Chapter Twelve
ZANE
An email from Zane to his assistant, Molly, Monday, September 16, 7:15 p.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Question
Molly,
I know my dad told you not to, but can you keep me informed about the situation with Summit?
Also, if you could forward me my emails, even though you were told not to, that would be great.
Thanks so much.
–Zane
MY SLEEP LAST NIGHT WAS rough—not because the bed was uncomfortable or because the temperature in Netherfield, where I’m staying, was too cold, but because I was in a different environment. It always takes me a few nights to adjust to any new place. I also stayed up too late working on lines.
I will say this: Today, so far, may be a little—or a lot—more luxurious than it would have been in Costa Rica. I had planned to stay at a small hotel, sit on the beach, do some hiking, and see where things took me. There was no plan for food or activities. This trip has everything planned to the minute, everyone is at our service, and last night my valet, Dunley, literally helped me get undressed. I don’t think I’ve been helped out of my clothes in ... well, a long time.
Then this morning, he was waiting outside my door to help me get dressed. It was oddly nice having someone pick out my outfit for me. A man could get used to this. Today, I’m in a crisp white shirt with a high-standing collar and ruffles at the cuffs—which I’m not a fan of. My waistcoat is a dark, forest green, and my charcoal-gray riding jacket fits snugly. After breakfast, the first thing on the schedule is horseback riding, something I haven’t done in years.
My boots, tall and polished, are perfect for the stables, and even more uncomfortable than the ones I was wearing yesterday. Dunley tied my cravat less tightly after I insisted, though he muttered something about Lady Catherine liking it the other way. I don’t care what Lady Catherine likes—I’m not suffocating today.
Yesterday, despite the chaos in the beginning, wasn’t nearly as bad as I had expected. In fact, it was actually kind of fun, though I don’t know if I’d ever admit that out loud. The etiquette lesson felt like borderline torture, but the dancing made up for it—even though I’m terrible at it. I stepped on more than a few toes, especially Macey’s. Or Jane’s, I guess. I haven’t been very good at calling her that, and Lady Catherine reprimanded me more than once.
The food’s even been good, though a bit different from what I’m used to, since my meals as of late have been mostly the microwave variety or takeout. Last night we had roasted duck and salmon, along with some kind of jellied dish they called aspic, which I wasn’t brave enough to try. There was also a side of buttered turnips that I didn’t hate as much as I thought I would. And then for dessert, I ate this gingerbread cake that was honestly one of the better things I’ve eaten in a long time.
Later, when we played whist, I was surprised to find I didn’t mind it. It’s a game of strategy and skill, and I enjoyed the challenge. The clear rules for the game offered a sense of control—something I haven’t been feeling all that much of lately.
During our “leisurely pursuits,” which was in the library where we did our character briefings, I logged into my work email on my phone and there was ... nothing. My dad must have told my assistant to hold my emails, knowing I’d check them instead of staying on task. Imagine his surprise when he finds out I’ve been working on perfecting a three-quarter turn in a country dance and mastering a finesse in whist rather than determining what my future plans are. If anything, this trip so far has kept me from really thinking about my future at all, which could be good or bad. The jury is still out.
I think what I’m liking the most is not having to make any decisions here. It’s refreshing to be part of something where the only effort required is showing up and playing my part. No strategy sessions. No PowerPoint presentations. No leadership team meetings that could have been taken care of with a simple email. Hell, I don’t even have to be Zane here at all, if I don’t want to. I’m Mr. Bingley now. I smile and talk about the weather. It’s so much easier than being myself with all I have weighing on me.
Breakfast this morning is at the main house, which doubles as Pemberley and Rosings Park—Lady Catherine’s estate—with Netherfield being the farthest house away. But I enjoy the crisp morning as I walk there. It’s quieter than I was expecting; except for some grounds staff, I’m by myself. The only noise is the crunch of the gravel path under my rigid and already painful boots. The air smells like rain, and the breeze bites enough to make me shove my hands into the pockets of my riding jacket.
When I enter the dining hall, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee hits me first, followed by something buttery and just out of the oven. My stomach growls. I immediately spot Lady Catherine—in some fluffy, plum-colored getup and an even bigger wig atop her head—sitting at a table with the woman playing my sister Caroline, and immediately veer away, not wanting another lecture.
Scanning the room, I can’t find Macey among the guests already filling their plates at the buffet. Feeling awkward standing here waiting for her, I decide to grab a plate, and pile it with scones, eggs, and bacon, then find a seat at the long table, choosing a spot farther away from everyone else. This way I can avoid chatting in character. Perhaps on this Tuesday morning, Mr. Bingley needs some alone time.
Macey walks in with Elizabeth only a minute later, and I can’t help but smile when I see her. A sense of comfort settles over me as I watch her follow Elizabeth to the table and take a seat beside her. She’s wearing a navy skirt and jacket, her red hair done up in some sort of twist, and she looks beautiful. But she also looks distracted, like something is bothering her.
Curious, I grab my plate and go around the table, taking the empty seat next to her.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” I say, staying in character.
“Mr. Bingley,” she says when she sees me, giving me a quick nod of her head. She doesn’t look happy. In fact, she looks a little pale.
Worried, I lean in toward her. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she says, fidgeting with the sleeve of her jacket.
“Is it the corset?” I regret saying the word because that same vision of Macey wearing one comes into my mind.
“What?” She looks at me, her brows pulled downward, but then they move back up her forehead when she remembers our conversation yesterday. “Oh, no, that isn’t it.”
“Macey,” I say, for only her ears. “What’s wrong?”
She lets out a breath. “We have to ride horses next,” she says.
I lean in with a questioning look on my face. “And?”
I lean in even closer, and I get a whiff of roses and something softer, maybe vanilla. It’s subtle but enough to make me lose my train of thought for a second.
“Miss Bennet, Mr. Bingley,” Lady Catherine’s voice rings out, and we instantly pull away from each other. “I trust you understand that such familiarity is highly unseemly unless one’s intentions are properly declared. We wouldn’t want to give the other guests the wrong impression, now would we?”
“Sorry, Your Ladyship,” Macey says, and the woman playing my sister snorts out a laugh, at which Lady Catherine turns to her, giving her a stern look, making her lower her head, looking scolded.
“And what, say you, is the problem with riding horses ... dear Miss Bennet?” I say, still quietly, but this time using my accent and sounding like a moron. I really am terrible at improvising.
The corners of her lips move upward for a brief second before dropping.
“Thank you for your inquiry, Mr. Bingley. I must confess, I have harbored a fear of horses since I was but a young girl.” She gives me a sad smile.
I look over to Lady Catherine to see if she’s paying attention to us still, but instead her eyes are shooting daggers at Mr. Darcy, who’s now seated beside Elizabeth, having what looks to be an intense conversation.
I take this chance to be Zane and Macey again. “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper.
She gives me wide why-aren’t-you-getting-this eyes. “Don’t you remember?” she asks, whispering back. “That time you, Amelia, and I went horseback riding up at Apple Hill and I fell off? It knocked the wind out of me.”
I shake my head, not remembering any of it.
“Well, ever since then, I’ve had a massive fear of horses and the thought of riding one. And now I have to today.”
“Macey,” I say. “It’ll be fine.”
“Will it?” She looks at me with glistening eyes.
“You could tell them you don’t want to,” I say. “You don’t have to do it.”
Her eyes widen. “Of course I do. That’s what Jane does—rides to Netherfield, gets sick, and stays there. It’s canon.”
I hold back an eye roll. I wish I were paid a dollar for every time Lady Catherine referred to things not being “canon.” I would make a lot of money.
“This is a reenactment. You could just walk there instead.”
“Jane doesn’t walk to Netherfield. Elizabeth does.”
“So what?”
She squares her shoulders. “I will ride the horse. It’ll be fine.”
“Macey,” I say again, trying to reason with her, but she only shakes her head at me.
“Mr. Darcy,” Lady Catherine calls out, causing Macey and me to move away from each other once again. “As my honored guest and nephew, I must insist you sit next to me. I must have my share of the conversation.”
“I wish to remain near Elizabeth,” the duke responds, not moving.
The awkwardness of the conversation silences the room, and I expect Lady Catherine—now standing and red-faced—to pontificate on the importance of proper seating arrangements and respecting the hierarchy of her table, or some other nonsense.
Instead, she takes a steadying breath. “Now that we are all here, let us go over our schedule for the day. But before we begin,” she says, a stern look on her face. “A most alarming report has come to my attention this morning. One of the watchmen told me he heard a romantic pursuit last night near the stables.”
I look at Macey, who gives me a small, imperceptible shake of her head, like she knows something about this and will tell me later.
“This we can’t have. It besmirches all that Jane Austen stood for. I must remind you that we will not tolerate sneaking out at night. Well-bred, single ladies and gentlemen must never be alone with each other. Remember, you promised to abide by the rules and immerse yourself in the Pride and Prejudice experience.” Her dark eyes look around the table, and they land near Elizabeth.
Well, that’s interesting. It’s good that Elizabeth doesn’t have Macey’s tell-all skin tone, or she probably would have blushed a dark shade of red at this point.
“Now let us go over our schedule for today,” Lady Catherine says, moving us along. “After breakfast, we will meet at the stables for a quick course on outdoor etiquette, and then we will immediately progress to riding lessons. Once riding lessons are over, we will return for tea and a light luncheon, followed by rehearsals for key scenes. I hope you each have memorized your lines. It is imperative that you do this to make sure all our guests have the best possible Pride and Prejudice experience. Do not let me or Jane Austen down.”
These over-the-top tirades are exhausting. And we still have an entire week to endure them.
“Then after that we will begin our reenactment. The first scene will be at Longbourn, where we will enact that Netherfield has been let,” she says. “And tonight, we will have our first dance, the Meryton assembly, where you will have the opportunity to perform the dances you were taught. Please note many locals who reside near the estate will be joining us in character and costume so you may experience the full effect of the dance.”
Everyone around us claps, and I join in out of obligation. Dancing around a bunch of strangers does not sound fun to me. I look to Macey, wondering if the upcoming assembly has lifted her spirits some, but she’s barely clapping.
“I think that is all. Tuck in,” Lady Catherine says.
“I don’t think I can eat,” Macey says, holding her stomach.
“It will be fun,” Elizabeth says to her, and I’m assuming she knows about Macey’s aversion to horses. I wonder how it’s possible I didn’t know this about her until just now.
“You also don’t have to go through with it,” I tell her, before ripping off a piece of scone and wondering if I’m even supposed to be doing this with my hands. Did they eat scones with a knife and fork in the Regency era?
“You said you wouldn’t try to push me,” she snaps.
“Yeah, but—“
“So don’t,” she says.
I back off. Because she’s right—I did tell her I wouldn’t push her. Besides, she’s clearly determined, even if it makes zero sense to me.
After breakfast, we head toward the stables. Macey walks stiffly beside me, still fidgeting with her sleeves. She’s added gloves and a matching navy hat with a feather to her outfit, and somehow, she looks even prettier with her red hair peeking out from under the brim, framing her face.
At the stables, Lady Catherine stands in front of us under an umbrella held by a staff member, her plum-colored gown billowing dramatically with every move.
“Regency society expected women to ride daintily and gracefully,” she begins. “I expect no less from you. There will be no riding the horses astride or showing off ankles or calves.”
“Yeah, that’d be a real shame for someone to see these sexy ankles. All the boys would come running,” Lydia says, lifting her skirt to show just a bit of ankle and drawing barely stifled laughter from the group. She and the woman playing Kitty—apparently sisters in real life—have been keeping things entertaining, and Lady Catherine seems to hate it, which makes me like them even more.
“I’m sure many of you think riding sidesaddle is uncomfortable,” Lady Catherine continues, not bothering to dignify that one with a comment or even a reprimand, “but the fact of the matter is, riding sidesaddle is quite comfortable, and you can be just as in control as when riding astride.”
“Then why don’t the men do it?” Kitty chimes in.
Lady Catherine ignores her as well. Instead, she gestures to a female staff member, who demonstrates mounting a brown, spotted horse with the help of the stable master and a block, all while in a skirt. The process looks seamless, though I catch Macey twitching nervously as she watches with Elizabeth standing next to her, offering her comforting words.
“Everyone, choose a horse,” Lady Catherine calls. “Immerse yourself in the experience. Become your character.”
“Become my character. Become my character,” Macey repeats, under her breath.
I lean down and whisper in her ear, “I know I said I wouldn’t say anything, but come on, Macey. You don’t have to do this.”
She turns to me with stern eyes. “Stop telling me what I don’t need to do. I can ride a freaking horse.”
"Miss Bennet, Mr. Bingley," Lady Catherine says, and we both look over at her. I’m expecting a lecture, but instead, she says, "As Jane, your horse has already been selected—one that befits your role. Mr. Bingley, there’s one for you as well, if you so choose.”
She waves toward two footmen standing a few yards away near the fence line, partially shaded by the trees overhead. One holds the reins of a jet-black stallion with a jagged, white blaze shaped like a lightning bolt on his forehead, while the other has a brown horse that looks a lot more docile in comparison.
We both walk toward them, Macey’s rigid posture making her look like she’s walking toward her imminent death.
“This here is Thunderbolt,” the stable master says, joining us by the horses and the footmen. “And this one here”—he continues patting the mane of the brown horse—“is Dandelion.”
“Hello, Dandelion,” Macey says, taking a tentative step toward the horse.
“Oh no, Miss Bennet, Thunderbolt here is your horse,” the stable master says.
Her eyes go wider than I think I’ve ever seen them. “Thu—Thunderbolt?”
“Yes, miss. He’s got a good temperament, that one. Strong and steady.”
“Oh,” she says. “It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden a horse,” she tells him.
“Thunderbolt will be good for ya, then,” he says, but then furrows his brow as he takes in the lack of coloring in her face. “Or I can find ya another one? It’ll take some time to see what we’ve still got in the stables.”
“No, no. It’s fine,” she says, shaking her head. “Thunderbolt is perfect, thank you.” She gives him a very toothy grin.
“Macey,” I say, unable to stop myself from trying again.
“I’m fine,” she says, turning her toothy grin on me. It’s kind of frightening.
“What about Dandelion?” I ask the man, thinking he might be a better option for her to ride.
“Well, he’s good too, just gets a little spooked sometimes, that’s all. But he’ll be just fine for ya, Mr. Bingley.”
“Right,” I say, feeling sudden nerves of my own. It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden a horse, and I certainly wouldn’t know how to handle a spooked one.
After asking about our experience, and a very pale-faced Macey informing him she has none, the stable master gives her some basic instruction, focusing on how to sit so she can keep her balance.
“You ready, miss?” he asks. Macey gives a small nod, looking like she’s about to throw up the breakfast she didn’t eat.
Taking her by her gloved hand, he helps her onto the mounting block and up onto the saddle, then helps her adjust her skirts and stirrups while the footman holds on to Thunderbolt’s reins. To the stable master’s credit, the large horse does seem pretty steady.
With the help of a footman, I mount my horse, and then they instruct us on how to guide them, information that starts coming back to me from my previous riding experience. Apparently it’s like riding a bicycle; my brain hasn’t forgotten.
I look over to Macey, still pale as she practices guiding Thunderbolt with gentle tugs and shifts of her weight, like the stable master is instructing her to do. It looks hard to do it, balancing one leg hooked over the pommel and the other resting along the horse’s side. This really was a stupid practice. And, of course, Macey wouldn’t be allowed to ride astride during the reenactment because that wouldn’t be canon .
After a bit of work, she looks like she’s getting it, and with a nod from the stable master, he lets us walk the horses a short distance from him.
“You okay?” I ask, riding next to her, the soft breeze moving through my hair and teasing the feather on Macey’s hat.
“I ... think so,” she says, looking like she’s really concentrating.
“You’re doing it,” I say, impressed.
She lets out a shaky breath. “I am.” The horse lifts its head, making a raspberry sound, and Macey lets out a tiny whimper.
“You’re fine,” I say in a calm voice.
“Am I?”
I chuckle. “I’ve got to hand it to you: You said you would do it, and here you are.”
“Here I am,” she says. “Do you think I can be done now?”
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the pasture. The grass is a mix of green and gold, droplets of water still clinging to some of the blades as they shift in the breeze, with bushes of little red berries breaking up the view. “You’re riding a horse; you might as well go for a short walk.”
“Okay,” she says, giving me a nod, and off we go.