AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He sighs, but follows my directions, and soon, we’re winding our way through the leafy countryside. I cross my fingers he won’t be too mad when he discovers the detour, but when we reach the long driveway and the massive sign announcing Chatsworth House, he slams on the breaks, coming to a stop on the side of the road by a bramble patch.
“Jolene,” he says, slowly turning to me. My usual pleasure at hearing him say my name like that is dimmed somewhat by the wary tension on his face. “Where exactly are we?”
“Oh, look at that!” I pretend to be surprised. “What a coincidence. Well, we have to go take a quick look around.”
“Jolene—” His voice takes on a warning note.
“OK, OK!” I cry. “I maybe took us a little off course, but only by a few miles. We couldn’t just pass it by. I mean, we’re working on an Austen movie! It would be sacrilegious not to take a peek!”
“No,” he answers flatly.
“Just for a moment,” I beg. “They’ll have a gift shop,” I add, tempting. “And a café. Fresh-baked scones and clotted cream. We need to get some lunch, anyway. And a bathroom. I’m just dying for a bathroom break.”
“Then go piss in the bushes,” Fraser scowls. “We’re supposed to be on an emergency mission here, not a sightseeing tour. Remember the movie? Our missing star?”
“I know, but we’re making such good time that twenty minutes extra won’t make a difference! Come on. Please?” I beg, clasping my hands together and batting my eyelashes at him. “Pretty please, with a spoonful of Gunter’s ices on top.”
“I don’t know who this Gunter is,” Fraser grumbles, “Or what his ice has to do with anything.”
“It was the first ice-cream shop, in Regency London,” I inform him. “Which I know, because I’ve spent the last four years working on my damn dissertation about Austen’s work. Pouring over her work. Obsessing about every detail of the language, and culture, and places like this that inspired her to—”
“Alright!” He breaks. “Twenty minutes. That’s it. And they better be bloody good scones.”
“Thank you!” I beam, about to launch myself at him in a giddy hug. I stop myself just in time, and settle for bouncing in my seat, instead. “You won’t regret it.”
“I already do.”
Fraser sighs and mutters, but he starts the car again, and turns down the driveway. I crane my neck excitedly, letting out a sigh of happiness as the tree line parts, and the magnificent house comes into view: Looming over a placid lake, with the golden sandstone glowing in the afternoon sun.
It’s stunning.
“Jane Austen supposedly was staying in the village nearby when she wrotePride & Prejudice,” I explain, as Fraser pulls into the parking lot beside a row of tourist minibuses. “So Chatsworth was the actual place that inspired Pemberley in the book! She washere,” I add excitedly. “She would have toured the grounds and looked out at this view. I could be walking in the exact same place that she did!”
“I’m not sure they had gravel down for a parking lot in 1811,” Fraser notes, looking amused. But I’ll take amused and condescending over glowering and grim any day.
“Hush you,” I tell him, beaming. “This is my Mecca, my Shangri-La…”
“Your Caledonian Stadium on a Thistles home match day?”
“I don’t know what any of those words mean, but if that’s a special place for you, then yes, absolutely!”
I bound off, excited to explore. The exterior of the house is stunning, and I could spend hours just gazing out at the views of the lake and rolling hills beyond. But I know I don’t have that long, so I pull out my phone, and start snapping pics like crazy, wanting to immortalize every moment. I make my way to the main entrance, with Fraser trailing behind.
“Now, about that afternoon tea…” Fraser starts, looking hopeful. But we’re interrupted by a short, loud man in tiny spectacles with a big bow tie.
“Attention, please! The tour commences in three minutes.”
“A tour?” I exclaim in delight.
“But the scones…”
“C’mon,” I urge him, already steering him over to where a ramshackle group of tourists is assembling. “We’ll whisk through, see everything, and be back in the car before you know it—with a big bag of baked goods for the road.”
Fraser sighs. “You’re going to ignore what I say either way, aren’t you?” he grumbles.
“Yes, but if it makes you feel any better, just pretend it’s your idea to keep me quiet.” I pat his arm, as the Bow Tie Man clears his throat.
“Welcome to Chatsworth House, a grade one listed historical house, and home of the Devonshire duchy for over sixteen generations...”
