Table Of ContentDeath and Sensibility
A Jane Austen Society Mystery
ELIZABETH BLAKE
For my niece, Ariana “Bones” Farren, a
young woman of great talent and
accomplishments
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my awesome agent, Paige Wheeler, as always. Deepest
gratitude to Jenny Chen, Emily Rapoport and Melissa Rechter for
their sage editorial advice, patience, and unwavering support.
Thanks to Anthony Moore, for introducing me to the wonders of
the Yorkshire Moors, always sharing my passion and sense of
adventure—and to the staff of the Lion Inn, Blakey Ridge, for an
unforgettable night, splendid meal, and wonderful gift of A Coast to
Coast Walk, by Alfred Wainwright. Deepest thanks to Alan
Macquarie, scholar, musician, and historian, for being such a
gracious host in his glorious Glasgow flat, and to Anne Clackson, for
being such a boon (and bonny) companion. Special thanks to my
dear friend Rachel Fallon for her generosity and loyal spirit. And a
big shout out to the baristas at Gatehouse Coffee in historic York, the
most glorious coffee house I have had the pleasure of visiting.
Thanks to Hawthornden Castle for awarding me a Fellowship—
my time there was unforgettable—and to Byrdcliffe Colony in
Woodstock, where I enjoyed many happy years of residency, as well
as Animal Care Sanctuary in East Smithfield, PA, Craig Lukatch and
the fabulous Lacawac Sanctuary, where so much of this was written.
I can’t wait to return!
Special thanks to my dear friend and colleague Marvin Kaye for
his continued support, and for all the many wonderful dinners at
Keens. Thanks to my assistant, Frank Goad, for his intelligence and
expertise. Thanks too to my good friend Ahmad Ali, whose support
and good energy has always lifted my spirits, and to the Stone Ridge
Library, my upstate writing home away from home.
Finally, special thanks to my parents—raconteurs, performers
and musicians, who taught me the importance of art and the power
of a good story.
“It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do.”
—Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility
Chapter One
The December wind whipped at the trees outside her cottage as Erin
Coleridge lugged her battered gray suitcase from the bedroom
closet. She hated packing. No matter the occasion, it was always
exhausting to choose what to bring and what to leave behind. How
could you know what you will need until the need arises?
Consequently, she invariably overpacked.
Determined not to fall into that trap this time, Erin pulled a couple
of shirts from their hangers and tossed them into the suitcase. She
would be away from her Kirkbymoorside book store and cottage for a
week, but she could buy anything she needed in the much larger city
of York.
Tossed by the wind, the branches of the yew tree outside her
window tapped at the panes, and she shivered at the sound.
Weather on the North Yorkshire moors was unpredictable—
sometimes mild weather lingered lazily well into November, but you
could just as easily find yourself in an early snowstorm or torrential
rains. Today, wind advisories had been all over the news. They’d
been predicting over fifty-mile-an-hour gusts with heavy rain and Erin
didn’t fancy driving down to York in a rainstorm. Worse, she knew
her best friend, Farnsworth Appleby, would absolutely freak out
about the weather. She hated storms. Many years ago, a tree fell on
her car, and she had been spooked ever since.
As if on cue, Erin’s landline rang. She reached for the receiver
on the bedside table and cradled it to her ear while she continued
packing.
“Hello, Farnsworth.”
“I just heard the weather report. Hurricane force winds, Erin.
Hurricane force.”
“They’re only predicting gusts of fifty miles per hour. Hurricane
force would be seventy or more.”
“Still,” Farnsworth said. “Maybe we should wait it out a day.”
“Our reservation at the Grand York starts tomorrow, and at those
prices, I’m not wasting a single minute. I’m packing now.”
“You’re upstairs?”
“Yes. In the bedroom.”
“How did you know it was me, by the way?” asked Farnsworth.
She sounded like she was chewing something. “You don’t have
caller ID on that phone.”
“I’m psychic.”
“And I’m Maggie Smith.”
“More like Dame Edna, I should think.”
“This is nothing to joke about.”
“I expected you’d be in a massive panic over the weather just
about now.”
Farnsworth sighed. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being
predictable. It’s so dreary. Stop it, Willoughby! Leave Marianne
alone!” Farnsworth had a large assortment of cats, all named after
Jane Austen characters.
“Willoughby?” said Erin. “Is he new?”
“I got him from the shelter last week. Very handsome, but quite
the cad. Always going after the females.”
“Isn’t he neutered?”
“He still fancies himself a ladies’ man. Stop it, Willoughby, or I’ll
have to separate you! There,” she said. “That seemed to put the fear
of God into him.”
“You don’t really believe he understands English?”
“Of course not. Elinor might, though … she’s pretty sharp.”
“So are you excited about the conference?”
“What if there’s flooding? And the wind—that little car of yours
will fly around like papier-mâché.”
“We can take yours if you like.”
“You know I don’t fancy driving in bad weather. I’m just going for
the food, you know. The restaurant is meant to be fabulous.”
“I can’t imagine a little rain getting between you and lobster
thermidor.”
“I’ve been looking at the menu online,” Farnsworth said mistily.
“Oak-smoked salmon, crab mayonnaise, fennel toast …”
“Think of it this way. If we arrive late, that’s one day less of
dining.”
“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a
good meal, must be intolerably stupid.”
“Prudence won’t like hearing you misquote Austen.”
“Then we won’t tell her.” Prudence Pettibone was a key member
of the Jane Austen Society’s Northern Branch, and a good friend.
However, she could be a bit fervent and was very competitive about
her knowledge of Austen’s work. Farnsworth sighed, “I do hope the
panels aren’t too boring. Which ones are you on?”
“My first one is Feminine Identity in the Jane Austen Heroine.”
“How very trendy. I’m doing Sense or Sensibility? Jane Austen
and the Role of Reason in Contemporary Romance Fiction.”
“What time shall I pick you up?”
Farnsworth whimpered a little, “Are you sure we’ll be all right?”
“It’s the first Jane Austen conference of its kind in the UK, and
we’re the hosting society branch. What would it look like if we were
late?”
“It’s not just the two of us, you know. Hetty and Prudence will be
there. And Jonathan. Mustn’t forget him,” she said slyly, referring to
Erin’s recent flirtation with him.
“Your first panel is tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure Prudence would jump at the chance to take your
place.”
There was a silence. Then Farnsworth said, “You can be really
horrid, you know that?”
