We’re going home! It’s hard to believe a whole year has flown by. So much has happened. Most of it was very, very good, like my father getting his book published, and just about everything here in England besides Stinkerbelle, and Jess rescuing Lydia the fox, and me getting my story published. Some of it wasn’t so good, though, especially this misunderstanding with Stewart, and of course Mrs. Bergson’s death.
I still really miss her. She wrote me faithfully every week from Concord, and sent me pictures of Pip and told me about funny things that happened around town and at the rink. Her letters were fabulous. I’ve kept them all, and I reread them often. Somehow, I expected them to keep coming after she died, but of course they didn’t. Her passing left a hole in my life and my heart that I can’t imagine anyone else filling.
Even though Mrs. Bergson is gone, it’s still going to be good to be back home in Concord. England has been amazing, but I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed again, and to be reunited with Melville and Pip. My father finally caved and said that Pip can come live with us. Melville will just have to get used to the idea.
But I’m not ready to think about home quite yet. I just want to enjoy my last day in England.
“Are the Berkeleys staying here at the inn too?” asks Megan as we pull into the parking lot. She’s trying to sound casual, but I know how eager she is to see Simon again.
My mother shakes her head. “No, they’re coming directly from Bath to the ball.” She glances at her watch. “Speaking of which, we need to leave for Chawton House in about three hours. Shall we rendezvous down in the lobby at six? That should give everyone time for naps, showers, last-minute wardrobe adjustments, and what-have-you.”
We find our rooms—Jess and I are in one together, and Cassidy and Megan and Becca are right next to us, with an adjoining door—and get settled. The inn serves tea and cookies, so Cassidy and I go downstairs and bring up a tray for everybody. We talk for a while, and then it’s time to get ready.
“You girls look absolutely adorable,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, poking her head into Cassidy and Megan and Becca’s room where we’re all gathered to help one another with zippers and hair and makeup.
“Gee, thanks, Mom,” says Cassidy, who is watching us from an armchair across the room.
Our mothers all crowd in behind Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid. They look great in their gowns too, and I can tell they’re as excited as we are because they’re all chattering away and taking pictures.
“Remember that first year of book club, when we had the Little Women Christmas party and everybody got dressed up as their favorite characters?” says Mrs. Wong.
“And remember how all of you came as Marmee?” I remind them, which gets everybody laughing.
“Check this out,” says Megan, twitching up the hem of Cassidy’s dress to reveal her sneaker-clad feet. “She did the same thing when she dressed up as Jo March. Some things never change.”
“Cassidy Anne!” cries her mother.
“Hey!” Cassidy protests. “They do too change!” She turns her head back and forth, showing off her silver hockey stick earrings.
Gigi enters carrying an armload of lacy somethings, which she proceeds to pass out.
“Mother! This is beautiful,” says Mrs. Wong, holding hers up. It’s a lace shawl.
“I got one for each of you at a gift shop back in Bath,” says Gigi. “A true lady would never attend a ball without one.”
“You sound like Fashionista Jane,” says Megan.
“I miss Fashionista Jane,” says Gigi.
“Mother,” warns Mrs. Wong.
Gigi shrugs. “I’m just saying.”
As we leave the room, I grab something from my suitcase and wrap it discreetly in my shawl, then follow my friends and their mothers downstairs.
Our fathers and brothers are waiting for us in the lobby. My eyes are drawn instantly to Stewart. As I suspected, the dark jacket and white high-necked shirt look very dramatic on him. Our eyes meet briefly, and I think I see a flicker of admiration on his face, but then we both look away, embarrassed. I try not to let this dampen my spirits, but it’s hard. I miss him terribly.
“Mrs. Bergson has one final surprise for us,” my mother announces, once we’re all gathered. “Ladies and gentlemen, your coaches await!”
My father opens the inn’s big double doors to reveal three horse-drawn carriages standing on the gravel drive.
A collective gasp goes up, and the other guests go scurrying for their cameras. I guess it’s not often that a whole group of people magically appear in the hotel you’re staying at looking like they just stepped out of the pages of Pride and Prejudice. Add carriages ready to whisk them away to a ball, and it’s an instant photo opportunity.
Cassidy and Jess and Megan and Becca and I all climb into the first one. Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid passes Chloe up to her big sister. “Let her ride with you, honey,” she says. Chloe is dressed all in white, and seems to be enjoying herself just as much as the rest of us are.
“Horsie!” she squeals, bouncing up and down in Cassidy’s lap.
“Oof,” says Cassidy. “Careful, monkey face.”
“Cassidy Ann!”
Cassidy grins sheepishly. “Sorry, Mom.”
“What a picture you two make,” Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid continues. “Stanley? Are you getting this?”
Behind her, Stanley nods, not looking up from his video camera. “Say ‘monkey face,’ girls.”
“MONKEY FACE!” We all chorus gleefully.
Cassidy’s mother throws up her hands in surrender. “I give up.”
As we clip-clop through the streets of Chawton, I try to engrave every second on my memory. Like my first kiss from Stewart—who’s in the carriage behind us, with his mother and Darcy and my parents—this is a moment I don’t ever want to forget. It’s going in my permanent memory book.
“I feel like Cinderella right now,” says Becca dreamily.
“It’s like riding in your sleigh, Jess,” says Megan.
Jess shakes her head. “No,” she says. “This is much, much better.”
It’s an absolutely perfect summer night, warm but not hot, with a whisper of a breeze. As we turn onto the long gravel drive that leads up a gentle rise to Chawton House, the Elizabethan manor where Jane Austen’s brother Edward once lived, it’s not difficult to imagine that we’ve stepped back two centuries. The slow clop-clop of the horses hooves; the crunch of gravel under the wheels; the flickering torches that light our way past the stables and the old stone church where Cassandra Austen and her mother are buried, all add to the mood. And when we finally round the corner of the circular drive, light spills from the big stone house’s casement windows, and the faint strains of music can be heard coming from a white marquee on the lawn beside it. I whoosh out my breath. It’s magical.
“Want a piece of gum?” asks Cassidy, holding out a pack and completely shattering the mood.
I have to laugh because there’s no point getting annoyed. Megan is right about Cassidy—some things never change.
But on the other hand, I think, spotting Tristan Berkeley waiting for us, maybe sometimes they do.
Like Stewart and, I have to admit, my own brother, Tristan looks incredibly handsome. It’s as if he was born to wear Regency gentleman’s clothing. As Cassidy passes Chloe to me and gathers up her skirts, preparing to leap over the door of the carriage to the ground, Tristan holds out a gloved hand. She hesitates for a long moment, looking at him from beneath her bangs, then releases her gown and takes his hand, allowing him to open the carriage door and guide her down its steps. Tristan tucks her hand in the crook of his elbow and leads her inside. As she passes through the doorway, she throws a glance back over her shoulder at the rest of us as if to say, “Sorry, guys.” We just sit and stare.
“Would you look at that,” says her mother, taking Chloe from me. “Sneakers and all. Life is never dull with that daughter of mine around.”
“You can say that again,” says Stanley Kinkaid.
>
The two of them follow Cassidy into the house, and then it’s my mother and father’s turn. Mrs. Chadwick is next. She takes Stewart’s arm, and my heart gives a twinge as he escorts her inside without so much as a backward glance at me. I’m going to have to get over my feelings for him eventually, but right now it’s still really hard.
My brother helps Gigi and Mrs. Wong out of the carriage, then extends his hand to Jess.
“Wait a minute! Are they—” says Becca, staring at their clasped hands as they follow Megan’s mom and grandmother inside.
I nod. “Uh-huh.”
For once, Becca is speechless.
“There you are!” says Simon Berkeley, smiling at Megan. Megan happily takes his offered arm, and the two of them disappear inside as well, chattering away.
“Well, girls, I guess that leaves just us,” says Mrs. Delaney, holding out one elbow to Becca and another to me. She grins. “’We’re off to see the wizard!’ Oops, wrong time period.”
“We’re off to see Mr. Darcy,” says Becca.
The entrance hall to Chawton House is imposing, with dark, wood-paneled walls and a high ceiling. Staff dressed as footmen usher us into the Great Hall, where our hosts for the evening, two actors dressed up as Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and Mrs. Elizabeth Bennet Darcy, greet us politely.
“Welcome to Chawton House,” says the fake Mr. Darcy. “Or, just for this one special evening, my own humble abode, Pemberley.”
A ripple of laughter goes through the crowd. I lean over and whisper to my mother, “Did Jane really base Pemberley on this house?”
She shakes her head. “No. But some scholars think it might have been the model for Donwell Abbey, Mr. Knightley’s estate in Emma.”
There are about a hundred people milling around. I spot Annabelle Fairfax on a sofa in the far corner of the room between two elderly ladies. Her leg is propped up on a footstool, and there’s a big white bandage wrapped around her ankle. I flutter my fingers at her and she quickly looks away.
“A light collation will be served shortly,” says our hostess. “You’ll find the food, as well as music and dancing, under the marquee on the lawn. Meanwhile, please feel free to join one of our guided tours inside if you’d like, or simply enjoy the pleasure of your fellow guests.”
She curtsies to us, and Mr. Darcy bows. We all clap politely.
“Emma!” I turn around. It’s Jess. She points to one of the windows. Rupert Loomis is leaning against it, or rather drooping like a wet sock. “You didn’t tell me Eeyore was going to be here.”
“I didn’t know he would be!” I look around frantically for Stewart. This is my chance. It’s now or never. “Jess, you’re my best friend in the entire world, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’ve got to do something for me, then. Go find Stewart and introduce him to Rupert.”
“I was about to go dance with your brother,” she says, then smiles at me. “But he’ll just have to wait. BFBB, right? Tell Darcy I’m on an errand of mercy if he comes looking for me.”
She melts into the crowd and I stand there, waiting. Inside my white gloves, my palms start to sweat.
“Aren’t you going to get something to eat?” asks my father, who’s been talking with Rupert’s great-aunt and the fake Mr. Darcy.
“In a minute,” I tell him. I don’t want to move until I see what happens with Stewart.
Cassidy and Tristan walk by. Her hand is still tucked under his arm, and they’re laughing about something. Annabelle sees them too, and looks like she wishes the floor would open up and swallow Cassidy. I smother a grin. Chalk one up for big, bad Cassidy Sloane.
Jess reappears, towing Stewart. I hold my breath as she takes him over to Rupert, who is busy scratching himself. I can’t hear their conversation, of course, but it’s brief. Rupert gives one of his stiff little half-bows and launches into what I assume is a windy greeting, tugging at a giant earlobe. Stewart stands there looking stunned until he’s finished, then turns and walks straight across the room to me.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. I can read his face like a book.
“Told you so,” I say smugly.
He grabs my hand and pulls me out of the room, down the hall, and into another big room with a stone fireplace. This one is empty, though, except for the portraits of elegant ladies lining the walls. Shutting the door firmly behind us, he pulls me close and kisses me.
It’s another one for the memory book.
“Just for the record, you’re a much better kisser than Rupert Loomis,” I tell him when we come up for air.
He grins. “That’s a relief. Listen, I’m really, really sorry, Emma. I was a jerk.”
“Yup,” I reply. “A big one. But I forgive you.”
He glances around the room at the portraits. “Who are all these people?”
“Famous women writers,” I tell him. “The library here specializes in books written by women between 1600 and 1830.”
With Stewart, I never need to worry about him thinking I’m a show-off. Besides, we both love literary trivia.
“Cool,” he says.
“Hey, can I show you something?”
“Sure.”
I unwrap the Knightley-Martin Literary Anthology from my shawl and hand it to him. “Check out page thirty-two.”
He flips to my story and starts to laugh the second he spots the title. He sinks down into a nearby armchair and reads the whole story straight through, laughing the entire time.
“Emma, this is fantastic! It’s funny and clever and I love the way it ends, with Stinkerbelle and her little fairy posse’s spell boomeranging and turning them all into toads.”
“You really like it? You’re not just saying that?”
He nods. “It’s really, really good. And I’m really, really proud of you.” And to prove it, he jumps up and kisses me again.
“I need you to help me with something,” I tell him when we finish.
He laughs when he hears my plan, then gives a mock Rupert-like bow. “At your service, milady.”
Hand in hand we return to the Great Hall. Annabelle hasn’t moved from her perch on the sofa. I guess when you have a sprained ankle, you aren’t going anywhere fast.
“Hi, Annabelle!” I say brightly. “You met my boyfriend, Stewart Chadwick, back in Concord, I think. And he was at the ice dancing competition, when you, well, you know.”
She glares at us. “What do you want?”
“I just wanted to see if you needed assistance going out to the tent,” says Stewart politely.
Annabelle perks up at this.
“I’ll get your things,” I tell her, picking up the tote bag with her sweater and left sneaker in it.
Stewart helps her up from the sofa and puts an arm around her waist as she hobbles out of the room, leaning on him. I trail behind them, and as Stewart glances back at me over his shoulder, I hold up the copy of the literary anthology, then slip it into her bag and smile. That should give her a little something to think about when she finds it later.
The marquee—a big white tent similar to the one Mrs. Chadwick scrounged for us back in seventh grade, when we put on a fashion show—is breathtaking. The sides have been rolled up and are open to the surrounding gardens and lawn, where a parquet wood dance floor has been set up. Inside, round tables covered in white cloths are scattered about, some with chairs around them for seating, others bearing platters of delicious-looking finger food—strawberries dipped in chocolate, deviled eggs, little sandwiches, and all sorts of cheeses and things. The tent’s central pillar is twined with fresh flowers, and there are flower arrangements on each of the tables. At the far end, a beautifully decorated cake is on display, and I notice Jess and her mother examining the workmanship.
Stewart and I get Annabelle settled at one of the tables, then offer to bring her some food and punch. I figure it’s the least we can do for poor Stinkerbelle. She’s in for quite a shock when she reads my story. I make sure and pop a couple o
f little tarts onto her plate and add a dollop of whipped cream to each one.
“Not the kind of cream that you like best, but it will have to do,” I tell her as I hand her the plate.
She gives me a poisonous smile.
The dancing is about to start, so Stewart and I grab a quick bite ourselves and then head out onto the dance floor. An instructor is lining everybody up to teach us the cotillion and quadrille. It’s a teeny bit like square dancing, only without a caller or fiddler. It’s fun, especially being outside like this, with the candles and the music and the torches.
“I keep wanting to pinch myself,” whispers Jess, who is dancing next to me with Darcy. My brother Darcy, not the fake actor Mr. Darcy.
“I know,” I whisper back.
After we’ve danced two or three sets, Rupert materializes. “Might I have the pleasure?” he asks me. “If you don’t mind, that is,” he adds, bowing to Stewart.
“Don’t mind at all,” says Stewart, cheerfully handing me over and ignoring the black looks I’m shooting in his direction.
One thing about these old-fashioned dances is that there’s the opportunity to talk to your partner while you’re out there on the floor.
The music starts and we raise our hands and touch our gloved palms together. “I hope you have a good trip home,” says Rupert stiffly.
“Thank you,” I reply. We retreat and advance, retreat and advance, then do a little do-si-do-like move around the person to our left. Rupert looks so entirely pathetic, lumbering in every direction but the right one, that I suddenly feel a rush of pity. “You know,” I tell him, when the dance brings us together again, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I think Lucy Woodhouse likes you.”
“Lucy?” Rupert’s deep baritone swoops up to a squeak.
I nod. We dance away in separate directions, Rupert stumbling over his feet but managing to catch himself before he crashes into Gigi, who’s dancing with Mr. Kinkaid.
“Do you really think so?” he asks as we touch palms again and rotate in a circle. His normal pallid color has been replaced by a deep brick red.