THE SENSE AND SENSIBILITY BICENTENARY CELEBRATION - BETH PATTILLO, LOST IN SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

April issue for the Sense and Sensibility Bicentenary Celebration  is a brilliant piece of Austen -based fiction by Beth Pattillo, author of Jane Austen Ruined My Life and Mr Darcy Broke My Heart. In this delightful fragment, inspired to the characters and events in Sense and Sensibility,  she imagines her heroine caught in Sophia Grey's body  and lost in ... John Willoughby's bed! 

Read Lost in Sense and Sensibility and get the chance to win Beth Pattillo's latest release, The Dashwood Sisters Tell All, a modern day version of Elinor and Marianne's story. To win, answer Beth Beth Pattillo's question: " Do you think Willoughby will ever redeem himself?" and do not forget to add your e-mail address. The giveaway is open worldwide and ends April 30th.
Many thanks to Beth Pattillo for her delightful contribution to our celebration and for granting one of you, readers of My Jane Austen Book Club all over the world,  an autographed copy of her latest work.

Lost is Sense and Sensibility by Beth Pattillo

 “Mrs. Willoughby?” The maid appeared in the doorway to my bedroom. I was sitting at the dressing table, brushing my hair, which caused the maid to frown as if she’d caught me in an indelicate act.  Apparently I was to be treated like a doll, bathed and dressed and generally pimped out by my servant.

            I wondered what she would do if I told her the truth.  That I could do my own hair, button my own clothes, and apply what passed for makeup in this place.  Would she faint dead away if I said I was from two hundred years in the future? Or would I end up in the nut house?

            Definitely the nut house.  Which was why, ever since I’d awakened in my bed at Combe Magna the day before, I’d kept my mouth shut.  Except, of course, when arguing with my husband.

            John Willoughby.

            Yes, as in the novel.  I’d gone to sleep in an English country house hotel and woken up in this dream-nightmare-work of fiction.

            “Mr. Willoughby is waiting breakfast for you,” she said, and I sighed. If I were going to get stuck in my favorite Austen novel, why couldn’t I have Mr. Darcy? Or Frederick Wentworth?  I would have even settled for Edward Ferrars or Colonel Brandon in a pinch, since apparently my overheated brain had placed me smack dab in the middle of Sense and Sensibility.  But Willoughby? Aparently my rotten luck hadn’t changed, even when I was in a coma or a hallucination or whatever this thing alternate reality might be.

            “Tell him I’ll be down directly.”  The hours I’d spent watching all the Austen film and television adaptations were paying off, because I could spew early nineteenth century dialogue like nobody’s business.

            I knew the house pretty well after exploring it the day before, mostly to keep out of the way of my ‘husband.’  We’d exchanged the bare minimum of words. After all, I knew from reading the novel how he felt about me, the woman he’d been forced to marry to restore his fortunes.

            “Good morning,” he said stiffly when I entered the cavernous dining room.  Why in the world did he insist on eating there?  It was only the two of us.  Plus, the servants had to cart everything up from the kitchen one floor below.

            “Look, I know you’re a womanizer.” Why beat around the bush? If I was going to be stuck in this place, I didn’t want to spend my days around someone so unpleasant, even if he was a decent piece of eye candy.

            “Good morning to you as well, Sophia.  What, pray tell, is a womanizer?”

            I closed my eyes and tried to come up with an Austenesque synonym.  Horndog and tomcat wouldn’t exactly work.

            “You’re a rake. A rogue. A…..”  I was out of synonyms.

            “Upon my word, you are very direct.” He frowned, which should have made him look less attractive, but it didn’t.

            “Get used to it, Lothario.”

            “Pardon me?”

            “If I’m stuck here, buster, then you’re going to mind your Ps and Qs.” Apparently when I was under stress, my mother’s favorite clichés spewed from my lips.

            “I don’t care for peas.” He picked up his glass and swirled the wine in it while regarding me as if I’d just grown a pair of horns.  Wine for breakfast.  Just another day in the life of John Willoughby.  Probably still fancying himself in love with Marianne Dashwood and bemoaning how he’d been forced to marry me – or Sophia – due to his own imprudence.

            “You may not understand the expression, but I think you catch my drift,” I said.

            He sat down his glass with a clink. “Madam, I am unaccustomed to being harangued in my own home.”

            Apparently the real Sophia Grey had a backbone like a limp noodle. “Well,” I said, “then today should be a refreshing change of pace.”

  

April Giveaway

Lovely fragment, isn't it? Now, answer Beth Pattillo's question: Do you think Willoughby will ever redeem himself? Add your e-mail address and ... good luck! The giveaway is open worldwide and ends April 30th!