Day 1
Jane flew economy class to London and found a black town car waiting for her at Heathrow.
The derbied driver opened the door and took her carry-on bag—just a change of clothes, toiletries, and travel entertainment.
She’d received a thick packet of information, and the cover letter insisted she wouldn’t need anything once she got to Pembrook Park.
“Is it far?” she asked.
“About two hours, ma’am,” he said, keeping his eyes on the pavement.
“Another two hours.” She tried to think of something witty and British to say. “I already feel like a thrice-used tea bag.”
He didn’t smile.
“Oh. Um, I’m Jane. What’s your name?”
He shook his head. “I’m your driver, ma’am.”
Of course, she thought, I’m entering Austenland. The servant class is invisible.
Jane spent the drive going over “Social History of the Regency Period” from the packet and felt as though she were cramming for a test in a pass/fail college course.
It was not like her to come so unprepared, and she admitted just how thoroughly she had avoided this reality since the moment she had sent the signed papers back to the frog attorney.
Reading through the notes even now sent sharp, cold pains shooting down her legs, stirring in her the anxious energy she remembered best from attempting end-of-game shots in high school basketball.
On meeting, a gentleman is presented to the lady first because it is considered an honor for him to meet her.
The eldest daughter in the family is called “Miss” plus surname, while any younger daughters are “Miss” plus Christian name and surname. For example, Jane, the eldest, was Miss Bennet, while her sister was Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Whist is an early form of bridge played by two couples. The rules are . . .
And so on for pages and pages. The epilogue was an admonition written by Pembrook Park’s proprietress, who bore the unlikely name of Mrs. Wattlesbrook: “It is imperative that these social customs be followed to the letter. For the sake of all our guests, any person who flagrantly disobeys these rules will be asked to leave. Complete immersion in the Regency period is the only way to truly Experience Austen’s England. ”
When the nameless driver at last stopped the car and opened her door, Jane found herself in that pleasing green rolling countryside, the sky as cloudy as all English October skies ought to be, and the ground unpleasantly damp.
She was led into a solitary building done up like an old inn, complete with swinging sign that read White Stag and bore a painted carving of a gray animal that was most certainly a donkey.
Indoors was cozy and hot, both effects produced by an unseasonably large fire. A woman in Regency dress and marriage cap rose from behind an antique desk and led Jane to a seat beside the hearth.
“Welcome to 1816. I am Mrs. Wattlesbrook. And what shall we call you?”
“Jane Hayes is fine.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook raised her eyebrows. “You are certain you still wish to retain your name? Well, I will allow you to use your Christian name, but as a reminder that you are not you here, I shall change your last. For this fortnight, you shall be Miss Jane Erstwhile.”
“Uh, okay.” What did Erstwhile mean again? Something that used to be but was no more?
“And how old are you?”
“Thirty-three.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook leaned on her arm with an air of impatience. “You misunderstand me. How old is Miss Erstwhile? You are aware that at this time a lady of thirty-three would be an affirmed spinster and considered unmarriageable.”
“I’d rather not lie about my age,” Jane said, then immediately winced.
Here she was entering Austenland, where she’d pretend the year was 1816 and that actors were her friends and family and potential suitors, and she worried about shaving a few years off her age?
Unmarriageable. Her stomach shrank two sizes.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook was watching her shrewdly.
Jane gulped a breath. Could she know? Did she have that uncanny Aunt Carolyn intuition?
Did she sense that Jane was here not as an idle vacationer but because she had a nasty obsession?
Or did she assume even worse—that Jane was seeking a fantasy in earnest, that she believed she might find him, find real love, in this two-week-long personalized ren faire?
Jane’s mother often told the story of how until Jane was eight years old, when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, she still answered with conviction, “I want to be a princess.” Thanks in large part to her mother’s mockery, by her adolescence, Jane had learned to hide her desires for such wonderful impossibilities as becoming a princess, or an accomplished artist, or Elizabeth Bennet.
Bury and hide them until they were so profound and neglected as to somehow be true.
Egads, but she was feeling ready to stretch herself out on a Freudian couch.
That small part of her that was still stubborn in a gloriously-confident-toddler sort of way straightened her spine and flooded her with determination.
She would dig up all her weedy issues and toss them out.
And she would play along with this last trip to fantasyland so devotedly that in two weeks it’d be snappingly simple to realize it wasn’t so great after all, put it all behind her, and step into the real, confident, whole version of Jane that Molly believed her to be.
But in order for it to work, she couldn’t be a fictional character.
She had to be Jane, experiencing everything for herself, and so she clung stubbornly to her age.
“I could say ‘I’m not yet four and thirty’ if you prefer.” Jane smiled innocently.
“Quite,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, her tight lips insistent that there was no humor to be had.
“There is one other guest at Pembrook Park—a Miss Charming, who arrived yesterday. When Miss Amelia Heartwright arrives, she will stay at Pembrook Cottage, so you shall see her often as well. I expect you to maintain appropriate manners and conversation at all times, even when alone with the other guests. No gossip, no swapping personal stories, no yo ’s and ho ’s and all that.
And absolutely no electronic thingies. I am very strict about my observances, hm? ”
She seemed to expect a response, so Jane said, “I read your warning in my social history notes.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook raised her eyebrows. “A reader? How refreshing.”
She slid over the desk an elegantly handwritten schedule. There was very little information about how Jane would spend her days.
Day 1. Orientation
Day 2. Arrival at Pembrook Park
And so on, ending with:
Day 12. The Ball
Day 13. Departure
“Thirteen days,” said Jane. “I thought a fortnight was fourteen.”
“It is. But I deemed it best to have you arrive a day later than my other guest to allow her a chance to settle in.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook made a show of sorting through Jane’s papers, humming theatrically, and then looked up, half her eyes hidden under the flap of her cap. “I know why you are here.”
She knew!
“We receive extensive financial statements, and I know you did not pay your own way, so let us put that drama out of the way, shall we?”
“Is it a drama?” Jane said with a laugh, relieved the woman was just referring to Carolyn’s bequest.
“Hm?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook would not budge from her intended course of conversation. Jane sighed.
“Yes, my great-aunt left me this vacation in her will, but I don’t know what you mean by drama. I never intended to hide—”
“No need to make a fuss.” She waved her arms as if wafting Jane’s exclamations out the window like a foul odor.
“You are here, you are paid in full. I would not have you worry that we will not take care of you just because you are not our usual type of guest and there is no chance, given your economic conditions, that you would ever be a repeat client or likely to associate with and recommend us to potential clients. Let me assure you that we will still do all in our power to make your visit, such as it is, enjoyable.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook smiled, showing an uncomfortable row of tea-stained teeth. Jane blinked. Economic conditions? Usual type of guest? She made herself take a deep-rooted yoga breath, thought of men in breeches, and replied, “Okay then.”
“Good, good.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook patted Jane’s arm, suddenly the picture of hospitality and maternal tenderness. “Now, do have some tea. You must be quite chilled from your journey.”
The temperature of the car, unlike this pseudo-inn, had been quite comfortable. In the blazing heat from the hearth, the last thing Jane wanted was hot tea, but she reminded herself to play along, so she sweated and drank.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook settled down to quiz her on the rules of whist and speculation, general etiquette, current events of the Regency period, and so on. Jane answered like a nervous teenager giving an oral report.
And then off to the wardrobe, where she put on a calf-length, nightgown-like chemise and over it tried on a series of wrap-around corsets that squeezed her middle and pushed her boobs up. This exercise made swimsuit shopping seem like a walk in the park.
“I’ll just keep these for you until your return,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, picking up Jane’s purple bra and panties with two fingers like something she intended to flush down a toilet.
A silent maid handed Jane an awkward pair of long, white cotton drawers.
To properly enjoy “the Experience,” Jane was to understand, even the underwear must be Regency.
A lot, apparently, must be sacrificed to fully benefit from the Experience, except makeup.
Pembrook Park, Jane was realizing, was absolutely, 100 percent devoted to true historical accuracy . . . except when it wasn’t.