Chapter Nineteen
MACEY
A letter from Zane to Macey, Thursday, September 19, 2:46 a.m.
My dear Miss Bennet,
I cannot believe I let you drag me outside once again, against Lady Catherine’s wishes. It behoves behuves behoofs —however you spell that word—me to remind you that such actions may lead to scandal. We were not caught this time, but I fear we may not be as lucky in the future.
That said, I am amenable to doing it again tonight, should you so desire.
Yours in scandal,
Mr. Darcy
“BUT WHAT WOULD YOU THINK of a lady who let herself get swept up in someone’s charms, only to question whether it was all real?” I ask my pseudo family at breakfast the next day.
We’re all looking haggard given the ball went until nearly two in the morning. Zane and I were able to sneak out and sneak back in without anyone noticing. There was no sitting in a garden this time, or him goading me into admitting things; we just talked and teased. It felt like old times, only ... different.
There was no sign of any spies or guards, but we tried to keep to the shadows just in case. It only made it more fun. I wonder if Lady Catherine knows that forbidding romantic pursuits only makes them that much more enticing.
I can’t really be sure, but it feels like something has shifted between us. It’s in the way Zane touches me without hesitation, the way he worries about my comfort. The way he sees me in a way I don’t think anyone else ever has. I even caught myself apologizing twice this morning for no reason. It really has become a habit.
I don’t know how Zane is feeling, but for me, the crush is back in full force, and perhaps even bigger than ever. Which is how I find myself at the breakfast table with the other Bennets, trying to subtly ask them for help with Zane, while staying in character. It’s not easy. But I don’t have anyone else to talk to about it. My brief text exchange with Amelia during leisurely pursuits wouldn’t have been enough time to talk about anything, and again, it’s her brother. I’m not sure she’ll ever want to talk about it.
“I would think it natural for her to question, especially if her heart is at stake,“ Jane says softly, her spoon pausing just above her tea. “But I would also hope she allows herself to enjoy the charms, at least for a while. Sometimes, only time can reveal what is true.“
“Well, if she doesn’t want to be swept up in his charms, I’ll happily take her place,” Lydia says, her tone impish.
“Oh yes, count me in,” Kitty adds, and Mary just covers her mouth as she tries to laugh demurely.
“Lydia and Kitty Bennet,” Mrs. Bennet says, her voice a reprimand, but the upward twitch of her lip gives away her amusement.
She looks at me. “Am I to assume we are speaking of the handsome Mr. Wickham?”
I can barely hold back the wrinkling of my nose. Heck no, I’m not talking about that gross man. But I stop myself from the expression because at this point in the story, Elizabeth has been duped by the attractive soldier and thinks Darcy wronged him. Of course, in this Regency reenactment, Wickham was found by the stables sticking his tongue down Caroline Bingley’s throat. Wouldn’t the Bennets be interested in that juicy bit of information.
They might also like to know that in this reenactment, Elizabeth is falling fast for Darcy. Oh gosh, I really need someone to talk to.
“Yes,” I finally say. “I am speaking of Wickham, of course.”
“Oh, but he is handsome,” Lydia says. “I’d like to enjoy some romantic pursuits in the garden with that man.”
“Oh!” Jane says, a hand going to her chest as if she’s appalled by her younger sister’s words.
The door to the house opens, and in walks Lady Catherine, making us all sit a little straighter. Everyone but Lydia, that is. She looks like she’s still dreaming about Wickham.
“I trust you are all in good spirits after last night’s ball,” Lady Catherine says, her voice ringing out like a bell. “I thought it was a most stupendous affair. Was it not?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, though, her tone suggesting she’s already decided it was. This morning, she’s dressed in a periwinkle frock, her wig much more subdued than last night’s towering monstrosity. Her cleavage, however, is ample as always.
“Now,” she continues briskly, clapping her hands together. “Do make haste. We have a busy day ahead of us, and I expect you all to perform with the utmost dedication.”
She launches into the schedule: We begin with Mr. Collins reading to us at Longbourn, followed by a luncheon with him, and then his proposal to me. After that, we’ll reenact the scene where Charlotte tells me she’s getting engaged to Mr. Collins. Then I’ll pack some of my things and move to Rosings Park for the night—specifically Hunsford Parsonage, where I’ll visit Charlotte. The day will end with dinner hosted by none other than the esteemed Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself. We’ll finally get to see her “in action,” although I doubt it will be much different from how she acts now.
A half hour later, we’re sitting in the living room, listening to Mr. Collins read aloud from Fordyce’s Sermons. Unlike the Mr. Collins from the book, this one has our full attention. With his curly hair and handsome face ... Monroe was right—I would totally boil potatoes for him. Mary is practically drooling, her eyes dreamy as she hangs on his every word.
Maybe when I get home, I’ll make myself a T-shirt that says, I’d Eat Boiled Potatoes with Mr. Collins Any Day , but then again, no one there would get the joke.
“As Fordyce so eloquently states,” Mr. Collins intones, his rich, steady voice making the dull text sound like Shakespearean verse, “Modesty in a woman is the crown jewel of her virtues.”
“Indeed,” Kitty sighs as she stares dreamily at the man.
After luncheon—where there were, in fact, boiled potatoes on the menu, though I couldn’t make a joke about it because it wasn’t part of the script and Lady Catherine was watching us from her chair in the corner—it’s time for the proposal.
“Mrs. Bennet, I was hoping to have a private word with Miss Elizabeth, if you would permit it,” Mr. Collins says, starting the scene.
Mrs. Bennet gasps. “Oh, of course, Mr. Collins! Girls, Mr. Bennet, come along. Let us leave Lizzy to hear Mr. Collins’s most important words.”
They go around the corner and eavesdrop, according to the script, and Lady Catherine’s instruction. But not before Lydia says, “Why is she so lucky?” which gets a shush, and a dirty look from Lady Catherine.
“Miss Bennet, I beg you to hear me out with patience, for what I am about to propose is a matter of the utmost gravity,” he says, and then clasps his hands together as if in prayer. “It is my duty as a clergyman to marry, to set a proper example for my parishioners. After much thought—and, I might add, the esteemed guidance of Lady Catherine de Bourgh—I have concluded that you, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, are the most suitable choice to fulfill this role.”
I fold my hands in front of me. “Mr. Collins, I—“
“Please, allow me to finish,” he cuts me off, just like the script says. “While I am fully aware of the modesty of your fortune and the, ah, peculiarities of your family’s situation, I am prepared to overlook these drawbacks. Indeed, I see this as an act of generosity on my part, a sentiment I hope you will one day come to appreciate.”
He takes a step closer to me. “Your refusal, though unlikely, would not deter me, for I am certain your natural modesty would incline you to decline at first. I assure you, however, that your acceptance is the only reasonable course of action.”
“Mr. Collins, I am grateful for the honor of your proposal, but I must decline. I am certain we could never make one another happy,” I tell him.
He blinks rapidly, confusion etched on his face. I have no idea how Lady Catherine convinced this man to work for Pride and Prejudice Park, but his acting skills are phenomenal. I feel like I’m sharing the stage with someone way more experienced than me, like I’m in a real play instead of a reenactment. It’s thrilling and slightly intimidating.
“Decline? Oh, no, no, Miss Bennet. I know young ladies often refuse a gentleman on first proposal out of mere propriety. I am not discouraged.”
“This is not modesty, sir. My refusal is absolute,” I tell him.
“Lizzy! How can you be so cruel? Mr. Collins is a respectable gentleman, and you must accept him,” Mrs. Bennet says, re-entering the room, Mr. Bennet and the girls following behind.
I cross my arms in front of me. “I will not, Mama. I will never marry Mr. Collins.”
Saying no to Mr. Collins so brazenly feels oddly satisfying. Macey Bennet could never—but Elizabeth Bennet can. And maybe that’s the point. Being here this week, I’ve started to feel like a version of myself I haven’t been in so long that I almost forgot she existed. Maybe I’m channeling Lizzy, or maybe it’s all this time with Zane.
“Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting me. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?” Mr. Collins says.
“Yes, or I will never see her again,” Mrs. Bennet says, practically in tears, although her acting job pales in comparison to that of Mr. Collins.
“An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth,” Mr. Bennet says. “From this day, you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do.”
I nod my head toward Mr. Bennet, giving him a thankful smile, and Mr. Collins—again, doing an award-winning performance here—looks totally bewildered.
“Do not worry,” he says. “She will change her mind by morning.” Then he bows stiffly and leaves out the front door.
I HAVEN’T SEEN ZANE ALL day, since all the scenes I’ve done so far haven’t included him.
After the proposal, I sat through the reenactment where Charlotte tells me she will be marrying Mr. Collins and then moved myself to the parsonage. I was sad to leave the rest of the Bennets; I’ve enjoyed our breakfasts together. But I wasn’t all that sad to leave my lonely room. Every time I’m there, I find myself wishing Monroe was with me. I wonder how she’s doing; we’ve had no further updates.
The parsonage is quaint in the best way—whitewashed stone walls, ivy climbing up the sides, and a thatched roof that looks straight out of a storybook. Inside, it’s all low ceilings and cozy furniture, and honestly, I could totally live in a place like this.
Now, wearing a high-waisted, pale-green evening gown, a shawl over my shoulders, I can’t help the bubbling anticipation that I finally get to see Zane, as I walk with Charlotte and Mr. Collins toward the main house for dinner. Today, it’s doubling as Rosings Park, Lady Catherine’s domain, but tomorrow it’ll magically turn into Pemberley.
The dining room, a space I haven’t seen before, is lavishly decorated, with expensive-looking oil paintings on the walls and an oval-shaped table in the center, set with fine china, crystal, and silver. The table is covered with an extravagant spread of roast pheasant, glazed vegetables, and tiered platters of delicate pastries that look too pretty to eat—though that won’t stop me. My stomach rumbles at the sight.
I take it in only for a moment before my eyes find Zane, standing in the corner, talking to a staff member I’ve never seen before dressed to play who I can only assume is Colonel Fitzwilliam, a tall man with messy blond hair and a mustache.
Zane turns toward me, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he attempts to stay in character. I have to admit, Mr. Collins might be a fantastic actor, but Zane’s not half bad himself. He’s really putting in the effort, and it’s making me like him even more—not to mention he looks incredible in that black tailcoat. I’m going to miss seeing him in these costumes when this week is over. I don’t even have any good pictures to capture these memories, aside from a few I’ve sneakily snapped of him when we’ve been in the library together during our “leisurely pursuits.” None of them turned out great, though; the lighting in the library is awful.
Lady Catherine arrives with her daughter, played by a staff member, looking over-the-top in a royal-purple gown and a wig that sits an entire foot above her head, adorned with feathers, silk flowers, and what looks suspiciously like a small bird perched near the top. Her cleavage, which I think we are all used to by now, is in full view.
“Welcome, esteemed guests, to Rosings Park,” she says, standing at the head of the table. “It is, of course, a privilege for you to dine in such distinguished surroundings, and I trust you will comport yourselves accordingly. Please take note that the glasses are real crystal, and I ask that you take the utmost care when using them.”
She looks pointedly around the table. “Now, before we begin, let me remind you that this evening’s conversation should reflect the refinement and decorum expected in such elevated company. Speak of accomplishments, propriety, and matters of substance. Idle chatter is not encouraged, and I shan’t hesitate to intervene if I find the tone wanting.”
She gives us some direction for the reenactment before we all take our assigned seats. Unfortunately for me, I’m not next to Zane, but he’s sitting directly across from me, so at least I have a great view for the duration of dinner. Of all his coats, the black suits him best, making his blue eyes look like the color of the ocean.
“Miss Bennet, I trust you are finding Rosings Park to your liking? Few young ladies of your modest means ever have the opportunity to dine in such surroundings,” Lady Catherine begins the scene, placing a napkin in her lap while glancing at me.
It’s as I suspected—there’s no difference between the Lady Catherine who runs Pride and Prejudice Park and the woman sitting at the table with me.
“Rosings Park is indeed most impressive, Lady Catherine. Your hospitality is unmatched.” I give her a polite smile.
“Yes, I thought as much,” she says. “I trust you have been admiring the windows in the east wing? They are the largest of their kind in Kent. No expense was spared, of course.”
“Indeed, Lady Catherine,” says Mr. Collins. “The craftsmanship is unparalleled. Miss Bennet, did I not tell you that Lady Catherine’s taste is beyond reproach?”
“You did, Mr. Collins,” I say. “And I must admit, you were entirely correct.” I gesture toward the table, my hand sweeping a little farther than I intended, and watch in horror as the crystal wineglass in front of me tips over. It shatters, wine spilling like a crimson tide across the pristine tablecloth.
“DID YOU SEE HER FACE?” Zane asks, laughing through his words. “I thought she was going to pop a blood vessel.”
“And the way she yelled out ‘My scene!’ like that was the most important thing right then,” I say, laughing so hard tears are now streaming from my eyes.
“Well,” Zane says, reaching up to swipe a finger under his, “you did ruin it.”
“Oh my gosh,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat. “I can’t believe I broke her crystal glass. I feel terrible.” I do feel horrible about it and apologized profusely, even though I’m laughing about it now with Zane.
He got me to sneak away from Hunsford Parsonage tonight, which, honestly, didn’t take much convincing. Now we’re in the kitchens at Pemberley—formerly Rosings Park, but only in name now that those scenes are done—where he’s staying for the rest of the week. We’re sitting side by side on the counter, eating ice cream straight from the pint after he found some in the walk-in freezer. I’m still in my green dress, but Zane has taken off his coat, and his cravat hangs around his neck. It’s very Regency sexy. I take back what I said about the black jacket. I like this look best.
Even though I’m slightly nervous to be here, worried we might get caught so brazenly hanging out, I was starving, and this was our best option. “It’s my house, after all,” he said with a wink as we snuck into the massive kitchen, with its polished stone countertops, rows of copper pots hanging from the ceiling, and an industrial-size oven that looks wildly out of place in the otherwise Regency-inspired space.
Technically, it’s also Lady Catherine’s house, but she doesn’t stay on property at night. I think she might be with the staff, or maybe she has a home nearby. Or maybe she goes underground like a troll, praying to Jane Austen while she thinks of more ways to berate us. I did get a very stern, “Miss Bennet, do take care with your hand gestures. A lady should express herself with words, not wild flailing—one might mistake you for signaling a ship to shore,” after everything was cleaned up, before we started the scene over.
I could hardly eat after that, feeling like I messed everything up, and I was so flustered, I kept screwing up my lines, which she also didn’t appreciate.
Lady Catherine ended the night with a declaration that, of all the reenactments this week, tonight’s dinner was “a perfect example of why we must adhere strictly to decorum and precision.” She then said, with a pointed glance at me, “Though I suppose even the best script cannot account for certain ... mishaps.” She’s probably had to deal with worse. This park has been here for a while.
“Switch,” Zane says, and we trade our pints of ice cream like we’ve done this a million times before—because we have. It was a regular ritual back when I lived with their family as a teenager: the three of us—Zane, Amelia, and me—sitting around the kitchen table late at night, swapping pints and debating which flavor was best. It’s been years since we’ve done it, but it’s funny how easily we slip back into it, like no time has passed. Amelia and I still do it, but it’s been a long time since I’ve done this with Zane.
“Oh my gosh, this is good,” I say after taking a bite of the banoffee pie ice cream, which tastes like a creamy blend of bananas, buttery toffee swirls, and crunchy cookie crumbs. “Bet they don’t have banoffee pie ice cream in Costa Rica.”
“Doubt it,” he says after swallowing some of the chocolate ice cream, which is also good but nothing like this one. “I bet they’ve got mango sorbet or something tropical to make up for it.”
“Sure, but you’d have to eat it outside, probably surrounded by bugs.”
“That’s true,” he says. “I wouldn’t have to wear a cravat, though.”
“Valid,” I say. “Why did you want to go there, anyway?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. No reason in particular; it was sort of a last-minute thing.”
“I thought you had a project,” I say, bringing up the original excuse he gave Amelia for why he couldn’t go with me. At the time, I would have taken any excuse he was offering, like a doctor diagnosing him with a rare month-long bout of explosive diarrhea or an asteroid scheduled to land directly on his car. Funny how grateful I am that he’s here now. It wouldn’t be the same without him. And probably not half as fun.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding his head, a sort of sullen look on his face, the corners of his lips pulling down. “I did have a project.”
“Did?” I ask.
He looks at me then. “I was sort of forced to take time off by my dad.”
“Oh.” It’s not much of a response but I’m stuck between wanting to know what happened and not wanting to push him to tell me.
“I messed up at work,” he says.
“Oh,” I say again. Please see previous reasoning.
“Yeah, I brokered a terrible deal. Signed a contract that lost us a lot of money, and then when my dad, who is trying to fix my mess right now, asked me if this is what I really want to do—running Foothills—I couldn’t give him an answer.”
I don’t say “oh” this time, because I don’t know what to say. Zane has been going through something big, and I had no idea.
“So, he told me to take some time to think about it, and on a whim, I booked a trip to Costa Rica and ... well, you know the rest of the story.”
The rest of the story is that he hopped on a plane to Pride and Prejudice Park with me. It would seem Zane’s impulsivity isn’t limited to forbidden, late-night meetups.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I’m sorry—sorry that this is all happening to him, sorry that he somehow ended up here instead, but I stop myself. Zane is right; I do apologize too much, and none of that is my fault.
“Have you ... thought about it?” I ask him.
“Honestly? No,” he says, letting out a chuckle that has a sad-sounding quality to it.
“Well, I mean, you’ve had some very serious reenacting to do,” I say, trying to add some levity.
“Yes, I have.” He lightly knocks his shoulder into mine.
“What do you think you’ll do?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “I can’t see myself doing anything else.”
“Have you ever thought about it?”
He shakes his head. “No. Running Foothills has always been the plan, since I was young.”
“Switch,” he says, holding his carton out for me, but I lean away, keeping the banoffee pie away from him, not wanting to go back to boring chocolate.
“Oh, fine,” I say, relenting. “I guess you do deserve some banoffee pie with all you’ve got going on.”
“That’s true. Don’t be so selfish, Macey,” he says in a teasing voice as we switch pints.
I take a bite of the chocolate, which is definitely disappointing now, after the other flavor. “Well, if you want my opinion—“
“I do,” he cuts in, an earnest look on his face.
“You didn’t let me finish.” I snort out a laugh. “I was going to say, I’m not the person to ask because I’m not even doing what I want to be doing at work.”
“And I’m not going to tell you what I think you should do there, because I already have, and I promised not to push you on things anymore.”
“You literally made me come here tonight,” I say.
He smiles. “You didn’t even argue.”
“That’s true,” I say, and then eat a large spoonful of ice cream.
I didn’t argue. It’s funny—before, my crush on Zane made me act weird around him. But now it’s back in full force, and yet I feel more like myself with him than I have with anyone in a long time. Strange, isn’t it? Is it being here? The essence of Elizabeth Bennet running through me? Or is it just that we’ve gotten back on equal footing here? Maybe that’s been my problem all along—I put him on a pedestal. Maybe I do that with too many people in my life.
“Okay, but if you were in my shoes, what would you do?” he asks, his look indicating that he’d really like to know. I love that he’s asking me, that he seems to honestly value my opinion.
I think about it while eating disappointing chocolate ice cream. But I don’t have to think too hard. I know what I’d do. I’d work for my family’s company out of obligation and hate every second of it, but gaslight myself and everyone around me into thinking it was the best job ever because I wouldn’t want anyone to feel bad and like they put me in that position. And I’d probably apologize to everyone, all the time.
I let out a breath. “I don’t know, Zane. I think if it were me, I’d stay, but I’d be doing it out of obligation and not because I wanted to.”
“Huh,” he says, contemplating my words.
“But we’re different that way.”
“I guess,” he says, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
“So ... what do you want?” I ask him.
“What do I want?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “What does Zane Porter want?”
The question triggers something in him. His face takes on a more serious look, and his eyes roam my face. It’s as if the answer to what he wants is ... me. Which is crazy. Ridiculous, even.
I think he’s about to lean toward me, to erase the distance between us, but instead he shakes his head, like he’s coming out of a trance.
“Switch,” he says, handing me his carton, and I give him mine.
The moment—whatever it was—is gone.