My mother maneuvers nimbly through the city’s clogged streets—she and my dad are getting really good at driving on the left—and manages to snag us a parking spot not too far from Milsom Street. We poke around in the boutiques for a while, but Lucy’s right, everything’s really expensive. Eventually we give up and head for the mall, where I quickly find just the thing for a holiday ball.
“I wish Stewart could see this,” I say to the mirror in the dressing room. “It’s too good to waste on stupid old Rupert Loomis and his great-aunt.”
“What’s that?” my mother calls through the door.
“Nothing, Mom. It’s perfect.”
It takes us a while longer to find just the right dress for her, but she finally settles on a dramatic dark burgundy velvet gown with long sleeves and a deep V-neck. My mother has similar coloring to mine—brown eyes and hair, only hers is straight and mine is curly, like Dad’s and Darcy’s. The fabric’s color looks gorgeous on her.
“I don’t think I’ve worn a long dress since my prom,” she says. “Well, except for my wedding. But the invitation said black tie, so formal it is.”
Back at the car, she slides in behind the wheel and turns to me. “I thought we’d stop and get some Bath buns for book club tomorrow.”
“Sally Lunn’s?”
“You bet.”
Sally Lunn’s is the oldest bakery in Bath, and it’s located in one of the oldest houses in the city too. My mother manages to squeeze into a parking spot on the cobblestone street outside the narrow little four-story building.
“Hard to believe this shop has been around for over three hundred years,” she says, sniffing the air appreciatively as we step inside.
“Just as long as their stuff isn’t that old,” I joke, eying the wares in the glass case.
“Not a chance, luv,” says the round-faced woman behind the counter, laughing. “Everything’s gobbled up too quick around here to get stale.”
She boxes up our order, and my mother adds a container of their homemade cinnamon butter as well. I’m practically drooling by the time we get back in the car. Sally Lunn’s is the best.
We make one final stop on the way home, for some takeaway fish and chips. Takeaway is what they call takeout here in England, and this has become our regular Friday night treat, the way pizza was back in Concord. They have pizza here too, of course, but we’ve gotten kind of addicted to fish and chips.
Dad and Darcy have the kitchen table set by the time we get home, and my mother and I distribute the food onto the plates.
“Mmmm,” says my father, dousing everything with malt vinegar and digging in. “I just don’t understand why this tastes so much better over here.”
He’s right. I’ve had fish and chips plenty of times before back home, but over here it’s different. The batter on the fish is perfectly crispy, and inside, the fish is moist and hot. And the chips—French fries—are huge and delicious.
“Anything in here for us?” asks Darcy, snooping in the box from Sally Lunn’s. My mother swats him away.
“Book club treats,” she tells him, and he makes a face.
“You guys always hog the good stuff,” he complains.
“It’s for Jane’s birthday,” I explain.
Darcy looks mystified. “Jane who? Is there a new girl in your club?”
My mother and I both laugh.
“Duh,” I tell him. “Jane Austen, of course.”
“But these,” says my father, whipping a tray of small mincemeat hand pies out of the pantry cupboard, “are not for Jane. They’re for us.”
“All right, Dad!” crows Darcy, grabbing one.
“I thought we’d put the tree up tonight,” my father continues. “It’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas around here.”
My father always makes mincemeat hand pies on the night we decorate our tree.
While my mother and I build a fire in the living room fireplace, he and Darcy bring in the Christmas tree and wrestle it into the stand. All of our decorations are at home, of course, so my parents’ plan is to decorate it with Christmas cards instead. And, as we soon discover, homemade paper chains.
“Craft time!” announces my mother, passing out scissors and tape and construction paper.
“You’re kidding, right?” says Darcy.
She shakes her head and grins. “Where’s your holiday spirit?”
He sighs and picks up his scissors, but he’s smiling and so am I. It’s like being a kid again. The temperature has dropped outside, and the latticed windowpanes are rimed with frost. Mom puts some Christmas music on, and the four of us hum along to “Silver Bells” and “O Tannenbaum” and “Let It Snow” while we work on our paper chains. My father gets up after a while and wanders into his study, returning with a book in his hand.
“Look what I found,” he says, holding up The Wind in the Willows. “Remember ‘Dulce Domum’? That used to be your favorite chapter this time of year, Emma.”
He settles into one of the armchairs by the fire and starts to read aloud: “ ‘The sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles . . .’ ” I feel a shiver of delight as the story’s familiar words wash over me.
There’s something magical about being here in England, in this snug room, on this chilly winter night. It’s like being inside a fairy tale, or Mole End itself. I practically expect to hear Kenneth Grahame’s young field-mice caroling on our doorstep.
The following evening my mother and I bustle around getting ready for our videoconference. We hang a big sign that says, “Happy Birthday, Jane!” on the wall, and I set my mini-laptop on a table in front of our newly decorated Christmas tree so our friends can admire our handiwork.
It’s December sixteenth—Jane Austen’s birthday. And, as luck would have it, the only weekend afternoon in the entire month that Cassidy doesn’t have a hockey game.
My father’s holed up in his study again—he received the proofs of his novel, and has to do some final copyediting—and Darcy is off at a rugby match, which is going to disappoint Jess.
The appointed time finally rolls around, and the video call comes through and suddenly there they all are in Megan’s living room.
“Hey, you guys!” I call to my friends.
“Hey, Emma! Hey, Mrs. Hawthorne!” they call back, waving.
My mother suggests that we sing “Happy Birthday” to Jane Austen to kick off our meeting, which is totally lame but we do it anyway.
“Let’s start with Fun Facts this month,” she continues, and onscreen I see Mrs. Wong scurry to distribute the handouts.
FUN FACTS ABOUT JANE
1) Pride and Prejudice was originally titled First Impressions. Jane Austen wrote an early draft of it, along with two other of her novels, before she was twenty-five. She once referred to the manuscript as “my own darling child.”
2) The book was published in 1813 and met with instant success. It has been beloved by readers now for nearly two hundred years, and has been made into countless stage, audio, and film versions.
3) During most of her lifetime, Jane Austen’s books were published anonymously, with “By a Lady” on the title page. Her identity as an author came to light only after the publication of Mansfield Park in 1814, when her brother Henry began proudly dropping hints in public.
4) Jane loved the character of Elizabeth Bennet. She wrote in a letter to Cassandra: “I must confess that I think her as delightful a creature as ever appeared in print, and how I shall be able to tolerate those who do not like her at least, I do not know.”
5) Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy rank as one of literature’s greatest romantic couples.
“What are your favorite things about the book so far?” asks my mother.
“Mr. Collins,” Jess replies instantly. “He’s a nitwit.”
“Mooo,” I whisper to her, but my mother still manages to hear me. She pokes me in the ribs.
“Wait until you meet Lady Catherine,” says Mrs. Bergson. “She’s an even bigger nitwit.”<
br />
“I love the way no matter how many times I read the book, I’m always worried about how it’s going to turn out,” I admit. “I know it’s ridiculous, but it happens every single time. Jane Austen’s characters are just so real.”
Mrs. Delaney nods. “She always hooks me, too. I suppose that’s the sign of a good author.”
“I’m starving,” says Cassidy. “Can we eat first, then talk?”
“You’re always starving,” Becca tells her.
Cassidy flexes her arm. “Gotta keep my strength up.”
My mother smiles at the webcam. “Shall we put our collective kettles on?”
We’ve planned a birthday tea in honor of Jane today, and as I place the box from Sally Lunn’s on the table, I look to see what’s being served at the Wongs. There are several plates of treats, including Mrs. Delaney’s banana bread, and cupcakes and cookies as well.
“What are those things?” asks Cassidy, squinting at me onscreen.
“They’re called Bath buns.”
“Sounds like something you’d use in the shower,” she replies.
“You can if you want, but I’d rather eat them,” I tell her. “They’re really good. They’re a little sweet, but not sugary, and they’re perfect with clotted cream.”
“Ewwww,” says Cassidy.
“I know, it sounds gross, but it’s actually delicious.” My mother returns with the teapot and I demonstrate, slicing a bun in half and spreading the clotted cream on it. “It’s sort of halfway between butter and whipped cream.” I spoon up some strawberry jam and plop it on top, then take a bite. “It’s amazing.”
“My mouth is watering just watching you,” says Mrs. Chadwick, reaching for a cupcake.
“I know!” agrees Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid. “I think I need to do an episode about a traditional British cream tea.”
We start talking about Pride and Prejudice again.
“So why do you think Jane originally called it First Impressions?” my mother asks.
“Because in the story, everybody’s first impressions are wrong,” says Megan. “They make up their minds too quickly about each other.”
“They judge a book by its cover,” adds Becca.
“Exactly,” says my mother, giving me a significant look and mouthing the word Rupert.
“What’s that big card on your mantel?” asks Jess. “The one with the holly on it.”
“Oh, we’re invited to a Christmas party next weekend,” I tell her. “It’s kind of a big deal—they call it a fancy dress party, and we have to wear formal clothes and everything. It’s at Rupert Loomis’s great-aunt’s house.”
“Roooooopert!” my friends all moo on cue.
“Girls!” all the mothers chide right back.
I grin. It’s almost as good as being there with them in real life.
The following week speeds by in a flurry of Christmas shopping and holiday preparations. Before I know it, it’s Saturday again and time to get ready for the party.
“Hurry up, Darcy!” I call through the bathroom door, hopping from one foot to the other. The only problem with Ivy Cottage is that it has just one bathroom.
He flings the door open and strikes a pose. “How do I look?”
“Not bad,” I tell him. “Now get out of my way.”
In fact, Darcy looks great, but there’s no way I’m going to tell him that. He has a big enough head as it is. My father looks great too, I notice a few minutes later when we all gather downstairs. Very distinguished. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a tuxedo.
“Aren’t you two just visions of loveliness,” he says to my mother and me.
The burgundy dress really is perfect on my mother, and for once I don’t think I look half bad myself. My dress is a shimmery sort of violet fabric, not exactly something you think of for Christmas, but it’s gorgeous, and it matches my glasses. Plus I wanted to pick out something that I could wear again. Like maybe at senior prom next year, with Stewart Chadwick. If he invites me.
I’ve been growing my hair out—Mrs. Crandall, Jess’s housemother last year, has curly hair like mine, and she wears hers shoulder length, which gave me the idea. Mine’s not quite that long yet, but it’s getting there, and I think it looks pretty good.
Loomis Hall is amazing. We get out of the car and stand there in the gravel driveway, gaping up at it. It’s like something out of a Masterpiece Theatre program.
“Netherfield,” my mother says to me.
“Or Rosings,” I counter. “There’s even a Lady Catherine in residence.”
“What are you two babbling about?” says Darcy, annoyed.
“A little P&P humor,” my mother tells him, and he snorts.
We enter through huge double doors into a vast foyer, complete with a footman in a white wig.
“Please tell me he’s just an actor hired for the party, and doesn’t work here all the time,” I hear my father whisper to my mother, and she giggles.
Beyond the foyer is the grand hall. Really grand—I’ll bet three Ivy Cottages would fit inside. There’s a gigantic Christmas tree in the center of the room, and a row of other, smaller trees lined up against the windows on the far wall.
“Robin Hood just called,” my brother says dryly. “He wants Sherwood Forest back.”
Enormous stone fireplaces blaze at either end of the room. A jazz quartet is playing in front of one of them, and footmen are setting out platters of food on the long tables that flank the other. We head toward the food.
“Behold ye olde Yule log,” says my father in a fake English accent, gesturing at the blazing hearth with his punch cup.
My mother bumps him with her hip, sloshing his punch. “Hush, Nicholas,” she scolds, but her eyes are twinkling.
He grins at us.
Rupert suddenly materializes. “Greetings,” he says in his deep Eeyore voice. He actually gives a sort of stiff half-bow to my parents, sending his thick black bangs flying forward. My parents greet him politely in return. I can tell by the look on my dad’s face that he’s amused, and he’s probably absorbing every detail so we can compare notes later. Preferably out of earshot of my mother.
“May I introduce my great-aunt, Miss Olivia Loomis.” Rupert gestures toward an elderly lady in a dark blue evening gown sweeping toward us.
Rupert’s great-aunt isn’t as old as Mrs. Bergson or Gigi, but she could probably play the part of Lady Catherine de Bourgh any day of the week. Her silvery blond hair is swept up in an elegant style, giving her a regal air, and she holds out a thin, blue-veined hand covered with huge rings—diamonds and sapphires, mostly—to my parents.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” says my father, shaking her hand. “I’m Nicholas Hawthorne, and this is my wife, Phoebe, and our children, Darcy and Emma.”
A faint smile appears on Miss Loomis’s lips. “Ah, yes, Darcy and Emma.” She glances at my father. “You and your wife are Austen fans, I presume.”
He nods toward my mother. “It’s all Phoebe’s doing,” he says. “I can’t take any credit.”
“Perhaps Rupert has told you that we are distant relations of Miss Austen’s.”
My mother looks surprised. “Why, no, he hasn’t.”
“Yes, and I credit her with my father’s interest in books. He was a publisher for many years—no doubt you’ve heard of Loomis & Sons. Although Loomis & Daughter would have been more accurate, as my brother had no interest in the family business and I was the one who stepped in. It’s still a thriving concern. I sold it years ago after I retired, but they kept the name.”
She turns and gives me a cool, appraising look. “So you are Emma,” she says finally. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from my grand-nephew.”
Rupert talks about me to his great-aunt? Uh-oh, I think. That can’t be good. I smile weakly. I don’t really know what to say.
My father does, thank heavens. “May I offer you some punch?”
He and my mother and Miss Loomis drift away, talking about Jane Austen and
books and publishing. My brother sees some friends from school and crosses over to join them, leaving me stranded there with Rupert. He tugs on his giant earlobe, fishing around for something to say.
Please don’t ask me to dance, I think.
“Would you care to dance?” he booms, giving a strange little leap.
Lucy appears just then, and I clutch her arm like a drowning person clutches a life preserver. “Let’s go look at the decorations,” I suggest, hustling her away from the buffet, and Rupert. “Maybe later, Rupert!”
But things only get worse. As we cross the room, I spot Annabelle Fairfax in the foyer.
“Oh, no,” I groan. I drag Lucy behind the Christmas tree. “What’s she doing here?”
“Her family always gets invited. They usually come with Tristan and Simon.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Lucy’s forehead puckers. “Didn’t I? So sorry. You needn’t worry, though, Emma, she never pays me any attention. She’ll be too busy trying to impress the boys.”
This looks to be true, because I see her make a beeline for my brother and his friends. Still, I edge my way around the Christmas tree, trying to keep it between the two of us. If I’m lucky, maybe I can manage to steer clear of her all evening. Unfortunately, I steer myself right into Rupert again.
He pounces. “Are you ready for that dance now?”
“Uh, I’m a really terrible dancer, Rupert,” I tell him, which is true. I grab Lucy by the elbow and pull her forward. “I’ll bet Lucy will dance with you, though.”
She smiles at him, and he reluctantly offers her his arm. I swear, he acts like he’s ninety. I stand there by the tree, keeping a wary eye on Annabelle as I watch the two of them waltz awkwardly around the far end of the room.
“I’d love a tour of the house,” I say when Lucy and Rupert return, hoping to fend off another invitation.
“Happy to oblige,” Rupert replies, leading us out of the grand hall to a door on the far side of the foyer. “This is the library.”
“Oh, wow!” I exclaim. “Wow.” I thought rooms like this only existed in books. It’s two stories high, with a small balcony or walkway of some sort running around the top half. There are bookshelves stretching from the floor to the top of the very high ceiling, and ladders set up at regular intervals so you can reach the upper shelves. All around the room are tall windows with heavy red drapes, and tables topped with glowing lamps. Oriental carpets are scattered on the floor, along with deep leather armchairs. Every bone in my body wants to grab a book off a shelf and sink into one of them. I wish I’d brought a camera. Stewart would absolutely adore this room.