Sense Without Sensibility: A Modern Sense & Sensibility Retelling (Pemberley Estates Book 3) Read online

  A Modern SENSE AND SENSIBILITY Retelling

  from her side

  Keena Richins

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Edward’s Story - Sample

  Sense Without Sensibility Copyright © 2019 by Keena Richins. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Keena Richins

  Photo stock from Shutterstock.com. Used with license.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Visit my website at www.keenarichins.com

  First Release: June 2019

  Chapter 1

  "How are you doing today, Dad?" Elinor asked.

  Her father blinked, his gray eyes focusing on her as if she had abruptly appeared before him.

  "How are you doing today, Dad," her father repeated with a slight warble to his voice and stared at her, blinking several times, his eyebrows scrunching low in confused concentration. Then he brightened. "Fine. I'm fine."

  Elinor waited, hoping he might ask the simple question in return. But he stared straight ahead, his eyes losing focus, whatever moment of clarity he'd found disappearing.

  Elinor kept a brave, calm face and squeezed her father's left hand. She sat alone in the small, hospital-like room, her chair pulled up to her father's. The TV flickered behind her, a black and white show her father may have watched when he was younger, maybe even loved, but he would have no recollection of it now. The right side of his face drooped and his right hand lay eternally clenched in a fist; the outward signs of the stroke that had instantly robbed him of his mind. Post-stroke dementia, the nurses had called it. Recovery was possible, they had said, and at first, everyone was hopeful, especially as he relearned how to eat and dress himself, but as the days turned into months with no real progress of his mind, the hopes began to die.

  "Your son is coming to visit us today," Elinor said in a cheerful voice. She didn't know how much her father truly understood, but in case he comprehended more than anyone thought, she didn't want him worrying about her. "You remember him, right?"

  He blinked at her as if she had spoken in a different language. "No?"

  She patted his hand. "Your son, John. John Dashwood," she added in the hopes that hearing his last name would help. "From your first marriage. I'll try to encourage him to come and visit you."

  She doubted he would. Her half-brother had rushed over when the stroke had first happened, but once he saw the shell of a father the stroke had left, he had made up excuses to avoid seeing his father ever again. To be fair, her own mother—her father's second wife—and her two sisters also hated visiting the wreck of a man they had once adored. So, it fell upon Elinor to keep up the weekly visits, a duty she was determined to maintain no matter how much it hurt.

  "I believe," Elinor continued, keeping her tone happy and light, "he's coming to finalize our financial situation." Though her father had enough wealth to afford this expensive residential home for the mentally-impaired for over twenty years, most of it was in hard assets like businesses and property. John, having been assigned as her father's power of attorney after a previous health scare, had begun to determine what could be sold. Despite the fact that Elinor's mother had very little legal say in her husband's wealth thanks to a prenup, John had sought his stepmother's opinion. She, however, had been so overwhelmed with grief that she had insisted he make the decisions alone. And while Elinor was sure John never had any intention of abusing his new power, her family had neglected to factor in John's wife, Fanny.

  Fanny, on the outside, was a pretty lady who knew all the proper steps to appear gracious, but on the inside, didn't have an ounce of kindness. Fanny didn't care about anyone unless it helped her and Elinor was sure that when Fanny had heard of the stroke, her first thought must have been to estimate the amount of inheritance she might get from her father-in-law's pending death, despite the fact that she had made sure to marry an affluent businessman.

  Still, as the days passed and the father dared to continue living instead of dying and giving her his money, Fanny probably began to needle her husband, insinuating the loss of money as the father remained in the expensive residential home. John, perhaps goaded by his wife, had once asked if Elinor and her family could take in their father and care for him instead, but Elinor had quickly pointed out how woefully inadequate their mother and the three girls would be in lifting and moving their heavy father around. Though her father could feed himself if given a utensil and could stand if prompted, he couldn't walk and would need to be carried to a bathroom.

  Once John understood it was impossible, he had given up pestering them. But, only a month later, he abruptly announced he was coming to visit, and Elinor dreaded it was a new attempt for Fanny to get her inheritance money early.

  The nurse walked in and Elinor stood up, aware it was time for dinner.

  "Goodbye, Dad. I'll come next week."

  Her father stared blankly at where she had once sat, not realizing she had moved.

  "It's okay, dearie," the nurse said, patting Elinor's back. "He knows you love him."

  She forced a happy smile. "Thank you. And thank you for taking such good care of him."

  "Of course," the nurse said as she wheeled him out of the room. Elinor waved goodbye but wasn't surprised when he didn't react. Keeping on a contented smile, she bid goodbye to all the nurses she encountered on her way out and maintained the happy facade until she sat in the safety of her car, driving into the evening traffic. The tears came then, like they always did when she drove home from visiting her father. As the oldest of three sisters with a mother who was still grappling with grief, Elinor knew she needed to set an example of being happy and composed. No one was going to believe things could work out okay if she didn't play her part. And as long as she kept her bouts of crying inside the car, then no one needed to know how much she was dying inside.

  As she pulled into the drive of their three-story home, she checked the rearview mirror and touched up her make-up to hide the tell-all signs of tears. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, willing herself to be, once again, the happy, calm older sister who could handle her family's woes.

  Once composed, she headed inside and found somber tones of a piano filling the home. That would be her middle sister, Marianne. And if she had been playi
ng like that for longer than ten minutes, then their mother must be sobbing somewhere right now.

  Placing her keys on the rack—and organizing the keys that had been deposited on the counter instead of the rack—she hurried to her mother's room where, like she had guessed, she heard muffled sniffles behind the closed door.

  She knocked twice. "Mom?"

  There was a scurry of movement before the door opened to reveal the red face of her dear mother. Though barely over forty, she seemed to have added ten years since her husband's stroke. Lines Elinor had never noticed now heavily creased her mother's forehead and gathered around her puffy eyes.

  "Oh, Elinor, you're home." She indicated for her to enter the room. "How was Dad?"

  "Very good." Elinor made a point to always give a happy report about him in the hopes it would ease her mother's pain. "He recognized me today after I told him my name." A rare occurrence.

  Her mother sank onto her bed. "Was he happy?"

  Elinor sat next to her. "He was watching an old movie when I arrived. He seemed to enjoy it."

  "Oh, yes. He always liked those old black and white movies. Especially the western ones."

  Elinor couldn't help smiling as memories of watching those western movies with her father stirred within her mind. "Yes, he did."

  Her mother patted her hand. "You're so good to go each week. I don't know how you do it. You're a miracle worker."

  Elinor maintained her smile, pleased her plan was uplifting her mother. "How are the other two?"

  Her mother sighed. "I haven't seen Maggie all day and Marianne, well…" She cocked her head toward the drifting tones of the piano.

  "Has she been playing all day?"

  "No, only since after lunch when I told her that John was coming for dinner tonight."

  "Mmm." She patted her mother's hand. "I'll go see if I can lighten her mood."

  Her mother squeezed Elinor's hand. "That would be wonderful, dear. I'll start working on dinner. Wouldn't want John to think we're giving him the shaft with a late dinner."

  Elinor doubted John would consider that, but his wife might. Thankfully, she wasn't coming.

  While her mother headed for the kitchen, Elinor wandered down the hallways until she came to the family room. Big, snuggly couches crowded around a massive TV screen while on the other side of the room stood the grand piano, raised on a step like it was a throne. And Marianne, only seventeen, sat at the bench, dressed completely in a black dress, including a black veil and black nail polish, as if she were a regal lady from the eighteenth century in full mourning. Marianne had always been into drama, but Elinor didn't see the point of over-dramatizing grief, especially if it caused pain to others.

  Elinor strode toward her sister, the latter so absorbed in her mournful song that she didn't notice her older sister until Elinor tapped her on the shoulder.

  "Marianne?"

  Her sister started, smashing the keys and creating jarring chords. She tossed her head up, but Elinor couldn't make out her face behind the black veil. After a moment, she returned to the piano and resumed playing her sad song.

  "How about a duet?" Elinor offered.

  The playing paused for a long dramatic moment before the black-shrouded head nodded and she scooted over to make room for Elinor. The latter rifled through the messy stack of music on the piano until she found the happy song she wanted, then propped it up on the piano.

  Marianne gasped like an offended nun. "Elinor!"

  "Dad hasn't actually died—"

  "He's worse than dead. He's a puppet that makes you think he could be locked deep inside but he isn't. He's gone. I wish he had died."

  "Marianne!"

  She clanged the piano keys. "It's the truth! If Dad were dead, then we wouldn't have our stuffy half-brother showing up to give out orders on stuff he knows nothing about! He doesn't even care about Dad's situation; he only wants the money."

  "That's not true," Elinor said, keeping her voice light and airy. "I'm sure he loved Dad—"

  "But not us. He never bothered to visit."

  "He did once. Come, Marianne, see it from his side. Dad remarried quickly after John's mother died and it was to a woman less than five years older than him. That made it awkward."

  Marianne tossed her head, the veil flailing like a wagging finger. "Awkward? That would not be the word I'd use. He hates us, Elinor. Blames us for everything."

  "No, he doesn't; otherwise he wouldn't have invited himself over for dinner. I'm sure he's offering an olive branch and wants a chance to start over."

  Marianne slammed the piano shut, then rose with an angry scoff and stalked out of the room. So much for the olive branch.

  Elinor stared at the musical piece. It had been her father's favorite, a song they'd play every Sunday while he sat in his favorite chair just ten feet from them, humming along. Now it probably would never be played again.

  Unshed tears burned behind her eyes so Elinor focused on tidying up the papers on the piano. Then she headed for Maggie's room. Only ten, her youngest sister hadn't taken well to their father's stroke and seemed intent on hiding from reality, including her own family. She never came out; the meals left at the door always returned barely touched.

  Elinor knocked on the door. "Maggie? You in there?"

  No response emitted from the door.

  "Maggie, would you like to help Mom make dinner? She's making your favorite: chicken pot pies."

  Still no response.

  She tried the doorknob but it was locked. There was a key to open it but their mother had forbade Elinor to resort to it. If Maggie wanted to hide while she worked through her grief, then she should be allowed that privacy.

  Elinor, personally, wasn't so sure it was the wisest thing to do, but neither did she think barging into the room would help things either.

  With a sigh, she made her way to the kitchen to help her mother herself. Normally, they had a cook that would make the meals, but ever since the stroke, Elinor's mother had insisted on doing the cooking. It had soothed her in the past and it was the only solace that seemed to work now.

  As Elinor headed for the kitchen, however, the doorbell abruptly rang. Her eyes flew to the grandfather clock stationed in the hallway. It was too early for her half-brother, but neither could it be friends—those had stopped coming to share their condolences over a month ago. Perhaps a mail delivery?

  To Elinor's chagrin, she discovered it was, in fact, her half-brother. Though she had only met him in person once, the pictures he posted of himself online made it easy for her to recognize him. He had cut his brown hair shorter than the last picture he had posted and he wore a stiff polo shirt with slacks, something he only wore when he was on vacation according to his photos. Beside him stood a woman who obviously made a point to of retaining the beauty of her youth and her designer dress, shoes, and handbag screamed wealth. Though Elinor had never met the woman, the many photos of the two together let her know this was Fanny, her step-sister-in-law.

  "John," Elinor began in a warm tone and hoped her face didn't show any of her inner dread. "Fanny. We weren't expecting you for another hour."

  John flushed, the redder skin more obvious against the paleness of his shirt. "Yes, well, we had come early to see Dad, but, uh..."

  Elinor understood immediately. He had expected a man who could hold a conversation, not someone who could barely recall the last sentence spoken. A whole hour in that type of company would have strained even Elinor.

  "He was not up to seeing us," Fanny finished the conversation, a pinched smile on her face as if the happy expression hurt her. "So we decided to be gracious and come here and cheer you up with our presence."

  Elinor doubted anyone would be cheered, but she opened the door wider anyway. "That's so kind of you. Please come in."

  The two ventured inside, their eyes darting over the front entrance like hunters seeking treasure, probably noting the expensive rugs covering the inlaid marble floor, the grandfather clock inherited from her fat
her's uncle, and the various knick-knacks showing off her parents' many travels.

  "Very nice decor you have," John began.

  "Yes, my mother has enjoyed decorating the house."

  John flushed again. Apparently, the mention of her mother was a sore spot. Even Fanny's smile grew faker, but it didn't stop her from turning to Elinor and asking in an overly oiled voice, "May we have a tour of the place? Your father used to brag about this place all the time. It would be nice to finally see if it lives up to his tales."

  Elinor hesitated. The home wasn't exactly clean enough to inspire the needed praise. Her mother had given the maids the month off mainly so they wouldn't keep finding sobbing family members.

  However, Fanny breezed past Elinor as if she had complete rights to do whatever she wanted. John shot an apologetic smile at Elinor before hurrying after his wife.

  "Uh, this hallway," Elinor said as she caught up, "leads to the bedrooms, but if you'll follow me this way." She led them to the family room which also opened up to the large kitchen. Her mother toiled away, making dinner, while Marianne lounged on the couch, still draped in her black, eighteenth-century attire, but ruining the scene by tapping furiously on her phone.

  "Hi, Mom," Elinor called. "John and Fanny are here. Marianne?"

  Marianne glanced up from her phone, and despite the black veil, the scowl behind it was obvious. Seconds later, she returned to her phone, tapping away. John and Fanny exchanged offended looks so Elinor hurried them into the kitchen where her mother was frantically drying her washed hands.