The Dashwood Sisters Tell All

by Beth Pattillo

  I waited for Ethan to offer some more personal information, but he just gazed across the way at the church, where they were having some kind of service.

  Unfortunately, I was starting to feel the effects of brand new hiking boots. I should have worn thicker socks, probably, but there’d been no time to pick them up at the outdoor store.

  “Have you been on one of these walking tours before?” I asked him, trying to bring his attention back to me.

  He turned away from the scene at the church. “No. But as I said last night, it seemed a good way to connect with my heritage.”

  “Is it what you were expecting?”

  He looked down at me and smiled. “Not precisely. But it's beginning to have its compensations.”

  As flirting went, it wasn't the smoothest line ever, but at least he was making an effort. I had begun to worry that he wasn't interested at all.

  I was about to try to find out about his job again when Tom joined us. “You two getting along okay?”

  “Fine. Just fine.” What I really wanted to say was “Go away,” but I stopped myself just in time.

  “No problems with any of your gear?” Tom eyed my brand new hiking boots with concern.

  “We’re fine. Thanks.” Ethan didn't look very pleased with Tom's question.

  “Everything's great.” I winced at the banality of my response and at my overeager tone. I tried not to sound desperate, but I was bordering on it with Ethan. Why? Yes, I was getting older, but I didn't need to panic quite yet. Maybe it was because he was English. Or maybe it was everything that had happened in the past six months.

  Tom moved away to speak to someone else, and we waited by the tour van. For some reason, Ethan now seemed distracted. When the funeral procession finally departed and we made our way to the church, I noticed that he hung back.

  “Aren't you going in?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I think churches all pretty much look the same. I prefer the graveyard anyway. More interesting.”

  I would rather have stayed with Ethan, but my blisters were burning, and I desperately needed to sit down for a few moments.

  I followed the others up the path, through the doorway of the stone church, and into the cool, dim interior.

  For me, going to church had always been like a fashion show, with pews on either side of the runway. So walking into Jane Austen's church was kind of a letdown, because I was wearing a moisture-wicking T-shirt, hiking capris that would have given Anna Wintour a stroke, and my cursed new hiking boots.

  The blisters were stinging, but I was too proud to take my boots off and inspect the damage. The other people in the group dispersed around the little church to ooh and aah over the various pieces of Jane Austen memorabilia. I sank down on a pew halfway up the aisle and tried to forget about the flames of pain driving into the backs of my heels.

  Of course I should have broken in my boots, but I couldn't find the time. Just like I couldn't find the time to get back to Dallas when Mom was sick.

  Who was I kidding? Not myself. And certainly not God, especially in church. I hadn't taken the time to break in my boots because I simply hadn't wanted to. And I never made it back to see my mom in those last months because I had been afraid.

  Ellen couldn't make me feel any guiltier than I already felt, although she was trying. She probably wasn't even aware of how she judged me. It was as ingrained a part of her nature as breathing. Just like being fun and flirtatious were ingrained in mine.

  I sighed and pressed the small of my back against the pew in an attempt to ease my sore muscles. How did people ever manage to sit through an entire service on one of these torture devices?

  “Mimi?” Tom appeared beside me. He’d been walking several members of the group around the church, pointing out various memorial plaques. I looked around. We were the only ones left inside.

  “Is everyone waiting on me?” I started to stand up, but he waved me back to my seat.

  “You’re fine. Are you feeling okay?”

  He knew about my blisters. I could tell. That both pleased and annoyed me. I liked being looked after. I always had. But to be honest, I would much rather he had been Ethan coming to check on me.

  Tom sat down next to me. “What do you need? A plaster, as they say here? Amputation?”

  “Better judgment would be nice.” I wasn't normally the self-deprecating type, but despite Tom's military background and bearing, something about him encouraged me not to take myself too seriously.

  “We put those warnings about breaking in your boots in the brochure for a reason.” His words were stern, but his tone was light.

  “I figured that out about a hundred yards in.”

  “In all seriousness, do you need some help?”

  I had always found it so easy to play the damsel in distress. It generally worked like a charm. If Ethan had been sitting next to me, I would have milked it for all it was worth. Instead, I shook my head. “I have that blister stuff in my pack.” Well, technically, Ellen had something in her pack, but we were sisters, so it was true for all intents and purposes.

  “I don't want you to be miserable. Let me know if you can't walk. Mrs. Parrot is still here with the van.”

  “No. Then I’ll be a marked woman for the rest of the tour.”

  “Better safe than—”

  I didn't want him to keep harping on my lack of preparedness, so I decided to change the subject. “Why Jane Austen?”

  He paused to indicate he’d gotten the message. Then his gaze shifted toward the front of the church. The white walls on each side of the interior looked as if they were coated with lime, but near the front it had been cleaned away to reveal some older detailing in tones of terra-cotta and gray.

  “This tour was a special request, actually, but once I started to put it together, I knew I was on to something.” His gaze slid around the church. “Can you think of any place more peaceful? Not a bad place to spend my days.”

  “You didn't want to go back to the States when you retired?”

  He shrugged. “I spent most of my career overseas. Gayle and I never really put down roots anywhere. After she died…well, I learned that home is about the people, not the place.”

  “Do you have family anywhere?” Despite my personal rule of not engaging in conversation with men who were more interested in me than I was in them, I found I wanted to know more about him.

  “I have a daughter who lives in Texas.”

  “What part?”

  “Houston.”

  “I’m from Dallas.” As soon as I said it, I realized how idiotic it sounded. I had to laugh. “People always say that, like ‘Oh, Texas. Maybe I know them,’ when there must be twenty million people in the state.”

  “About twenty-five, I think,” Tom said with a smile. “But you never know.”

  “No, you never do.” We shared a grin. How long had it been since I’d laughed at myself in front of a man, even one in whom I had no romantic interest? It felt liberating, and I hadn't even realized I’d been captive to anything.

  “Do you see your daughter often?”

  “As much as I can. She stays pretty busy with her own life.”

  He said the words in all innocence, but they hit home. Had my mother ever said the same thing to someone she’d just met? Had she worn that same sad expression, the one that mixed love, forgiveness, and pride?

  “I’m sure she does the best she can.”

  Tom smiled, but there was that sadness again. “She does.” He leaned back in the pew. “It's just the way things are.”

  I had a feeling it was more the way of inattentive daughters, but there was no need to point out to him what he no doubt already knew.

  “So,” he said, “are your feet rested enough to continue on? We have a good distance to go before lunch.”

  “Lead on, Major.”

  He rose to his feet with a grin. “Actually, it's Colonel. But I’d much rather you just called me Tom.”

  “Absolutely.”
/>
  We walked out of the church together, and an older woman, probably a member of the church, stayed behind to lock up.

  “See that tree?” Tom said, pointing to the enormous yew that stood next to the church. “That's where they used to keep the key.”

  “The key?”

  “To the church.” He nodded toward the door. “It looked like a skeleton key on steroids. A foot long or so.” He indicated the approximate length with his hands. “In Jane Austen's day, the whole village knew it hung inside the trunk of the tree. When they needed to go inside, everyone knew where to find it.”

  “And now? Surely they don't still use it.”

  “No. Someone stole it recently. So they couldn't even use it if they wanted to.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “Who would steal the key to a church?”

  “Austen collectors can be a funny bunch. They’ll take anything that's not nailed down.”

  Like a diary? I hoped Ellen had found a good hiding place in her room. “So, what, there's like a black market in Jane Austen memorabilia?” I tried to keep my tone light, but his words sent my pulse skittering.

  “Yes, believe it or not.”

  We had reached the road. The others were walking back in the direction we’d come. “Are they that valuable?” I asked. “Things that belonged to Jane Austen or have some connection to her?” My mouth went dry. Surely Tom couldn't know anything about the diary.

  “Very valuable. First editions of her works can sell for thousands and thousands of pounds. Imagine what her personal possessions might bring.”

  I could imagine only too well. I could envision the auction hammer going down, and my future as a New York business owner taking off.

  “Too bad about the key though.” Cassandra's diary might have been a bit…contraband, but at least it didn't belong to God or anything like that.

  “With any luck they’ll find it someday,” Tom said. “Come on. We’d better catch the others.”

  I followed him as best as I could, wincing as one of my blisters rubbed against my boot.

  I was used to juggling a lot of things at once, but right now I had too many balls in the air. My mother's ashes to scatter. My relationship with my sister to sort out. Ethan. Tom's attentions. And that problematic diary, which might or might not be real, might or might not be worth a fortune, and might or might not allow me to live out my dreams.

  Who would have thought that things could get so complicated in a sleepy little place like Hampshire?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I noticed that Ellen was walking by herself as we passed the few houses that made up the village of Steventon and cut through a pasture toward Deane, where Tom said we would eat lunch. Ethan had joined me once again, and we chatted while we walked along more fields and under a railway bridge, then a stand of trees. Trains to London sliced through the tranquil landscape every few minutes. Ethan said they were full of “ladies who lunch,” headed to the city for the day.

  I was getting a little more adept at climbing over turnstiles, those awkward wooden steps that allowed us to make our way over fences, but I had more trouble with the heat. Sweat poured off my forehead, and I was sure my curls were frizzing out of control. The fact that Ethan still wanted to walk beside me was a testimony to his interest in me…or at least I hoped that it was.

  We skirted the park of a huge house that we could only glimpse through the foliage, and then made our way down the slope of a pasture to the scolding bleat of several sheep, who didn't seem too happy to share their turf.

  A church spire rose out the trees, and I could see the edge of another house beyond.

  “We’re almost to Deane,” Ethan said.

  “You really do know this area.” I was impressed.

  He shrugged. “Actually, that would be my house, just there past the church.”

  “Is it one of those charming cottages?” Even though I had my sights set on New York City and urban life, I could appreciate the beauty of an English cottage.

  “You’ll see,” Ethan answered with a grin and a wink.

  We reached the fence at the bottom of the pasture and climbed over one last stile. The church to our left boasted a substantial square tower with four turrets on the top. A paved walk led past the church, and then I saw it.

  Ethan's house.

  Now to me a house was a three-bedroom ranch in a Dallas suburb. This wasn't a house. This was a mansion.

  I think the house was Queen Anne style. All I knew was that I immediately fell in love with the length of its red-brick frame, the white trim of the multi-paned windows, the climbing vines and sheltering shrubberies, and the various chimneys that dotted the roof.

  “This is your house.” I meant to ask that as a question, but it came out a statement.

  Ethan looked pleased at my astonishment. “Do you like it?”

  “How could I not?” I turned to look at him. “Does Tom know that's your house?”

  “I have no idea.” He smiled at me. “Perhaps after dinner tonight, you’d like to come back for a tour?”

  I paused. Don't be overeager. I bit my lip and tried to look indecisive, although my answer was never in doubt.

  “Just for a quick look around,” I said. “Maybe Ellen can come with us.” I only said that because I knew she’d never agree to do it.

  “Of course. If that's what you’d like.” He didn't look very pleased about adding my sister to the guest list, which made me even happier.

  Tom let the group linger for a few minutes to admire the house and take pictures. He explained that the Harwood family had lived in the house during Jane Austen's time, and that Jane no doubt would have visited.

  I stood on the paved walk, a little apart from the group, and slowly turned in a circle as I thought about everything we’d seen that morning. It was only our first day, but something felt…different, I guess you’d say. It was a lot to take in, Jane Austen–wise, and for some reason, it felt as though my mother was there in a way. Probably because she always had been, in her heart.

  “Lunch awaits,” Ethan said. I hadn't noticed that he’d come to stand beside me. “The pub is just on the other side of the main road.”

  I had visions of a very cold drink and lots of air-conditioning. “Let's not dawdle then,” I said with a laugh. I was hot, tired, and sweating, but for the first time in a while, and despite my blisters, I felt okay.

  Mimi was making a spectacle of herself with Ethan, but I didn't care. Really, I didn’t. I just wanted to get out of the sun and sit quietly for a few minutes. Tom shepherded the group across the busy road. The pub was all dark beams and plaster, with a sloping roof and flowers blooming in every planter and basket.

  The interior of the pub was quaint, with its dark paneling, carpets, and fireplace. It was also hot, more suited to a cold winter evening than a freakishly warm summer day. We made our way to the bar to secure drinks—ah, the glories of diet soda on tap—and then settled in at a table beneath the bay window. The pub dog, an aging yellow creature called Harry, made the rounds, eager for attention.

  I sat near the open window, and Tom sat next to me. I saw his gaze travel to the other end of the table, where Mimi and Ethan were flirting.

  “I’m worried about her feet,” Tom said. It was probably the antithesis of whatever romantic sentiments Ethan was currently whispering in Mimi's ear.

  “I warned her to break in those boots before she came.”

  Tom contemplated the contents of his glass on the table in front of him. “I offered to bandage her up, but she wouldn't let me help. You should keep an eye on her.”

  A smile played at the corners of my mouth, but I suppressed it. I had no doubt that Tom would keep enough of an eye on Mimi for the both of us.

  “What should I tell her to do this evening?” I asked instead. “Should she soak her feet?”

  “Treat the blisters with rubbing alcohol, if she can stand it. Just have her keep her feet as dry as possible. It's usually the combination of moisture
and friction that causes the problem.”

  “Or the lack of foresight and planning,” I said with a sigh. I kept hoping that someday Mimi would learn, but judging from the state of her feet and the way she was flirting with Ethan, it seemed that it was not going to be that day.

  “Just keep an eye on her.” Tom frowned at Ethan.

  “Not just her blisters?” I prompted. I assumed that Tom's concern stemmed from worry about Mimi rather than anything specific he knew about Ethan.

  He grimaced. “I hoped I wasn't that obvious.”

  I placed a hand on his where it rested on the tabletop. “Don't worry. Everyone else is so busy watching them flirt, they won't notice…anything else.”

  “Did you know Ethan before the tour?” I asked. “I understand he's local.”

  Tom shook his head. “Not personally. I only knew of him.”

  “Of him?”

  Tom frowned and looked a bit furtive. “It's nothing.”

  “Tom—”

  “Just tell your sister not to get her hopes up. Ethan has something of a…reputation already in Hampshire.”

  “And in London, too, no doubt,” I murmured. Tom didn't disagree.

  Our food arrived, and I decided to put my worries over my sister aside long enough to eat. I examined my ploughman's lunch with appreciation. The plate overflowed with big chunks of fresh-baked bread, a hearty slab of Sussex cheddar, celery and apples, and a pickled onion.

  “I feel like I’ve earned this,” I said to Tom with a grin.

  “You have. We covered about six miles this morning.”

  “Six?” I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “How many more do we have to go today?”

  Now Tom laughed. “Not nearly that many.”

  We spent the rest of the meal in pleasant conversation. He was an intelligent, well-rounded man who could talk on almost any subject.

  “Would it be rude to ask where you live?” I asked as we finished the meal.

  “I’ll tell you where I live if you tell me why Daniel Edwards looks like he wants to clean my clock.”

  I’d forgotten about Daniel, who was seated at the other end of the table next to Mimi.

  “He's an old college friend, actually, but I haven't seen him in years.”