The Dashwood Sisters Tell All

by Beth Pattillo

  “How many sheep does it take to meet the ‘requisite’ standard?” Careful, Mimi. Keep it light. And don't let him hear the ka-ching of the cash register in your head.

  It wasn't that I was a gold digger. Most of the guys I’d dated over the years had made a good living, but none of them had been seriously wealthy. I was a modern woman, and while I liked a man to pull his own weight, I didn't expect him to pull mine. But even a modern woman didn't mind being spoiled from time to time.

  “I think fifty meet the requirement. It would take that many again to achieve ‘extraordinary.’”

  Really, how could I not fall for this man? Handsome, charming, rich. With a nicely dry sense of humor. True, he didn't seem to be too handy when it came to the mundane aspects of life, like blisters, but given his other attributes, I thought he could be forgiven that minor failing.

  “When should we leave?” I asked. “We may have to sneak away from Tom.”

  “Now? During dinner?” He laughed again.

  “No, of course not. After dinner. Even a fabulous house isn't worth missing dessert.”

  The truth was, of course, that by that point, I couldn't have cared less about dessert. But I had gotten to this stage in a relationship often enough to know that I had to achieve a delicate balance between interest and eagerness. Not enough of the first, and he’d wander off looking for a more appreciative audience. Too much of the latter, and he wouldn't be wandering off; he’d be running for the door.

  He looked at me with an impish light in his eyes. “As soon as you’ve eaten the last bite of dessert, we’ll go.”

  Ellen would have my hide, of course. We were supposed to read some more in that might-be-real-but-probably-isn't diary before we went to sleep. Surely, though, she’d understand that spending the evening with the man of my dreams had to take priority. Even Jane Austen would have approved of that.

  Ethan's car was a low-slung, black BMW that raced along the two-lane road toward Deane with breathtaking speed. I forced my eyes to stay open so that I wouldn't look afraid. Riding on the wrong side of the road was nerve-racking enough. Doing it at a high rate of speed sent my pulse skittering.

  Thankfully, the thrill ride didn't last long. What had taken a good part of the afternoon to cover on foot took only minutes in Ethan's car.

  He turned into a side road by the pub where we’d had lunch and then into a driveway.

  “How long ago did you inherit the house?” I asked.

  “I just took possession last month,” he said. “It may be in a state with workmen everywhere.”

  “At this hour of the night?” It was past ten o’clock.

  He chuckled. “I doubt they’re present at the moment, but they may have left everything a bit of a mess. The house was in a terrible condition.”

  I smiled to reassure him. “I’m used to…what did you call it? Chockablock?” I was glad to have a chance to return the teasing. It kept the balance of power a little more even.

  He pulled up behind the house into a paved parking area. “Come on.” He didn't come around to open my door, so I did it myself and followed him through a wisteria-framed gate in a brick wall.

  Even in the last remnants of daylight, I could see what a wonderland the garden was. Jewel-toned flowers spilled from containers and beds. Ornamental trees, a scattering of benches, and a fountain in the middle completed the idyll.

  “It's breathtaking,” I said.

  Ethan paused. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”

  He took it for granted of course, this earthly paradise. If you were accustomed to this kind of grandeur, maybe it got tedious after a while. Maybe you flopped on one of those benches and yawned with boredom. All I wanted to do was slip off my sandals and perch on the edge of the fountain with my feet in the water. The scent of honeysuckle hung thick in the air.

  “Let's go inside.” He took my elbow and led me to a wooden door that must have once been a servants’ entrance. We ducked inside, and I found myself in a kitchen straight out of my mother's favorite magazine, the English Home. Slate floor, a shiny new Aga cooker tucked into the enormous original fireplace, a battered farmhouse table, and a huge stone sink underneath the windows at the far end. It was a kitchen fit for Cinderella. Rustic and romantic at the same time.

  “Do a lot of cooking, do you?” I said to Ethan with a sidelong look. “Or is this just to impress the women you bring here?”

  “Definitely to impress the women.” He turned toward me and took my hand. Then he pulled me closer and looped his arms around my back. “Is it working?”

  I didn't dare tell him how well.

  “I assume there's more to the house than the kitchen.”

  He chuckled. “Yes. If you insist, although I prefer the view here.”

  Oh, he was good, but I wasn't going to let him go too fast.

  “Show me the rest.”

  He did, flipping on the lights as we went from room to room. He was right. The house did need some serious updating, not to mention a few minor repairs. The bathrooms were a bit of a mess, as he’d said, but the guest bedrooms retained their faded country-house chic, with lots of antique furniture, toile curtains, and chairs upholstered in fabric thick with cabbage roses.

  “Did you inherit the house furnished?” I asked as we stood in one of the guest bedrooms, and I admired the four-poster bed and the jumble of collectibles on the mantelpiece—vases, figurines, even some wrought-iron pieces.

  “Yes, it was fully furnished.” He laid a hand on a large cabinet, almost as big as a wardrobe. He ran his hand down the side of it. “Late Georgian. An Austen family heirloom from her niece, Fanny.”

  “That's not a wardrobe?”

  He shook his head. “Not exactly. And this”—he moved toward the small table that stood between two tall windows—“is a writing desk. See how this tilts?” He pulled the top toward him, and it lowered to form a flat surface. “Jane Austen could have written her novels on it.”

  “Or her diary.” I paused. Ellen would kill me, but Ethan would be impressed. Besides, he might be able to help us with authenticating our supposed treasure.

  “My mother left us an Austen heirloom. At least, we think it might be. We’re not sure.”

  “Really?” He looked skeptical. “Something decorative, like a mirror or a soup tureen? I’m afraid there are a number of counterfeit—”

  “It's Cassandra's diary, actually.” I tried to sound casual. I turned away so that my expression wouldn't give anything away. “Once we get it authenticated, we’ll put it up for sale.”

  He nodded. “The smart thing to do, of course, if you’re not a collector.”

  I turned back toward him. “No. I’m afraid that our mother's Austen mania didn't quite rub off.” I glanced around the room. “Maybe you might be interested in the diary?”

  A private sale would be much easier, quicker too, but first I would have to convince Ellen. I’d also have to figure out a way to tell her that I’d done what she’d explicitly told me not to do—reveal the existence of the diary.

  “I’m not sure if I’m in the market for more Austenalia.”

  “Oh.” I had thought he’d be very interested. “Don't mention it to anyone, okay?” I said to Ethan. “Ellen's afraid of it disappearing before we figure out what to do with it.”

  He smiled. “I wouldn't dream of it. I wouldn't get your hopes up though. Most of these things turn out to be well-meant forgeries or hoaxes. But I’d be glad to take a look at it for you.” He moved toward me and then put an arm around my shoulders. “Shall we finish the tour?”

  We eventually came to a stop in what I supposed one would call the conservatory. The glass walls and ceilings housed a sea of plants, which in turn encased a comfortable-looking wicker sofa piled high with cushions, along with several matching chairs.

  “This would be amazing when it rains.” I could imagine lying on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling and watching the raindrops as they splattered against the glass.

  “Yes
, I suppose it would. I hadn't thought about it.”

  “You should try it sometime.”

  “Perhaps I will.” He took me in his arms again, and I didn't resist. To be honest, I had to restrain myself from flinging myself at him.

  “You’re a very special girl, Mimi,” he said.

  “No, not really. I’m very ordinary.” I knew from experience that the surest way to get a man to repeat a compliment was to deflect it on the first try.

  “Let's test that theory.” He leaned forward and placed his lips against mine. Softly. With just a light pressure. Oh dear, he was good.

  I’d meant to be a little more coy. After all, I’d leaped into his car and come to his house late at night, which I’m pretty sure would give most guys the wrong idea, whichever side of the pond they lived on. But he was such a good kisser, and I was so lost in the fantasy of the moment. A handsome, rich British gentleman wanted to romance me, and I intended to let him. Well, for a few minutes, anyway. I might be infatuated, but I wasn't a complete idiot.

  Mimi didn't come home until well after midnight. I was livid. I wasn't my sister's keeper. Not technically, anyway. I knew she was with Ethan, but that only made me more worried. At least she’d told someone where she was going, although I wish it hadn't been Tom Braddock. The poor man had gone a little gray around the mouth when I asked if he’d seen her. I was sure Mimi's choice of messenger was deliberate. She wanted Tom to be very clear on where he stood, which was nowhere in her vicinity.

  I heard a car motor outside. The drive into the stable block was on the opposite side of the courtyard from the open doors, and the engine purred softly. Expensively.

  I crossed the room to the single, small window in the bathroom. Carefully, I lifted the blinds and peered out in time to see Mimi climbing out of a black sports car.

  She was a grown-up, but she was still my sister, and I was disappointed in her. I knew that she was growing desperate. Age and money seemed to be the twin ghosts nipping at her heels these days, but I still found it painful to watch.

  Ethan walked her to her door. Her room was across the courtyard from mine, so I had a clear view as he kissed her and then turned back to his car. I saw the quick, wistful glance Mimi cast over her shoulder at him as he drove away, and then she opened her door with the key card and disappeared.

  It wouldn't last. It never did. I would have given anything if Mimi would open her eyes for a change and truly see the man she’d set her sights on. But we were grown-ups now, and I could no longer hope that she would change. Mimi was who she was. I loved her. She was my sister, after all. But that didn't make her self-defeating choices any easier to watch.

  Even after Mimi returned, I spent a restless night fretting about Daniel, Mrs. Parrot, and the mystery of the diary. As the sky lightened, I took Cassandra's diary from my bedside table and slipped out through the French doors onto the small patio. With only the birds for company, I settled into a wooden chair and flipped back through the pages of old-fashioned handwriting.

  Jane still nurses a tendre for Jack Smith, which dismays our mother enormously. He is the natural son of a gentleman, or so we have been told, but he has no fortune and few prospects. At least he has been provided with an education, but none of us knows what will become of him when he leaves Steventon.

  I have discouraged her, of course, in her affection for him. I even went so far as to urge my father to send her to London or to my uncle's house, but he does not heed my warning. None of them knows that Jack returns her feelings, for she confides in no one but me, and Jack confides in no one.

  Jane will be along presently, however much she may resent my interference. The cough I brought back from Steventon tickles my throat. Jane advises a more narrow course of rest than I would like. She brings hot water for a compress for my chest. It is the way of the world, I suppose. How could it be otherwise? When the sun shines, sickness goes indoors to escape the cleansing work of nature.

  Some of the words were underlined. Very odd. I checked the dates of the entries, which seemed very sporadic. Cassandra obviously hadn't made a point of writing in the diary on a regular basis.

  She’d clearly been quite concerned about Jane's feelings for this Jack Smith, though, just as I was fretting about Mimi's fascination with Ethan.

  Was Jane's attachment to Jack Smith common knowledge? I didn't remember ever hearing his name, but I was no expert. What if this was new information? How valuable would that make it? I closed the diary and laid a hand on top of the cover.

  Daniel could help me. After all, wasn't that why he was here? I thought of the conversation I’d overheard at the Vyne the previous afternoon, a man's murmured reply to Mrs. Parrot. Could it have been Daniel? Was he what he seemed, or was he, too, after the diary, as I suspected Mrs. Parrot must be?

  The sun had risen enough so that it was faintly visible on the eastern horizon. I watched the dawn bloom into fullness and stayed where I was, my hand on the diary, my gaze on the line of trees across the way.

  I dare you to make a happy ending out of this mess, Jane Austen.

  Talking to myself, or more specifically to a long-dead author, wasn't going to get me anywhere. Time for a shower and a strong cup of tea, because the new day that awaited was likely to be as complicated as it would be long.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mimi didn't appear at breakfast that morning. Tom joined us a few minutes later, and I noticed he had dark circles under his eyes. When Mrs. Parrot entered the dining room, she also appeared a little worse for the wear. She had painted an extra layer of rouge on her cheeks, which clashed with her orange hair.

  Ethan was the last one to arrive. He was staying at his own house but eating his meals with us.

  He pulled up a chair to the end of the table where I sat. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  What could I possibly say? No, because you’ve been ruining my sister's reputation?

  “Please do.” I forced myself to make conversation. “Are you looking forward to today's walk? You’ve probably already been to Chawton Cottage.”

  “I think each time I visit there is like the first.” His smile was almost dreamy. “This is turning out to be a week of firsts.”

  I paused and bit my lip. Was it possible I had misjudged him? Maybe he really liked my sister. Maybe he had fallen for her.

  A waiter appeared to take our order for the hot breakfast, and Ethan ordered the full English. I contented myself with poached eggs and toast.

  “You and Mimi seem to have hit it off,” I said, forgoing the subtle approach.

  He nodded and sipped his coffee. “Quite.”

  “Ethan—”

  He set his cup down and fiddled with the handle. “I know you’re concerned about your sister, but let me assure you—”

  “I’m sorry. It's none of my business, obviously.” I was not going to meddle. I was not going to be the reincarnation of my mother. “It's just that she's vulnerable at the moment.”

  “I understand. Losing your mother must have been very difficult for both of you. Mimi said she's ready to begin a new chapter in her life.”

  She was? That was news to me.

  “And you?” I asked. “Will you live in Hampshire full-time now that you have a home here?”

  “No, no. I’m a Londoner born and bred. This will be my base at weekends though.”

  Obviously I should have gone into whatever Ethan did for a living. “So not a new start then.”

  “Well, not in terms of living arrangements.”

  “So what's this new life Mimi's about to start?” I asked him. “A sister is always the last to know.”

  Ethan looked a bit uncomfortable. “Perhaps she would rather tell you herself. She did say that your mother's legacy would allow her to start a new venture. One she's dreamed of for some time.” He frowned. “But surely you know that.”

  “You mean her store?” She’d talked about it for years, quitting her job with the large department-store chain in Atlanta and opening up
her own boutique. “Yes, I guess it's possible she might—”

  “I’d say with that sort of money, it's a great deal more than possible.”

  “What sort of money?”

  Now Ethan looked very uncomfortable. “I don't normally discuss personal finances, but Mimi was very…forthcoming last night. About the value of…your mother's estate, if you see what I mean.”

  Oh, I saw what he meant, all right. Our mother's modest estate had clearly taken on more epic proportions when she’d talked of it with Ethan. Mom only had a little in savings, and the house wasn't worth all that much, but that obviously wasn't the message Ethan received.

  “I’m afraid Mimi's expectations may be a bit…grandiose.”

  Ethan's fingers stilled on the handle of his coffee cup. “In what way?”

  “What my mother left us might be enough for Mimi to make a start on her dream, but as for any kind of significant financial backing…” I shook my head. “I think Mimi sometimes wishes things into more than they are.”

  Ethan's expression didn't change, but the air around him crackled with a strange sort of tension. Disappointment, almost.

  What had I done? He’d believed Mimi to be some sort of heiress, obviously. The news that she was what she’d always been—a professional woman of average means—was clearly unwelcome.

  “So she's not about to lay the foundation for the next great American clothing empire?”

  “Mimi?” I said in surprise, and then I felt ashamed of my disloyalty. “Well, you never know. But there's a lot of work—and luck—between here and there.”

  Ethan's expression was now well and truly shuttered, and guilt took up residence in my stomach next to the poached eggs and toast. I hadn't meant to expose Mimi's fraud, but would she understand that? On the other hand, I wasn't too sorry that I’d done it. If Ethan only liked her because he thought she might be a possible meal ticket, then she was better off without him.