What Would Jane Austen Do?

“I’m sorry we must leave,” he said.

“Me too.” Her words held a different meaning than his, but her regret was genuine. She forced herself to breathe through her mouth, hoping to forestall her tears.

“We will have another chance to be alone later,” he said, promise in his voice.

“Possibly.”

“We must make it happen.”

Eleanor nodded, unwilling to trust her voice.

He gave her a long, gentle kiss and then stepped away to push the leaves aside and clear the path back.

As they walked up the steps to the terrace, she spotted Jane Austen and her sister Cassandra wandering around the terrace, looking for something on the stone floor.

“Can we help you?” Eleanor asked.

Miss Jane looked up. “Oh. Are we intruding? I’m sorry. We’ll come back later.”

“No. What’s wrong? Did you lose something?”

She put her hand to her throat. “My necklace. An amber cross, similar to the one Cassandra is wearing. Our brother Frank is in the Navy, and he brought them from Spain. The chain on mine must have broken.” She looked around her feet. “I was wearing it when we came downstairs, but we’ve looked everywhere.”

It seemed a bit presumptuous for Eleanor to ask what Jane Austen would do when the very woman was standing in front of her. She knew Jane would take the honorable path even if it hurt, and in her heart Eleanor knew what was right. She took her necklace out of her reticule and held it out. “Is this yours?”

“You found it!” Jane picked up the amber cross reverently and held it to her breast with both hands. “How can I ever thank you?”

Eleanor felt a sharp spasm of loss, but that was quickly replaced by a glow of satisfaction. The necklace had been returned to where it belonged. “No thanks are necessary.” Giving joy to the woman who had provided her with so many hours of reading pleasure was enough.

But when the Austen sisters turned to reenter the ballroom, Eleanor could not let the opportunity slip past. “Please …”

Jane turned. “Yes?”

“May we speak privately?”

She nodded, and they walked ten paces away from the others.

“I just wanted to …” Eleanor paused. How could she tell Jane Austen how very much her novels meant to her without revealing she knew Jane was the author? “I wanted to recommend a book. My favorite. It’s titled Pride and Prejudice.”

The flash of wariness in Jane’s eyes was instantly masked behind feigned indifference. “Well, thank you. I will remember your suggestion. If you will—”

“I am compelled to tell you how much I enjoy reading the story. I find the characters so filled with life. Every time I read it, I fall in love with the hero Mr. Darcy all over again.” Eleanor knew she was speaking too fast and verging on babbling, but this was a golden opportunity that would never be repeated. “I want to have Elizabeth Bennet for a sister or at least for my best friend.”

“Ah, but if you were her friend, then you might wind up marrying Mr. Collins.” Jane smiled. “You see, I am … familiar with the work of which you speak.”

Eleanor let out a sigh. Jane hadn’t given her the cut direct, or worse, run in the opposite direction. “Aside from pure enjoyment, I really think the story helped me learn valuable lessons, or at least helped me cope when life gave me an education in relationships the hard way.”

“A book did that?”

“Elizabeth’s journey taught me I should listen to my brain and my heart and to neither exclusively. Love does not demand perfection because imperfections make each of us unique. Appearances can be false, and what is important comes from the inside.”

Jane chuckled. “That’s quite a lot for an unpretentious little volume about unimportant people.”

“A person does not have to be of great consequence to be influential.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Jane took a half step back as if she was about to close the conversation.

Eleanor wasn’t ready to let her go. “Where did you … where do you suppose the author got her ideas?”

Jane narrowed her eyes and gave her a long look that said she realized Eleanor knew who the author was, but didn’t understand how. Then her expression cleared as if she’d decided not to admit anything. Then the other woman could not be sure.

“I suppose this author is much like any other,” Jane said. “I once … heard an author describe writing as taking bits and pieces of her experiences and observations, then she questions, dissects, and analyzes them. She extrapolates from them, stretching the thought out. Then she adds from her imagination a big dose of what might have been, a good measure of what would never be, and spices it all with wishful thinking.”

“So … you don’t think an author must experience everything she writes about?”

“Absolutely not. Daniel Defoe was not shipwrecked on an island for years as was his character in Robinson Crusoe, although it is known he interviewed sailors who had been shipwrecked. Jonathan Swift, as he portrayed through Gulliver, did not actually find on his travels tiny Lilliputians, giants, immortals, or a Utopian society built by horses endowed with reason. Now that’s imagination.”

“Of course, you must be right,” Eleanor said. After all, logic dictated Tolkien couldn’t have visited Middle Earth, Mary Shelley hadn’t built a Frankenstein from body parts, and the Baroness Orczy hadn’t been an English spy during the French Revolution like her Scarlet Pimpernel. “Although I’m disappointed because that means there probably wasn’t a real Mr. Darcy or Mr. Knightley.”

“Live heroes have the distinct advantage of being able to … dance with you.” Jane glanced obliquely at Shermont, conversing with Cassandra at the other side of the terrace. “Perhaps you have found your own version of a male protagonist better than any novel could portray.”

Eleanor smiled sadly and shook her head. “He’s some lucky girl’s Mr. Darcy, but unfortunately not mine. I must return to my … home soon.”

“Then I wish you a good journey,” Jane Austen said. “And, if you will excuse a bit of advice from a stranger, life is short, and the opportunity of love rarely comes around a second time.”

Was she referring to the plot of a book? In Persuasion Anne Elliot was given a second chance at love with Frederick Wentworth eight years after turning him away. Or was she just referring to the fact that she thought Eleanor was a widow? Did it make a difference?

Was Persuasion a bit of wishful thinking on the author’s part or simply a big dose of what would never be? To ask her was not only impossible because the novel would not be published for another three years, but it would be an impertinent invasion of privacy she most likely would find abhorrent.

“Thank you for the advice,” Eleanor said. “I’ll remember our conversation.”

Forever.

Jane must have somehow signaled her sister because Cassandra excused herself and approached. “If you will excuse us, we should let Edward know we’ve found Jane’s necklace.”

“Of course,” Eleanor said politely, even though she would have liked to prolong the conversation.

After again thanking her, Jane and Cassandra left. Eleanor walked back to join Shermont.

“Do you want to explain what just happened?” he asked.

“Nope. You have to trust me. Everything is as it should be.”

“But you gave her your—”

“Trust me.”

The music ended and flushed dancers flooded the terrace, including Deirdre and Mina. They spotted Shermont and headed directly toward him, their partners in tow.

Shermont leaned over and whispered in Eleanor’s ear. “Meet me in the library in fifteen minutes.” Then he swung his long legs over the balustrade, pushed off with his hands, and landed on the shell path below with a crunch. He turned and gave her a deep courtly bow before disappearing into the darkness.

“Where’s Shermont?” Deirdre asked as they approached.

“He was right there a minute ago,” Mina said.

Eleanor simply smiled. Who could blame the guy for escaping after the mess the girls had nearly incited the