An excerpt from G.L. Kriewald's debut novel, coming February 17
As the little party approached their destination, the vegetation beside the road gradually gave way to a broad expanse of fields and hedgerows, which exhibited every shade of green imaginable. A few more minutes brought them closer to a gentle rise crowned by a grove of trees, in the centre of which stood Highlawn Hall, though as yet they could catch only glimpses of it. The most convenient approach was through an avenue of old oaks, and five minutes more of walking allowed them a fuller look.
The ancient dwelling appeared much as Jane had described it to Mr Wirthemore the day before; its red-brick walls, the height of three storeys, were mostly covered in a dense profusion of ivy, which sent its tendrils nearly to the roof, and the glass in several of its windows had been broken, most likely by village boys at their games. Strangely, however, the old house, despite having been so long bereft of human inhabitants, seemed to sit quite contentedly beneath the shade of the old chestnuts and elms that half-concealed it. As Jane and Mr Wirthemore stood gazing at the scene, Cassandra and Kitty, accompanied by Mumper and Jumper, caught up to them, and the little company stood in silence for some time before the old Hall. During this interval, Jane feared the gentleman might be wondering what she could have been thinking, to commend it to him. When he finally spoke, it was to say, “Well, nature seems to be reclaiming the place, does it not?”
This observation did little to convey the extent of Mr Wirthemore’s thoughts, so Jane ventured a question: “Do you find anything to recommend it?”
“You were quite accurate in saying that its proportions are pleasing,” he said. “Yet, I must admit to being more impressed by the beauty of the prospects it affords. Wherever one looks, one’s gaze is rewarded.”
“Shall we attempt to peer through the windows?” proposed Cassandra. “I find myself wondering how much of the interior remains intact.”
“Oh, yes, please,” exclaimed Kitty, looking pleadingly towards Mr Wirthemore.
“Very well, let us venture forwards,” said that gentleman, and strode towards the old house, which was hemmed in by a natural barrier of tall nettles and other weeds, as well as thickets of blackberry vines and a few undernourished saplings that had taken root despite being in the shade cast by the larger trees. Using his walking-stick to slash a path through the vegetation, he led his companions to one of the ground-level windows, standing aside to allow them to look at the interior. “And what do you see?” he asked.
Kitty was the first to respond. “Only a large, empty room” was her disappointed response.
“But it still has its oak panelling,” added Jane. “And a carved mantelpiece.”
“It is like looking into an ancient tomb,” said Cassandra, in little more than a whisper. “Or a pagan sanctuary that has been abandoned for many centuries.”
Mr Wirthemore took his turn to look inside. “There appears to be very little damage done within. Quite remarkable, considering its great age.”
“Come, Kitty,” said Cassandra. “Let us explore the grounds.” And with that, the two of them, with the dogs trailing behind, made their way back along the path Mr Wirthemore had cleared, and soon disappeared behind a stand of tall trees.
Mr Wirthemore and Jane retraced their steps down the path and wandered to a spot that afforded an especially expansive prospect.
“It is when I gaze upon views such as this, that I am convinced my return to England was not ill-conceived,” he said. After a pause, he added, “I am also convinced that this is the very spot which I wish to claim as my own!”
“That is a very quick resolution, sir,” said Jane. “Do you not wish to postpone a decision of such importance until you have had the opportunity to inspect other properties?”
“My decision must strike you as impetuous,” said Mr Wirthemore, “but many years spent in the world of commerce have taught me that following one’s instincts is a more reliable guide than indulging in irresolution and delay. ‘Strike whilst the iron is hot’ has always been my motto. No, I have determined it: Highlawn Hall shall be my home—mine and my children’s.”
“I confess I am amazed—and pleased, of course—that you will before long become our close neighbour. And Edward will be quite giddy at the news, for he will be assured of a reliable partner for his shooting and fishing.”
“That he will,” said Mr Wirthemore. “Now let us find your sister and inform her of my decision.”
A MAD ENDEAVOUR: THE LAST ROMANCE OF JANE AUSTEN is a look into the life and love our dear authoress might have had if she had not died at a tragically young age. It is a clean, low angst second chance regency romance suitable for any age and excellent for anyone who loves Jane Austen.
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