The First Day of Christmas #3
“And, of course, the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook added hastily.
“You bet,” said Kestrel.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook opened Kestrel’s file. “So, you prefer to use your middle name?”
Kestrel nodded. Her free-spirited mother had named her after her grandmother Sarah in an attempt to gain favor with her conservative father, who disapproved of pregnancy out of wedlock. Ultimately it’d made no difference, since he’d died soon after his only grandchild’s birth.
“Some ladies prefer to completely be themselves here, in which case we would call you Miss Kestrel Klein. Some wish to play a part and choose a new name. And some try to find a balance between their true selves and their fictional selves—”
“That’s me,” said Kestrel. “I’m that one. The limbo in between truth and fantasy.”
“Very well. You may keep your first name and take on a new surname.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook handed her a printed list of suggested surnames in alphabetical order. “Oh, do not select ‘Cox,’ if you’d be so kind. We have learned how . . . er, distracting that word can be to Miss Charming.”
Kestrel flipped the pages to the S names, because the curve of the letter seemed to beckon her like a finger. She scanned down—Scroggs, Shirley, Sparks . . . “Spinster? I love it. I’ll take it.”
After all, at age twenty-nine, she would certainly be a spinster in Austen’s world. And she intended never to marry anyway. Let her name be a celebration of the fact that, unlike in the nineteenth century, women today could be unmarried and still live a life of their choosing.
“Every guest at Pembrook Park is assigned a love interest. Or rather, at Miss Charming’s suggestion, now we offer two love interests per guest. Since you have already become convivial with Colonel Andrews and Captain Relish—”
“Captain Relish?”
“Er, Jerome, as you know him,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook clarified, with some distress at having to say his real name to a guest, “I do not think it wise for either of them to be part of your romantic story.”
My romantic story? That wondrous sensation poured into Kestrel again, and she sat up straighter, trying to expand, to make room for it all before she overflowed. She was going to be the lady on the brochure. She was getting a story! A romantic one at that.
“That’s . . . great, so great,” said Kestrel.
She had a friendly, sisterly feeling for Andrews and Jerome, and she didn’t want to pretend to be in love with them.
But she was going to pretend to be in love with someone.
She had danced till she feared her limbs would snap off and roll away.
She was going all in. “Maybe we could say the three of us grew up together and are practically siblings?”
“Very well. But I maintain a strict code in this house. Women and men must not touch each other, apart from the necessary social graces such as taking a gentleman’s arm while walking or his hand in a dance.
This entire endeavor is a social experiment, if you will, and it only succeeds if we make great efforts to be Regency appropriate.
Even our most iconoclastic guests report that following the Regency rules of etiquette serves to enhance their experience. ”
“Understood,” said Kestrel, though just the word rules made her skin feel itchy.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook narrowed her eyes. “A warning. Do not confuse the role-play with reality. The actors are very good, and their pretend love can feel real. At times, even they might become confused. But it is not fair to them if it . . . goes too far. To be frank, I counsel you to avoid physical intimacy at all costs.”
Now Kestrel was dying to know more. Had things gone too far in the past?
She barely paid attention as Mrs. Wattlesbrook went over schedules and rules, etiquette and expectations.
She was still half dreaming as she followed the proprietress into another room, full of hanging clothes.
A stout woman of fifty years was dressed as a Regency-era maid, in a brown dress under a white apron, a white cap over her black hair.
“Miss Kestrel Spinster, this is Juliette. She will be your lady’s maid for your stay at Pembrook Park.”
“I get my own lady’s maid? Merry Christmas, me.”
Juliette smiled, her bright blue eyes twinkling, her cheeks rosy as apples.
The moment Mrs. Wattlesbrook left them, Juliette began speaking rapidly in fluent English with a French accent, talking Kestrel through the dressing process.
And it was a process. Entering Austenland was like walking slowly into the ocean, submerging herself inch by inch.
Behind a screen, Kestrel took off all her clothes and put on a chemise—a simple nightgown-like undergarment.
Under that, drawers, which looked like very silly calf-length pants.
After stockings and corset completed the undergarments, Kestrel emerged sheepishly, feeling like a partly dressed and discarded baby doll.
“How about this muslin dress for today?” asked Juliette, touching the sleeve of pretty blue one with a pattern of small white dots. It had long sleeves that puffed at the shoulders and, like all Regency dresses, a waistline just under the bosom and a skirt that fell to the feet.
Kestrel’s heart gave a single happy thud, but her wary brain jumped in with doubt. She rarely wore dresses and had to shop in petites due to her height. On Kestrel, knee-length skirts were mid-calf, and ankle-length dresses dragged on the floor.
“It’s pretty, but will it fit me?”
“Of course.” Juliette took down the dress to show her. “Every dress on this rack has been tailored to your measurements.”
Kestrel’s throat closed off, her stomach clenched, and she realized the unfamiliar sensation of being near tears was raging through her body.
She was so moved, she couldn’t speak. The thoughtful attention felt almost painful in its kindness and intimacy.
And beneath the ache, the wonder was still spinning like a carousel.