Page 11 of Bea's Book Wagon
She found the page marked by a pretty boho bookmark and smiled to herself before starting to read. She was at one of her favourite parts of the story: the bit where, with Marianne’s life hanging in the balance, Colonel Brandon sets off on horseback in search of her mother. It occurred to Bea that Colonel Brandon really was one of the most overlooked romantic heroes; he deserved far more credit than he got. Give her a Colonel Brandon over a Willoughby any day of the week.
Bea was yet to find her real-life Colonel Brandon. She’d split from Rory, the guy she’d been dating in London, four months ago. She’d thought things had been going well, so it was a shock when he’d ended their relationship, telling her things ‘weren’t that deep’ between them.
There was a pattern to Bea’s dating history, she realized: she’d meet someone, they’d seem perfect, she’d fall head over heels, but it never lasted for long.
It was all very… disappointing when she thought about it.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever really been in love. Not properly. Not in the way she read about in her favourite romance novels. The closest she’d ever come was with Nathan, although she wasn’t sure that really counted. She was just a teenager when they’d dated and what she’d thought was love back then was more likely just a high-school crush. She wasn’t giving up, though. She knew her Colonel Brandon was out there somewhere, she just had to find him…
The journey back to Rye passed all too quickly, the way time always did when Bea’s nose was buried in a book, and just as Mrs Dashwood arrived safely at the Palmer’s estate in Somerset, Bea was almost home.
As she reached out her hand to ding the stop button, it occurred to her that Austen’s words rang true: ‘It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do’.
Bea was certainly doing something now and, as she walked the short distance home with a spring in her step, the clouds finally parted and she could feel the heat from the sun’s rays warming her back.
‘Bea? Is that you?’ her mum, Carol, called from the kitchen. ‘Dinner’s ready!’
‘Okay,’ she said, bending down to fuss the family dog, an exuberant Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, who was rushing towards her. ‘How’s your morning been, Wordsworth?’ she said, stroking his long ears fondly.
‘Bea! Dinner!’ Carol called again.
‘Yep. Coming!’ she called back, following the scent of sausages that was wafting through from the kitchen, Wordsworth trotting along beside her.
‘It’s toad in the hole,’ said Carol, spooning out a generous helping. ‘Can you grab the gravy boat?’
‘Sure,’ replied Bea, taking it from the dresser.
‘This is a treat,’ said Gordon, her dad, stealing a roast potato from one of the plates and shoving it into his mouth. ‘Ow, that’s hot,’ he moaned.
‘That’ll teach you,’ teased Carol. ‘So, where have you been all day?’ she asked Bea, placing a steaming plate of food in front of her husband.
‘Let’s eat, first,’ said Bea, her voice jangling with nerves.
‘Oh, why? What’s happened?’ Carol asked, concern etched on her face.
‘Well, I’ve got some news,’ said Bea, pulling out the chair next to her dad, who was already busy tucking into his supper. ‘Shall I get some wine?’ she asked, grabbing a bottle of red and pouring out three glasses.
‘Wine? We don’t usually—’ said Carol.
‘Let’s make an exception,’ interrupted Bea. ‘Like I said, I’ve got news.’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Gordon, taking a swig from his glass.
‘Well,’ said Bea, inhaling deeply. ‘It’s about my job—’
‘You’ve found something else, finally? That’s great news, love. I know how much you hate it there,’ said Carol.
‘Yeah, I did hate it,’ said Bea. This was it… time to come clean.
‘Hang on. Did you say did?’ Carol asked. ‘Past tense? You haven’t quit before finding something else, have you?’ said Carol, putting down her knife and fork.
‘Well… sort of,’ said Bea, screwing up her face.
‘What do you mean sort of? You’ve either quit or you haven’t?’ said Gordon.
‘I’ve quit,’ said Bea. ‘I had to, Brendan was—’ said Bea.
‘A bully?’ said Carol ‘From everything you’ve told us, that’s how I’d describe him.’
