” I answered and pulled the necklace out from under my turtleneck. “They’ll keep the evil spirits away.”

  I had planned on taking a train from Zurich to St. Moritz but Fawn had insisted I wait for her at the airport before buying a train ticket. Her flight was delayed and I sat in the spotless airport terminal flipping through the latest issue of Haute. I needed a few copies to show the hotel manager in St. Moritz because she had never heard of it, but had agreed to give me three free nights in exchange for a story. I had the slight problem of not having cleared the story with Jennifer because I knew Marianne, whose decision it ultimately was, was dead against my going. But I had a plan; I would just keep filing to Jennifer and the travel editor and tell them that Marianne had approved it. None of them would dare disturb her while she was on maternity leave, especially not to check up on her best friend’s antics. If Palm Beach was fine with Marianne, why would anyone doubt Switzerland? By the time the story got printed and Marianne saw it, well, put it this way, I hoped to no longer be in need of freelance work.

  “Darling!”

  I turned in the direction of the familiar voice and was immediately smothered inside a giant fur coat.

  “Hi, Fawn,” I said through a mouthful of mink.

  “Cute jacket,” Fawn said, giving me the once-over. I admit that I looked good. I had bought a sexy black ski outfit that was 60 percent off. The jacket had a faux-fur collar and I’d splurged on the matching hat and mittens, as well as a pair of black oversize sunglasses. The whole effect was very Audrey Hepburn in Charade.

  “If the ski pants are as fitted, you’ll certainly grab attention. Though I know there’s only one man’s attention you want.”

  “He’s still coming, isn’t he?” He’d better, I thought, having spent my last penny for a final attempt.

  “He’ll be here.” Fawn grinned.

  By now a porter had joined us, his trolley laden with suitcases.

  “I know where we pick up the shuttle to the train station,” I offered helpfully.

  Fawn laughed loudly as though I’d said the most amusing thing. “Kate, you slay me! As if you had the slightest idea to take the train!” Then she suddenly looked at me doubtfully. “Or maybe I neglected to mention?”

  “Mention what?” I asked, feeling like a dope for acting anything less than a rich aristocrat, but surely some of them took trains?

  “I’m keeping Mona,” she said with a sly grin and marched off at such a fast pace that the porter and I had to practically jog to keep up with her. “It’s part of my divorce settlement.”

  “Is Mona a dog?” I asked, scurrying after her.

  “Don’t be silly,” Fawn scolded me. “Mona is a plane.”

  With that she came to an abrupt standstill outside the terminal.

  “We’re taking Mona to St. Moritz,” she explained matter-of-factly, and gave me a puzzled look. “I’m surprised you don’t have a private jet.”

  I was silent, unsure how to explain such a void in my life. She stood waiting for an answer and for a split second I had a suspicion that she wasn’t buying into my act.

  “I’ve never felt the need,” I said quickly. “I happen to prefer trains; they’re better for the environment.”

  My answer seemed to satisfy her for she nodded silently.

  “Yes, that whole green movement has ruined PJs for everyone,” she scoffed. “I for one value comfort.” With that, we were bundled into the back of a limo and driven to the private airstrip.

  Mona was parked on the tarmac awaiting our arrival with a super-cute young pilot standing in the doorway to greet us.

  “Hello, Johann.” Fawn beamed at him, then turned to me. “Come along, Kate. Make yourself at home; it’s only a short hop, but there’s time for a cocktail or two if we drink quickly.”

  I had never been inside a private plane before so I have no basis for comparison, but Mona was decked out in a level of luxury that I hadn’t imagined possible, even though I’d seen plenty of PJs in photos. The walls were polished walnut, smoothed to such a glossy shine they almost looked wet. There were leather seats and silky couches that turned into beds. A mahogany kitchen with stainless-steel appliances gleamed at the far end where a handsome steward stood awaiting Fawn’s command.

  “This is beautiful,” I said, trying not to be overly gushy.

  “It’s a Gulfstream Four,” Fawn stated proudly. “It seats thirteen and sleeps six. I picked out the fabric myself. It’s all fully custom.”

  The handsome steward came by with a tray of four martinis. Fawn grabbed one and after I had taken mine, she gestured for the steward to place the tray on the table in front of us. Clearly, Fawn was determined to have fun and fast.

  “Mona is lovely,” I said as we clinked glasses. “I should look into one of these.”

  “You really should. This was a bargain at thirty-three million dollars.”

  I nearly spit out my martini. “That’s a lot of money.”

  Fawn shrugged. “In this economy, I’m sure you can get one for a song. Drink up. The flight is only half an hour.”

  She took a big gulp of her drink and picked up a magazine.

  My martini was deliciously dry; the right mix of vermouth and gin. As I sipped away I picked up a travel brochure that was lying on a side table next to me. On the cover was a photograph of an English country mansion that according to the caption was called Penwick Manor; it looked like something out of an Austen novel. Naturally, I fell in love with it.

  “This house is stunning!” I gushed and showed it to Fawn. She glanced at it and sniffed.

  “I picked that up at the Palm Beach polo,” she said with a bored yawn and returned to her magazine. “Some Englishman had a stack of them. He was kind of good looking in that fey British way, so I took one. Although I can’t abide a bed and breakfast! They expect you to sit at the same table and chat with the owner and other guests over your morning coffee like you were family. Hideous.”

  She shuddered, but she wasn’t the only one. I stared at the photo of Penwick Manor. It couldn’t be …

  “Englishman?” I asked, hoping to be proven wrong. “What did he look like?”

  Fawn cast her eyes away from her magazine, straining to remember.

  “Hmmm. Black hair, giant blue eyes, very skinny.” She shrugged.

  “I think I know who you mean,” I admitted sourly. There was little doubt that Penwick Manor was the very same B and B that Griff managed. I wish he’d been friendlier in Palm Beach as I’m sure he could get me a few free nights in exchange for a travel story. It was the perfect place to finish writing the article. I stared at the photo of Penwick Manor once again. I had to admit it was glorious, the kind of place I fantasized about as a girl, and still did, come to think of it.

  “It’s hard to imagine the owners would rent out rooms,” I said casually. “I wouldn’t want strangers touring about.”

  “Well, as you would know, being a landowner yourself,” Fawn said, peering at me above her eyeglass frames, “large estates get run down in the blink of an eye and the upkeep is crazy. Many of these aristocratic families open up their houses a few times a year to allow the rest of us to get a taste of their upper crust. And they charge a fortune and people pay it, for the privilege of a room with a draft and no central heat, just to say they stayed in a castle or whatever they call them. We Americans are suckers for it.”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  “What about yours?” she asked flatly.

  “My what?” I answered, forgetting for a moment that I supposedly owned an estate. “Oh, you mean my land in Scotland? The house is barely habitable anymore. As a matter of fact, while I’m in Europe, I plan to go antiquing. I have the entire library to redo.” Good save, I congratulated myself. It seemed to satisfy Fawn.

  “Then you know how it is.”

  “Absolutely. But I love this Penwick Manor,”
I repeated and thumbed through the brochure some more.

  “Prepare for landing,” the pilot announced over the intercom.

  I cinched up my seat belt. I had barely touched my martini, but Fawn had downed both of hers.

  As we stepped down the metal staircase onto the tarmac I felt a shiver. It wasn’t just the crisp winter air; it was the sudden reality check that I had spent nearly all my money and I had three nights, only three nights, before I would be penniless and stranded in Switzerland without a place to stay.

  “I’m glad you got a room at Badrutt’s Palace.” Fawn smiled, swaying on her four-inch high-heel boots. “It’s the best joint in town.”

  And the only one who’d give me a complimentary room, I thought. As we started to walk toward the small terminal, I glimpsed an eerily familiar-looking couple descending the steps from a much smaller aircraft. It was Scott, all right, puffing on one of his cigars, but he wasn’t alone; she was still on his arm. I stopped dead and grabbed Fawn’s furry elbow so hard that she nearly toppled over backward.

  “There’s Scott.” I gasped. “And Tatiana.”

  She removed her sunglasses and pulling her eyeglasses out of her bag, stole a peek. “Damn it,” she said. “Never you mind, you’ll steal him away.” Then she tossed her eyeglasses into the bottomless pit that was her handbag and, shoving the sunglasses on her head, continued on. She gestured for me to keep up and I trotted along beside her as she whispered in my ear. “Did you see how they got here?”

  “A plane?” I answered stupidly.

  “It was a Citation,” she explained with a look of mild shock. “It only seats eight.”

  “So?” I asked, thinking that an eight-seat private jet was no reason to give up on a man. “Maybe he likes smaller planes.”

  “It’s not just that,” she breathed. “It’s a charter. He used to own a Gulfstream.”

  “Maybe it’s in the garage, or hangar, or whatever you call it,” I suggested.

  “Perhaps,” Fawn smiled unconvincingly.

  “Or maybe he doesn’t care about planes if all he wants to do is ski.”

  “Ski? Scott Madewell? Don’t be absurd! That’s not why he came. Isn’t it obvious why he’s here?”

  “Not to me,” I answered, feeling annoyed.

  “Polo,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  I felt my jaw drop. “In January?” I asked as if I hadn’t heard correctly.

  “Yes, silly,” she continued. “Every January in St. Moritz they hold the World Cup Polo Tournament on Snow. It’s a huge event. People come from all over the world to see it.”

  Just my luck, more horses. As I continued to walk toward the terminal, surrounded by majestic snow-peaked mountains and tall evergreens that spread across the steep inclines like a shag rug, I took a long gulp of frosty air. It was a cool and clean breath of oxygen and I desperately needed the energy it provided. After all, I only had three days to change Scott’s reason for being in St. Moritz.

  22.

  Swiss Miss

  But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women to deserve them.

  —Mansfield Park

  Badrutt’s Palace sprouted out of the mountainside like a castle in a Grimm’s fairy tale or EuroDisney. I half expected to find yodelers in the lobby. It looked ancient to me, but considering it opened in 1896, it was modern by European standards. When you’re on a press trip the hotel tends to make a fuss, but not in a subtle way; Badrutt’s was no exception.

  “Welcome to Badrutt’s Palace,” the manager, a tall, blond, angular woman greeted me enthusiastically. Her name was Helga. “I can give you a complete tour in the morning if you’d like,” she explained as a bellboy followed us to my room. It wasn’t a suite but a deluxe room overlooking St. Moritz and the Engadine Mountains. As long as it had a minibar I was happy. “Let me know if you need anything,” she said and left me in peace. I flopped on the bed and had nearly fallen asleep when Fawn came calling, dressed to hit the slopes.

  “Is this all they had?” Fawn stood at my window, outraged that my room wasn’t as fabulous as hers. “You should write a nasty article on them now.”

  “Really, Fawn,” I said trying to be persuasive. “It’s fine.” I had admitted that my hotel was paid for in exchange for a travel series I was writing for Haute, and of course she found that exciting. I wasn’t sure I should trust her with the truth about the Austen article; the timing wasn’t right.

  “You should see my suite,” she went on. “It’s enormous! Two bedrooms miles from each other, and the fireplace!”

  “I’m glad you’re happy,” I said as I changed into my full ski suit complete with slim-cut pants. I loved it because it was fitted; none of that puffy Michelin Man aesthetic for me. I wanted to look glamorous, not fat. And better yet, with everyone wearing a getup like this, no one could tell how old anyone was; unlike Florida with its beaches and bikinis, skiwear was age camouflage. Take that, Tatiana.

  “I’m ready,” I announced and swanned out of the dressing room, ready to make my St. Moritz debut.

  “Very nice,” Fawn said faintly and plopped on my bed, looking like she would burst into tears at any moment. “Next to you I look like a buttered crumpet.”

  Her outfit was in fact pale yellow and puffy. “You do not,” I lied. I headed for the door but was stopped short by Fawn’s outburst of tears.

  “I’ve … I’ve,” she cried. “I’ve lost it …”

  I wasn’t sure what she’d lost because she was crying so hard. I had no choice but to sit there and wait it out.

  “What have you lost?” I asked softly when her tears had subsided.

  “May I have a tissue?” she asked like a little girl. I quickly ran to the bathroom and brought back the entire box. She blew her nose and forced a smile.

  “That’s better.”

  “I’m glad. Can I help somehow?”

  “No one can. What I lost I can never get back—my youth.”

  I removed my ski jacket and sat down. Lost youth was no five-minute chat; this could take a while.

  “When I saw how sexy you looked in your little black ski suit, I was jealous. I feel ugly and old in this buttery mess of a thing. No wonder my husband left me for a younger model. Who’d want this?” She held out her arms encased in yellow marshmallow sleeves. “But look at you, Kate. You’re exciting, glamorous, sexy, smart, and younger than me. With you zipping around in that ski suit, what chance does an old woman like me have? I’m no longer desirable. I’ve come to the end of my beauty.”

  I didn’t like her berating herself like this. I looked at her, sitting on the bed, vulnerable and sad; the sultry and confident woman I’d met in Palm Beach just weeks before had vanished. When I had met her she had been the picture of rich wife glamour, but now she reminded me of a broken champagne flute, jagged, fragile, and discarded. I felt sorry for her and that made me angry. I cleared my throat and spoke honestly. “You are one of the most elegant and beautiful women I’ve ever met,” I said, which made her smile. “We are going to go out there and you’re going to have dozens of eligible men fall head over heels in love with you! And better, they’ll all be rich.”

  I got up and pointed to the door. She smiled weakly.

  “Ha! Or is it LOL?” She laughed artificially. “It’s not money I’m after.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked at me as though I had three heads.

  “I don’t want to grow old alone,” she growled. “I want a man who loves me. Money doesn’t keep you warm at night or hold your hand when you’re sick.”

  “But you always act like money is all that matters,” I explained. “I for one would rather be rich and alone than poor and alone.”

  “That may be,” she said, examining me through her bleary eyes. “But neither of us are poor. Just alone.”

  I felt her eyes focusing on mine as she spoke, scrutinizing me. Or at least it felt that way.

  I wanted
to tell her the truth and not just to make her feel better; it would be a relief to drop the act.

  “I’m poor,” I admitted at last and waited for the fallout.

  “Well, I assumed you weren’t rolling in it, but poor? Define poor.”

  “Empty bank account and maxed-out credit cards. No house. No job.”

  “Just your land in Scotland?” she asked sympathetically. I could tell she didn’t believe me.

  “The truth is my estate in Scotland encompasses exactly one square foot of conservation land.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Then I spilled the entire thing: my mother’s gambling, my house, the genesis of my aristocratic title, and, of course, my grandmother’s death. Fawn took it all in, nodding patiently and giving my shoulder a sympathetic pat during the parts about my grandmother. Then I knew the timing was impeccable. So I told her about the article.

  “I’m trying to see if Austen’s approach to act like a lady and put yourself in the path of rich men will bag a billionaire,” I said with a sigh. “Though it’s gone far beyond research, after everything that happened I must do it for real. Making a good marriage is my only chance to have a decent life. Then I met Scott and I knew he was the right man for the job, so to speak. I know I could fall in love with him and he could fall for me if given half a chance. So you might say I’m a middle-aged woman trying to see if I can win the lottery, but instead of playing numbers I’m playing romance.”

  “You know what this little adventure of yours reminds me of?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye. “One of my favorite movies of all time, How to Marry a Millionaire. Have you seen it?”

  I had. It starred Lauren Bacall, Marilyn Monroe, and Betty Grable as three down-on-their-luck models who try to pass themselves off as society women in order to lure rich husbands. I hadn’t seen it in years. Fawn was right on target.

  “You’re right, somewhere between Austen’s books and that film is my life,” I admitted.

  “That movie was practically my instruction manual,” she confessed. “How else could a small-town beauty queen become somebody who everyone respects, who everyone wants to be friends with, and who has more money than most everyone?”