Regency Christmas at Austenland

Christmas Eve

No one was expecting Kestrel.

In the nearly deserted airport, it would have been easy to spy a driver holding a sign with her name or a hired car waiting for her out front.

Kestrel sighed, allowing herself the space of that sigh to feel disappointed.

But, never one to sit around hoping to be remembered, she opened a rideshare app and was relieved to book a car that would take her to Pembrook Park in Kent, though it cost enough to make her stomach sink.

Soon Kestrel was zooming through a picturesque English countryside, the hedge-bordered fields empty but for a dusting of powdered-sugar snow.

Clouds were cotton thick and low in the sky, and the evening between the clouds and ground was an empty shade of blue.

It was nearly Christmas in Austenland, and Kestrel was trembling like a wound-up toy ready to spring.

Her hopes for this holiday were so high, even Kestrel was aware she was overshooting the moon.

The oft-neglected rational part of her brain had begun sending gentle pings of caution: Maybe this one trip won’t actually make up for every terrible Christmas you’ve endured and solve all your problems and change everything?

She shoved back the warnings, to make more space for the anticipation that’d been her constant companion since September.

Three months ago, Kestrel had taken a bus from Boise to Los Angeles to spontaneously enter a dance marathon.

She’d known only two things: 1) The prize had something to do with Christmas and Jane Austen, two of her favorite things, and 2) It wasn’t a contest of dance skill, just endurance.

One thing Kestrel could do was keep moving.

Twenty-two hours later, she’d been awarded the prize—a Christmas vacation at an immersive Austen-themed resort.

By now, she’d read the brochure so many times she had it memorized.

Pembrook Park, Kent, England.

Enter our doors as a houseguest, come to stay for the twelve days of Christmas, enjoying the country manners and hospitality—a tea visit, a dance or two, a turn in the park, an unexpected meeting with a handsome stranger, all culminating with a ball and perhaps something more . . .

Here, the Prince Regent still rules a carefree England. No scripts. No written endings. A holiday no one else can offer you.

The photos showed women like her, dressed in empirewaist gowns and bonnets, playacting their Regency-novel fantasies with booted and sideburned actors.

How could it be anything less than life-changing?

And there was nothing Kestrel yearned for more than a changed life, except, perhaps, a proper Christmas.

To hype herself up for all that holly jolly, Kestrel listened to old-timey carols on her headphones. But it had been a long flight from Idaho, and as the cab drove deeper into frozen woodlands and rolling hills, her eyelids closed, ready to sleep in heavenly peace.

When the car stopped short, she sat upright, suddenly alert.

Outside her car window, night had fallen, the empty blue of evening replaced with solid black, sliced only by the car’s headlights.

They were outside a closed iron gate. Beyond, the idea of a large house haunted the evening, more of a sense of greatness than a physical manifestation.

If the edifice was outfitted with modern exterior lights, nobody had turned them on for Kestrel’s arrival.

She’d had reason to expect more of a welcome.

The brochure’s cover featured a photo of a guest arriving in a horse-drawn carriage, costumed servants standing at attention on the front steps, and handsome cast members awaiting her at the door.

Kestrel had learned to muffle expectations, especially on Christmas.

But here in Austenland, she’d hoped not to have to muffle anything—except her hands, to keep them warm.

In a muff. Wasn’t that what those things were called?

“This is it,” said the driver, peering out dubiously. “But I don’t see a call button.”

“I’ll just walk in,” Kestrel said, grabbing her bags.

The car sped away, spitting gravel out its back tires and leaving Kestrel in the dark.

She reached into her suitcase, making sure she had her travel canister of bear spray, just in case.

With a hard push, the narrow pedestrian gate opened, emitting an agonizing squeak of metal.

Maybe she should have come on the twenty-sixth, as the email had originally suggested.

But when offered the chance to arrive on Christmas Eve instead, she’d jumped at it.

Better to spend a holiday with strangers in a foreign country than alone in her apartment.

Well, not alone-alone. A dog owner is never really alone. Mentally, she apologized to Karma, who was no doubt content with plenty of puppy friends in the doggie hotel.

Kestrel had named her Karma so if people petted the mutt and said, “Good boy,” she could say, “Actually, Karma’s a bitch.” Not once had a conversation offered her the opportunity to use that line. Life can be cruel.

Kestrel pulled her suitcase across the icy gravel and up the stone front steps, where she knocked on a large wooden door. Nobody answered. The wind picked up, jostling into her back and licking a chill across her neck. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a scarf?

Kestrel knocked again and then tried the doorknob. It turned easily, so she walked inside.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

A single lamp lit the front entry, but she could make out a grand staircase, chandelier, tiled floors—everything just so spiffy she could die.

“Hello?” she called again, shivering.

Soft footsteps came from the back of the house, and another light switched on as a man appeared—thirties; fair-haired with long sideburns; outfitted in a cream-colored sweater, snug jeans, and rainbow socks.

When he saw Kestrel, he said, “Hallo!” And then, shouting behind him: “You were right, love, there is someone here!”

“I’m Kestrel.”

“Good evening, Kestrel, you can call me Andrews,” he said in a posh British accent. “Helluva day to arrive, darling. You’ll be the new maid then.”

Was she? Kestrel had assumed all the houseguests would be playing the parts of fancy people staying at the estate. But maybe since she’d won her spot here instead of paying her way, she was assigned a working character.

“Is being a maid . . . fun?” she asked.

“I don’t rightly know, pet,” said Andrews, “but if the work don’t get you, the sheep’s eyeballs will.”

A second man strolled into the front hall, his black hair kept in a short Afro, his skin a deep brown. He also wore a sweater, his sporting a knit snowman with a huge grin and eyebrows raised suggestively.

Seeing the two men side by side, Kestrel felt shocked by their combined handsomeness. It was rare in life to see two such outrageously gorgeous people so close together.

“Sheep’s eyeballs are off the menu since Charming took over, praise be. Good evening, I’m Jerome,” the snowman-sweatered man said in a warm Caribbean accent.

“That’s right, he really is Jerome,” said the blond man. “Andrews is my character’s last name, but I’ve worked here so long, I answer to Andrews on and off duty.”

“He’s never off duty, are you, Andrews?” said Jerome.

“Not if I can help it, duckie,” said Andrews, smoothing his perfectly coiffed medium-long hair.

Andrews employed so much loving language, Kestrel wondered if perhaps he and Jerome were a couple. But then again, maybe he was just being culturally British. Either way, Kestrel was already enjoying this conversation tremendously.

“Kestrel is the new maid,” Andrews said. “Helluva day to arrive.”

“Come in and have a cuppa.” Jerome led her down a dark corridor and into a warm and bright kitchen.

The stone walls and floors appeared to be period original, but the appliances included refrigerators, electric ovens, and a couple of dishwashers.

In no time she was seated at the long, wood table, dipping crunchy cookies into a very fine cup of milk tea, and engaging in a spirited discussion of favorite Christmas movies.

Jerome was anti–White Christmas because “I just can’t take any musical seriously. ”

“What?” she said. “Jerome . . . musicals are life!”

Andrews put an arm around her. “Tell him, love. No invading army in history had more impact on the collective human experience than a chorus line tap-dancing in unison.”

“Colonizers, the lot of you,” said Jerome.

“So, what do you both do here?” asked Kestrel.

“We’re gents,” said Andrews. “Our job is to romance the guests.”

“And Andrews here is also chief—Whatsit?”

“Chief Social and Entertainment Officer. And our Jerome is Chief Wooer.”

“Unofficial Chief Wooer, but I am very good at it.” Jerome raised his dark brows in a perfect mimic of his sweater snowman’s expression.

Kestrel leaned forward, intrigued. “Do you mind that? Having to pretend to fall in love with people you barely know?”

“Love it,” said Jerome.

“Adore,” said Andrews.

“Our job is to live in this magnificent house, play dress-up, and keep the guests happy.” Jerome smiled warmly. “We make them feel seen, feel amazing, feel gorgeous.”

“But do the guests ever try to kiss you? Have you had to kiss someone in play that you wouldn’t be attracted to in real life?”

“Lords yes,” said Andrews. “I’m gay as a kite, but the majority of our clients are women.

Mostly it’s dancing and declaring passionate regard, with the rare bit of chaste kissing.

Even so, I avoid letting a lady kiss me unless I feel there’s a friendship in it, do you know what I mean?

I want the kiss to be an act of kindness, not trickery. ”

“And I never kiss them at all.” Jerome raised a single eyebrow. “I don’t have to. I can woo them with a glance.”

“I’m sure you can,” Kestrel said sincerely.

“Jerome-pups, you are too much,” said Andrews.

Kestrel loved them both immediately. She just kept herself from admitting that, as past experiences had shown how her immediate enthusiasm could chase people away.