Jane Austen Made Me Do It (20 page)

Had that novel put notions into her daughter's head?

“Please remember, Amy, that it's only in novels that young ladies like Lydia Bennet end up married and embraced by family and friends. In reality, they fall into ruin.”

“I know that, Mama. You can't imagine I'd run off with a penniless soldier.”

“What's more, it's only in such novels that gentlemen of fortune offer marriage to penniless young ladies, no matter how pretty they are. Their hearts might be touched, but good sense and duty will direct them elsewhere.”

“But Mr. Darcy could
afford
to marry Lizzie, Mama, and Mr. Bingley to marry Jane, so why shouldn't they?”

It was as she'd feared.

“They simply don't, Amy. But if a young lady behaves with modesty and discretion and avoids being alone with gentlemen at all times, she can't come to grief.”

Amy's disgruntled face showed her warnings might have been just in time. Had she begun to spin dreams about Sir Nicholas? Her vitality earlier on seeing him had been marked, and the dangers lurking in employment seemed even greater. A governess could be prey to the brothers of her pupils, and even to their father.

Oh, Barnie, why were you so careless!

“Let's catch up to the others,” she said, hurrying on as if she could outpace her problems. But one—Amy—kept up easily.

“Sir Nicholas is like Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley, isn't he, Mama? He's rich enough to marry whom he pleases.”

Oh, Lord, could Amy have been putting herself in Sir Nicholas's way on purpose? How mortifying.

But then Elinor remembered the warm smile Sir Nicholas had bestowed on Amy today, and the increasing number of his kindnesses to the family. Was it possible? If he and Amy had been meeting, had it been by shared intent?

He was almost twice Amy's age—but mature men were attracted to youth.

It was a dazzling vision. Amy, dear, darling Amy, would have security, comfort, and the best possible husband, and the younger girls would be well provided for, too. Too dazzling.

“Sir Nicholas is in a position to marry as he wishes, Amy, but it would be very foolish for him not to marry a woman with a substantial portion, and so I would tell him if he were my son.”

“Your son, Mama! He's not much younger than you are.”

“Five years, which is quite enough.”

“It's as if you don't like him, Mama, and I can't imagine why. He's so kind and you were so cross about the goose.”

“I was a goose to be cross about it,” Elinor admitted, “and I intend to enjoy every delicious morsel. I do like Sir Nicholas, Amy. If I seem sharp sometimes, it's because I resent charity in general, because I'm not used to having to be grateful for it.”

“I don't think he sees it as charity, Mama. I think … Oh, I'm going to catch up to the others and set them to work, or we'll never gather enough.”

She ran off, suddenly all girl again in her fleet-footedness, her skirts revealing a bit too much ankle.

Elinor followed, torn between hope, fear, and a strange ache. She tried to remember Sir Nicholas's visits to Ivy Cottage and whether he'd paid particular attention to Amy. She couldn't think of any such moment, but that could be because she'd been enjoying the occasions herself.

If he did marry Amy, she would sometimes have occasion to enjoy his company and hear news of politics and international affairs, as well as tid-bits of society gossip. It wouldn't be the same, however.

She wouldn't live with them at Danvers Hall. Even though that might be good for Margaret and Maria, she couldn't do that. She was sure he would provide a better house for them, however—a place similar to the Austens' house, with ample rooms and a few servants. He would increase her income so that she could mingle with local society without embarrassment.

It would all be wonderful, so the rather sick feeling in her stomach must be fear that it wouldn't come to pass. Or perhaps that Amy was intending to sacrifice herself for her family. She was capable of that. Elinor couldn't imagine Sir Nicholas being a sacrifice for any woman, not even a girl still in her teens, but if that were so …

Which was worse—an unhappy marriage or a life of drudgery?

Why did she want to weep?

The girls ran to meet her and put lengths of ivy and a couple of branches of holly in the basket. The best sprigs of holly were higher, so Amy and Elinor cut as the younger girls directed.

Elinor considered the haul. “I do think we'll find better ivy at home, dears. We need the younger stems and they're very high here. Time to go home.”

A rattle and the sound of hooves made her look down the lane, where she saw a donkey cart carrying two women, one swathed in extra rugs. She'd heard Miss Jane Austen was not well, but she was out enjoying the warm afternoon, driven by her sister.

Elinor and her daughters stepped aside, and Elinor prepared to exchange a seasonal greeting in passing. But Miss Austen halted the cart, and Miss Jane smiled. “A merry Christmas to you, Mrs. Carsholt. And to your daughters.”

They all dipped curtsies. “And to you, Miss Austen, Miss Jane. A lovely day, is it not?”

“Delightful.”

Miss Jane Austen was probably in her forties and sallow with whatever plagued her. She was a most unlikely author of dangerous novels.

“We've been gathering holly and ivy!” Maria said, making Elinor wince for her manners, but as usual, the little angel gained approval.

“An important part of the traditions, my dear. Will you add mistletoe?”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Margaret.

Miss Jane's eyes twinkled. “Are you hoping for a kiss, dear?”

Margaret went pink, but said, “Amy is!”

“Probably from Sir Nicholas,” said Maria, surely in complete innocence.

“What nonsense!” Amy said, turning bright red in a way that confirmed Elinor's hopes. “If he kisses anyone, he'll kiss Mama.”

Elinor laughed at that, turning to share amusement with the Austen ladies. “I'm far past the age for mistletoe kisses, I fear.”

Miss Jane cocked her head. “That seems a shame, for we must be older still.”

Elinor hastily apologized, but Miss Jane shook her head. “I was only teasing, Mrs. Carsholt. I believe Sir Nicholas said you are thirty-six. I don't think you should refuse the mistletoe its chance.”

“Chance, ma'am?”

“Do you not know that tradition?”

“Oh, sister,” said Miss Austen, as if uncomfortable with the subject.

“Cassandra doesn't approve,” Miss Jane said, smiling. “She thinks it has a touch of pagan magic about it. Local tradition says that if true lovers kiss beneath a mistletoe bough, they will instantly know their devotion.”

“It sounds a little pagan to me, too, Miss Jane,” Elinor said, but lightly. “And perhaps overly romantical.”

“If by romantical you speak of men and women forming true matches based on love, does that not happen all the time?”

Maria spoke, with the disastrous honesty of a young child. “Did you never find your true love through the mistletoe bough, ma'am?”

“Maria!” Elinor chided, but Miss Austen replied.

“I did, my dear, but it was not to be. However, to experience true love is better than not, and one can always imagine a story with a different ending.”

Miss Jane inclined her head; Miss Austen added a good-day and drove on, leaving Elinor to wonder if Miss Jane had encountered her own Mr. Darcy, and he had not abandoned sense in order to marry a penniless woman.

In that case, it would have been a great deal more to the point to write the truth; if Miss Elizabeth Bennet had ended up as a penny-pinched spinster along with all her sisters, and Miss Lydia Bennet had been ruined as she deserved, foolish girls might have learned by it.

“That's a wonderful legend,” Amy said. “We really must get some mistletoe, Mama!”

She was already over the stile and helping the others. Elinor was suddenly drained of the energy to fight. Let them have a kissing bough if they wanted.

She climbed carefully over the stile, dearly wishing the world was like Miss Jane Austen's novel, full of happy endings.

Too late she remembered Sir Nicholas saying that his brother planned to raid the orchard. She hated to intrude. Her daughters were far ahead, so she could only pray that the Danvers Hall party had already left. When she found only some village children in the orchard, however, she felt let down.

As her girls ran around seeking the best branches, Elinor looked toward the mellow, golden manor house, trying to imagine Amy mistress there. It was larger and finer than Fortlings, and the mullioned windows glinted in the setting sun, making it seem like a fairy palace.

Indeed, it might as well be.

“Mama!” called Margaret. “Here's a tree full of mistletoe!”

Elinor turned and joined them. “Those certainly are splendid bunches, dear, but they're too high. Let's look for some that hang lower.”

“But all the lower ones have gone,” Amy said. “There's a ladder over there.”

Elinor grabbed her cloak. “None of us are climbing a ladder.”

“But what are we to do? Oh, I wish we had a man to assist us!”

“I am summoned.”

Elinor turned to stare at the dark-haired young man strolling through the orchard. It must be Captain Danvers, for he was very like his brother, though more dashing, with his longer hair and a scar across his forehead.

“Captain Danvers!” said Amy in a tone that crushed all Elinor's hopes.

Oh, Amy! Miss Austen had represented that folly correctly in her novel, saying that the worth of a man of sense was nothing when put beside an ensign in regimentals. Here was not a mere ensign but a captain, wounded heroically in the service of his country. His lack of uniform didn't weaken his power.

Elinor hadn't truly feared Sir Nicholas might ruin Amy, or that Amy would allow herself to be ruined, but a man like Captain Danvers might deprive her of all good sense. Their manner was not that of strangers.

Amy must have been meeting not Sir Nicholas but Captain Danvers in the past few days.

“You are just in time to assist us, Captain Danvers,” Amy was saying, with bold familiarity. “We need mistletoe. Lots of it.”

“I am entirely at your service, ladies.” He politely managed to address them all with especial recognition of Elinor. “Only point to the sprig you want, ma'am, and it will be yours.”

Elinor had to play her part. “You're very kind, Captain. I'll let the girls each pick one.”

Maria excitedly pointed to a high one, and the captain carried over the ladder. He climbed it and returned to present the sprig to her with a bow. Maria giggled, entranced.

Then Margaret demanded an even higher one and he repeated the performance, leaving sensible Margaret blushing, also with stars in her eyes.

“Shouldn't you also choose one, ma'am?”

Elinor started and turned to find Sir Nicholas close by. To her eyes his more sober manner and his neat Brutus haircut were more attractive than his brother's dashing style.

“You look lost for words,” he said.

“I feel caught out ravaging your orchard, Sir Nicholas.”
And what will you make of my daughter's folly over your brother?

“I invited you to ravage my orchard, Mrs. Carsholt.” He glanced up. “Are you aware that you are stationed directly below a laden sprig of mistletoe?”

Elinor quickly stepped to the side. “I'm past the age for games like that, sir.”

She managed to speak lightly, but for a moment she'd wanted that kiss, hungered to be kissed by the most handsome, most admirable man she knew. Shocking, scandalous, but despite the impossible five years between them, she desperately wanted Sir Nicholas, as a woman wants a man she might marry.

“I thought you and your guests would have finished by now,” she blurted, hearing the ungraciousness of it.

“We have, but my brother insisted we needed more mistletoe. An excellent idea,” he added, smiling over at Amy.

Was he blind not to see the truth there?

Miss Jane Austen had urged them off to the orchard with legends of mistletoe kisses, abetting Amy and her gallant swain.

Elinor was feeling trapped in a fairy tale, like a grove in
Midsummer Night's Dream
, but it was closer to a nightmare. Could the brothers come to blows over this?

“The gentlemen pinch off a berry every time they steal a kiss,” he said, “but you must know that.”

“Yes.”

“We must have some remaining for our Twelfth Night festivities.
Can I persuade you to relax your mourning and attend them, Mrs. Carsholt? You and your daughters? There will be traditional games, and mummers from the village.”

“I think not.…”

“Life must go on, dear lady, especially for the younger ones. Amy should be reveling in youth.”

Elinor couldn't make sense of anything. He was speaking fondly of Amy. Amy was entranced by Captain Danvers, but she'd just shot a look at Sir Nicholas that implied he was the most wonderful man in the world. She couldn't be infatuated by both of them!

“You will not dance, I know,” he said, “but perhaps you would permit Amy to?”

Couldn't he see his heart was going to be broken?

“And I would very much enjoy
your
company, Mrs. Carsholt. I have always enjoyed your company, and flattered myself that you enjoyed mine.”

He was looking at her in an intent way, a way she was suddenly afraid to interpret. In
Midsummer's Night's Dream
people were enchanted into idiocy.

Elinor looked away. “You've always been most kind, Sir Nicholas. To all of us.”

“To
you
. It's been a difficult year for you, but it's nearing its end. You will all attend my Twelfth Night party?”

Elinor looked back at him. “I … I don't know.” It encompassed everything.