Jane and Austen

by Stephanie Fowers

  I clenched the list but didn’t look as I recited: “Your maid of honor and both of your bridesmaids. Bigley’s brother. Oh, I forgot to tell you. The minister and his wife came this morning. Ed and Elly McFarey. Ann-Marie checked them into the Dashwood Room.”

  Taylor laughed giddily at that. The minister’s wife was Taylor’s adored cousin. If I could believe everything Taylor said about her, meeting the couple would be a treat.

  “What about my mother?” Bigley asked.

  Taylor tensed at the reminder. Bigley’s mother was tricky. His parents’ separation wasn’t amicable; it became even less so after his father remarried a much younger woman who looked like a younger model of his first wife. “She’ll be in the Price room,” Taylor said. “It’ll be nice and far from Netherfield House where we’ll put your father, Chuck.”

  “Right.” I jabbed my pencil in the air. “And most of the guests will be arriving tomorrow. Um, if you could give me Dancey’s flight information, I can arrange his escort here.”

  “Leave that to me,” Bigley said. “I’ll be at the airport, waving my arms in circles.”

  “Just don’t leave him stranded, honey,” Taylor warned, “or he’ll write another sad song and make another million.”

  Bigley broke into a big, contagious grin. “I don’t have a problem with that as long as he shares the profits with me.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes. “He wouldn’t have so many songs go platinum if he wasn’t so depressed and brooding all the time. It certainly does nothing for his love life.” She sounded bitter about it. Her trips to Britain must’ve given her a front row seat to Dancey’s private life that the majority of the female population would love to know.

  Bigley brushed her forehead with a kiss. “Fame and riches are rather hard on the poor man, I think. I’d rather have you than all the money in the world.” His mouth found hers, and I had to turn away or risk potential embarrassment. They were my proof that true love existed, though that didn’t mean I wanted to spy on it. I was happy for them … and just a little resentful.

  Truth be told, if the rock star shared Bigley’s beautiful British accent, then I was in very real danger of losing my heart for the second time this year. But I seriously doubted that the most sought-after bachelor with the most sought-after voice would ever have a chance to talk to me during all the festivities we had planned.

  A rustle near my elbow made me jump, and I found Ann-Marie shuffling through the knickknacks in the drawer behind me. Her hair was now a glorious red that resembled no natural hair color that I was aware of. She found a pair of scissors and slammed the drawer shut, leaning against the counter, her eyes devouring Taylor and Bigley’s romance like it was a chocolate cream puff with strawberry filling. “Is the Will Dancey coming to North Abbey?” she asked. “He’s so hot I could burn my mouth on him.”

  I tried to shush her, but too late. Taylor stiffened when she overheard. She peeled from her husband-to-be’s fingers and smoothed back her hair, her sharp eyes never leaving Ann-Marie.

  “Great.” I clapped my hands together to ease the sudden tension. “How about I have Freddy take a look at the Lucas Lodge, then? Taylor? We could air it out. It can’t stink as bad as those last guests said. We could put Dancey in there and—”

  “Certainly not,” Taylor snapped. I hid a smirk. My ludicrous suggestion had distracted her anger from Ann-Marie. “I blame the Kellynch Hotel for that smell. Don’t think we won’t hold them responsible for it.”

  The overflowing sewage was another point of contention we had with the neighboring hotel. I couldn’t help but use the feud to my advantage. “We could book a room for Dancey in the Kellynch.”

  Taylor cut me off with a wag of her finger. “He will stay here. I know you’ll handle everything beautifully without my interference.” She stopped a moment, her brow wrinkled in thought. “On second thought, I believe you should put Dancey in the Wood House.”

  Freddy would have to take a blow torch to that place to make it presentable, but at least that meant I wouldn’t have to kick myself out of my own room and sleep with Taylor’s cat on the sofa. “Sure,” I said. “We’ll make sure that Dancey feels right at home.”

  “As soon as I have him in my arms,” Ann-Marie said with a little squeal.

  Taylor gasped and pulled next to me to whisper in my ear. “Keep her away from him.” Giving me a penetrating look that meant business, she led her dear Chuck Bigley from the lobby. He went willingly, his muscular arm capturing her around her tiny waist as though he was fully capable of handling such a spitfire.

  Ann-Marie made a sigh that sounded like she had poured her whole heart into it. “Yes, Jane, she’s right. Please, keep him far, far away from me. I don’t ever want to meet the man behind the name. Not really.” She dropped her arms to her sides and traveled despondently across the room where she collapsed onto the soft leather sofa that rested near the big screen TV. The scissors that had dangled from her hand toppled to the floor.

  “Dancey is one of those people you only want to dream about,” she said into the cushions. “Meeting him would only make him real. And no one wants a real guy, especially one like him—he’d just reject us normal people, and then we’d never be able to enjoy his music again.”

  “Hey, it’s not that bad.” I went back to my seat behind the counter, studying my to-do list. “These guys have to marry someone, and why not a down-to-earth girl? I mean look at Elizabeth and Darcy in Pride and Prejudice.”

  “… who aren’t real.” Ann-Marie lifted her face from the pillows.

  “No, but …” I crammed my brain for a real couple. “Well, let’s just say that there are a lot of real people who get married.” I smirked before I cracked a joke, “Maybe more than fictional people.”

  Ann-Marie’s smile grew. “Yeah. I mean, people are only people. You strip them of their skin and they’re all just skeletons inside.”

  My own smile froze. Too late I realized that while I’d thought I was philosophizing, I had actually encouraged Ann-Marie to go after the rock star. “But we should really give Dancey his space,” I said. “I bet the last thing he wants is to be bombarded by fans. He just needs to be treated like a normal guy.”

  “I plan on it.” She rose from the couch with a determined air. Throwing her glorious hair behind her shoulder, she cracked her knuckles and retreated from the room with a flounce. A complicated concert went off in the Allenham Lounge in the short amount of time it took Ann-Marie to find her piano bench.

  I groaned when I recognized the remake of “Fur Elise.” It was her theme music dedicated to the times when she was deeply and passionately in love.

  This would not go well. I knew how she treated normal guys. Will Dancey had no idea what he was in for.

  Chapter 3

  “I am worn out with civility.”

  —Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

  A woman pulled up to North Abbey in a BMW convertible. She wore huge sunglasses, one of those fancy, oversized floppy hats, perfect make-up, and a sundress that showed off her every curve—or lack of them. She’d make heroin-addicts everywhere jealous.

  She lifted one of her rail-like arms and pressed down on the horn. My eagerness to check in Taylor’s wedding guest evaporated like a magician’s rabbit as I searched around for anyone to help me. All of the golf carts were taken. The maids were off making the rooms presentable. Freddy Tiney was on a run for more detergent. The job was up to me. I hurried outside, hoping I didn’t look like I had to run.

  “Welcome to North Abbey, ma’am,” I said as I approached.

  She took her hand off the horn and pulled her shades down so that she could peer at me over the rims. “Mrs. Bertram-Rush, if you please.” She wriggled her ring finger so that I couldn’t miss the sparkling diamond weighing it down. “I’m the maid of honor.”

  Though technically her married state made her the matron of honor, I nodded. “Yes.” I fought the urge to curtsy—or laugh. All of Taylor’s bridesmaids were her friends f
rom a tightknit community in Massachusetts. They had attended private schools together, roomed in college, and their parents belonged to the same clubs. Looking at Mrs. Bertram-Rush, I guessed Taylor’s friends were like bad habits—hard to quit.

  “Taylor has told me so much about you,” I said.

  “Has she?” She snapped her shades back up, turning away to stare off into the distance, dismissing me. Her pink-and-white polka-dot luggage next to her lap yipped, and I realized that it held a living teddy bear. At least, the tiny puppy looked like a stuffed animal, except for the black eyes that blinked up at me from a white, furry face.

  This woman was really Taylor’s best friend? She could pass as a desperate housewife from Orange County. In my mind’s eye Bertie’s sun hat transformed into a chip straw hat with a riot of flowers and ribbons dangling from the brim. I didn’t have to imagine anything different in regards to her face. It was already gaunt and drawn like a Jane Austen villainess—though three times more orange.

  “My baggage is in the trunk,” she informed me, popping the trunk.

  I stifled a sigh. The informality of the North Abbey had turned their event coordinator into a bellhop.

  Mrs. Bertram-Rush dangled her car keys from her car window for me. “You will also show me my room, I take it?”

  I abandoned the trunk for the time being and took the keys from her. “A cart to drive you to your accommodations will be here shortly. If you will just wait in the lobby.”

  The thin woman gaped at me like no one had ever asked her to wait for anything. I smiled blandly back at her as if I had no idea that she was so annoyed. She pursed her lips, stepping delicately out of her car as another guest pulled up—in a minivan this time. The window rolled down and a breathless face popped out. “Is this the right place?”

  The sign for the resort framed her head behind her.

  “Are you looking for North Abbey?” I asked.

  The woman nodded. Her straight, auburn hair came out in greasy strings from a tight ponytail that looked as though she had slept on it for hours. “I’m Taylor’s …” She turned mid-speech and coughed into her hand, a great wheezing, hacking sound that made me think she had just crawled from her deathbed to get here. Mrs. Bertram-Rush scrambled to keep back from the invisible germs, her heels clacking against the ground.

  “I’m Taylor’s bridesmaid,” the woman said as soon as she had breath to speak. “Mary Musswood.” She wiped her hand off on her shirt and poked it through her car window for a handshake.

  Thinking fondly of the hand sanitizer in the lobby, I shook it. “Glad you could make it, Mary. If you could pull over to the side there, we’ll take care of your bags and park your car for you.”

  She coughed again and did as told—parking only three feet over the yellow line. The coughing fits bursting from her minivan told me that was the best we were going to get. It was apparent that this socialite had fallen on hard times. She staggered out of her vehicle and slammed the door hard behind her, putting her hand over her heart as if she had startled herself.

  I took her keys, wondering what was taking Freddy so long. He was making me look like a one-woman operation here. Mary Musswood wiped at her reddened nose with an oversized tissue. She seemed a frail lady, which she only emphasized by wearing clothes a size too big. She turned to squint at Taylor’s maid of honor. “Wait, don’t I know you? You’ve lost so much weight. Bertie?”

  “Mrs. Bertram-Rush,” the woman said in a voice that could freeze fire. If possible, “Bertie” was more distant with Mary than with me, which was an amazing feat.

  Mary drew forward, gushing. “Wow, Bertie! It’s been so long. I see you on the front of all of those sleazy gossip magazines. I can’t believe you’re not at one of those drunken Hollywood parties right now. Didn’t you date that rapper for a while? What was his name? Chris Slum-Diesel or something? Well, who cares? He was beautiful. Why did he break up with you?”

  Bertie gaped until she seemed to snap. “I broke up with him.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Mary stared at Bertie for an uncomfortable moment. “Of course.”

  With their keys in hand, I gestured for Taylor’s friends to follow me. Bertie strode ahead of Mary, looking annoyed. She finally swiveled to Mary and informed her, “I’m married now.” She flashed her oversized diamond ring once again. “My husband makes every man I’d ever been with look like a used car salesman.”

  Mary appeared suitably impressed. We stepped into the lounge just as a grey ball of fur slipped past our feet. “A cat?” Mary’s hands dug through her purse until she found a package of tissues. She snapped three out with practiced hands and rubbed them across her nose. “Keep it back. I’m allergic.”

  “That’s Taylor’s cat,” I said. “Mister stays in the lobby, so your room will be fine, Mary. We’ll be sure to keep him far from you.”

  Bertie sniffed in disdain—I wasn’t sure if it was directed at her friend’s loyalty to a cat or to Mary’s health misfortunes or even at me. Maybe all of us at once? Her little dog whimpered, and she absentmindedly kneaded its knobby head.

  Mary set her purse on the counter, digging through an array of pill bottles, muttering the whole time. “I’m also prone to dusts and mold. This is an old place, I take it.”

  “Yes.” I pulled behind the counter. “This Queen Ann Victorian has been a resort since the sixties. It was first turned into a bed and breakfast in the twenties. Before then it was a family estate, built in 1887.”

  Mary yelped in distress. “You must have all sorts of allergens here.” She took out her nasal spray and began to apply in earnest. Bertie drew out a long sigh. I tried to reassure Mary that she was staying in one of the bungalows built outside the property, which was newer than the main building, but she downed a handful of pills just as Ann-Marie came hurtling into the room in her usual heedless fashion.

  I pretended I wasn’t desperate to see her. “Ann-Marie, would you please take these ladies to their bungalows? They’re in the Southerton and the Uppercross. I’ll have their luggage sent after them.”

  “Yes, of course.” Ann-Marie’s eyes drew to the four pill bottles Mary stuffed back into her purse. Mary then collided into Bertie’s arm on her way to the door, making Bertie’s purse yip in response.

  Mary backpedaled in horror. “Oh dear. That houses a dog? He looks just like a little bear, but he’s the size of a rat. A little rat-bear!”

  “She is a micro-teacup Maltese,” Bertie corrected in chilly tones. “My mother’s favorite. Do you know how much these little rat-bears cost?”

  Mary’s manner immediately changed and she became more fawning. “I bet that little rat-bear is worth more than my four sons combined. Why, just the cost to the vet alone.” She wiped at her drooping eyes as if she was having an allergic reaction, but so far no tears had come. “Of course you’ve already shot the little guy up with all sorts of vaccines to keep back all the diseases that he carries.”

  Bertie’s glare dripped icicles. “My baby is tired,” she addressed Ann-Marie. “Could you please show me where I’m staying before I sprout roots and grow leaves in here?”

  “Yes, of course.” Ann-Marie exchanged a stricken look with me and led the way from the lobby.

  “So brave of you to take on the puppy,” Mary said to Bertie, following her out. “Does it shed? I wish I had the money to throw away on such odd things.” I listened to Mary’s voice fade as she persevered in the face of Bertie’s silent treatment. “That’s why Taylor is paying for my stay here. My husband said, ‘go,’ I deserved the break. My boys are a handful. Dirty, too. They do nothing for my health.”

  I let out a breath as soon as they were out of earshot. Two bridesmaids down, only one more to go. I wasn’t eager to see Bella Thorne’s entrance, because so far I couldn’t see how Taylor associated with any of her friends. They made her look … well … normal.

  Maybe that was the point.

  Chapter 4

  “Can he love her? Can the soul really be sati
sfied with such polite affections? To love is to burn – to be on fire, like Juliet or Guinevere or Eloise …”

  —Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

  I wrestled the baggage onto the cart. Bertie had brought enough for a month instead of her allotted week here. Silently, I prayed that didn’t mean she planned on extending her stay. I scooted the cart to Mary’s minivan, and after pushing past four sticky car seats, I found her one worn bag. It was wrapped in plastic. I didn’t want to know why as I hauled it next to Bertie’s matching designer luggage and shoved the cart back into the lobby.

  There was no sign of Freddy inside. Knowing my luck, I’d have the whole job done the moment our missing bellhop got here. And knowing Freddy, he probably planned it that way. The door from the back opened, and a tall man pushed his way inside, covering the old-fashioned doorframe with a broad shoulder. “Freddy!” I called. “I need your help over here!”

  “You’re still here?”

  That didn’t sound like Freddy. The man cleared the door, and the dull glow of the chandelier showed me that the shoulder belonged to Austen. I almost fell over at the sight of him. He carried a bike over his shoulder and was a sight for sore eyes—the same classically good looks, brown unruly hair, and crooked smile as before—but when I looked at him now, no romantic image sprang to mind, which was strange because I managed to procure one for everyone nowadays.

  Maybe it was because he still wore his biking clothes. He set the bike down and leaned against it. “Wow, I didn’t expect you to still be here, Jane. I thought for sure you’d find somewhere better to work.”

  Austen had caught me completely off guard. I had planned this moment for so long—I was going to be defiantly gorgeous, carefree and witty, and completely on top of the situation. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was all sweaty and scruffy from my workout with the luggage—and he thought that my job was a joke. Even if it was, he didn’t have to point it out. And where did he get off teasing me like we were still best friends, anyway?