Free The Dashwood Sisters Tell All by Beth Pattillo

Jane's affection for Jack Smith.
    “I’m sure they must have done. But if they did, they kept it between themselves.”
    “So these letters don't give any hint of a conflict between them?”
    “No. But then letters in their day would have been far more public. Their contents would have been read to the rest of the family around the fire in the evening.”
    “All of them?”
    “Not all, of course. But for the most part, such communications would have been shared.”
    I let my gaze travel across the expanse of the lake. A few brave picnickers risked the sun and the duck droppings. If what Mrs. Parrot said was true, Cassandra Austen's diary, her authentic diary, would have information no one had ever known about the Austen sisters. It would indeed be a priceless treasure.
    I hesitated over my next question, afraid to tip my hand, but in the end, I had to take the risk. “What about diaries? Is that where they would have kept their secrets?”
    Mrs. Parrot didn't bat an eyelash at my question, but her feet shifted, brushing the shopping bag. “Ah, the holy grail of all things Austen.”
    “What do you mean?” I hoped my face concealed my emotions as well as Mrs. Parrot's did.
    “No one has ever offered any proof of their existence,” she said, “But it's also very unusual that they wouldn't have kept them.”
    “So there might be one somewhere?” It hadn't even occurred to me to wonder about Jane Austen's diary. I’d been so absorbed in Cassandra's.
    Mrs. Parrot shook her head. “There's no reason to believe such diaries exist.” She looked up at me, her gaze intense. “Although one never knows,” she added.
    I knew from my mother that, occasionally, Austen-related items turned up from time to time. Most of them—like Jane's famous writing desk—had been in the possession of her brothers’ descendants before they were donated to museums and the like.
    “So it's not beyond belief that her diary might turn up?” Or Cassandra's , I added to myself.
    “Conceivable, yes. Likely, no.”
    I didn't believe Mrs. Parrot's nonchalance. It was too…studied, as Jane Austen herself would have said.
    We sat in silence for several minutes as I turned this new information over in my mind. The diary my mother had given me might actually be real. And if it were…
    “We should be going.” Mrs. Parrot tapped the watch affixed to the lapel of her jacket. How she could stand to wear a tweed blazer in this heat, I had no idea. The English were made of sterner stuff than we wilting Americans.
    “Okay.” I followed her back across the lawn and gave a last, wistful glance toward the magnificent house. I wondered how Jane Austen might have felt when she visited. The numerous windows, the huge columns, the vast pediment, and the sheer size of the place must have dwarfed anything else she knew, even her father's church. The Vyne was a far cry from her father's humble rectory in the obscure village of Steventon. I felt overwhelmed just looking at it.
    We met up with the rest of the group on the path back to the parking lot. Mimi limped along, a forced smile plastered on her face. She shot hopeful glances at Ethan, but he seemed intent on what one of the Austenites was telling him about the care and cultivation of rose gardens.
    We paused near the entrance, and I ducked into the small refreshment stand, looking for a Diet Coke. My stealth was rewarded—but when I emerged, I stumbled across a conversation clearly not meant for my ears.
    “She asked about diaries.” Mrs. Parrot's voice came from behind the refreshment stand, but I couldn't hear the mumbled response, although the voice was clearly masculine.
    Before I could walk around the corner to find out, Mimi appeared at my elbow. “Hey, sis. Where’d you get the Diet Coke?”
    The other conversation stopped abruptly. It was too late to shush her.
    “I got it in here.” I strained to hear any more from behind the refreshment stand, but all was quiet. “Come on,” I said