My face grew warm. “No?”
“What’s in the box?” she asked. Her look of affection conveyed that she understood I was dying to get back to my project.
“A first edition of Sense and Sensibility for the new Austen exhibit,” I said. I gently raised the top of the box. Inside was the first volume of three. The smell of old paper greeted me like the perfume of a dear friend. I glanced up at Bri and grinned. “It came all the way from Whitmore Estate in England. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Briana circled the desk to stand beside me. “Gorgeous.”
I lifted the book out of its archival box and placed it on a bookstand, then slowly opened the fragile cover to view the title page. Printed in 1811, this was the rarest of Austen’s works with less than one thousand copies in the first print run. Its appraisal value was between thirty and forty thousand dollars, as it was a bit worn, but a similar set had recently sold at auction for over eighty thousand dollars. Examining the book, I felt the same frisson of excitement I always did when holding a rare volume.
“What does that mean?” Bri demanded.
Clearly, she was not as caught up in the book magic as me. “What does what mean?”
“The title page.” Bri pointed, careful not to touch the aged paper, and read aloud, “‘A novel, in three volumes, by a lady’?”
“The book was printed in three volumes,” I said. I hoped that was what she meant, because otherwise...
She rolled her eyes. “I get that but what’s this “by a lady” nonsense?”
“Oh, right.” Given Bri’s current agitated state over the disparity between men and women, I had a feeling this was not going to go over well. “That’s how they credited Austen for her work.”
“You mean they didn’t even put her name on her own novels?” Briana gasped.
“They did,” I protested. I lowered my voice and mumbled, “After she died and at the insistence of her brother.”
“That’s it!” Briana declared. “We’re not going to be anonymous anymore! The museum’s next event is the Valentine’s Day Gala to open the Austen exhibit. We’re going and we’re aiming high.”
With that, Bri swept out of my office, her heels clicking on the hard wood floor like a general marching off to war. Oh, boy.
“Whose idea was it to dress in period costume for the opening gala?” I asked.
Bri and I were crammed in my office, making the final adjustments to our outfits.
“Sarah’s, you know it was,” Bri said. “Quit complaining. What else would we be doing on Valentine’s Day? Crying into our sour cherry martinis while watching Colin Firth in the lake scene on an endless loop?”
“Sounds lovely to me,” I grumbled. I struggled to tie the wide olive-colored satin ribbon beneath my breasts, which I’d had to restrain just to fit into the vintage dress. Sarah so owed me for this.
Sarah Novak was the curator in charge of the traveling Austen exhibit from Bath, England. An expert on the Classics—meaning Greek and Roman and other ancient civilizations—she still had a tender spot for Austen. Sarah had been in a frenzy for months, determining how to showcase the works to their best advantage. Dressing the museum staff as regency ladies and gents for the exhibit’s opening night fundraiser was, of course, genius but also very uncomfortable.
As registrar, I wasn’t really into the whole schmoozing-the-public thing. My skill set was more suited to the behind the scenes aspects of the museum, particularly caring for the objects. I unpacked them, noted their condition, and maintained them while they were with us. Sadly, I also had to repack them and send them home when the exhibit was over.
Mingling with our patrons, donors, sponsors, and other assorted attendees, was not my introverted self’s favorite part of this job. Major understatement. In fact, I dreaded the required small talk. In regency terms, I was most comfortable and content as a wallflower.
Bri was not having it. She shook out the skirts of her gown, a dusty-pink and sage-green confection that made her look even more ethereal than usual. “The gala is a black-tie affair with academics and dignitaries coming from as far away as London and Bath. Tonight is the night we make our first run at aiming high.”
I swallowed a groan. She’d been on this tear for weeks since reading that article about the differences between how men and women dated. “Right,” I said. “Because at an Austen event, we’re going to find loads of eligible bachelors.”
“You never know,” Bri said. “All it takes is one.”
I tugged on my bodice, trying to get more fabric coverage over my ample front. Like Bri, I was wearing a cap-sleeved, empire waist dress that ended at my ankles, revealing a cute pair of embroidered satin ballet slippers. While I loved the peacock-blue-and-olive tones of the dress, the bodice was a tight squeeze and I feared nipple spillage at any moment.
“You need a fichu,” Bri said.
“God bless you,” I joked.
Bri laughed and turned to scavenge from the box of garments that the museum’s wardrobe department had given us to dress ourselves. She dug around, coming up with a large square of delicate lace. “You wear it around the back of your neck and tuck the ends into your bodice for added coverage.”
“Brilliant!” I draped the cloth and inserted the ends just so, covering up my cleavage and hopefully averting disaster.
Bri stood beside me, and we examined our reflections in the mirror on the back of my office door. She was lovely as curled strands of her usually straight hair framed her face, whereas I had simply let my rogue hair do its thing, springing all about my head but forcing the longer lengths into a tight bun at the nape of my neck.
As I took in the full image of us, I had to admit we could have just walked out of the pages of a Georgette Heyer novel, with Bri being the lady of leisure while I looked like I should be behind a plow. Sometimes life simply wasn’t fair. Aim high, right.
“Bri! Molls! Where are you?” Sarah pushed open the door and peered around the edge. She grinned. “You look amazing!”
Sarah was dressed in period costume, too. Her short, dark-red hair curled about her head and her gown was pale yellow with tiny purple flowers embroidered all over it. Her shoes were purple satin with yellow embroidery. Her light makeup revealed the spray of freckles on her upturned nose that she usually masked with foundation because she felt they made her look too young.
“Is this where we call you a diamond of the first water?” Bri asked.
Sarah laughed. “Someone’s been binging the regency romances.”
“I consider it preparation,” Bri retorted.
“I don’t think repeatedly watching Bridgerton on Netflix is research,” I teased.
“But Lord Hastings,” Bri argued.
“That’s a solid defense,” Sarah said.
I raised my hands. “No argument here.”
“The doors are about to open,” Sarah said. She turned and led the way out of my office. “Are you two ready to chat up the guests? We want to take this opportunity to reach into some deep pockets.”
“Absolutely,” Bri said. She would, too. She was a complete extrovert.
“Definitely,” I murmured. I hoped I sounded more enthusiastic than I felt.