Laurie Brown - What Would Jane Austen Do?

In the hall, a faint feeling of unease niggled at the back of her brain and slowed her purposeful stride. Nothing seemed familiar. True, she’d been exhausted last night, but apparently she’d totally spaced out. The colorful Turkish rug beneath her feet was at odds with her vague memory of generic neutral carpeting. And a plethora of portraits and landscapes hanging on the walls replaced the tastefully framed photos of the manor’s architectural features that she remembered.

When she reached the landing halfway down the grand stairway, she came to a complete stop. She blinked. “Omigod,” she whispered.

Either a crew had renovated the entrance hall overnight, or she was in a different place. Gone was the shuttered monstrosity of a registration desk. A round table topped with a large Oriental vase of flowers sat directly below an ornate crystal chandelier. The tarnished suit of armor was gone. As Eleanor descended the last steps, a footman dressed in blue and gold livery and a white pony-tailed wig opened the ten-foot-tall double front doors and stood at attention to one side.

Eleanor was treated to a scene from a movie version of a Jane Austen novel. Two men dismounted their horses and handed the reins to a stableboy. In a classic macho moment, the taller one thumped the other on the back. She didn’t hear what was said, but male laughter rumbled ahead of them as they strode up the front steps. As they entered, the first man removed his tan leather gloves. His high stiff collar, snowy cravat, buff breeches, and knee-high Hessian boots were accurate in every detail, fitting his physique as if they had been glued on his body. His dark hair was casually windblown and a bit on the long side. He handed his high-crowned hat, gloves, and riding quirt to the footman with an air of entitled nonchalance not many men could pull off. His intense gaze drew her attention to his stormy gray eyes, but his frown caused her to quickly look away.

The other gentleman, also wearing an impeccable riding costume, had blond curls à la Byron, boyish good looks, and laughing blue eyes. Standing side by side, it appeared as if an angel and one of Satan’s own had declared a temporary truce. The angelic one noticed Eleanor standing on the stairway and said, “Ho, now, what have we here?”

A butler, who seemed to appear out of thin air, proffered a folded message on a silver salver and whispered something into the blond man’s ear.

“Thank you, Tuttle,” he said, dismissing the servant with a wave before stepping toward her. “My dear cousin, please allow me to welcome you. A bit belated, but no less sincere.”

She descended the stairs in a state of confusion. Did the festival have an official host? If so, they’d chosen well. He must be a politician or used car salesman in his real life. Unlike the taller dark-haired man who stood glowering, this man was open and friendly.

“I’m so pleased you are arrived in time for the house party,” the host said. Her puzzlement must have shown on her face. “Come now. I can’t have changed that much.” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “But maybe I have. I’m Lord Digby in case you haven’t guessed.” He made a low elegant bow, one leg forward. “But I insist you call me Teddy, as you did when we were children. After all, you are a member of our family.” He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to say something.

Eleanor tipped her head slightly to the side, trying to make the circumstances fit into a logical framework. Had some attendees of the festival assumed a persona like reenactors sometimes did? Nothing in the conference literature had mentioned role-playing. Maybe they had hired actors to play the residents of the manor who lived during the Regency.

“I’m overwhelmed,” she said. And that was the truth.

“My sisters will be pleasantly surprised you have finally arrived. We passed their carriage on the road, so Deirdre and Mina should be here shortly.” Digby turned and motioned his companion forward. “Lord Shermont, allow me to present my cousin from America—”

The rest of the introduction was lost to her. Shermont’s presence was the undeniable last straw. Eleanor could no longer rationalize everything that had seemed out of place. As she was descending the last stair, the unbelievable truth hit her mid-step.

Omigod. The ghosts had actually done it. She’d really traveled back in time.

The enormity of the realization caused the earth to drop from under her feet by at least two inches. Or so it seemed as she stumbled forward. Shermont steadied her by supporting her elbow. Even so, she nearly fell into his arms.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, regaining her balance and pulling free. She crossed her arms and surreptitiously rubbed her elbow, still tingling with the warmth of his touch.

“Meeting you is a … unique pleasure,” Shermont said with a wicked, teasing smile that sent her blood racing.

“Here now,” her erstwhile cousin said. “I’d heard of females throwing themselves at you, Shermont, but I never thought to witness it myself.”

“Mind your manners, Digby,” Shermont said in a low, just-short-of-threatening voice.

The younger blond man only laughed at the reprimand. “This is the Age of Sensibility, and man must follow his penchant. It is my nature to be too honest and forthcoming.”

“Also known as rudeness.”

Digby frowned. “If that comment had come from anyone other than you, Shermont, I might be obligated to defend my honor.”

Surely Regency men wouldn’t duel over such a silly reason. Eleanor felt she should say something, but she had no idea how to diffuse the situation she’d inadvertently caused. Quick, quick, what would Jane Austen do? The scene that came to mind was when Knightley criticized Emma after the picnic where she had treated Miss Bates so badly.

“Gentlemen, isn’t the essence of good manners to make sure no one is uncomfortable?” Eleanor asked.

Shermont quirked an eyebrow in recognition of her riposte.

She continued, refusing to acknowledge the heat his tacit approval ignited. “Please don’t compound my embarrassment by turning my clumsiness into an affaire d’honneur.”

Both men were immediately contrite, verbally stumbling over each other in attempts to absolve her of any responsibility and to assure her their sparring was only good-natured jibes between friends and of no consequence. The impromptu competition of flowery apologies was thankfully cut short by the arrival of Deirdre and Mina. The sisters looked exactly like their ghostly counterparts, only the live ones were more vibrant in coloring and manner—more … alive.

Lord Digby interrupted the girls’ enthusiastic greeting of Eleanor to present his sisters to Lord Shermont.

“Haven’t I had the pleasure previously? You both seem quite familiar,” Shermont said. He rubbed the spot where a faint one-inch scar marked his forehead.

“I don’t think so,” Deirdre said. She made a slight pout with her lips as if trying to remember.

“No doubt we would—”

“Highly unlikely that we have met,” Deirdre said, interrupting her excited sister. “Neither of us has been presented at court as yet, and therefore we have not been in attendance at any functions of London society.”

Mina rocked forward on her toes. “Our brother promised next spring we—”

“Perhaps you have been a guest at another country house in the area?” Teddy offered. “Perhaps last summer?”

“Unfortunately, my affairs usually keep me in London year-round,” Shermont said.

“Then I insist there will be no discussion of business this entire week.” As Teddy spoke the footman closed the front door. “Where is Uncle Huxley?” Teddy turned to his sister. “Didn’t you delay your homecoming so he could accompany you?”