Table Of Content

Death 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?”