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 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.