The Dashwood Sisters Tell All by Beth Pattillo

him go too fast.
    “Show me the rest.”
    He did, flipping on the lights as we went from room to room. He was right. The house did need some serious updating, not to mention a few minor repairs. The bathrooms were a bit of a mess, as he’d said, but the guest bedrooms retained their faded country-house chic, with lots of antique furniture, toile curtains, and chairs upholstered in fabric thick with cabbage roses.
    “Did you inherit the house furnished?” I asked as we stood in one of the guest bedrooms, and I admired the four-poster bed and the jumble of collectibles on the mantelpiece—vases, figurines, even some wrought-iron pieces.
    “Yes, it was fully furnished.” He laid a hand on a large cabinet, almost as big as a wardrobe. He ran his hand down the side of it. “Late Georgian. An Austen family heirloom from her niece, Fanny.”
    “That's not a wardrobe?”
    He shook his head. “Not exactly. And this”—he moved toward the small table that stood between two tall windows—“is a writing desk. See how this tilts?” He pulled the top toward him, and it lowered to form a flat surface. “Jane Austen could have written her novels on it.”
    “Or her diary.” I paused. Ellen would kill me, but Ethan would be impressed. Besides, he might be able to help us with authenticating our supposed treasure.
    “My mother left us an Austen heirloom. At least, we think it might be. We’re not sure.”
    “Really?” He looked skeptical. “Something decorative, like a mirror or a soup tureen? I’m afraid there are a number of counterfeit—”
    “It's Cassandra's diary, actually.” I tried to sound casual. I turned away so that my expression wouldn't give anything away. “Once we get it authenticated, we’ll put it up for sale.”
    He nodded. “The smart thing to do, of course, if you’re not a collector.”
    I turned back toward him. “No. I’m afraid that our mother's Austen mania didn't quite rub off.” I glanced around the room. “Maybe you might be interested in the diary?”
    A private sale would be much easier, quicker too, but first I would have to convince Ellen. I’d also have to figure out a way to tell her that I’d done what she’d explicitly told me not to do—reveal the existence of the diary.
    “I’m not sure if I’m in the market for more Austenalia.”
    “Oh.” I had thought he’d be very interested. “Don't mention it to anyone, okay?” I said to Ethan. “Ellen's afraid of it disappearing before we figure out what to do with it.”
    He smiled. “I wouldn't dream of it. I wouldn't get your hopes up though. Most of these things turn out to be well-meant forgeries or hoaxes. But I’d be glad to take a look at it for you.” He moved toward me and then put an arm around my shoulders. “Shall we finish the tour?”
    We eventually came to a stop in what I supposed one would call the conservatory. The glass walls and ceilings housed a sea of plants, which in turn encased a comfortable-looking wicker sofa piled high with cushions, along with several matching chairs.
    “This would be amazing when it rains.” I could imagine lying on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling and watching the raindrops as they splattered against the glass.
    “Yes, I suppose it would. I hadn't thought about it.”
    “You should try it sometime.”
    “Perhaps I will.” He took me in his arms again, and I didn't resist. To be honest, I had to restrain myself from flinging myself at him.
    “You’re a very special girl, Mimi,” he said.
    “No, not really. I’m very ordinary.” I knew from experience that the surest way to get a man to repeat a compliment was to deflect it on the first try.
    “Let's test that theory.” He leaned forward and placed his lips against mine. Softly. With just a light pressure. Oh dear, he was good.
    I’d meant to be a little more coy. After all, I’d leaped into his car and come to his house late at night, which I’m pretty sure would give most guys the wrong idea,