Hidden Paradise

by Janet Mullany

  Outside in the small meadow next to the kitchen garden, a couple of guys sparred, wearing boxing gloves and stripped to the waist. Out of force of habit, Peter paused to check out their physiques and admire the contrast between Billy Blue the boxing instructor and his pupil, Mac. Very nice.

  Lou stood at the doorway, checking them out, too, but she pretended she wasn’t, which made him smile.

  “It’s a bit of a problem,” Jon was saying. “Oh, hi, Peter. We can’t date this room. We’ve uncovered an older fireplace, which is probably original, but it’s not very impressive, is it? Rather small and messy. We could get the linoleum off the floor—although it’s pretty much off in so many places—and pull up the floorboards and see if anything interesting turns up.”

  “According to the house plan,” Simon said, gesturing at a facsimile of the oldest plan they possessed, “in 1841 this was the housekeeper’s room, and plumbing wasn’t put in until the early twentieth century. It’s a rubbish room, my dears. Let’s tart it up and do an exhibit here and you can charge the great unwashed a quid a head to come in.”

  “Absolutely not,” Peter said. “Free admission for all. We’re giving back to the community, remember. At least, if the grant comes through so we can actually afford the money to do it and hire a curator, we’ll be giving back to the community. Why, we might even offer you the job, Lou, my dear.”

  She was staring at the wall. “You’re all wrong,” she said. “This isn’t a nothing room. Look at that doorway. It has an arch above it, bricked in.”

  “We know, dear,” Simon said.

  “Okay. Imagine, oh, I’d think three such doors. Only, they aren’t doors, they’re triple-hung arched windows. I bet if you got that plumbing and plaster off, you’d find them underneath. What’s outside?” She opened the door and they saw her outside, pacing, and examining the wall and ground.

  “Southern elevation!” Jon cried. He and Simon exchanged a significant look and rushed outside to join Lou. A lot of gesturing and exclamations of excitement followed.

  “What’s going on here?” Peter asked, bewildered by the historians’ antics as they came back in.

  “As I suspected, you have a layer of late-nineteenth-century brick on the outside but a nice big dressed stone ledge at the bottom of the wall,” Lou said.

  “Tell him, dear,” Simon said.

  “You have a hidden Georgian conservatory,” she said. “That’s why the fireplace is so small, because you’d probably have a stove in this room. You should restore it, Peter.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” he said. “And we can still use it as part of the exhibit area—whenever we get the funding. How wonderful! Do you think we could get it done by Christmas? Think how marvelous it would look with banks of poinsettias and narcissi.”

  “Make it into a gift shop,” Lou said.

  Jon and Simon were having one of their shorthand conversations from which Peter gathered they were thinking of sacrificing dinner and some of the evening’s festivities to knock down plaster. He turned to Lou and wondered whether he, too, was beaming with excitement. “I guess we’ll have to use the other room as an exhibit room now. I do like your idea of different styles and wallpapers. Could you work me up a proposal?”

  “Look, that’s really sweet of you, Peter, but I’m not a historian. Not really. I’m an Austen scholar. Get the Paint Boys to do it.”

  “You could write your dissertation here,” he wheedled.

  She made a face. “I don’t even want to think about my dissertation.”

  “So come here and write something else then.”

  “I would if I could think of something original to say and if I were able to leave the ranch and if you had funding.” She sighed. “Too many ifs. I’m filthy from poking around in that fireplace. I’d better go and change for the ball.”

  Peter had always thought that Julian would be here for the opening ball, with Lou radiant on his arm, his best friends and the most handsome couple there. He wondered, from the look of sadness on her face, whether she was thinking of that, too. But she leaned to kiss his cheek, reminded him that he’d engaged her for the first two dances, and went off to get ready.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Lou

  “I need more silk flowers! Are you going to use those, Lou?”

  “Oh, hi, Sarah. Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

  Lou stared at Sarah in astonishment as the other woman rummaged on her dressing table. Obviously Sarah wasn’t going to respond to any sort of subtlety or sarcasm.

  So it was true; they were the Bennet sisters before a ball. Women ran in and out of each other’s bedchambers, trading finery, admiring each other’s gowns and generally behaving like teenagers. Possibly the Bennet sisters didn’t room hop as Sarah did, wearing only a thong and a pair of historically incorrect thigh-highs, and transforming the atmosphere of the room to the set of a sleazy porno movie.

  A middle-aged woman wearing modern clothes and carrying a Regency gown swathed in plastic, entered the room and apologized profusely at the sight of Sarah. “Oh, goodness, I am so sorry. I was looking for— We had a room assigned to us and I saw the open door and thought this must be it, but—”

  Lou, fully dressed, or the nearest she could get to it in her new nipple-revealing gown, threw a robe in Sarah’s direction and escorted the woman from the room. “I’m so sorry, that was our resident nymphomaniac. You must be with the reenactment society. I believe you’re changing in the blue room. Let me show you where it is.”

  Lou accompanied the woman to the door of the blue room, chatting about the ball and the house, the older woman in a fit of giddy excitement at the prospect of dressing up and parading around with her husband, in his militia uniform, on her arm. She declined Lou’s help with lacing. Sure enough, the room was full of women changing into their Regency gear, with Di helping out and making necessary last-minute repairs.

  “Will you get to dance?” Lou asked Di. The young woman glowed in a low-cut white gown, ribbons threaded through her hair.

  “No, I’m dressed up to represent the status of the household. Rob said we should have a servants’ ball another night.” She plucked a threaded needle from her bodice. “Do you mind if I put an extra stitch on your sleeve, Mrs. Connolly? I’m not quite happy with the way it sits.”

  She stood still as Di made a few quick deft stitches at her shoulder, snipping off the thread with a pair of tiny scissors from a chatelaine at her waist. As Lou left the room, Di waded back into the crowd of women who needed corsets laced, hems repaired, lost items to be improvised.

  When she returned to her room, Sarah was gone and Lou took a deep breath, enjoying the solitude and silence. She took inventory of her outfit and gathered her fan, gloves and fancy red-and-black reticule. Her remaining silk flowers wouldn’t work with this gown, or the headdress Di and Viv had created, a small turban which was little more than a twist of the same fabric sewn into a circlet. But she needed some sort of adornment, some bling. She looked at her meager collection of jewelry and picked out the ruby on a fine gold chain that Julian had given her for their wedding. When was the last time she had worn this? At his funeral?

  For you, Julian, she thought. You should have been here tonight. This should have been our moment, and you would have loved the discovery of the conservatory. You’d be out there with the Paint Boys, bashing off plaster, given half the chance.

  She threaded the necklace carefully around the turban, adding a few
clumsy stitches to secure it with the sewing kit the room provided. By candlelight, her inadequate housewifery would pass and the ruby, a large square-cut stone, glistened. Perfect.

  A touch of glossy red on her lips and she was ready, and only just in time. She joined a flow of guests down the stairs, where women in gorgeous gowns and men in Regency evening wear or military uniforms mingled. Footmen passed through the crowd with trays of champagne. There was a little more light than usual in the foyer and she guessed the floral arrangements concealed hidden lights. A few flashbulbs exploded as they descended the steps, members of the media incongruous in modern clothing, and a couple of camera crews.

  A man stepped forward and bowed, dressed in a severe black swallowtail coat and snowy-white linen. His evening trousers were black knit that shone with the luster of silk and clung to his beautiful physique, a lock of dark hair tumbled over his forehead. He extended a gloved hand to her.

  “Mr. Darcy, I presume,” she said.

  His gaze met hers. “May I claim the first dance, Mrs. Connolly?”

  “I regret I am engaged, sir. The third may be yours.”

  He raised her hand to his lips. A few more flashes fired off.

  She tucked her other hand into his arm and before she could stop herself, blurted out, “Mac, I have something wonderful to show you.”

  “You certainly do,” he said with a wolfish grin of appreciation as he stared at her bodice.

  “No, it’s something you haven’t seen before. Something no one has seen before. We’ll have to wait till after dinner, but it’s simply amazing.”

  “Well, now I’m really interested.” He looked at her with uncharacteristic hesitancy. “Does this mean we’re friends again?”

  Did it? She had come straight to him to share her excitement about the latest solved mystery of the house. What had begun as a little harmless role-playing for the sake of the camera had turned into a moment of intimacy, a sudden sharp yearning for what might have been.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said as she made no reply.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” she said, “Or at least, the potential of you.”

  “I’m sorry. I behaved like a jerk.”

  “You did.”

  “Is that forgiveness?”

  “I’m not sure.” They walked through the first set of double doors, flanked by two motionless and immaculate footmen, into the drawing room. “I think it’s an acknowledgment of imperfection. And an admission that I believe time is too short to hold a grudge.”

  “Ah.” He shot her a glance of sudden understanding. “I’m glad we’re talking again, Lou. And may I tell you that you look stunning? Especially the tits.”

  “Thank you. So do you, but not so much in the tits department.”

  “New coat,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Tailored to an inch by the lovely Viv.”

  “Did you know she’s called the Jam Tart downstairs?”

  He snorted with laughter. “Been fraternizing with the help, Lou?”

  They passed Rob, who stood straight and still, eyes ahead like a soldier on guard.

  Mac looked at her with sudden understanding and regret. “Okay. None of my business, I know.”

  Had she been so obvious, given some sort of physical signal that indicated her desire for Rob? She thought, with pleasurable anticipation, of how she’d teach him all about oral sex later.

  “Wow,” Mac said, snapping her back to the present. “It looks pretty good in here, doesn’t it, Lou?”

  Pretty good was an understatement. The dining room was breathtaking. Although dinner was light, by Regency standards, the first of two removes were already on the table, a glorious symphony of color and texture. Platters of oysters on ice stood side by side with arrangements of sliced cold meats garnished with herbs and flowers, salads studded with nasturtiums and squash blossoms, and delicately swirled fruit fools in sparkling crystal dishes. The table was set with infinite care; Lou knew Rob had checked and double-checked the symmetry of the place settings, each piece of cutlery laid at a precise distance from the edge of the table. In the center of the feast, a massive sugar sculpture representing Paradise Hall rested on a lawn of green marzipan.

  The visitors plucked cameras and cell phones from reticules and coat pockets and flashes filled the room. The footmen circulated with bottles of wine and pitchers of lemonade. Rob’s lads were all on their best behavior, very few leers down the fronts of gowns, hardly a drop of wine spilled. Rob stood watchful at the sideboard, now and again indicating with a discreet nod that a guest needed help or a plate should be removed, or receiving some sort of signal from Peter or Chris.

  Lou found herself sitting next to one of the local landowners who regaled her with stories about the family who had owned the house, finally abandoning it to ruin twenty years earlier, until it had risen to its current glory under the loving care of Peter and Chris. The man had introduced himself as Stote, which at first she thought might be a nickname but realized somewhat belatedly that he was in fact Lord Stote, a neighbor Peter had mentioned.

  “What do you think of the theory that Austen stayed here?” she asked.

  “Oh, supposedly she stayed with us, too,” he said. “So my good lady says.” He gestured down the table at a solidly built, gray-haired woman working her way through a plate of oysters. “Truth is, m’dear, Jane’s brother Edward knew the families of both houses. He knew a lot of people. She could have visited, you know, in the period between her father’s death and Chawton, when she and her mother and sister were wandering around like gypsies and when there were gaps in the letters. Frankly I’ve always thought Edward was a bit of a rotter not getting them settled somewhere before.”

  “I’ve wondered about that, too,” Lou said. “But as for whether Jane Austen was at this house or yours…I think everyone dreams about finding one of her letters in the attic, or a fragment of an unfinished manuscript. But it’s unlikely, isn’t it? I don’t think we’ll ever know.”

  “Lots of rubbish in my attic,” Stote said. “You should come over, m’dear. Have a cup of tea, look at our little place. Stay for a weekend if you like. We don’t get many young people in our house these days. Bring that young man, too.”

  Which one? she wondered.

  “He’s quite a decent chap for a Yank,” Stote added. Probably he’d be shocked that she was fooling around with downstairs. “And I’ll claim a dance with you later, Mrs. Connolly, if I may.”

  She thanked him and let him commiserate with the guest on his other side on their mutual dry rot and deathwatch beetle infestations, while she amicably shared the nearest plate of oysters with Mac.

  The footmen removed plates and platters, placed ice in crystal glasses before each guest and poured a light, sparkling wine.

  After this, Lou knew, the footmen would clear the table and the rooms would be opened up for dancing, sets of doors opened and folded back. The musicians were set up at the other end of the linked rooms in the foyer, and refreshments would be served outside on the terrace beneath the light of the moon and some lanterns. She intended to dance all night and then exhaust Rob.

  This was as good a time as any to show Mac her discovery.

  She swallowed her last mouthful of ice cream. “Come with me, Mac.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Mac

  Come with me, Mac. What a wonderfully suggestive choice of words. He arranged himself as discreetly as he could beneath his linen napkin and t
hen stood to hand her from the table. Couples were rising now, the men—or at least those who knew the correct etiquette, which was most of them—leaping to their feet if any woman nearby looked as though she was going to stand.

  He abandoned the relative safety of the linen napkin and the cover of the tablecloth, swirled the tails of his coat as he stood—he rather liked dressing this way although it embarrassed him that he did—and did his best to ignore Chris’s lewd wink. The guests had about fifteen minutes to get out of the footmen’s way as they cleared and disassembled the huge table and transferred the sugar sculpture to the sideboard. Chris and Peter ushered the crowd to the other side of the house, where the musicians were now set up on a dais, and let the guests admire the decorations and the restoration work.

  “I should be honest with you,” Lou said as they strolled through the gathering. “I’m planning to sleep with someone else tonight.”

  “Words an Austen heroine probably never spoke,” he said, trying to make a joke of it and not let his disappointment show. Well, he’d blown it, he knew that. It was too late. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy her company. And he was touched by how excited she was about this recent discovery, whatever it was, probably something entirely geeky about the history of the house.

  They headed away from the crowd and into the east wing of the house, toward Paint Boys territory. “They’re not here,” she said as they came to a padlocked door. “But they won’t mind.”

  She twirled the combination lock and pushed the door open, flipping on a light switch. The room was part office, part laboratory; he’d interviewed them a few days ago here, and found a solid core of knowledge beneath Simon and Jon’s silly, flitty exteriors. Now paint cans, ladders, drop cloths and other equipment were stacked neatly in one corner and a door stood open to an adjoining room.