Sally O'Rourke - The Man Who Loved Jane Austen

There was a long pause on the line, then the cranky researcher added, “As long as it stays unopened.”

“One and a half?” Eliza’s voice was a mouselike squeak.

“Yes! And that’s straight from Aunt Ellen. So get your butt back up here by Monday,” Thelma ordered. “I’ll keep the cat alive until then, but that’s it.”

In her New York apartment Thelma Klein slammed down the phone and scowled at Wickham who was stretched comfortably across the end of her sofa. “What the hell are you looking at?” she asked the gray tabby.

When the cat did not immediately answer, Thelma resignedly got to her feet and padded barefoot to the kitchen. “Come on,” she said grumpily. “Let’s go get some damned tuna. Aunt Ellen’s buying.”

On the lawn at Pemberley Farms Eliza still sat holding the dead phone, looking slightly stunned.

“I once saw an expression like yours on a ballet dancer who had just wandered into a biker bar,” Harv wryly remarked over the salt-encrusted rim of his Bloody Mary.

“Your Aunt Ellen sounds like a real piece of work!” Amanda observed.

The rest of the afternoon Eliza spent alone at the end of the small dock on the lakeshore. Her pad was in her lap and she idly sketched as she considered the astounding news that Thelma had imparted.

A million and a half dollars! A lot of money, she thought. No. Correction: a whole lot of money! More money in fact than Eliza Knight or anyone in her family had ever made, or even seen at one time in their entire lives. Combined.

One and a half million dollars for a letter, Eliza marveled, the letter that was now tucked into a pocket of the portfolio she’d casually left lying on the blanket chest in the Rose Bedroom.

Looking down at the sketch she’d been making she studied Fitz Darcy’s sea green eyes. His eyes told her everything and nothing at the same time and she hoped by looking into the competent image she had crafted of him she might divine what she was to do next.

He had offered to buy the unopened letter from her at whatever price she named. But would he pay one and a half million dollars? Would Jane’s last letter really mean that much to him? And if it did…If Fitzwilliam Darcy was willing to pay that much, what did that say about the depth of his attachment to a woman who had been dead for two centuries? More importantly, she wondered, what would it say about his feelings for a slightly addled Manhattan artist?

Putting aside her sketch pad, Eliza closed her eyes and tried to drive away the haunting image of Darcy’s face and the faraway, almost reverential quality of his voice as he had related to her the details of his journey into that other time, and of his romantic encounter with Jane Austen.

She opened her eyes and saw a small gray bird sitting on a wooden post beside her. The bird cocked its head to one side and trained a bright eye on her, as though anxiously awaiting her thoughts on the matter of Darcy.

Ignoring the inquisitive creature, Eliza again closed her eyes and was rewarded with a quick mental flash of Jerry encouraging her to be rational for a change, reminding her to think of her personal financial situation, her taxes…her own self-interest.

She opened her eyes to find the bird still regarding her. Eliza suddenly laughed aloud at the absolute absurdity of her predicament. The bird chirped and fluffed its wings as the sound of her laughter rolled across the still surface of the lake, echoing back to mock her for her silliness.

Because Eliza knew that Darcy wouldn’t fall in love with her, couldn’t love her, not any more than he loved or could have loved the beautiful but supremely irritating and neurotic Faith Harrington.

Maybe, Eliza miserably reflected, she might have had a chance with him if she hadn’t started their relationship by being so deliberately horrible on the Internet—an offense she since had compounded, first by deceit, when she had bluffed her way through the gates of Pemberley Farms, then by ridiculing Darcy’s first halting attempts to explain to her why he had to have her letters.

“He can’t fall in love with me because I have given him nothing to love,” she told the little gray bird, which cocked its head to the other side and appeared to be intensely interested in what she was saying. “And even if I had shown myself to be kind or understanding,” Eliza told the bird, “I doubt that it would have made any difference. Because Fitzwilliam Darcy is in love with Jane Austen, and he’ll probably always be in love with her.

“Let’s face it,” she told her small listener, “I don’t stand a chance with my Mr. Darcy.”

She scoffed at herself because of course he was still Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy and if he wanted her letter so badly there was nothing to stop him from going to the Sotheby’s auction and bidding for it, just like any other love-struck millionaire.

“Besides,” she rationalized bitterly, “even if he doesn’t buy the letter it’s not like the contents are going to stay a secret for very long. Ten minutes after the bidding ends, it will be opened and the whole world will know what it says anyway…maybe.”

Obviously dissatisfied with Eliza’s reasoning—reasoning that Jerry with his accountant’s soul would not have been able to fault—the small bird angrily chirped at her and then flew away into the trees.

Feeling a sudden chill Eliza hastily gathered up her sketch pad and started back toward the house, which in the deepening twilight was beginning to come alive with the glow of candles. As she walked she briefly considered packing up her things and leaving Pemberley Farms immediately. In the frenzy of activity surrounding the opening of the Rose Ball, her departure was hardly likely to be noticed.

It was the coward’s way. The easy out. But it would be quick and painless, for her at least.

But in her heart Eliza knew that she didn’t have the capacity to be that cruel. Darcy had bared his soul to her, trusted in her wit and imagination to listen and, against all odds and logic, to ultimately believe in his mad, impossible tale.

The very least she could do in return was to face him and inform him of her decision.

Returning to the candlelit house Eliza slipped past the busy main rooms and made it back to the eerily dark second floor without seeing anyone she knew. When she was safe inside the Rose Bedroom she closed the door behind her and leaned heavily against it with the sinking realization that she had deliberately sneaked upstairs hoping to avoid Darcy.

Facing him was not going to be as easy as she had thought, and again she considered simply packing her things and leaving. It would be simple enough for her to hitch a ride down to the gates in one of the empty carriages that were constantly shuttling back and forth to pick up and deliver arriving guests.

Eliza stood by the door for a minute, thinking it over, forming a clear image of Darcy in her mind.

“No!” she said resolutely. “I will not run from this good and decent man. I will go to his damned ball and I will tell him face-to-face that he can’t have my letters. I’m awfully sorry but Jane Austen is his problem, not mine, and he will just have to deal with it.”

Her resolve set, Eliza walked to the wardrobe where the green Regency gown that Jenny had helped her choose for the evening had been hanging on the outside of the door.

To her surprise, the emerald gown was not there. She opened the tall wardrobe and looked inside. But, except for the few pairs of jeans and shirts she had brought with her, the wardrobe was empty.

Frowning, Eliza looked around the room. That was when she saw another gown lying across the bed, a flowing, lowcut gown of rose-colored silk so close to the shade of the satin bed coverlet that she had not noticed it before.