What Would Jane Austen Do?

Chapter One

“What do you mean, no reservation?” Eleanor fought to keep her tone pleasant despite physical and emotional exhaustion. “Please look again. P-O-T-T-I-N-G-E-R.”

“Noooo,” the little gray-haired woman said as she watched the names scroll across her computer screen. Her plastic name tag identified her as the manager, Mrs. Ruth Simms. She turned and peered over the counter. “I’m so sorry. The Jane Austen Society is holding a conference here, and it’s Regency Week. We have no vacancies.” She frowned. “Why does your name sound familiar?”

“I have a confirmation letter,” Eleanor said. She stooped to dig in her carryon for the piece of paper.

“Now I remember,” the woman said, her birdlike voice floating over Eleanor’s head. “We received several boxes marked: Hold for E. Pottinger.”

“The costumes for my fashion seminar on Friday,” Eleanor explained without stopping her search. Thankful the shipment had arrived on time, she mentally crossed one item off her list of things to worry about.

“I’ll have Harry fetch your boxes.”

“Got it!” Eleanor stood with the prized confirmation letter held high.

Unfortunately, the shutters had been drawn across the opening of the registration counter. She looked around for a bell or buzzer and noted the changes made since her last visit two years earlier. The service counter was newly built into the doorway that had previously led to a cozy room once known as the ladies’ parlor.

The impressive entrance hall with its sweeping staircase, marble floor, and carved paneling looked a bit … well, less elegant than she remembered. A modern fixture replaced the original crystal chandelier, and the suit of armor standing guard near the front door could use a good polish. To the left of the entrance, double doors led to the main parlor where a number of guests milled around, most in Regency dress, all with those silly stick-on name tags.

A wave of exhaustion swept over Eleanor. She desperately needed sleep after fifteen hours of travel. She knocked on the shutter. A few moments later, she knocked again.

A young woman, much tattooed and pierced, opened one shutter and responded. “Gram has gone to fetch Harry. You might as well have a seat.” She gestured toward a wooden bench that looked like it had once been a church pew. “It’ll be a while. He’s out having a smoke.” She sucked air between her thumb and forefinger, indicating more than a plain cigarette. “Either that or he’s fiddling with that old motorcycle some guy left here instead of paying his bill. Either way, Gram won’t find him anytime soon, especially if he hears her coming.”

“I have my reservation confirmation.”

The girl took the paper with the same enthusiasm she might accept a traffic ticket. She tapped on the computer keyboard and looked in an old-fashioned ledger. “It says you cancelled your reservation. The bridal suite?” She looked up, obviously curious.

Eleanor was not about to share with a stranger that her fiancé had dumped her for a tall, bosomy blonde talent agent who’d promised to make him a movie star.

“Bummer,” the girl said.

Yeah, it had been. But once the rose-colored blinders had been removed, Eleanor had realized Jason wasn’t the man she’d thought he was. Painful as it had been, she’d emerged a stronger person and focused on her career. Since the plane reservations for the honeymoon in England were nonrefundable, she’d turned it into a business opportunity. And a chance to find out more about the necklace.

“As you will note on the confirmation letter, I changed the reservation from a double room to a single room six months ago.”

“Here’s something. Uh-oh. Gram’s not going to like this.”

“What? Did you find it?”

“She put you in the book, but forgot to enter you into the computer. Your reserved room is currently occupied by a Colonel Artemis Hoover. Uh … this is not good.”

Eleanor had a sinking feeling in her stomach. What could be worse than Colonel Artemis Hoover in her room?

“Gram is going to kill me,” the girl muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Not that it matters to you, but that’s my writing in the book. And it’s not my first f-up. Gram threatened to send me back to Pittsburgh if I wasn’t more careful.”

“I’m sorry,” Eleanor said for lack of anything else.

“You would be if you had to live with Mr. and Mrs. Clean-Cut Doctor. No problem. I can fix this. I’ll find you a room at one of the other inns.” She twirled the one long lock of purple hair that sprang from her orange spikes as data scrolled across the computer screen. “Nada. Zilch. Not an empty room anywhere. Well, I’m not going back,” she said under her breath before she plopped a big old-fashioned key on the counter. “Are you afraid of ghosts?”

“What?”

“Are you afraid of ghosts?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts. Why do you ask?”

“We don’t usually let the tower suite unless someone specifically asks for it. It’s haunted.”

Eleanor weighed her need for sleep against the possibility of sharing a room with Casper.

“It’s the answer to both of our problems,” the girl said, her voice a mixture of desperation and hope. “If you tell Gram you wanted the tower suite all along, I’m off the hook and you get a place to stay. Win-win.”

Eleanor had a sneaky feeling she’d gotten the short half of the candy bar. Before her sluggish brain could kick into gear, she’d signed the register, explained the airline would deliver her lost luggage as soon as it was located in Frankfurt or Vienna, and followed the girl up the stairs. “Uh, Miss …”

“Karen Simms. But you can call me Spike.” She touched her stiff hair. “My mother hates it,” she added with a self-satisfied grin. She pulled a cell phone from one of her many pockets. “I’ll text Harry to bring up your boxes.” A few lightning-quick taps later, she clicked it shut. “All set.”

“About this tower suite—”

“You’re gonna love it. You’re a history buff, right? I mean, I assume you are because you’re here for the conference. Well, this suite has been completely restored. Two bedrooms and a sitting room overlook the south lawn. Which, by the way, I gave you for the single room price at the conference discount.”

“But if no one ever stays in it—”

“No problem. We keep it pristine clean so the ghosts don’t get upset. At least that’s what Gram always says.”

“About those ghosts—”

“Deirdre Cracklebury and her younger sister Mina. They were born in the manor house and lived here around the time of the Regency. I’m not real sure about exact dates, but you could check with Gram if you want to know the details. Everyone here just calls them ‘the girls.’ Several of the staff, and a few guests, have claimed they encountered paranormal stuff like cold spots and misty apparitions in the hallway—you know, weird junk like that. I’ve never seen anything myself.”

Spike stepped aside to let two giggling women guests pass on the stairway. Eleanor’s first impression was that two delicate porcelain dolls had come to life, but her attention was quickly caught by their exquisite costumes: one in dark rose and the other in deep blue silk. She noted the intricate handwork on the gowns with envy and foreboding. If this was the quality of the competition, was she wasting her time and money starting her own costume business?

She could still go back to her old job at the movie studio. Were Spartan togas and mummy rags her only future? She almost turned to ask the women about their clothes, but she noticed Spike had taken a right turn at the top of the stairs and had gotten quite far ahead. She hurried to catch up.

“You’ve missed supper,” Spike said, trucking down the hall at a speed that made the chains on her oversized cutoff jeans jingle-jangle. “But if you’re hungry, I could get you a sandwich or something from the kitchen.”

“That’s not necessary. I’m fine.” She’d eaten a protein bar in the cab from the train station.

“The welcoming reception has already started. Costumes are optional, so if you don’t have time to change, that’s okay.”

Eleanor didn’t bother to look down at her rumpled brown travel pantsuit before shaking her head. “All I want is a hot shower and a bed.” Local time might be only seven-fifteen in the evening, but she’d had little sleep in the last twenty-four hours. Her eyes kept crossing from fatigue. She had to fight to refocus them.

“This suite has a bathing chamber with a huge old-fashioned claw-foot tub. No shower.” Spike paused at the end of the hall where it turned left into the south wing. She used another of the large old keys on a big ring to unlock the door tucked at an angle in the corner.

Eleanor entered an elegant sitting room decorated in shades of green and gold and filled with antique furniture. Across from the door a round area with eight windows was the obvious reason why it was called the tower suite.

Spike scooted in behind her. “This is the last room in the oldest portion of the house. The wings were added in the mid-1700s, giving the manor its U-shape. I’d recommend the bedroom on the left. Newer construction, so to speak. Plus it has the bathroom.”

“I think I stayed in the newer section last time I was here,” Eleanor said. Her room had been quite ordinary. Nothing like this.

She headed straight for the room on her left. Inside, a four-poster bed with pristine white linens tempted her to kick off her shoes and climb the three-step riser to sink into the feather mattress, travel-mussed clothes and all. Although there was lots of dark wood, the delicate blue and white touches kept the room from being overpoweringly depressing.

Spike walked past the bed to an armoire placed against the far wall. “The en-suite was added decades ago, probably when indoor plumbing was first invented, but it’s in good condition because it’s rarely been used. The entrance is a bit tricky. This armoire is really the door, and the handle is on the side. See? Just lift this rosette to release the latch.” She pulled the door to the bathroom open. Without missing a beat, she turned to her left. “And here’s the closet.” She slid open a section of paneling and then closed it.

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 stockings, 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.”

Eleanor shot her hand to her throat, but relaxed once she felt her amber cross still in place. She hadn’t told anyone about the necklace she’d inherited from her grandmother. If the family legend was true, it had belonged to Jane Austen, and Eleanor could sell it for enough money to put her business on solid footing. That is, if she could bear to part with it, a decision she hadn’t tackled just yet.

“Miss Jane Austen was not a close friend of ours due to our age differences,” Mina continued, “but we certainly were well acquainted. We attended many of the same functions, since she lived nearby. Just down the road. At Chawton Cottage.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Ah, I see you are familiar with her life. Are you a fan of her books? Would you like to meet her?”

Eleanor could see she wasn’t getting rid of this figment easily. Maybe if she went along with the dream, it would get to the inevitable conclusion of waking up. Then she could take a couple of antacids and get some rest. “Fine. Yes, I’d like to meet Jane Austen. Who wouldn’t? Are you going to make her ghost appear?”

“Don’t be silly. We are going to travel back in time to when we were alive, and you will meet her there.”

“But that’s impossible.”

Mina grinned. “Actually …”

Deirdre reappeared with a bright flash of rainbow-colored lights. “I heard what you said. I knew you had another crazy scheme stuck in your bonnet.”

“I know it will work this time,” Mina said with a pleading look at her sister.

“No, it won’t,” Eleanor interjected. “Time travel is a physical impossibility.”

Deirdre faced her with a raised eyebrow. “Have you never heard of Einstein’s theory?”

“Everyone has.”

“Then you know his theory that gravity affects time has been proven.”

“Yes, but—”

“And you know that gravity is simply another form of energy.”

“Yes, but—”

“Therefore, it logically follows that energy affects time.”

“We pool our energy,” Mina interjected in an excited voice, “and use it to create a powerful vortex that will take us all—”

“We can take you back in time, but we are not going to do it.” Deirdre turned to her sister and whispered, “Must I remind you of what happened last time? We only made matters worse, and that’s why our Teddy was killed.”

“Who’s Teddy?” Eleanor asked.

“Our dear brother,” the ghosts said in unison.

“And this time Eleanor here is going to save his life,” Mina continued. “It’s a perfect plan. We take her back. She prevents Shermont from seducing … us, thus preventing the necessity of Teddy defending our honor and hence dying in the duel.”

Deirdre shook her head. “It’ll never work.”

“Of course it will,” Mina argued. “We can help her with everything she needs to know.”

“There’s too much to learn. Dancing, proper address, conversation, deportment, and manners. We studied from the time we were little girls. She has no chance of success.”

“All she has to do is keep us out of Lord Shermont’s way,” Mina argued.

“We had a chaperone for that—to little avail.”

“Ha! Aunt Patience’s only concern was Teddy’s welfare. She couldn’t have cared less about us.”

“That’s not true.”

They volleyed reasons back and forth like tennis players until Eleanor put her hands over her ears. “Stop!” When the sisters looked at her with surprised expressions, she folded her hands in her lap. “Please stop arguing,” she said in a moderated tone. “My head is already pounding.”

“We were only—”

“Whatever,” Eleanor said. “The discussion is now over. Time travel is impossible. Therefore the question of whether I can do the job is moot. Now, I would like to wake up or go back to sleep—whatever it takes to end this dream and make the two of you go back to wherever you came from.” She stretched out on the bed and put the pillow over her head.

“But you did say you would like to meet Jane Austen?” Mina asked.

“Yes. Now, good-night.”

“And you agree to help us if we can introduce you to her?”

“If it means you’ll go away and let me get some sleep, I agree to whatever you want. I’ll fly to the moon. I’ll dance on a flying carpet of gold. I’ll—”

“Good. Deirdre and I will take care of everything.”

“No we won’t.”

“Listen to …”

And then there was silence.

After what seemed like several long minutes, Eleanor sat up and looked around. The room appeared normal and best of all empty. She let out a deep sigh of relief. “What a crazy dream,” she mumbled as she snuggled back under the covers.

She regretted it had just been a dream. Wouldn’t it have been cool if it had been true?

When she sat up once more to turn out the lamp, the room began to spin. Bolts of rainbow-colored electricity zoomed around the walls. The bed seemed to rise and float.

Eleanor was usually a woman who confronted her problems head on, but this was too weird, outside the realm of anything she’d experienced before. The spinning room made her dizzy. The flashing lights hurt her eyes with their laser intensity, and her head throbbed with what she could only describe as unheard sound. She dove under the pillow, covered her ears, and closed her eyes tightly.