The Jane Austen Society(55)

“You didn’t fail, Ben,” Andrew reproached him gently. “You can’t save everyone, for all your efforts. You’re still the best doctor around here and you know it.”

“Apparently Howard Westlake is even better—or at least that’s what Adeline seems to think, seeing as he’s her new doctor.”

“Ah, some good old professional jealousy to boot. Oh, well, if you’re sure that’s all it is.”

“No less sure than you are about Frances.”

“Well, Ben,” Andrew said ruefully, “then I feel for us both.”





CHAPTER TWENTY

Chawton, Hampshire

January 17, 1946

The irony had not escaped Frances Knight that, being no longer entitled to dispose of any of the estate, she would finally learn its true and impressive value. Only a few days after the reading of the will, Evie had—in a fit of anger at Mr. Knight for so wretchedly reducing his one child’s circumstances—finally confessed to Frances what exactly she had been doing in the library for the past two years.

They were walking through the lime grove together and had stopped next to the old shepherd’s hut that had long ago been used to supply shooting parties on the estate. Frances sat down on the bottom steps to the red-painted hut, which balanced on four large wheels like a Gypsy caravan, and looked up at Evie’s youthful, shining face. Frances had always admired the girl’s spirit, so unlike her own. As the words came tumbling out of Evie, Frances appreciated yet again the obvious energy and discipline that she brought to all her pursuits.

“And there I was thinking you just liked to dust the library. A lot.”

“Miss Knight, how can you stay so calm at a time like this?” Evie waved her arms about them. “How can you face the prospect of leaving here?”

Frances smiled sadly. “It’s not really a home, though, Evie, wouldn’t you say? Not like you and your brothers have. Not like most people.”

“Still, it’s so unfair—to make your situation so much harder than it needs to be, when he had the means not to.”

“I know it looks that way—maybe it even is. But we each of us have our own reasons for doing things—and no one owes anyone anything. I got to make my own choices, too, even if it doesn’t always look that way.”

Evie wasn’t so sure they were still talking about the inheritance but thought it best not to press any further. She knew Miss Frances well enough to know that if she wanted to say something, she would—and otherwise no amount of effort would pry it out of her. In this the two women were more similar than they knew.

“Anyway, I have a bit of a surprise for you—although I wish it were under happier circumstances. Do you remember my American visitors right after New Year’s, who wanted to buy the little cottage? Well, the woman is lovely and due back for another visit today, this time alone. I didn’t have the heart to put it off, given how far she has come. But I’m afraid I now need to tell her, too, about the entire estate being in escrow, and my loss of rights over its disposition.”

Evie was only half listening because through the trees she was watching a woman walk gingerly on extremely high heels up the front gravel drive.

“It’s so strange,” Evie muttered under her breath. “She looks just like . . . no, wait, it can’t be . . .”

Frances smiled and stood up from the front steps of the shepherd’s hut. “Evie, would you like to meet her?”

Evie was still peering through the trees. The woman looked tall and willowy in her heels, but all Evie could see was the famous image of a barefoot housewife in a kitchen, trying to lock the door against a Nazi soldier, her face a mask of terror—and the Polynesian princess on a tropical beach, nursing a capsized British sailor back to health—and Evie’s favourite of all, the nineteenth-century Russian countess standing on the train platform, the steam from the engine billowing across her face, and then just the sound of the train wheels screeching to a horrific halt.

The woman was waving to them now by the front gate as they approached from the adjoining woodland. With her other hand she was fiddling with something about her neck.

“Hello, Miss Frances!” she called out.

“I’m sorry,” Evie was still muttering, “but that woman looks terribly like . . .”

Frances patted the young girl’s shoulder as they reached the stranger. “Evie, I’d like you to meet a new friend of mine, Miss Harrison. Or Mimi, as you might know her. Mimi, it’s so lovely to see you again. This is Miss Evie Stone, who helps me with the house and is a great fan of Jane Austen like yourself.”

Mimi held her hand out to the young girl, recognizing well her state of shock. “Hello, Evie, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And if you love Jane Austen even half as much as I do, we shall have a lot to talk about.”

For the first and only time in her life, Evie Stone was speechless.

“Oh, Frances, this is awful. I don’t even know what to say.”

The three women were sitting upstairs in the oak-panelled room once known as the Ladies’ Withdrawing Room and reached by the beautiful Jacobean staircase in the southeast corner of the house. Frances had invited Evie to stay with them for tea, and the young girl was given a stern look of warning from Josephine as she placed the silver tray down on the small round table between her mistress and the famous guest.