The Man Who Loved Jane Austen

went off to the luxuriously appointed bathroom where she deliberately took her time showering and washing her hair.

An hour later Eliza passed through the busy house unnoticed by the small army of servants and helpers making last-minute preparations for the ball. Pausing at the closed doors to the grand ballroom, she pushed them open a crack, hoping to catch a glimpse of Darcy. Instead she saw men standing on tall ladders affixing hundreds of candles to sockets in the chandeliers and wall sconces while others polished the parquet floors or draped snowy linen on dozens of small tables set around the perimeter of the room.

When similar inquisitive forays—into the kitchens and the flower-bedecked gallery where arriving guests would be welcomed upon entering the house—turned up no sign of Darcy, Eliza found the front doors and stepped out into the bright summer sunshine.

She had already crossed the lawn to the buffet table when she realized that the only other diners still at lunch were Harv and Faith Harrington. Brother and sister were sitting together at a table, eating and chatting.

“Wonderful!” she murmured, looking frantically for some other direction to take.

Before Eliza could retreat, though, Harv spotted her and cheerfully waved her down. “Aha! Another of the undead has risen at last. Hi, Eliza.”

“Hi,” she replied, cautiously approaching the pair.

Looking like a cartoon vampire in a way-too-flouncy yellow sundress, Faith pushed her dark wraparound sunglasses up onto her pale forehead and squinted at Eliza through seriously bloodshot eyes.

“Oh, there you are, Eliza!” Faith exclaimed, managing to sound as if she’d just discovered a particularly beloved sorority sister. “Harv was telling me I threatened to murder you in your bed last night, you poor thing.”

“Well, you didn’t specify the exact place…” Letting her hunger overcome her sense of self-preservation, Eliza sidled over to the buffet table and began heaping a plate from a marvelous-looking platter of seafood salad and fresh fruit.

Faith rose stiffly from her seat and walked by, pausing to affectionately squeeze the arm of her archrival. “I don’t remember a thing about last night,” she said, smiling. “Isn’t that awful?”

Eliza made a sour face. “Positively tragic,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

“Well, I absolutely must run now,” Faith exclaimed, ignoring the caustic reply. “The caterer is having another nervous breakdown.”

“Why don’t you give him some of your Prozac?” Eliza suggested under her breath as the blonde flounced away across the lawn in a cloud of filmy petticoats.

Actually, Eliza had briefly considered yelling out the Prozac remark to the loathsome Faith. She was restrained by the ominous sight of a heavy carving knife sticking out of a plump Virginia ham on the table, and had a quick mental flash of the erratic Faith returning to slice up something besides ham.

Turning with her plate Eliza saw that Harv had gotten up and was gallantly pulling out a chair for her. She stomped over to where he stood, slammed her plate onto the table and flopped sullenly into the chair.

“Goodness, you seem a tad overwrought today, Eliza.” Harv’s big blue eyes were twinkling like a department-store Santa Claus.

“Don’t start with me today, Harv,” she warned.

“Let me get you some refreshing tea.” Harv smiled, backing slowly away from her with his hands in the air. He went over to the beverage table and returned with a tall, frosty glass of iced tea for her and a fresh Bloody Mary for himself.

“Where’s Fitz?” she asked, scanning the endless procession of people in and out of the house.

“Off running around somewhere.” Harv waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the stables and lowered himself into the chair beside hers. “I doubt if you’ll see much of him before this evening. He and his committee of helpers will be all over the place all day long, working like the proverbial pack of beavers.”

Eliza began consuming her salad, delicious chunks of cold lobster and avocado steeped in a wonderful vinaigrette dressing. “Should we be doing something to help them?” she asked, looking toward the busy workforce up at the house.

“Us?” Harv was aghast at the mere suggestion that they join in the work. “Good Lord, no! You are an honored guest and I a mere helpless bungler,” he explained. “Our job is to stay out of the way and admire the industry of the others, so they’ll all feel properly appreciated.”

“Harv, I like you.” Eliza found herself laughing in spite of her foul mood.

“Why, thank you, Eliza. I like me, too.”

At that moment a pretty young woman in a long blue gown came walking across the lawn toward them. She was carrying a matte-black high-tech portable phone in one hand.

Harv grinned at the newcomer. “Amanda, my love, you are the perfect vision of antebellum splendor,” he exclaimed. “However, I must tell you that the telephone spoils the effect entirely.”

Amanda, who had obviously weathered previous encounters with Harv, smiled tolerantly at him and addressed Eliza. “Are you Miss Knight?”

Eliza nodded and the pretty young woman handed her the phone. “You have an urgent call,” she said, “from your Aunt Ellen in New York.”

Harv and Amanda looked on with interest as Eliza frowned and put the phone to her ear, unable to imagine who might have tracked her down at Pemberley Farms. For she had deliberately left her mobile phone turned off in her luggage and, as far as she knew, nobody in New York had Darcy’s unlisted number. And she did not have an Aunt Ellen.

“Hello?”

Thelma Klein’s graveled voice rasped harshly in her ear. “Eliza, what the hell’s going on down there?” the gruff researcher demanded. “You said you were going to call me as soon as you’d talked to Darcy. What did he say?”

Eliza rolled her eyes and glanced over at Harv, who was busily engaged in examining Amanda’s rather ample cleavage. “Oh, hi, Aunt Ellen!” Eliza said brightly. “We’re still talking about…that business,” she told Thelma evasively. “Can I call you back on Monday?”

“Monday? Are you out of your mind?” Thelma’s screech was loud enough to make the couple look up from their foolishness. “We’re doing the press conference on Monday. Remember?” Thelma hollered. “The people from Sotheby’s will be there.”

“Right, Aunt Ellen! Okay. I’ll see you then,” Eliza said in the I-really-can’t-talk-now voice she reserved for ending inconvenient telephone conversations.

There was a brief silence on the line, followed by a plaintive meow. Thelma’s voice when she came back on was ominous. “Eliza, you’re forgetting that you left your damned cat in my apartment. If you hang up on me now I will put Wickham down the garbage disposal. Talk to me.”

“I can’t really talk now, Aunt Ellen,” Eliza said with a grin. “Be sure to give Wickham a big kiss for me. And don’t forget his tuna.”

Thelma Klein, a lifelong cat fancier, sighed, defeated. “All right, Eliza. I don’t know what’s going on down there, but I’m willing to guess the handsome Mr. Darcy has been working on your head. I just want you to think about one thing before you do anything too stupid,” Thelma continued. “Sotheby’s called late yesterday to say they’re estimating that your unopened Jane Austen letter could go for up to a million and a half dollars.”

There was a long pause on the line, then the cranky researcher added, “As long as it stays unopened.”

“One and a half?” Eliza’s voice was a mouselike squeak.

“Yes! And that’s straight from Aunt Ellen. So get your butt back up here by Monday,” Thelma ordered. “I’ll keep the cat alive until then, but that’s it.”

In her New York apartment Thelma Klein slammed down the phone and scowled at Wickham who was stretched comfortably across the end of her sofa. “What the hell are you looking at?” she asked the gray tabby.

When the cat did not immediately answer, Thelma resignedly got to her feet and padded barefoot to the kitchen. “Come on,” she said grumpily. “Let’s go get some damned tuna. Aunt Ellen’s buying.”

On the lawn at Pemberley Farms Eliza still sat holding the dead phone, looking slightly stunned.