Laurie Brown - What Would Jane Austen Do?

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 Elizabeth Bennet did upon meeting Mr. Wickham after he’d seduced her younger sister Lydia and then accepted Mr. Darcy’s money to prevent a scandal by marrying her.

As she exited the inn, she felt such a sense of lightness that she couldn’t help grinning. She paused on the top step and resisted the urge to spread her arms to welcome the sunshine.

When her stomach growled, she remembered she’d intended to go to the dining room for lunch. She didn’t want to return just yet. Jason would assume she’d come back to meet him and he could be insistent when he wanted something. Better to avoid him.

Off to her right she noticed the inn owner had set up a yard sale on the side of the curving drive, hoping to coax tourists into spending more money at the inn rather than in town. She walked over to see what was available, giving Jason time to eat and leave the premises.

While the young male attendant listened to his headset and played a hand-held video game, she wandered among the rejected remnants of life in a huge old house. Three matching oil lamps with one unbroken glass globe shade. A piecrust table with water rings marring the top. Frayed baskets and old canning jars.

A golden butterfly flitted past her face. A clouded yellow, she now knew. With a smile she followed its path. In the back of the odds and ends, she found two metal-bound trunks, one with the initials DC carved into the curved, wooden top and the other with MC. Deirdre and Mina’s luggage.

Eleanor opened one, expecting it to smell like an old basement. But it must have been stored in the attic. Although it did smell old, there didn’t appear to be any mildew. There were a few articles of old clothing inside, the white muslin aged to ecru, the colors faded. Not museum quality, but she could use them to make patterns.

She cocked her head. Maybe because she was so used to taking measurements, the inside of the trunk seemed less deep than she would have thought from the outside. She measured using the span of her hand that she knew was eight inches from thumb to outstretched forefinger. Either the trunk had a four-inch thick base, or there was a false bottom.

Once she knew it had to exist, she found the release latch camouflaged into the design of the lining paper and opened it. She didn’t have to check whose trunk she was looking in because Mina’s collection of jewelry gave the identity away. Sadly, much of it was tarnished, the faux jewels cloudy and dull. Lying on a paisley silk scarf was a miniature of Uncle Huxley with a butterfly net in one hand, grinning from ear to ear.

Eleanor closed the partition and then purchased both trunks. They were a bit pricey and would probably cost a ton to crate and ship home. She planned to add the Jane Austen novels and the journals to the stash, and then once home she would invite a few friends, including a lawyer and a reporter, to view her souvenirs. They would discover the false bottom and the books, and thus establish their provenance. Although the former owners of the trunks would probably kick themselves for selling them, she didn’t feel guilty about the ruse because the books had been a gift and didn’t belong to whoever that was. She insisted the boy write a detailed receipt that said “and contents.” He promised to move the trunks to her room.

In addition to the lightness, she now felt a sense of destiny. She was meant to be right where she was and meant to have Deirdre and Mina’s legacy. She headed back to the main entrance for something to eat. At the door she was nearly run over by a tall, skinny youth talking on a cell phone.

“Yo, Professor. Oops. Hold on.” He looked down at Eleanor. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” she replied, but she stepped aside to wait for him to go by.

He paused outside the door and returned to his conversation. “The tables are full, and they said at least a half hour wait. No, she didn’t have your reservation. Okay, but you’ll have to talk to her yourself.” He clicked off his phone and put it in his pocket before loping the short distance to the parking lot, where he mounted a motorcycle parked among a dozen others.

She’d heard what the young man said and wondered what she should do. Call a cab to go into the village? She could probably get something to eat there before going to the museum. She pulled the brochure from her purse to see if it mentioned restaurants in the area.

One motorcycle rider separated from the bunch and drove his noisy machine up the driveway to stop in front of the steps. She looked up. The driver’s worn black leathers clung to his long muscular arms and legs as if they had been custom-made. She could feel him staring at her through his tinted visor.

Bolstered by her recent triumph, she refused to be intimidated. She crossed her arms and stared back.

He removed his helmet and brushed back his long dark hair. Eleanor caught her breath. Omigod!

It was him. Shermont.

But it couldn’t be. She’d left Lord Shermont nearly two hundred years in the past.

“You don’t look like a professor,” Eleanor said, dumbfounded by the motorcycle rider’s uncanny resemblance to her lost love.

“Haven’t we …” He touched his eyebrow. “Sorry,” he said, taking off his leather glove and sticking out his hand. “James Wright.”

“Mr. Wright,” she said, shaking his hand. That familiar warmth spread to her heart. It had to be him, yet it couldn’t be. Confusion warred with unreasonable hope.

“And you are?”

“Eleanor Pottinger.” She felt a stab of pain. He didn’t remember her. She pulled her hand away.

“It’s not like me to be illogical, but I have to say this even though it’s going to sound like the worst pickup line in the world.” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Didn’t I meet you in my dreams last night?”

She realized with sudden clarity that James Wright must be the other time traveler the ghosts had told her about. James Wright, a.k.a James Bond, Lord Shermont. In the past, he hadn’t remembered the future due to his injuries, and in the present, he didn’t remember much of the past they had shared. She crossed her arms, trying to hold the disappointment at bay. “What do you recall of this so-called dream?” she asked.

“All the best parts,” he said, and his wicked grin sent a blush to her cheeks. “Not much that makes sense. It’s all mixed up with spies and secret codes of the Napoleonic War era, which is logical, because that’s the topic of my research. I do remember enough to realize I want to get to know you. Are you free for lunch? Dinner? The rest of your life?”

“What about your friends?” She gestured with her chin toward the parking lot where the other riders waited, quite interested in what was going on in front of the steps.

“Ah, yes. My students.”

“Then you really are a professor?”

“University of Chicago. I took on this summer semester abroad in order to do research for my thesis. They attend classes Monday through Thursday during the week, and I shepherd them around to historic sites on the weekends.”

Eleanor now understood the ghosts’ reasoning in choosing this man to take back the first time. They probably thought his experience dealing with young people would help him provide a strong guiding force for a younger Teddy and might keep him out of trouble. Something must have gone wrong, and they set James down in the wrong place.

“I’m doing research on that period myself,” she said, not willing to let him get away just yet. “Specifically the clothes of the Regency period. I’m a costume designer. I’ll be working on a movie that will be filmed near here.” Which was sort of the truth. If she made it to the interview, she knew she would be offered the job.

“Maybe we can compare notes,” he said. “Won’t you join me for lunch? Uh … me and my students. I have them until seven o’clock tonight. Then I’ll deliver them to a lecture on the architecture of Christopher Wren. That’s why we came here to the Twixton Manor Inn. When the sixth Lord Digby renovated the original building in 1702, Wren designed the new façade and parterre. Unfortunately the formal gardens are long gone.”

“I heard there used to be a fabulous moonlight garden here,” she said, hoping to spark his memory.

He shrugged. “I’m not really into gardens. But I am hungry. Back to the subject of lunch.”

“Well, I was on my way into the village to get a bite before checking out the Jane Austen House Museum at Chawton Cottage.” She handed him the brochure that contained a small map.

He flipped through the single-page, trifold advertisement. “What do they have? Maybe I’ll take the kids there after lunch.”

“I’m not sure what else they have. I’m going to check out a necklace on display that belonged to Jane Austen.”

“A necklace?” He rubbed the scar on his forehead.

She touched her throat, a useless habit since her necklace was no longer there. “An amber cross.”

“How very strange.”

“What do you mean?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown bag. “In the village this morning I wandered into an antique store and felt a strong compulsion to buy this against all reason. Even though I usually analyze every action to death before doing anything, I purchased it straightaway. And now I know why. I bought it for you.” He handed her the package. “Go on. Open it.”