What Would Jane Austen Do? (2 page)

   A tap on the door signaled Harry's arrival. The skinny adolescent's face had not yet filled out enough to balance his oversized nose and ears, but he was obviously still growing because his pants were at least an inch too short. Unless that was the style for English boys his age. He awkwardly hustled two large boxes on a wheeled dolly into the room. Eleanor directed him to set them in the corner. After expressing her appreciation in generous tips, Eleanor was finally alone.

   First, she called her father. His voice mail kicked in, meaning he was probably at lunch with his golfing buddies or one of his lady friends. His old-fashioned manners dictated that it was rude to answer the phone when one was in the middle of a conversation, so he always turned his cell phone off when he was in company. She left him a message to let him know she'd arrived safely and would call him as usual on Sunday night. She tucked her phone into a pocket on her carryon as she headed to the bathroom.

   Because of increased airline restrictions, she'd packed her toiletries and cosmetic bag in her suitcase, which by now was probably in Istanbul. Fortunately, the airline had provided each passenger with a Ziploc bag that contained soft footies, an eye-mask, and best of all, a disposable toothbrush and tiny tube of toothpaste. She'd had the forethought to snag the extra one from the empty seat beside her and drop it in her carryon. She dug it out.

   After a quick dip in the tub, she promised herself a long luxurious soak before she left the inn. For tonight, sleep took precedence.

   Wrapped in a large fluffy towel, she unpacked the smaller box and put on a floor-length, granny-style nightgown. Even though it was part of her planned presentation on a Regency lady's wardrobe, it would serve until her suitcases were located.

   Because she wasn't a morning person, Eleanor had developed the habit of setting out her clothes the night before. Knowing she would sleep better if she had everything organized, she checked the seminar schedule and laid out her outfit for the following morning: a day dress of white muslin embroidered with green leaves and tiny violets, period underclothes, white silk stock ings, and flat shoes made of green fabric.

   She added the matching beaded reticule, so small that it held only the absolute necessities: ID, credit card, registration confirmation letter, a handkerchief instead of tissues, breath mints, lip gloss, and the big old-fashioned key to her suite. Then she hung up the rest of the dresses from the larger box. Running out of steam, she climbed the riser and flopped into the bed with a sigh, asleep the second her head hit the pillow.

"Who is that in your bed?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea," Deirdre answered.

   Mina peered closer. "She resembles our cousin Ellen. Same dark auburn curls, heart-shaped face, and green eyes."

   "Her eyes are closed."

   "I noticed the striking color earlier when we passed her on the stairs. And her smile. She has great teeth, straight and—"

   "Our cousin Ellen died nearly two hundred years ago. This person is alive."

   Mina leaned over the figure in the bed. "Who are you?" When she got no response, she poked the sleeping female's arm. "Why are you here?"

   "Isn't it obvious?" Deirdre said. "She's one of the guests."

   "They rarely put guests in our rooms. Are you sure she's not dead?"

   "Of course I'm sure. Well, we had best wake her up and scare her off," Deirdre said.

   Mina tipped her head to one side. "She has a gentle face. Couldn't we let her sleep a bit longer?"

   "Easy for you to say. She's not in your bed."

   "I wonder who she is. I still say she resembles Cousin Ellen."

   Deirdre pulled the sleeping female's travel bag out of the bathroom and looked through her belongings.

   "What are you doing?" Mina asked in a horrified voice.

   "Finding out who she is."

"That was a rhetorical question. You should not—"

"Her name is Eleanor Pottinger and she's from—"

"… Where is she from?"

"Los Angeles, California. That's in America."

   "I know that," Mina said. She glanced over her shoulder at the still sleeping figure. "She must be exhausted from her long journey."

   "Airplane-legged," Deirdre said as she continued to dig in Eleanor's bag.

   "Jet-lagged," Mina corrected. Although both ghosts attempted to keep up with current events, Mina had the greater interest in modern culture.

   "She keeps a journal," Deirdre said as she sat back and opened the leather-bound book. She scanned the neat handwriting, starting from the last written page and working her way backwards through the book quickly.

   "You shouldn't read that."

   "Why not? People read historical journals all the time."

   "That's different." Mina pursed her lips. "Historical journals contribute to knowledge of the period by placing events of the day in a personal context."

   "If I'd known my words were going to be read by anyone else, I would not have included personal information. I'm glad we got in the habit of hiding our journals so Aunt Patience couldn't read them. And now no one ever will."

   "Exactly my point," Mina said, nodding toward the book in her sister's hands.

   Deirdre shut the cover, dropped it back into the carryon, and shoved the small suitcase back into the bathroom. "There was little of interest anyway. Dull business plans, mention of a failed love affair without any interesting details, and research she wanted to complete regarding Jane Austen."

   "Aha!" Mina turned to look at Eleanor. "I knew she had some reason for traveling alone."

   Deirdre dusted her fingertips together as if to dismiss the matter. "There is still the issue of her being ensconced in my bed."

   "It's not as if you actually need to sleep," Mina countered.

   "Why are you so concerned about a stranger?" Deirdre's eyes narrowed. "What is going through that conniving mind of yours?"

   Mina wanted to consider all possibilities before revealing her thoughts. "Oh, look, she's waking. Quick, douse the lamp."

   Eleanor blinked away her momentary confusion as she remembered where she'd fallen asleep. Her bleary eyes refused to focus. Watery moonlight seeping through the thick glass of the windows told her it was the middle of the night, but her internal clock and a full bladder insisted she get out of bed. She swung her legs over the edge and rolled to a sitting position.

   As she slid forward, she remembered climbing onto the bed and managed to get one foot on the second step of the bed riser. Off balance, she nearly tumbled to the floor, saving herself by lunging sideways and wrapping her arm around the sturdy bedpost. Forward motion swung her around until she slammed into the footboard, stubbing her big toe in the process.

"Ouch." The pain brought tears to her eyes.

   Blinking, she limped toward the bathroom door that was disguised as an armoire and fumbled for the handle without success.

   "Damn," she muttered under her breath. "Where is that release… thingee?"

   "A hand's-breadth higher," a voice whispered.

   Eleanor found the catch that opened the door and rushed into the bathroom, thankful a motion-sensitive night-light had been provided. Once her physical discomfort had been relieved, logic resurfaced. Had that voice been her imagination, or had she really heard someone? She couldn't remember ever using the term "hand's-breadth," not even in her wildest flights of fancy. Did the night-light really have a sensor, or had someone turned it on?

   Suddenly nervous, she put her ear to the door. Nothing. She felt a bit silly. If there were intruders, why would they help her find the door latch and turn on the light? Unless she wanted to sleep in the tub, she would have to leave the bathroom sooner or later. She blamed her imagination for her unease. Surely nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She looked around for a possible weapon. Just in case.

   She took a deep breath and swung open the door. Her still sore toe caused her to cross the room in a hop-step-hop-step. "Ouch, damn, ouch, damn." She vaulted into the bed and pulled the covers over her head.

   Her heart pounded and her breath came in gasps. Had she seen something? Over by the window… someone? The combination of fatigue, stress, and whatever was in that energy bar had obviously sent her imagination into overdrive. How could she sleep until she made sure no one was in the room? She scooted under the covers to the edge of the bed and snaked one hand out to turn on the bedside lamp. Then with one quick motion, she threw back the cover and lunged to her knees in the middle of the bed, arm raised and ready to throw the bar of soap at any intruder.

   Across the room, two delicate women in Regency costume sat primly on the window seat of the tower alcove and stared at her as if she'd sprouted a second head.

   After moment of shock, Eleanor recognized the women she'd passed on the stairway earlier. Sensing no threat, her breath left her in a whoosh and she relaxed in relief like a balloon losing air. "I'm afraid you have the wrong room," she said, tucking her erstwhile weapon out of sight beneath the covers. "And I admit you gave me quite a fright."

   "I'm Mina Cracklebury, and this is my sister Deirdre," the woman in the rose-colored dress said. "We're sorry we disturbed your slumber."

   Deirdre shot her sister an incredulous look. "Yes, of course we are, but in fact this is—"

   "A perfect opportunity for us to become acquainted." Mina flashed a brilliant smile. Obviously sisters, both wore their blonde hair pulled back into chignons with a few wispy curls framing their faces. "You may have heard about us. We are the ghosts of the manor."

   "I don't believe in ghosts." Suddenly, Eleanor understood. Spike must have recruited these two to scare her. If she left voluntarily, then the girl would be off the hook. "Nice try. You can tell your friend Spike that it almost worked, but I recognize you. I'm not leaving—you are. Fabulous costumes, by the way. Good joke. Ha, ha. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to go back to sleep."

   Deirdre jumped to her feet. "We are not friends of that… person," she said, stomping her foot. "We are fully materialized ghosts, and this is our suite of rooms. And that is my bed!"

   "Please excuse my sister's manners," Mina said. "We don't entertain often."

   Deirdre rounded on her sister. "I have never entertained in my bedroom, and I refuse to start now. Whatever mischief you are planning in that devious mind of yours, I will have no part of it." With a snap of her fingers, her figure disintegrated into specks of light, and then she disappeared.

   "Oh dear," Mina said. "Not an auspicious beginning."

   "Is this some sort of magic trick?" Eleanor asked, peering around the room. "Where'd she go?"

   Mina shrugged. "Neither of us can leave the manor grounds. She's not in this room, which is in itself a measure of her upset. And that will make it much more difficult to convince her to help us."

   Eleanor shook her head. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I cannot be talking to a ghost. There are no such things. When I open my eyes, no one will be there." She peeked with one eye. The ghost was still there. Smiling.

   "You have to believe what you see."

   "No, I don't. I know what it is. I'm dreaming. That's it. Only a dream." Talking to a dream figment was just like talking to yourself. Lots of people who weren't crazy did that. Right? "How can I make you go away like your… what do you mean, convince her to help us? I don't want anything to do with you. And for the record, I can think of a dozen dream characters I would much rather talk to. Like Mr. Darcy or Heathcliff."

   "Perhaps I phrased that wrongly," Mina replied, unperturbed. "I can help you, and you can help me."

   "You don't even exist. How can I possible help you?"

   "I'm so glad you asked."

   "I didn't mean—"

   "Deirdre believes we're stuck here until we do appropriate penance or learn a particular lesson or some such thing. The problem is we can't figure out what it is. My solution is to travel back in time and prevent… change what happened. Thereby solving the problem at the source. However, we can't talk to ourselves when we go back, and even if we could, it's doubtful we'd listen. Do you listen when you talk to yourself? La… I am rambling on without mentioning what I can do to help you."

   "There's nothing—"

   "Didn't you come here to do some research?"

   Eleanor gave her a sharp look. "Can you read minds?" She rolled her eyes. "Of course you can. Since you're only a projection of my imagination, it stands to reason—"

   Mina's laugh sounded like a tinkling wind chime. "No, I can't read your mind. Most guests who come during Regency Week have an interest in something related to Jane Austen. Don't you? Perhaps I can help with that."