Adventures with Jane and her Legacy 01 Jane Austen Ruined My Life (22 page)

"Emma, dear. I thought that would be you," Mrs. Parrot said as she opened the door for me. "Let's go straight through to the lounge. I'm sure we have a great deal to discuss after last night."

If she only knew the half of it. But then, she probably did.

Her demeanor was a complete turnaround from my last visit. Then, she'd met me on the doorstep, thrust the envelopes into my hands, and sent me on my way. Now it was as if she had all the time in the world.

We went through to the lounge, and I looked around for any sign that Adam had been there. A fresh tea tray sat at the ready. No signs of previous use. The cushions on the sofa were plump and smooth. Mrs. Parrot looked cool as a cucumber.

"Did you enjoy the play?" she asked.

She proceeded to pour the tea, and my gag reflex kicked in. What was it with the British and their liquid consumption? Yes, there had been days after Edward's betrayal when I'd almost drunk my body weight in Diet Coke, but it wasn't something I could sustain over the long haul.

"I enjoyed it very much," I said, then I hesitated. Should I bring up Adam's presence? Or should I play dumb?

"You will have caught the reference, of course, to Jane Austen's own situation."

"I wasn't sure if it was meant to be literal or ironic. I know she would never have married without money to support her choice. She was pragmatic, if nothing else. But I thought perhaps ..."

"Yes?"

"Did Jack Smith turn out to be like Captain Absolute? Did his natural father acknowledge him? Provide for him in any way?"

I was afraid I already knew the answer. If Jack Smith had been given even a modest sum, he would have carried Jane off without delay. But there had been no carrying off. At least, none that was known.

Mrs. Parrot shook her head with a smile. "We shall see."

"You already know the answer, though," I said, hoping to prod her into some sort of revelation.

"But telling you would spoil all the work you've done so far, Miss Grant."

"This really doesn't feel like work."

"But it is. Important work. You'll see that in time."

I wasn't sure I would ever see anything but what a fool I was being, running around England at the behest of a doddering, orange-haired pensioner. I had thought that all she was about was making me earn the privilege of learning "the truth," as she'd called it, about Jane Austen, but now that I knew she was also in league with Adam.

"Why me?" I said, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. "I mean no disrespect, Mrs. Parrot, but why am I here? What is it you want from me?"

"The Formidables choose whom we engage for a reason."

She attempted to smile mysteriously, but it didn't quite work with that shock of flame-colored hair.

"Then what reason did you have for choosing me?" I asked, pressing her for some sort of information.

"We keep a careful eye on the scholarly community. We have to cultivate ..." She paused. "Anyway, we heard about your ... difficulties. We believed in your innocence."

"On what basis? You didn't know me from--" I stopped myself before I could say the name.

"That's true. But for your teaching assistant to claim authorship of that paper was absurd. Well, anyone with half a brain could see that was poppycock. That particular endeavor showed a great passion for Austen and her novels. Your teaching assistant seemed to reserve her passion for ..." She took a sip of tea. "Well, perhaps least said, soonest mended."

"So, what are you people, the Jane Austen mafia?" Or some sort of deranged group of fairy godmothers? I didn't voice the second question aloud.

Mrs. Parrot shrugged. "We are simply protecting our interests."

"I'm one of your interests?" Yes, there was definitely more at work than my learning the truth about Jane Austen.

"Our interest does not entitle you to anything. Let me be clear on that score."

"If you would just allow me to publish a few of the letters--"

She shook her head with a sad smile. "You know we can't do that."

"Not even in this desperate a situation?" Panic clogged my throat. "Mrs. Parrot, I have no job, no home, no money. I'm desperate."

"I know, dear"--she reached over to pat my hand--"but all will turn out well in the end."

But how could it? I wanted to screech. I held myself in check, but only just.

"Mrs. Parrot--"

"Two more tasks," she said, reaching for the knitting bag at her feet. "You're making excellent progress."

Frustration joined with the panic breeding inside me. "Is all this really necessary?"

Mrs. Parrot nodded. "Yes. But we don't expect you to understand that at this juncture."

She pulled yet another of those tantalizing envelopes from the knitting bag. Oh, how I wanted to stand up, bid her goodbye, and walk away. I was tired of being someone else's puppet. Did it matter whether the person pulling my strings was Edward, Adam, or Mrs. Parrot? But even as I rebelled on the inside, I knew I couldn't go through with it. She offered me the envelope, like Eve proffering the fateful apple, and I couldn't stop myself. I took it.

"Where am I going this time?" I asked with weary resignation.

"Lyme," Mrs. Parrot said with a wink.

Easy for her to act like a co-conspirator, given that she held all the cards. Or letters, as it were.

"As in Lyme Regis?"

It wasn't really a question, but I felt compelled to ask it anyway. The resort town on the Dorset coast in southwest England held many connections with Austen and her work.

"A seaside holiday might do you some good." Mrs. Parrot picked up her knitting needles and yarn and began to stitch away as if she hadn't a care in the world. "We've taken the liberty of booking a small cottage for you."

"But--" My current budget would in no way stretch to cover those kind of accommodations.

"Our treat, of course."

Of course. I sighed.

Mrs. Parrot continued without missing a beat. "You're to read the letter on the Cobb at Lyme," she said, referring to the long stone pier that arched out into the English Channel. "And when you return to London, come and see me again."

"Mrs. Parrot--"

"I know you're weary, my dear, but please believe that there is a method to our madness."

"About Jack Smith--" I stopped myself.

I needed to know, but I also didn't want to hear the answer. Obviously, something had happened since Austen never married him. But had her heart been broken by design or fate? Betrayal or chance? I wanted to know so that I could prepare myself. Steel myself against what was coming.

I knew that for the better part of three years, from May 1801 until 1804, no letters from Austen existed, at least none that had been made public. I had a feeling, though, that when I read the letter at Lyme, I was going to discover the exact reason for her silence. I also knew, from Austen's existing letters and my own research, that she had abandoned her novel writing during that time period too. I could see the storm clouds on the horizon, but I had no idea how bad the weather was going to be.

"Don't look so glum, my dear," Mrs. Parrot said. "As I said, you're doing very well."

I swallowed the bitter laugh that rose in my throat. Mrs. Parrot must have had a rather broad definition of the phrase
very well
.

"I hope you're right" was the only response I could manage.

Twenty minutes and a second cup of tea later, I left the house, far more troubled--and waterlogged--than when I had entered. I hadn't been able to obtain the answers to any of my questions. Quite the opposite, in fact. I still wasn't sure exactly what Mrs. Parrot was about, why she and the Formidables had taken such an interest in me. And now I had no one I could trust, not even Adam. I hadn't thought it would be possible to feel lonelier than I did after Edward's betrayal, but sadly, I found that it was. Much lonelier, as a matter of fact.

I
didn't want to return to Anne-Elise's house and a possible confrontation with Adam, but I couldn't afford another shopping spree either. So I would have to return to Hampstead and retrieve some clothing and toiletries for my expedition to Lyme. Or ... wait. I could avoid going back, I realized with a pang of relief, if I could find someone who would do my packing for me.

I stopped at one of the iconic red phone booths on the street, and after five minutes of trying to figure out how to make a local call--the fact that London had eight-digit phone numbers and more than one "area code" didn't help matters--I finally reached Anne-Elise.

"I need you to pack me a bag and meet me in Hyde Park."

"You sound like you're in some sort of spy movie," AnneElise chided me. "Just come back to the house and explain what in the world is going on."

"I can't. You're going to have to trust me on this."

"Does it have anything to do with why Adam's stomping around like his favorite football team just lost the Super Bowl?"

I didn't answer.

Anne-Elise sighed. "I hope you two are going to be worth all this trouble in the end."

"There's no 'you two,' Anne-Elise. I think you'd better give your matchmaking efforts a rest. Besides, weren't you interested in him for yourself?"

"Yeah, right." Now she sounded like the born-and-bred American that she was. "Like I can't see the attraction emanating off the two of you in waves."

"For the last time--"

"Spare me the denials and tell me what you want me to pack."

Anne-Elise might have been a bit quirky, but she was a good friend in a tight spot. I rattled off a list of the necessities and hoped she would remember everything.

"Give me a couple of hours," she said. I was hardly in a position to bargain.

"All right. I'll see you then. At the cafe near the Serpentine, where we had that amazing cheesecake that time."

The wonderful thing about people with whom you shared a history is that you developed your own kind of shorthand.

"
Mon dieu
, that was incredible," Anne-Elise said, and I could envision the rapturous expression on her face. "Do you remember the raspberries--"

"Anne-Elise!"

"Okay, okay. I'm going. I'll see you in two hours."

"And don't tell Adam," I warned her before we said our good-byes.

I stepped out of the phone booth and onto the busy London street. I didn't know how I was going to occupy my time until I was supposed to meet up with Anne-Elise. Except that there was one thing I could do anywhere, really. I found a bench outside a nearby church and retrieved the notebook and pen from my purse. This compulsion was starting to scare me, but the only way to assuage it was to put pen to paper. I settled onto the bench, tuned out the din of traffic and pedestrians, and lost myself in the glide of ink across the page.

To reach Lyme, I took an afternoon West Country train from London's Waterloo Station to Axminster. From there, it was a five-mile taxi ride to Lyme Regis. I had wanted to hustle to the Cobb to get my task over with, but by the time I had checked into the charming little cottage, I was too tired to do anything but collapse on the bed and fall into a deep sleep.

I awoke the next morning, lonely and depressed, but then I opened the shutters at the bedroom window and looked outside.

The cottage was situated on the Marine Parade, and the view across Cobb harbour was breathtaking. Boats bobbed in the
dark blue water, and I could see the Cobb in the distance where it stretched into the sea. Low clay cliffs gave way to sandstone and beaches, and tourists abounded even during the week.

As I took in the view, I was only sorry that I wouldn't be staying longer. As soon as I completed my task, I planned to grab the next taxi back to Axminster, and from there the next train back to London.

The landlady, a Mrs. Pierpont, had left me well provisioned, I discovered, when I made my way to the little kitchen. Bread, eggs, bacon, and coffee--the staples for a hearty English breakfast. To my surprise, I was ravenous.

I indulged, frying up the eggs and bacon and broiling the toast the old-fashioned way, as my mother had done when I was a child. The fortifying meal gave me not only renewed strength but a shot of courage as well. Today, I would learn the fate of Jack Smith. I was sure of it. I only wished that, whatever it was, it had ended in a happier manner for Jane Austen.