Laurie Brown - What Would Jane Austen Do?

“Wow. That’s one big butterfly.”

“The Attacus atlas from India has been observed up to thirty centimeters.” He widened the space between his hands to twelve inches. “Actually a moth and therefore active at night rather than during the day like a butterfly, it is beautifully shaped and multi-colored.”

Eleanor was glad she would never see one of those moths hanging around the porch light on the balcony of her apartment.

“I’m looking forward to observing the brilliant Priamis caelestis in its natural habitat in New Guinea. And Morpho peleides in the West Indies. Can you tell I’m partial to blue ones?”

“Who isn’t?” she said as if she knew a Priamis whatever from a Morpho whatsis. “Maybe you’ll discover a new species.”

“Wouldn’t that be the achievement of a lifetime, eh?” He sighed. “One can only wish for such luck.”

“When do you leave?”

“Hopefully soon. I have my own ship, you know. The Swallowtail. Outfitted with the latest in everything I might need. It will only take a few weeks to provision her, and then I’m off. I intend to travel the world until I die, and then I’ve made arrangements to have a glorious Viking funeral at sea. I’m just waiting for my nieces to marry. Got to keep an eye on them, you know, but I’m not getting any younger.”

“Isn’t Teddy their guardian?”

“Ah, there’s the rub.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. Forget I said anything. You should never pay attention to an eccentric old man’s rambling.” Huxley picked up the paper from his knee and stood. He cocked his head to one side and gave her a strange look.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. It’s just that you’ve changed since you were a child. You used to be such a … a morose little girl. Always predicting dire consequences if Deirdre ate too much custard or Mina climbed on the terrace railing.”

Eleanor didn’t know what to say.

“Of course, you were usually right. That time Deirdre did get sick, and Mina did break her arm. But you’re much more pleasant company now.”

“People grow up. Change is inevitable.”

He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “Of course, you’re right. I’m going to fetch a glass of lemonade. May I bring you one?”

She declined. After he left, she looked around. The lieutenants had succumbed to Fiona and Hazel’s lures and joined them on the ruins. Deirdre and Mina were nowhere in sight. Eleanor jumped up and went to search for them. She quietly asked Patience, but she answered without even glancing up from her hand of cards that she’d last seen them picking flowers on the far side of the clearing. She assured Eleanor they were fine as long as they were together.

Eleanor pulled Teddy away from his conversation, but he didn’t know where they were either. He seemed unconcerned about their welfare. “How far can they get on foot? They’ll return momentarily,” he assured her before going back to his conversation with Rockingham.

Eleanor stood in the middle of the picnic area and turned slowly in a full circle. Shermont was also missing. Not that she was keeping track of him or anything, but suddenly she was worried. She’d assumed the seduction happened the night of the ball, but since the ghosts refused to give her details, it could have happened earlier. Had she already failed to protect them? Would the ghosts keep their end of the bargain if she didn’t prevent the seduction and the duel that would inevitably follow?

Refusing to acknowledge the stab of jealousy she felt, Eleanor set off, determined to find Deirdre and Mina. She made a circuit of the clearing, peering into the woods for a clue to which way they went. She cautioned herself not to run or appear frantic. If she alarmed the other guests and a full-scale search were mounted, someone might find one—or both—sisters with Shermont. The two were rarely separated. Eleanor worried that’s why neither would say who was actually seduced.

Something on the ground caught her eye.

* * *

“Shermont?”

Before responding he finished his business, buttoned his trousers, and rounded the screen the servants had set up near the tethered horses for the gentlemen to use as a privy. “Alanbrooke.”

“Forgive me for seeking you out, but this is the first chance I’ve had to speak to you in private,” he said as he fell in beside Shermont on the walk back to the picnic area.

“You have my ear.”

Alanbrooke removed his hat and scratched his head. “It’s all rather mysterious. Day before yesterday, a stranger approached me at my tailor’s of all places and told me to give you a message in private. Somehow he knew I’d accepted the invitation to be here, although in truth it’s nothing I concealed. The weird part is that he said you would also attend. Since you despise provincial parties, I dismissed his claim and counted him one of the loonies society tries to ignore, like the crazy men who accost you on the street and spout their ‘end of the world’ nonsense. But then I arrive, and here you are.”

“Is there a point to this story? If you’re asking my advice, find a new tailor. One who doesn’t let in riff-raff off the street.”

“Bear with me. The stranger—not my tailor—said his name was Scovell. He said I should not mention meeting him to anyone other than you and then only in private. Rather havey-cavey, don’t you think?”

Shermont kept his face impassive with effort. General George Scovell was the chief code breaker and intelligence gatherer for Wellington. He’d played an important role in the victories at Salamanca and Vittoria. Shermont had done a bit of cipher work himself and had consulted with Scovell on occasion. “What was the message?” he asked in a nonchalant tone.

“He made me repeat it, so I would remember his exact words. ‘Another in the Ministry. Watch your back. If you need help, I’m your man.’ Rather cryptic, eh? I asked him about that last bit. I mean, shouldn’t he have said, ‘He’s your man.’ But he insisted I say it exactly that way. What do you suppose it all means?”

“Nothing,” Shermont lied with a straight face. Another in the Ministry meant a second French agent had been discovered selling secrets to Napoleon, like the one they’d been watching for the last seven months. Properly identified and carefully handled, such a man could serve as a useful conduit for misleading information.

Since they’d sacrificed the previously known agent by announcing his capture in the Times, he guessed the new one would be used to take his place. Since Scovell hadn’t indicated how long the new agent had been in place, Shermont concluded the warning meant any number of his prior messages to the Ministry might have been read or intercepted. “Just another loony crying out for attention,” he said. “I hope you gave your tailor a stern set-down?”

“How could I do that and not reveal the meeting with Scovell?”

Shermont nodded. Apparently, the general’s evaluation of Alanbrooke was correct. Good to know he had a dependable, closemouthed backup if it became necessary. “My advice is to forget meeting him.”

“Interesting you should say that. Scovell said after I delivered the message, I should forget the entire incident.”

“What incident?” Shermont asked with a blank stare. He slapped a flummoxed Alanbrooke on the back and headed for the picnic area.

Eleanor stooped, pretending an interest in the wildflowers, and verified that she’d spotted footprints. She was no Indian tracker, but two sets of smaller footprints and the longer stride of a larger set were easy to read in the soft earth.

“Deirdre? Mina?” she said as loud as she dared.

She followed the trail into the shade. Unfortunately, once she was into the woods proper, the footprints disappeared. Hearing voices and laughter, she forged ahead. She concentrated on the ground looking for a clue, any clue, to tell her she was on the right track. Suddenly she noticed the deep silence and realized she’d lost all sense of direction. She looked around. One tree appeared pretty much like another to a city girl. Damn. She should have left a trail of breadcrumbs.

She knew she should stay in one place and let the others find her. Fighting off panic, she located a fallen tree, spread out her handkerchief, and sat down. She folded her hands in her lap and waited. And waited. Without a watch she had no idea how long she’d been in the woods or how long she’d been sitting there, although it seemed like a long while.

“This is silly.” She jumped up and paced the length of the log. It might be hours before anyone found her or even missed her and started searching. What sort of animals lived in the woods? Were there bears in England? Wolves?

She shook her head and pushed those thoughts away. She wasn’t in Yellowstone National Park. Or lost in the middle of Africa. She was in Hampshire, for crying out loud. If she walked in a straight line, she was bound to come across a cottage, a farmer tending his fields, or a road.

Picking a direction at random, she started off with firm, determined strides. Making her way through the woods wasn’t like strolling along a sidewalk, and it was impossible to stay on a straight line. She wound up following barely discernible trails and wandered among the bushes, rocks, and trees. She slapped away branches that caught her hair and stumbled when sharp stones bruised her feet. With each step, she hesitated. She called out, hoping someone, anyone, would hear. Hopefully someone who knew the way back.

“Hello? Deirdre? Mina? Hell-ooo?”

She tripped over a fallen branch and lurched forward, suddenly entering a flower-filled clearing. Tiny yellow blossoms carpeted a meadow not much larger than a ballroom. She took several steps forward, removed her bonnet, and tipped her face to the sun’s warmth. A breeze rustled musically through the trees, and thousands of yellow butterflies lifted from their delicate perch to swirl and dance to nature’s tune. Not flowers, butterflies! What a magical place! She expected a unicorn or fairies to appear.