Epiphany #3
“I am, actually.”
“You are?”
“Yes. I had an epiphany. So I’d better stop putting it off and try to make that happen. Excuse me.”
Kestrel marched up into Charming’s room and found her dangling upside down on her bed.
“Hire me!” said Kestrel. “I’ve worked so many different kinds of jobs that I’m good at a surprising number of things, and I’m a trained EMT, so I can be on hand for injuries, and—”
“Yeah, Andrews and Jerome already made a big pitch for you,” said Charming’s upside-down face.
Kestrel’s breath caught hard in her throat. She forced herself to exhale and ask, “Wait, they did what?”
“I could use someone else to handle the front of things so I can relax more in the background. I’m getting tired of being on all the time, you know?”
“I didn’t know it was possible to get tired of being on.”
“And that’s why you’d be a good fit.” Charming slowly clawed her way upright. “You could do work behind the scenes as well as be an extra lady to manage and entertain the guests.”
“I have a dog—a precious but accident-prone mutt,” said Kestrel, terrified that this would be the dealbreaker.
“I love dogs! Edwin is moving in here with me, so you can—” Charming stopped herself.
“If you were hired, you could live in his cottage next to the stables. Winchester does better outdoors too. But there are a couple of issues.” Charming looked genuinely sad as she said, “Kes, we’ve got to talk about your accent.
I’m sorry to tell you this, but you don’t sound British at all. ”
“Oh! Uh, I wasn’t trying to sound British.”
“That’s a relief!” Charming fell back on the bed, her legs flipping up as she bicycled them in the air. “I thought that was your best attempt, and it was godawful, honey lamb. You could work on adding a few pip-pips and jolly-goods and all that. To sound more authentic.”
“I would sincerely love to. Pip-pip.”
“That’s the spirit! That’s truth, justice, and the American way.” Charming stopped air-bicycling to smile at her. “Some of us just belong in Austenland. For us, this is home.”
“Home.” Kestrel’s body thrilled with the word. “What’s the second issue? I’d need a work visa, right? Do I need to pass some kind of test to get my dream job? Wait, it is a job, isn’t it? With pay?” Mentally she chanted, Don’t be a cult, don’t be a cult . . .
“Of course! I’m as rich as a cat on a hot tin roof. But Wattlesbrook made me swear up and left that all hiring would go through her. So she’s your target.”
Soon Kestrel was walking like a condemned woman toward the gallows, straightening her skirt and smoothing her hair. By the time she stepped into Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s study, she felt almost ready to make her case.
The proprietress sat behind her desk, half her face taken with a severe frown. “Here you are at last.”
Oh no, it was already starting wrong. “Sorry. Um, so, Mrs. Wattlesbrook, I would like to stay. I mean, I can’t afford to stay on as a guest. I’m not rich, like Charming.
And I’m not charming, like Andrews. I’m not Regency perfection itself, like Miss Chen.
I’m nothing like Elizabeth Bennet or Anne Elliot or any of Austen’s heroines. I’m a colossal mess!”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook raised her eyebrow and let silence punctuate Kestrel’s exclamation, leaving Kestrel plenty of time to berate herself. Was she trying to talk the boss out of hiring her?
“You cannot generalize Austen’s heroines,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. “Anne was as different from Elizabeth as Emma was from Catherine, and Eleanor from . . . er, Fanny. They are each one unique.”
Yesterday she had called Kestrel unique, and it had felt like an insult.
But this time, Kestrel wasn’t so sure. She’d read an article once about how novelists around Austen’s time attempted to create “perfect” heroines—kindhearted, obedient, virginal innocents sadly thrust into dramas against their will.
But Austen’s ladies were imperfect and varied, and for Kestrel, there was a kindness to that, a feeling of Come as you are, you’re welcome here.
Kestrel exhaled a small laugh. “You intimidate me, Mrs. Wattlesbrook. I’ve been scared that you see me as a rotten apple, but I think I’ve misjudged you.”
“Don’t give me too much credit,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. “I have heard that the servants refer to me as Mrs. Battle-Axe. But ever since Miss Charming became my partner and I’m not constantly trying to keep this place above water, perhaps I have started to . . . relax.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s version of relaxed probably meant reclining from a ninety-degree angle to a cozy eighty-five, but Kestrel felt a flood of genuine affection for the woman. She blurted out, “Please hire me. I really want to work here.”
And Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, “Very well.”
Kestrel gasped. “I can? You mean yes? But . . . why?”
“I don’t know why.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook seemed flustered by the question. “You just fit.”
Was this what Christmas magic felt like? Opening the yearned-for gift that had seemed impossible, but somehow, due to wishes or reindeer or a baby in a manger, you find it in your hands anyway? Just for you?
A fairy-tale ending. Dickensian. Austenian. Christmassy. Magical.
“Oh,” said Kestrel, because she had no other words. She blinked to dislodge the blurring tears. “I know I’m not crying, because I’m not a happy crier.”
“I didn’t see anything,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook, looking away in an extremely British manner.
“Our next session isn’t until Valentine’s Day, so we have a few weeks to work out the particulars.
Besides your first aid skills, I am most looking forward to having you sing for us again during drawing room evenings. For now, go enjoy your Epiphany.”
Still crying, Kestrel laughed. She ran around the desk and kissed Mrs. Wattlesbrook repeatedly on the cheek.
“Oh my. You are a kisser, aren’t you?”
Kestrel skipped out the door and paused at the threshold to shout back, “And god bless us, every one!”
In the hallway she passed Juliette on her way to the kitchen.
“There you are!” said Juliette. “I found your purse in the back room, and I was worried you’d left without it.”
“I’ve been hired!” said Kestrel. “I’m a hired girl! But not a prostitute! Did that sound like I was a prostitute? I didn’t mean that! Not that women shouldn’t be free to make career choices that best serve them in this world! I’m still yelling, aren’t I? I’m a little overwhelmed!”
With a warm smile, Juliette handed her the purse and said, “In a couple of hours, come join us in the kitchen. After each session the staff has a tradition—we bring in a telly and consume buckets of tea and all the leftovers from the ball. Today we’re going to watch a marathon of Doctor Who Christmas specials. ”
“That sounds heavenly.”
In the meantime, Kestrel wandered around alone, sitting on settees, tinkering on the piano, generally looking at the house in a new way.
As a place where she belonged. She felt beautiful.
Not beautiful in the way that others might look at her and find her comparatively attractive.
Beautiful in the way that she had a place in this grand, heartbreaking, fantastical world.
Her heart still felt raw, her stomach conscious of loss, and she kept randomly breaking into tears.
But her feet were on the ground again. There was a Kestrel-shaped dent on this planet where she might fit.
And someday, she’d be able to think of Hank and what she’d almost had without this boulder of sorrow.
Andrews entered, wearing the very jeans and sweater he’d donned on Christmas Eve. He smiled at her hopefully and asked, “Yes?”
She knew what he was asking. “Yes.”
“Yes!” he said, fist in the air. “I knew you’d stay! Somehow I knew it from day one, though I dared not speak its name.”
“We’ll figure this out,” she said, pointing between the two of them. “I’ll respect your role and learn to not step on your toes.”
“I know, ducky.”
“Now, tell me about Mr. Houlihan,” she said, grabbing hold of his hands.
Andrews raised his shoulders, emitted a silly but delighted laugh, and said in a faux-American accent, “He’s my boyfriend.”
“What? Really?”
Andrews nodded. “We’ve been dating long-distance. When we had space for another gentleman guest, I asked Mrs. Wattlesbrook if he could come. I so wanted to show him what I do. It’s impossible to explain.”
“Definitely.”
“I was nervous he would think it ridiculous or contemptible, but . . . he loved it.”
“He loves you,” she said.
“He loves me!” Andrews threw his hands against his heart and sighed. “But enough about me. You’re joining Austenland! You’re part of the team!”
She laughed, then wheezed, then giggled, and finally sighed as well. “I’m so discombobulated, I don’t know what to do next, besides arrange to get my dog Karma sent here from Hotel Good Boy.”
“And is he?”
“Is who what?”
“Your dog. Is Karma a good boy?”
Kestrel gasped. “Actually,” she said, her hands shaking with excitement, “actually, Karma is a bitch.”
Andrews blinked. “Good lord, you named your dog Karma just so you could say that.”
“Uh-huh,” she answered, grinning.
“Good lord, you’ve been waiting ever since for someone to serve you the correct setup.”
“Yep.”
“And at last, I was the one to do it! Good lord, Miss Kestrel Spinster, but aren’t you exactly where you belong.”
She squealed with happiness and they embraced. So many unexpected gifts! Apparently in Austenland, Christmas never ended.
“Dogs’ names should end in vowel sounds, I think,” Andrews said thoughtfully into her hair, still in full hug. “My mum named her dog Liam, and I always feel as if I’m humming at him. Liammmmm!”
“And does he respond to the humming?” Kestrel asked. They’d moved on to the lean-back-and-forth-dance portion of their long hug.
“He does, you know. I suppose there are worse things to do than hum at dogs.”
So they hummed and laughed and dance-hugged and just felt wonderful.
“Er, I don’t wish to be too personal, petal, but what’s that crinkling in your cleavage?”