Page 39 of The Austen Escape
I nodded and headed up the path. I knew he would and—more importantly—Isabel did too.
Chapter 14
Iwalked to the house alone and, rather than walk to the front, headed straight to the kitchen door I’d exited earlier.
The kitchen was a bustling enterprise. Two enameled stockpots sat on the Aga; a short elderly woman, who reminded me of my maternal grandmother, was putting away dishes; and Sonia stood at the counter cutting a selection of cheeses and meats. Six full platters lay before her.
“Is Isabel okay?”
“Yes. She is deep in character.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized I could leave it there. They didn’t know Isabel; there was no reason to expose her. “Is this lunch?”
“Cheese, cucumbers and other vegetables, and a variety of cold meats. We even have a lovely salad of boiled eggs. Our nineteenth-century version of egg mayonnaise. And a pudding for dessert.” Sonia wagged a finger to the Aga. “It’s in the blue pot.”
“There’s a brick on it.”
“Sticky toffee pudding is sealed in a tin inside, then submerged in boiling water. The brick keeps the top on.” Sonia poked her knife toward the door. “Head into the dining room. Everyone just came in. You haven’t seen them all yet.”
I entered the dining room and found everyone seated. Helene, sitting at the end of the table, flapped a hand at me. She was now dressed in beige with a red wool shawl pulled tight around her. It puddled in her lap.
I stalled, unsure where to sit.
“Come in, my dear. Have you been out with the young men? I met that handsome Grant at the stables.” Helene pointed her fork at an open chair to her left, then cast her gaze behind me. “Where is your pretty friend?”
“She is off with that handsome Grant from the stables. They went to meet his grandfather.”
“Oh, this is fun. He’ll have to join us for dancing. I hear he’s in the military.” Helene’s eyes lit. “Do you think he dances?”
“I have no idea.” As I walked to my seat, I noted everyone was halfway through a salad of greens and what looked like pears. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”
“Not at all. I’m Mr. Bingley from Netherfield Park. We missed each other at breakfast this morning.” Aaron popped up and pulled out my chair.
“I...” I felt myself heat. It was time. “I’m Catherine Morland from some small village, I can’t remember the name, but I’m happy to be here and sorry I missed breakfast. Emma and I went riding.”
Mr. Bingley sat again. “Capital. Miss Bennet”—he gestured to Sylvia—“assured me that a love of the outdoors was part of Mr. Bingley’s charm. Glad to hear you feel the same and have already been out and about this morning.”
“That was the movie, darling. In the book, it just says Bingley is an idle fellow who has more books than he’ll ever look into,” Sylvia called from across the table.
“I think I prefer the movie description. No one has ever called me idle.”
Sylvia laughed. “True.”
Sonia and Duncan passed around the platters while the table indulged in stories—all made up—of exploits on horses, duels with swords, or drawing room happenings that never happened.
By the sticky toffee pudding we were toasting our adventures, making up new ones, gossiping about the accomplishments of local young ladies, discussing the dangers of war with cannon fire, and sharing our hopes for the upcoming social season.
Isabel joined us as we finished dessert. She seemed flustered at first that she had missed the meal, but Sonia quickly seated her and brought a plate. Her face soon lost its pinched expression.
Watching her, I realized that no one would notice anything was different. She spoke with her slight British tones and inflections. She sat at the table with ease, as if in command of the room. She added to the conversation here and there and sat with a certain degree of formality. She was Emma.
Helene soon brought up dancing, and the advantages to having military men nearby. If Isabel caught that “Mrs. Jennings” was teasing her and planning a great romance, she didn’t let on.
“It’s very nice to have him stationed here. If offered, I don’t think an invitation to dine and dance would be rejected.”
Isabel enjoyed herself until the conversation turned to gossip again and Sylvia started making up names. Then her eyes widened and her face paled.
“Miss Thistlebum has thirty thousand a year, but her betrothed is a rake.”
Helene joined in. “Yes, but Miss Mopflop has an estate in Devonshire and her betrothed is a rattle. That’s far worse.”
