Read Online Murder Most Austen by Tracy Kiely - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tracy Kiely
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to bring it up or change my mind. “Nothing. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I hung up and stared blankly at my phone. What was the matter with me? I was a reasonably intelligent adult. Why couldn’t I figure out what I wanted with Peter? He was perfect—at least he was perfect to me. Although I had disliked him when we were little, mainly because I had misinterpreted his adolescent teasing as evidence of a cruel nature, that was all long ago and long forgotten. Okay, mostly forgotten. Peter was intelligent, kind, and funny. At six feet, with brown hair and brown eyes, he was also very handsome, which, as we Janeites know, a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can.
So just what the hell was my problem?
I decided not to try to analyze that right now and instead pulled out the itinerary for the week. After tomorrow’s promenade and ball, the festival offered various sessions for attendees. There were walking tours, dance workshops, fencing lessons (for fans of Colin Firth’s portrayal of a frustrated Darcy), plays, and numerous lectures. Several of the more popular sessions such as “Dueling Mr. Darcy,” “Dressing Mr. Darcy,” and “A Regency Wedding” were offered daily. I was reading the write-ups on these when another couple entered the lounge.
I gauged them to be about my age. The woman wore a long-sleeved, high-necked dress that appeared to be constructed entirely of black doilies. She was petite and very pale, with almost colorless blond hair that hung in tight ringlets about her long, narrow face. Honestly, if I didn’t know such things didn’t exist, I would have pegged her as one of the living dead. Her companion, too, had blond hair and pale skin, but his look was more waspish than deadish. His outfit, a blue blazer and crisp jeans, was also less funereal than hers. His expression, however, was similarly disconsolate. After hearing a few minutes of their conversation, I understood why.
“Ian,” said the woman, her nasal twang turning the one-syllable word into three, “it’s not that difficult. Just do as I say and ask him. It’s very simple. We need the money. He has the money. It’s your right to have some of it. He’s family, for goodness’ sake!” She paused to study the silver tray laden with complimentary goodies for afternoon tea. There was an assortment of small cookies, some powdered, some jam filled, and some sugar encrusted, in addition to a variety of grapes, figs, and nuts. Next to the tray was another, this one holding a squat blue teapot and an intricately cut crystal decanter.
“What is this?” the woman asked, lifting the stopper of the decanter and lowering her hooked nose close for a suspicious sniff. “Sherry? Yuck. And I suppose this is tea,” she grumbled, indicating the porcelain teapot. Lifting the lid, she peered inside, her pale blue eye doubtful. “Just as I suspected,” she pronounced with a kind of proud resignation. “Tea. Why can’t they ever have coffee at these places?”
“Well, it is called tea—” began Ian, but Ms. Living Dead cut him off.
“I know that, Ian. I’m not stupid. But it’s not 1772, is it? Haven’t they heard of Starbucks? No wonder they aren’t a superpower anymore. They are hopelessly stuck in the past.”
“Well, some might say—” began Ian, but again he was not allowed to finish.
“Where was I? Oh, yes. I want you to promise me that you will talk to him,” she said, settling on the damask-covered love seat in the far corner of the room and arranging her skirt. “If you don’t, then he is going to spend it all on her, and that can’t happen. She has no need for the money, whereas you do! You can put it to good use. What is she going to do with it? She’s only one person, her expenses are nothing, where you have a family. What about little Zee? Have you considered his future? Honestly, it’s no contest.”
“You have a point,” the hapless Ian agreed.
“Of course I have a point! And
“I love you, too.”
I hung up and stared blankly at my phone. What was the matter with me? I was a reasonably intelligent adult. Why couldn’t I figure out what I wanted with Peter? He was perfect—at least he was perfect to me. Although I had disliked him when we were little, mainly because I had misinterpreted his adolescent teasing as evidence of a cruel nature, that was all long ago and long forgotten. Okay, mostly forgotten. Peter was intelligent, kind, and funny. At six feet, with brown hair and brown eyes, he was also very handsome, which, as we Janeites know, a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can.
So just what the hell was my problem?
I decided not to try to analyze that right now and instead pulled out the itinerary for the week. After tomorrow’s promenade and ball, the festival offered various sessions for attendees. There were walking tours, dance workshops, fencing lessons (for fans of Colin Firth’s portrayal of a frustrated Darcy), plays, and numerous lectures. Several of the more popular sessions such as “Dueling Mr. Darcy,” “Dressing Mr. Darcy,” and “A Regency Wedding” were offered daily. I was reading the write-ups on these when another couple entered the lounge.
I gauged them to be about my age. The woman wore a long-sleeved, high-necked dress that appeared to be constructed entirely of black doilies. She was petite and very pale, with almost colorless blond hair that hung in tight ringlets about her long, narrow face. Honestly, if I didn’t know such things didn’t exist, I would have pegged her as one of the living dead. Her companion, too, had blond hair and pale skin, but his look was more waspish than deadish. His outfit, a blue blazer and crisp jeans, was also less funereal than hers. His expression, however, was similarly disconsolate. After hearing a few minutes of their conversation, I understood why.
“Ian,” said the woman, her nasal twang turning the one-syllable word into three, “it’s not that difficult. Just do as I say and ask him. It’s very simple. We need the money. He has the money. It’s your right to have some of it. He’s family, for goodness’ sake!” She paused to study the silver tray laden with complimentary goodies for afternoon tea. There was an assortment of small cookies, some powdered, some jam filled, and some sugar encrusted, in addition to a variety of grapes, figs, and nuts. Next to the tray was another, this one holding a squat blue teapot and an intricately cut crystal decanter.
“What is this?” the woman asked, lifting the stopper of the decanter and lowering her hooked nose close for a suspicious sniff. “Sherry? Yuck. And I suppose this is tea,” she grumbled, indicating the porcelain teapot. Lifting the lid, she peered inside, her pale blue eye doubtful. “Just as I suspected,” she pronounced with a kind of proud resignation. “Tea. Why can’t they ever have coffee at these places?”
“Well, it is called tea—” began Ian, but Ms. Living Dead cut him off.
“I know that, Ian. I’m not stupid. But it’s not 1772, is it? Haven’t they heard of Starbucks? No wonder they aren’t a superpower anymore. They are hopelessly stuck in the past.”
“Well, some might say—” began Ian, but again he was not allowed to finish.
“Where was I? Oh, yes. I want you to promise me that you will talk to him,” she said, settling on the damask-covered love seat in the far corner of the room and arranging her skirt. “If you don’t, then he is going to spend it all on her, and that can’t happen. She has no need for the money, whereas you do! You can put it to good use. What is she going to do with it? She’s only one person, her expenses are nothing, where you have a family. What about little Zee? Have you considered his future? Honestly, it’s no contest.”
“You have a point,” the hapless Ian agreed.
“Of course I have a point! And
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