Laurie Brown - What Would Jane Austen Do?

Deirdre found a fly-whisk in the trunk. Three tassels of gray horsehair were attached to a stick, and she explained it was used to swish through the air and chase the flies away. Eleanor attached the tassels to her hat, one over each ear and one so that it made coarse bangs. She wouldn’t be able to disguise her height, a good three inches taller than the others, but as the witch she would be sitting by the pretend fire for most of the play. The rest of the time she would have to remember to hunch over.

Loathe to take off their costumes, they fiddled with this, that, and the other detail, adding a last bit of jewelry or another ribbon. A knock sounded on the door. Mina was closest and opened it a crack to peek out. Fiona and Hazel pushed their way into the room. They were already dressed for dinner.

“We finally talked Mother into letting us participate in the play,” Hazel blurted out.

“I got so upset I vomited,” Fiona said. “It always works.”

“Except now we can’t find your brother.”

Deirdre shook her head. “I’m sorry—”

“Please don’t say it’s too late,” Hazel begged.

“He’s already handed out the parts,” Mina said.

“And we’ve already had the rehearsal,” Beatrix added.

Fiona and Hazel were close to tears.

“I know what you can do,” Eleanor said. “Deirdre can hardly be a Greek chorus all by herself, right?”

“Well, we can’t all read it in unison,” Deirdre pointed out. “And there isn’t time to write out two more copies.”

“True, but they can stand at your side.”

“And do what?”

Eleanor felt the weight of their collective stares and fumbled for an idea, any idea. “Well, when you get to the end of each section of narrative, you can bow or make a hand signal or something, and they can repeat the last two or three words for dramatic effect. Like a Greek chorus.” Her voice trailed off as she ran out of steam.

“We can do it,” Fiona said. “Can’t we, Hazel? Please let us do it.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Mina said.

With a little more cajoling, Deirdre agreed. Mina explained the secrecy pact, and the girls were sworn to silence. They too insisted on masks to go with their costumes. Eleanor rang for the maid, made her request, and Twilla fetched more sheets. There wasn’t enough gold fabric left to make two more headpieces to match Deirdre’s, so Eleanor cut Lone Ranger-style masks from the remnants. She made smaller white turbans for the Maxwell girls while they practiced their routine with Deirdre.

A knock on the door silenced everyone.

“If that’s someone else wanting a costume, tell them I’m all sewed out,” Eleanor said, flexing her cramped fingers. Everyone had helped with the sewing, but she’d done a lot of work in a short time.

Mina went to the door and opened it a crack. Her aunt’s maid stood in the hall. “Yes?”

“Pardon me, Miss Mina, but Mrs. Aubin said to tell you and Miss Cracklebury that the assembly bell has rung and you have guests waiting in the parlor. Miss Austen and Miss Jane have arrived with Mr. Knight and Mr. Austen. Lord and Lady Maybrumble and their daughters are here. And … I forget the other names.”

“Don’t worry about that. You may tell her we’ll be down straightaway.” She closed the door a little too firmly. “Good heavens! Where has the afternoon gone?”

“Hurry up, everyone. We have to get downstairs,” Deirdre said. She grabbed the bellpull to summon Twilla. “We still have to change into evening dress.”

Eleanor had already removed her costume as soon as she’d heard Jane Austen was in the house. “Take your costumes off carefully,” she cautioned the others. “They’re only basted together. Fiona, if you will empty that smaller trunk, we can put everything in there to have it carried backstage.”

Beatrix left, promising to dress for dinner quickly so she could meet them in twenty minutes.

Deirdre and Mina changed clothes faster than ever with Twilla and Eleanor’s help.

“But you still have to change too,” Mina said to Eleanor.

“I can do that after you two go. It’s most important that you get downstairs quickly.”

While Twilla put the final touches on Mina’s hair, Eleanor went into the sitting room.

Deirdre followed. “Why aren’t you changing?”

“I’m looking for a book.”

“What book?” Deirdre asked.

“Pride and Prejudice,” Eleanor answered. “My favorite.” Then she remembered she’d placed it on the table by the window in her bedroom and left to fetch it.

Again, Deirdre followed her. “You’re not thinking of taking that book downstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, no, no, no. No, you are not.”

“But Jane Austen is—”

Deirdre lowered her voice. “I wrote you about that rumor in confidence. Miss Jane has not openly acknowledged that she is … You absolutely cannot mention anything about her … ah … habit. That would be the epitome of rudeness.”

Eleanor looked at the book in her hands and sighed. She wasn’t sure what she’d planned on saying to Jane Austen if she actually met her, but talking about her books and her characters would have been wonderful. And apparently impossible. She put the novel on the table and gave it a little pat.

“You should take care of that book,” Eleanor said. “It’s going to be valuable someday. That and anything Jane Austen writes to you, even something as simple as an acceptance to an invitation.”

Deirdre gave her a strange look, and then she laughed. “Is that another one of your so-called premonitions? You know they’re nonsense. You were so scared about that dream you had of your ship going down, and yet here you are safe and sound.” She shook her head. “You always were melodramatic. Forget all that and get dressed. We have to go, but I want you to come down in ten minutes.”

Eleanor changed her dress and shoes in two minutes flat. Then she paced the room and watched the clock on the mantle. And worried about what she would say to Jane Austen.

Omigod. Jane Austen!

In the course of her jobs in the costume departments at several major movie studios, she’d met, talked to, and touched a number of big-name stars without a single qualm. But now she had a whole flock of butterflies. Austenipolo nerviosi.

The clock ticked ever so slowly, and yet the minutes flew by. Suddenly, it was time to go before she’d thought of something to say.

Eleanor met Beatrix on the landing. “Where is your mother?”

“Already downstairs,” Beatrix answered. “She didn’t want me to wait, but I stood my ground for once and insisted I would go in with you. I wanted to thank you for all your help and for switching roles.”

“You’re welcome, but it’s nothing. I’m happy with the changes too.”

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You look a little pale.”

“Just a bit nervous.” Eleanor reached for her necklace as she often did in times of stress and remembered she had taken it off earlier and left it inside the decorative ceramic box. She made a mental note to retrieve it as soon as she returned to her rooms.

“I know the feeling. I get butterflies every time I see Teddy—I mean Lord Digby. And Lord Shermont is so much more … intense.”

“Oh, no, it’s not him. It’s … it’s …” Eleanor couldn’t explain she was anxious because she was about to face the woman she had come so far to meet.

“Keep your secrets. I don’t mind.” Beatrix took Eleanor’s arm and linked elbows. “Everything will be fine. We’ll go in together.”

The parlor had been expanded. What Eleanor had thought were wooden walls turned out to be floor-to-ceiling sliding panels. The parlor, adjacent music room, and library at the rear of the house were now one large space filled with people.

Deirdre must have been watching for them because she immediately sought them out. Beatrix excused herself to join her mother.

“Let me introduce you to your favorite author,” she whispered in Eleanor’s ear. Deirdre took Eleanor by the arm and led her to a group of three women near the pianoforte. She slowed her steps so as not to interrupt the conversation in the middle of a sentence.

Eleanor tried to determine which woman was Jane Austen since no real portrait had ever been made. Her sister Cassandra had done a sketch, and during the Victorian period an artist had added details to that, but no one could say for sure if the second artist had ever seen the famous writer. There was a serious question as to the accuracy of any depiction.

One woman was tall, taller than Eleanor, big-boned, and ostentatiously dressed. Eleanor counted her out. The other two must be Jane Austen and her older sister Cassandra. The one with the darker hair must be Jane.

She was tiny in stature, not even five feet tall. Slim. High arched brows, straight classic Grecian nose, small mouth with thin lips. Ordinary. Someone you might pass by without a second thought. Except for the lively sparkle in her eyes.

She wore a lilac dress of smooth cotton fabric historically referred to as sarsenet. It had black satin ribbon trim. A lacy cap covered most of her hair, but a few unruly curls peeked out around her face.

Eleanor knew Jane Austen was thirty-nine years old in 1814. She was saddened to see the patch of pigmentation below Jane’s lower lip and an irregular area of darker skin with white spots under her chin. The blotchiness was a symptom of Addison’s disease, the likely cause of her death in July 1817.

“I can’t really say much on recent fashions,” Jane Austen said to the robust older woman seated across from her. “We rarely socialize anymore except for family functions, but I was in Bath … April last. Satin ribbon trim on dresses was all the rage there, and I cannot see the styles in London being much different.”

“Very nice. But so plain. I like the what-do-you-call-it … the froufrous.” She patted her large bosom adorned with ruffles, lace, ribbons, beading, and lots of jewelry. “I have the physicka for it, no?”

While the tall woman brayed with laughter at the joke only she appreciated, Deirdre pushed Eleanor forward. She introduced her cousin from America to the Countess Lazislov from Russia, Miss Austen, and Miss Jane.

Eleanor was tongue-tied, but Deirdre picked up the slack as would any competent hostess.

“We’re having a light informal supper tonight because we have a special entertainment planned. Eleanor is in our play and made many of the costumes,” Deirdre said to start a conversation before she excused herself and left Eleanor on her own.

“I love homespun theatricals,” Jane Austen said. “We used to put on plays at home when we were growing up.”

“We’ve seen some that rivaled professional productions,” Cassandra added.

Eleanor shook her head. “I’m afraid this one involves more enthusiasm than actual talent.”

“Good,” Jane said with an impish grin. “That sort is always more entertaining.”

“Oh, my,” Countess Lazislov said. “Who iss dat?”

Without being as obvious, Jane and Cassandra looked toward the door. Eleanor peeked over her shoulder. Shermont had entered, and the man looked good. The high collar of his charcoal gray cutaway coat framed the fall of snowy linen under his strong chin. The silver embroidery on his sky-blue brocade vest was several shades lighter than his form-fitting silver gray slacks. The subdued hues stood out among the red uniforms and peacock colors of the other male ensembles.

“I vant him for a dinner partner,” the countess said. She immediately stood and went in search of Deirdre to make it happen.

“Definitely eye candy,” Eleanor said without thinking.

“That’s an interesting turn of phrase,” Cassandra said.

“Ah … that’s what we call stunningly handsome men where I come from. In America.”

“Well, Lord Shermont is that,” Jane said. “I always thought he had something more important than looks. Character. Moral fiber to back up his charm.”

“Then you know him?” Eleanor asked.

“Pardon me. I should not have spoken. We’ve met a few times, but my opinion is merely an intuitive evaluation.”

Eleanor was trying to think of a way to bring the conversation around to books. Two elderly women joined the group, inquiring about Jane and Cassandra’s family. Then Teddy arrived.

“I’m sure you’ll excuse Eleanor,” he said. “I must have her resolve an issue between myself and Alanbrooke, a bet, if you will, concerning America.” He held out his arm.

“Oh … I’d rather not,” Eleanor said, even though the others demurred to Teddy’s request. She was perfectly happy where she was. “I … I …”