Day 5, Continued
Jane wore her least-favorite evening dress to dinner, the brown one with green trim that made her feel like a sad tree.
It didn’t matter. Martin wouldn’t see her, nor would anyone else for that matter, as she trudged along at the rear end of the precedence beast. She thought she hid her gloom well, and then she got tired of hiding it.
In the drawing room, she grabbed a book and slumped in a chair as best her corset would allow.
Miss Charming was busy chatting with Aunt Saffronia over some topic of mutual interest that involved fried food.
Miss Heartwright sat in silence beside Jane until the moment the gentlemen entered, at which she began to pay Jane loads of sugary attention.
Jane glared at her book, which might be upside down for all she knew.
“You are such a rare beauty, Miss Erstwhile. Is she not, Colonel Andrews?”
“I daresay, with four rare beauties before me, I fret that I am greedy, hoarding all the pulchritude in one drawing room, leaving the rest of the world in sad lack.”
“But Miss Erstwhile truly is a gem, is she not, Mr. Nobley?”
“I rather suspect that at the moment, that gem would prefer not to be so closely examined.”
“I simply cannot keep from effusing my admiration. Miss Erstwhile, do sit down to cards with me and the gentlemen this evening. I can’t bear to have you reading alone again.”
Reluctantly, Jane looked up into Miss Heartwright’s beaming face.
Even when sitting straight, with a Regency woman’s wood-plank spine, she maintained an effortless manner, as though she were simply lounging against the sturdiness of her own perfection.
And then there was that twinkle in her eye and her impossibly white teeth. Maddening.
“No, thank you.” Jane was in no mood to banter.
“Come, you must. Mr. Nobley,” Miss Heartwright said, turning to her favorite, “help me persuade Miss Erstwhile out of her tortoise shell.”
Mr. Nobley was standing at the window, arms behind his back, staring out as if keeping watch. “If Miss Erstwhile wishes to read rather than play, I will not provoke her.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nobley,” said Jane, and she meant it.
He met her gaze then and nodded once, as though they were coconspirators. It felt sincere, thoughtful even, which Jane found disconcerting from that man.
“Mr. Nobley,” Miss Heartwright intoned, with the sweetest of smiles, “you at least I can entice for a short round of speculation.”
For her, Mr. Nobley left his watchtower and joined the card table. The sight of it made Jane declare she would retire early. This time she stopped for her pelisse and bonnet before escaping through the back door.
It was a relief to be outside. In the chill and dark, the world seemed closer, intimate.
She shivered and walked until her blood warmed and helped her fight the ache of vulnerability.
She wished for Molly, a best friend who’d laugh with her over her Martin mistake and loyally find Jane faultless and everyone else in the wrong.
Here she was alone again and wishing she weren’t.
She had noticed this tendency in herself to succumb to despair when alone, to feel like too much without another person there to steady her.
A Molly. A boyfriend. A dream of a husband.
The idea of being content with her own self felt as much like a dream as her hoped-for future family.
What would it take, Jane Hayes, to finally be okay?
She’d meant to avoid the servants’ quarters, really she had, but she got caught up imagining a violently gorgeous and totally implausible triumph—she’d be the prettiest one at the ball, all the actors would really fall in love with her, and she’d say no to them all and leave Pembrook Park a whole woman who buries all her teenage fantasies in one fell swoop .
. . And she came upon Martin’s window, dark as the sky.
No, there was a flicker, a gray haze of light.
Did he have the bedspread up? Was he watching a movie on his laptop with headphones?
Should she knock and apologize for being freak-out Jane and see if they could start over again or just skip to the making out part?
In her current state—jilted and bonneted in fake-Regency England—Jane found she had a difficult time rating that proposal on her list of all-time bad ideas.
The quiet and cold washed over her, and she stood by his window, waiting for a decision to bite her. In some tree, a night bird croaked a suggestion. Jane wished she spoke Bird.
“What are you doing?”
“Ya!” Jane said, whirling around, her hands held up menacingly.
It was Mr. Nobley in a cloak and hat, watching her with wide eyes. Jane took several quick (but oh-so-casual) steps away from Martin’s window.
“Um, did I just say ‘Ya’?”
“You just said ‘Ya,’ ” he confirmed. “If I am not mistaken, it was a battle cry, warning that you were about to attack me.”
“I, uh . . .” She couldn’t help laughing. “I wasn’t aware until this precise and awkward moment that when startled in a strange place, my instincts would have me pretend to be a ninja.”
Mr. Nobley put the back of his hand to his mouth to cough. Or was it really a laugh? No, Mr. Nobley had no sense of humor.
“Excuse me, I probably have a secret ninja mission to attend to.” She started to walk past him toward the house, but he put his hand on her arm to stop her.
“Wait just a moment, please.” He looked around as if making sure they weren’t observed, and then led her to the side of the house where the moon and lamplight did not touch them.
“Let go!”
“Sorry,” he said, releasing his hand but not his piercing gaze. “Miss Erstwhile, I believe it is in your best interest to tell me what you are doing out here.”
“Walking.” She glared.
His eyes darted to the servants’ quarters. To Martin’s exact window. It made her swallow.
“You are not doing something foolish, are you?”
In fact, she had been, but that didn’t mean she would stop glaring.
“I don’t know if you realize,” he said in his unbearably condescending tone, “but it is not proper for a lady to be out alone after dark and worse to cavort with servants . . .”
“Cavort?”
“When doing so might lead to trouble of the worst nature . . .”
“Cavort ?”
“Look,” he said, slipping into slightly more colloquial tones, “just stay away from there.”
“Aren’t you all righteous concern, Mr. Nobley? Five minutes ago, I’d planned on changing careers and becoming a dairymaid, but you’ve saved me from that fate. I’ll kindly release you back to the night and return to my well-bred ways.”
“Don’t be a fool, Miss Erstwhile.”
“Insufferable,” she said under her breath as she walked away, only pausing to glance behind her and make sure Mr. Nobley wasn’t following.
No, she wasn’t going to go to Martin’s, curse him, but she wasn’t going to run back to her room either, if just to spite Mr. Nobley.
Because boring, cold, and hateful Mr. Nobley was the most Darcy-esque of them all, she despised him with even more vigorous enthusiasm.
Maybe the exercise would speed up her Austenland recovery.
“Grab my arm, will he?” she said, getting a speck of satisfaction by muttering like a batty old woman. “Call me a fool . . .”
She walked through the park in angry circles.
Her fingers were cold, and her thoughts wandered to memories of spending so much time in the bath as a kid that her fingertips crinkled like raisin skin, probably because her mom had dropped her in the tub but forgotten to get her out.
Wrinkly skin reminded her of Great-Aunt Carolyn, with her extravagantly soft fingers and conspiratorial eyes.
She bought me this gift, Jane thought. Use it well, you floppy-brained, hopeless romantic, and stop trying to fall in love with gardeners. With anyone.
She emerged from the trees into the grand expanse of lawn, and the night drew back, large and empty, no longer lying against her skin.
She felt really alone now. But then, for one long, silvery moment, she felt as though she belonged inside the aloneness, and that feeling made her whisper aloud, “I never have before. I’ve never felt at home with myself.
” To see it. To name it. That felt like a first step.
She looked over her shoulder from where she’d come and had Realization #2: She truly didn’t want to go to Martin’s.
She hadn’t earlier. It was just habit. In the past she’d always been ready to limp back after being rejected, hopeful to be scooped up again.
But now, here, she lost the desire utterly.
“Ha!” she said to the night.
With a shift in the wind and a swish of her quiet skirt, she felt her mission at Austenland begin to change.
This was no last hurrah before accepting spinsterhood—oh no.
(And what a relief!) Martin had helped her see one thing, at least—she still liked men, a whole lot, in fact, and it did her no good to pretend otherwise.
No, this was going to be immersion therapy.
Martin had drunk two six-packs of root beer and instead of feeling repulsed by the flavor, he now craved it.
She’d binged Austen books and movies for years and still wanted more.
So she hadn’t yet gone far enough. This place was the best, and perhaps only, way to sink even deeper into her addiction, so deep that she burned every trace of it right out of her bones.
Once she was cured of the fantasy, perhaps at last she could accept reality and create a real life for herself.
But in order for that alchemy to work, she had to be all in.