Chapter Fourteen
ZANE
An email from Zane’s assistant, Molly, to Zane, Monday, September 16, 7:35 p.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Question
Zane,
This is your dad. Did you really think I wouldn’t see this? I’m getting all your emails. Would you please just enjoy your vacation?
Also, Mom said you didn’t go to Costa Rica after all and are now playing Mr. Darcy with Macey at that park? I’m not going to lie, Son. That sounds awful.
–Dad
“THESE ARE INDEED UNPRECEDENTED TIMES here at Pride and Prejudice Park,” Lady Catherine declares, her expression grave as she stands beside a composed but sullen Mr. Godfrey. “In all the illustrious years of our establishment, we have never had the misfortune of anyone taken away by paramedics. Naturally, we extend our heartfelt wishes to Miss Monroe Wilde and His Grace during this troubling time, and rest assured, you shall all be kept informed as updates arise.”
The mood in the room is heavy, a mixture of sad faces and sniffles—most of the sniffling coming from Macey, who’s sitting next to me. With my arm around her shoulders, I give her a little squeeze. My heart has finally stopped racing, and part of me is grateful I’m not wearing my watch because it would have definitely been giving me warnings earlier.
Lady Catherine continues, her tone firm and resolute as she nods toward us. “But, as they say, the show must go on. We must rally and press forward. The Meryton Assembly is scheduled for this evening, with townsfolk already engaged to lend authenticity to the occasion. Regrettably, it cannot be canceled at this late hour, nor postponed until tomorrow. Therefore, we shall take a brief respite, partake of a light luncheon, and then return to our preparations. I am certain this is precisely what Elizabeth Bennet herself would expect of us—grace under duress.”
“Is she for real?” Macey says quietly to me.
“Oh, she’s real all right,” I say. But honestly, are any of us surprised by this? It was only minutes after the paramedics came that she was trying to convince his grace, or whatever he goes by, to stay on as Darcy. The woman is a total nut job.
Macey sits up a little taller, opening her mouth as if to say something about how crass the woman sounds, and for a moment I think she might actually do it, but I see when she’s changed her mind, her shoulders falling as she leans back onto my arm.
I feel like, for Macey, the fear of the runaway horse has been overshadowed by Monroe’s fall. I’d think after that ordeal she’d be more shaken up, but she seems to be more concerned about what came after.
I, on other hand, am not quite over it. I think that’s why I’ve still got my arm around her. I can’t seem to stop touching her, like if I don’t, she might slip away—as if I need the reassurance that she’s really here, safe and unhurt.
When I saw her on that runaway horse, I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my entire life. I thought for sure something horrible was going to happen to her, and there was nothing I could do. The relief I felt when the mostly incompetent stable master finally slowed Thunderbolt down was so overwhelming, I’ll probably never forget that feeling. I also won’t be able to forget Macey’s frightened face and the way she trembled and cried when I held her in my arms.
Just thinking about it now has me tugging her a bit closer on the small couch we’re sharing. She turns her head toward me, giving me a strange look, probably wondering why I’m being so touchy, since I’ve never been like this before. Not that I can remember, at least. I should probably stop, but I’m not ready to let her go just yet.
“Now,” Lady Catherine says, her commanding tone drawing all eyes to her, “as His Grace has accompanied Miss Monroe to the hospital, we are left without our Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. While our staff stands ever ready to assume any role at a moment’s notice, I cannot help but feel that such pivotal characters as these warrant special consideration. Perhaps among you, there are those who would rise to the occasion and take on these esteemed roles, befitting the central figures of our tale?”
I glance at Macey to see her reaction, wondering if she might be even the slightest bit excited at the prospect because, of course, the part of Elizabeth has to go to her. It only makes sense. But she only blinks rapidly toward Lady Catherine, as if unsure she’s hearing correctly.
“Do I have any volunteers?” Lady Catherine asks, looking around the room.
“I could do it!” Lydia pipes up in her thick Cockney accent. “I’d make a right old great Elizabeth, wouldn’t ya say?” The laughter’s muted—not like the big belly laughs Lydia usually gets.
“Thank you, Lydia,” Lady Catherine says, and it’s clear by her expression that she would rather anyone but her play the role. “Anyone else?”
“I’ll play Mr. Darcy,” the guy playing Wickham says, as if he thinks this is obviously the best choice. The man is a loser. I don’t really even know anything about him, and yet he still gets on my nerves.
“Why, yes,” Lady Catherine says, not sounding convinced. “But then who would play Mr. Wickham?”
Did she not just say her staff could take on any role?
“Anyone else?” she asks, an almost begging quality to her voice. It’s obvious she doesn’t want the guy anywhere near the part of Fitzwilliam Darcy.
I turn to Macey. “Say something.”
“Don’t start,” she says.
“Macey, don’t you want to play Elizabeth? You’ve been memorizing lines for months.”
She shakes her head.
“Why not?”
She leans her head toward me, her voice barely above a whisper. “It doesn’t seem right. I’m the reason Monroe is in the hospital right now. I don’t deserve to play the part.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I tell her. “Eliz—Monroe didn’t have to go after you. It’s not your fault.”
“Yes, but if I hadn’t ridden the horse in the first place, she wouldn’t have felt compelled to try to help me,” she says.
“You don’t know that,” I counter. “She could have fallen off her horse for a multitude of reasons.”
“I’d feel too guilty.”
“This isn’t about replacing Monroe,” I argue. “It’s about keeping the spirit of what she wanted going. She loves Pride and Prejudice , right?” I don’t really know this for sure, but she must since she wanted to be here. “Wouldn’t she want someone passionate about it to carry on the character, rather than letting it go to someone on staff? Or that skeezy guy playing Wickham.”
Lady Catherine is still looking around the room with big eyes, begging for any other volunteers. “Do we have any others?”
“She definitely wouldn’t want him to play Darcy,” she says softly. “I don’t know, though.”
“What do you want?” I ask her.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you want?” I repeat, my question coming out sharper this time.
“I ...” She fidgets with her dress, pinching the fabric between her fingers.
“Macey,” I say, trying to urge her on. Time is of the essence here.
“I want to play Elizabeth,” she says, the words rushing out of her mouth.
“Good,” I say, unable to hide my smile. “Now, say it louder.”
“I WANT TO PLAY ELIZABETH,” Macey says, springing to her feet. Then, realizing what she’s just done, she slaps both hands over her mouth and sinks back down onto the couch.
The room is silent.
“Oh, well,” Lady Catherine says, arching a brow. “You needn’t bellow it, Miss Bennet. Enthusiasm is admirable, but a true lady tempers it with poise.”
“Sorry,” Macey mumbles, her cheeks now a vivid red. She shoots me a dirty look, like this is entirely my fault. And honestly, it kind of is. But I can’t help being impressed that she actually did it. Even if that does mean all the time I spent learning lines last night was a waste and I’ll have to memorize more tonight. At least I’ll be more familiar with these lines.
“Volume aside,” Lady Catherine says with a sharp nod, “this will do nicely. In fact, it is quite perfect. Very well; it is decided. Jane and Bingley shall now assume the roles of Elizabeth and Darcy, and I shall arrange for staff to step into the roles of Jane and Bingley. A most fitting arrangement, if I do say so myself.”
I knock my shoulder lightly into a still-embarrassed Macey, who’s now got her hands placed on both cheeks, trying to cool them.
“I hope you understand the honor of this opportunity,” Lady Catherine says, giving us a very pointed look, her voice serious. “The roles of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy are the very heart of our endeavor here—a reflection of Jane Austen’s finest work. I trust you will approach them with the dignity, precision, and devotion they deserve. Do not disappoint me—or Miss Austen.”
I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes.
Lady Catherine claps her hands once, the sharp sound cutting through the room. “Now, then,” she says, her tone brisk and authoritative. “Take a moment to compose yourselves and change out of your riding clothes. Following a light luncheon in the dining hall, we shall reconvene here in the drawing room for a lesson in the art of letter writing—an essential element of Austen’s world. This task is not to be taken lightly; it requires care, precision, and the utmost reverence for Miss Austen’s legacy.”
She pauses, letting her gaze sweep across the room. “Afterward, we shall proceed with our reenactment, beginning at Longbourn with the announcement that Netherfield is let. I expect nothing short of your absolute dedication and full commitment to your roles.”
Her tone is brisk, as if the events of the morning are already a distant memory. The sound of chatter fills the room as the other guests get up to leave, but Macey and I remain seated on the couch.
“I can’t believe I did that.”
“It felt good, though, right?”
She reaches up and punches me lightly in the arm. “No, it didn’t,” she says, irritation in her voice. I kind of like seeing this fire in her. It’s very attractive.
“Macey,” I say, tilting my head. “If you didn’t say something, someone else would have taken the role, and did you really want that?”
She lets out a breath. “I guess not. Everything feels tainted now, with Monroe going to the hospital. I just don’t know how to feel.”
“I know this isn’t turning out how you wanted,” I say.
She sniffles but doesn’t look at me. “It’s not.”
“We’re here, though; shouldn’t we make the best of it?”
“Honestly, I kind of just want to go home,” she says.
The defeat in her voice rankles, more than I want to admit. What I want right now is to somehow make this right for her. But I can’t magically go back in time so Monroe doesn’t fall off her horse.
“How about this,” I say. “Let’s stay through the day, do our best to make Jane Austen and Lady Catherine proud, and then if you still feel the same tomorrow, we’ll go home.”
She nods. “Okay,” she says, her voice quiet. “We can do that.”
“Come on,” I say, standing and holding out my hand. “Let’s gather our wits, as Lady Catherine suggested.” This gets me a small smile. “I’ll walk you to your house so you can change.”
Macey hesitates for a moment before placing her hand in mine, and we walk like that through the house, out the back door, and into the gardens.
The afternoon air is still cool, but the sun’s starting to burn off the morning haze. The gardens outside the main house are massive, featuring meticulously trimmed hedges and flower beds still bursting with colors. Statues of Greek gods are dotted throughout, and at the center of the garden is a stone fountain with a stone bench.
Macey doesn’t let go of my hand as we walk, and I don’t let go either. Have we ever held hands like this before? I don’t know. But I think I like it.
We’re both silent as we stroll along the gravel path, and I look over at Macey. Her demeanor just looks sad. Her shoulders are slumped, and her eyes are distant. I want to say something—anything—to cheer her up, but I can’t think of what to say.
“So, Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” I say in my British accent, attempting to at least lighten the mood. “Are you excited for the assembly tonight?”
She gives me a half-hearted smile. “Sure,” she says, unconvincingly.
I stop walking, turning to face her. “Macey,” I say gently, tugging on her hand. “We don’t know how things are going to turn out. Monroe could be just fine. Hopefully, we’ll get an update soon. But in the meantime, we can’t sit around here dwelling on what-ifs.”
She nods, but her eyes are downcast. “I know,” she says. “You’re right. I just ... feel so bad.” Her eyes well up again.
Without thinking, I pull her into my arms once more. She doesn’t resist, her head resting against my shoulder as she lets out a shaky breath. It should feel strange to keep hugging her like this, to keep touching her, but it doesn’t. She fits so perfectly in my arms.
“This sucks,” she says against my chest.
“Yeah,” I agree, my voice soft.
“Thank you,” she says after a bit.
“For what?”
She pulls her head back so she can see me. “For being so understanding, and for trying to help me feel better. And ... for not saying I told you so after the horse thing.”
I pinch my brow. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Um, yes you would,” she says. “Remember that time when we went sledding and I cut my head open?”
“Yeah?” I say. I remember that day well. We’d driven up to Tahoe after a big snowstorm to go sledding, and the trip was cut short because Macey had to be taken to the urgent care.
“You told me the hill was too steep, and I didn’t listen. I went flying down and crashed into the bushes, cutting open my head. The first thing you said to me was I told you so .”
“I was fifteen. I’ve matured since then.”
“There was also the rollerblading incident, the shopping cart incident, the microwave incident.”
“You almost burned your house down,” I say, in my defense.
“I could go on.”
Hearing her tell stories from our past makes something churn in my stomach. That Macey, the mischievous one who wanted to try everything and didn’t care about the consequences ... where did she go? She may have hopped on a horse, but that was only because it was expected of her.
“Well, you’re welcome for not saying it this time,” I say, and this gets her to let out a soft laugh.
I’m happy to hear it. I want to do more to keep lifting her spirits.
But for now, I grab her by the hand and walk her back to the house where she’s staying.
Once we’re both changed out of our riding clothes and into new costumes—Macey in a pale-pink gown that makes her eyes sparkle, and me in a navy-colored waistcoat, courtesy of Dunley—we head back to the main house.
When we enter the dining hall, the rest of the group is already sitting down for lunch. The food is simple: some cold cuts, bread, and fruit. Nobody’s really talking much, though. The whole morning’s been a mess, and it’s pretty clear it’s still weighing on everyone.
Macey sits next to me and is mostly quiet, only picking at her food. I think the only thing that will cheer her up now would be to find out that Monroe is okay. Hopefully we’ll get some news soon.
After lunch, we return to the drawing room, where Lady Catherine launches into a dramatic lecture on the art of letter writing.
“In Jane Austen’s world,” Lady Catherine begins, now in a lilac-colored fluffy dress, her voice commanding the attention of the room, “letter writing is elevated far beyond mere correspondence—it is an art form, a reflection of one’s wit, sentiment, and decorum. Every word must carry purpose, every phrase must resonate with refinement. You must approach this task with intention, ensuring that your letters embody the elegance and authenticity that Austen herself might admire. They are not just part of the story—they are the story.”
“This is ridiculous,” I say mostly to myself, but Macey must catch it, because she snorts out a laugh.
We’re all sitting at these little writing desks they’ve set up around the room. Mine is tiny, and I feel like a giant at a dollhouse table. There’s barely any room to write. Each one has a candelabra on it—because, I don’t know, they wrote by candlelight back then or something. But it’s still daylight, and the room is already lit up by fancy electric chandeliers, so the candles are kind of pointless.
We each have our own writing supplies: cream-colored paper, quills with ink, some other smaller papers that Macey says are for blotting up the ink, and the coolest item is the wax and a stamp. My mom had a wax and stamp set when I was a kid, and I got in trouble more than once for playing with it.
“Now, I would ask that you compose a letter, something your character might write,” Lady Catherine says, instructing us like a teacher in front of the class, “and approach it as though your very honor depends upon it. Choose your words with precision, let your penmanship mirror the grace of the era, and imbue each sentence with the spirit of Regency England. These letters must be more than mere props—they must breathe life into your characters, as if they stepped straight from Austen’s pages.”
“Bloody ‘ell,” Kitty says out loud, and we all turn to see that she’s got ink all over her hands, her ink pot spilled on her desk.
“Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine says, her tone sharp with displeasure. “See to it that you compose yourself at once and mind your tongue. A lady ought never to speak in such a manner.”
After some instruction on how to use the quill and ink and practicing a few words (mine look mostly like chicken scratch), we are left to write a letter.
“I have no idea what to write,” I say to Macey, who’s nibbling on her bottom lip as she uses her quill with ease, like she’s done this before. Actually, she probably has.
She looks over at me. “Pretend you’re Mr. Darcy and write Elizabeth your feelings.”
I’m glad to see her looking less sad right now as she concentrates on her letter writing. I hope she can find a way to have fun despite everything that’s happened.
I’m not sure why it’s become important to me that Macey has a better time. Maybe it’s Amelia’s words that she needs this win, and then having to watch her deal with disappointment after disappointment since we got here. But for some reason, it’s become my sole purpose to make sure this trip goes well for her. I can’t explain why I want it so badly—I just do.
“Right,” I mutter under my breath. Like it’s just that easy to channel Mr. Darcy and spill my feelings. The guy barely talks in the movie. How am I supposed to know what’s going on in his head? Maybe I should have read the book. Amelia has like ten copies, all different print versions in her room. Maybe I will when I get back. Or, I’ll have had enough of anything Pride and Prejudice to last for the rest of my life.
My first instinct is to give up and scribble something generic, but then I just start writing. Not a letter to Elizabeth, but to Macey.
When I’m done, I seal it with the wax—which is just as fun as it was when I was a kid. I should get myself a set when I get home. Then I hand the letter to her.
Macey raises her brow in question as she takes it. “What’s this for?”
“It’s my feelings,” I tell her.
Her cheeks turn the softest pink. “Don’t you mean Darcy’s feelings?”
“Sure,” I say, and then wink at her, something I don’t think I’ve ever done to Macey. Her cheeks turn a shade darker, and she quickly looks down at the letter, fiddling with the edges like she’s not sure what to do with it. But there’s a small smile tugging at her lips, a little of the Macey I know—and am finding I’ve really missed—coming back to me.