What Would Jane Austen Do?

“Are you happy now?” Deirdre asked Mina as they started to fade.

“Wait! Please.”

The ghosts rematerialized.

“Please,” Eleanor said. “Tell me about Shermont. Did he have a good life? Did he marry and have children?” Her voice caught in her throat. “Did he find love?”

The ghosts looked at each other.

“We can’t say,” Deirdre said.

“Does that mean you don’t know or that you just won’t tell me?” Eleanor managed to keep her tone even despite her frustration.

“We did leave England just a few weeks after Teddy’s death and didn’t return for nearly twelve years,” Mina said. “After Uncle Huxley died we buried him at sea off Madagascar in the glorious Viking funeral he always wanted, and we continued his work. Until we decided the children needed to go to school. Such a handful they were. Climbing in the rigging, swearing like sailors, vowing to become pirates—even the girls. But they turned out—”

“Enough,” Deirdre said. She turned to Eleanor. “We’ve brought you our journals.” She motioned to the stack of more than a dozen slim leather-bound books on the table, some well-worn, some new looking. “We hid them so no one would ever find them. We fetched them earlier this morning.”

“While you were still sleeping.”

“Please consider them a thank you present. If you want, you can read all about our lives. You can probably auction the books off for enough money to put your business venture on solid footing. Now, it’s time for us to go.”

“Wait. You do know what happened to him? Lord Shermont?”

“Yes, we—”

“Mina!” Deirdre’s sharp tone was more than a warning.

“Why won’t you tell me? You told me all about your lives.”

“We have limitations. His story is not ours to tell,” Deirdre explained.

“What if I ask you to take me back? What if I want to stay there permanently?”

Deirdre shook her head. “I’m sorry. That was never an option. You are where you are supposed to be.”

“You have been given the chance to relive two years of your life. A great gift,” Mina said.

“Use it wisely,” Deirdre added.

As they faded, Eleanor called, “Will I ever see you again?”

They didn’t rematerialize, but she distinctly heard their voices.

“Yes, when you—”

“Hush, Mina.”

To her surprise, Eleanor was heartened by the prospect.

Chapter Seventeen

Eleanor closed the book, stood, and stretched. After spending the morning reading the tiny handwriting in the journals, her eyes felt grainy, and her shoulders were cramped. She smiled. The girls had certainly led an exciting life. And she was only a quarter of the way through the stack of journals.

As she picked up the next one, her stomach growled, making her wonder if she should go downstairs and get some brunch before starting another. On the front of the book, rather than the year designation that she expected, was the title Sense and Sensibility, and on the flyleaf, by a Lady.

“Omigod.” A first edition Jane Austen. She gently laid it on the table. The next book in the stack was Pride and Prejudice by the Lady who wrote Sense and Sensibility. The following four volumes were also first editions. One of each of her novels.

Eleanor sank into the chair. Deirdre had said she could auction off the books for enough money to put her business on solid footing. These slim first editions were worth a fortune.

Inside the last one, published by Jane Austen’s brother after her death, were a number of loose pages. Letters, responses, and thank you notes, all signed by Jane Austen. Deirdre had listened to Eleanor’s advice and saved everything.

The provenance of the items might prove a sticking point. She could hardly claim the truth, but she’d deal with that later. She decided, for the time being, to put them in her suitcase, which she found in the closet.

Hanging in the closet was the outfit she’d planned to wear on that day, which seemed like two years ago. She had to smile at the navy blue pinstriped interview suit with the tailored white shirt and sensible shoes. She’d been so eager to get the job. It had turned out one of the worst of her career.

Instead, she pulled out a pair of jeans, a top with a vibrant zigzag stripe pattern that made her eyes look emerald green, and a pair of sneakers. As she dressed, she wondered what she would do that afternoon, since she planned to blow off the job interview.

Walking down the hall and stairs, she passed a number of framed watercolors for sale. One in particular caught her eye. The scene showed a Regency picnic at the site of the ruins. She recognized Deirdre and Mina facing the artist and looking at two men. Even though they were drawn from the back, she knew it was Shermont and Teddy. By eliminating the folks in the background and the chaperones seated at a table to the left, she realized Beatrix Holcum must have been the talented artist. Poor Beatrix. No one had thought to tell her gently when Teddy had been shot. Eleanor hoped the girl had found the happiness she never would have experienced with him.

Eleanor noted the price of the picture, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise. A framed obituary hanging next to the watercolor explained the cost. Beatrix had gone on to become a well-respected artist in her own right, married an Earl, and lent her name and support to women’s suffrage, anti-child labor, and compulsory education for all children, among other good causes.

“You go, girl,” Eleanor whispered.

From the photo taken later in her life, Beatrix was still beautiful. She lived to a ripe old age and was survived by seven children, forty-two grandchildren, one hundred and twenty-nine great-grandchildren, and a great-great- granddaughter born on Beatrix’s ninety-third birthday and named in her honor.

With a wide grin Eleanor continued down the stairs. She wondered if she would ever know what had happened to the others—Alanbrooke with his charming smile and sad eyes, sweet Fiona and Hazel, even Parker and Whitby. And Lord Shermont. How could she find out what had happened to him? Above all, she hoped he’d found happiness.

On the landing she picked up a brochure on the Jane Austen House Museum in Chawton to read while she ate.

Halfway down the stairs she almost stumbled and came to a halt. In the entrance hall stood Jason, her former fiancé. When the ghosts had said she’d gone back two years, she hadn’t given a single thought to the fact that she’d met him on her first trip to England. He’d asked her to have lunch with him, and she’d learned he worked at the very studio where she had a job interview. So angelic with his curly blond hair and boyish grin. Seeing him again left her … confused.

With the chance to start the relationship over, she could do things differently. Was that what the ghosts had meant by using the time wisely?

Wait a minute. She wasn’t the one who had cheated. She wasn’t the one who had found someone else. This might be a second chance, but she wasn’t Anne Elliot pining for her noble Frederick Wentworth. Jason would always be a taker, looking for the easiest path. And Eleanor had changed during the past two years, especially in the last six months. She was no longer the mousy doormat who would give Jason her designs so he could shine while she toiled in the pit.

She’d also changed over the last few days. Shermont had made her feel beautiful, valuable, worthy of cherishing. She wasn’t willing to settle for less.

What would Jane Austen do if she encountered a person unworthy of her regard? She descended the rest of the steps. Jason smiled with an appreciative gleam in his eye, but she saw calculation behind it and knew his angelic looks were deceiving. She gave him a polite but cool, I’m-so-not-interested nod as she passed him. Just like