Day 5, Continued #2
She turned her back to the servants’ quarters and squared her shoulders to the glowing confection of the grand house.
She had relished the sweetness of Austen’s stories for most of her life.
But with the sweetness there had also been the pain in knowing that it would never be enough.
And now her task was to consume Austenland wholly into every cell of her body till it made her sick.
She would eat nothing but chocolate until she couldn’t bear the thought of eating something sweet again.
There was no way out except through. She would not just nibble and sample and admire; she would drown in it, suffocating the fantastical part of herself.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook was right about some things—complete immersion was necessary not only to enter Austen’s stories but to get the hope of them out of her system and know for certain that living inside them wouldn’t really make her happy.
Then she’d be her own woman again. Only eight days left to make it happen.
But she must plunge in headfirst and stay underwater till she’d done the job, or sure as her houseplants were at that moment gasping their last breaths, one day she would look back at the experience and unsettle herself with regretting: If only I’d done more . . .
When night was definite and all housemates surely abed, Jane creaked open the front door, welcomed by the homey scent of floor wax and candle smoke.
Brightness from the drawing room startled her, and she wondered if the group was playing some Olympian round of cards.
But the room was deserted. Two lamps burned away the darkness.
On the table lay a book Mr. Nobley had been reading, and she leafed through its pages, wondering what sort of irritating story would fascinate that man’s mind.
A piece of paper slipped out, floating to the carpet.
It was a pay stub made out to a Henry Jenkins with an address in Clapham.
Was this Mr. Nobley? She stuck the paper back and laid it beside the nearly empty crystal decanter that was Sir John Templeton’s dearest friend.
Out of curiosity, Jane lifted the cap and sniffed, expecting a sugary punch smell to satisfy her suspicions.
Nope, definitely alcohol. She was surprised—how could the actor keep up the virtual drinking and not get literally toasted?
As in answer to her thought, the man himself loomed in the doorway. She startled and dropped the decanter cap on the carpet.
“Well, good evening, Miss Ersssstwhile,” Sir John said, dragging out the snake sound of her name. “Are you still a Miss or were you a Miss erstwhile, hm?”
“Yes, that’s clever. Um, you startled me, Sir John.”
“Up late, are you? Where did you go tonight? Up to some mischief, I hope.”
“I just needed some air.”
“Hmm.” He leaned against the doorjamb and seemed to doze for a moment. Jane replaced the cap, clicked off the fake-kerosene lamps, and tried to slip past Sir John without rousing him. But just a few steps into the dark front hall, she felt a hot breath against her neck.
“Stay a moment.”
Jane turned around with some apprehension, but she did stay. She had decided to play this game out, and she didn’t want to pass up any plot twist he might be offering.
“What is it, Sir John?”
“I just thought we might spend time alone together, perhaps engage in our own private game of”—he leaned closer to her face—“whissst.”
She coughed once. “That’s a four-person game.”
“I thought we could be partners. A little wink-wink, a little nudge-nudge under the table, you understand me?”
She sorted through the Austen plots searching for a scenario when a married man solicits a young lady. There was the doomed tryst in Mansfield Park with married lady and bachelor, but Sir John was no suave young Henry Crawford.
“I think I should go to bed,” she said, unsure of how he was expecting her to proceed but not enjoying this subplot.
“Precisely my point,” he said.
He began to advance again. She stepped back until she hit the wall.
“Hold on, now,” she said, stopping him with a hand on his chest.
Sir John took her hand and held it in both of his own. His skin was hot and scratchy.
“You are so, so lovely.” His breath hit her again, and she gagged at the stench of food and fermentation. He was clearly much drunker than she’d suspected.
“Sir John, you’re married to my aunt.”
“Not really,” he said, winking. Or perhaps, blinking poorly. “Me and the missus sleep in separate beds, don’t tell her I told you, and I have been so lonely, lonely and cold, cold like your sweet hands. And we never had a specimen so young and pretty and taut as yourself.”
“Step back, sir,” she said, pressing her other hand against his chest. He didn’t budge. His dry hands rubbed her fingers enthusiastically, his round belly pressed against her, and his mouth leered near her own.
“Surely a young beauty like yourself is lonely, too. It can be a part of the game.”
“I don’t like this game.” She didn’t care if this was a plot point. The way he was treating her was not okay. A white-hot streak of anger zoomed up her middle. “I will ask you once to let me go.”
His answer was to lean in closer. So she kneed him in the groin as hard as she could.
“Aw, ow, dammit!” He doubled over and thudded onto his knees.
Jane brushed off her knee, feeling like it had touched something dirty. “Aw, ow, dammit indeed!”
Jane heard hurried footsteps coming down the stairs. It was Mr. Nobley.
“Miss Erstwhile!” He was barefoot in his breeches, his shirt untucked. He glanced down at the groaning man. “Sir John!”
“Ow, she kicked me,” said Sir John.
“Kneed him, I kneed him,” Jane said. “I don’t kick. Not even when I’m a ninja.”
Mr. Nobley stood a moment in silence, looking over the scene. “I hope you remembered to shout ‘Ya’ when subduing him. I hear that is very effective.”
“I’m afraid I neglected that bit, but I’ll certainly ‘ya’ from here to London if he ever touches me again.”
“Miss Erstwhile, were you perhaps employed by your country’s armed forces?”
“What? Don’t British women know how to use their knees?”
“Happily, I have never put myself in a position to find out.” He stared at the prostrate Sir John. “Did he hurt you?”
“Not physically, though I feel like I need a shower.” She shivered with disgust.
“I will take care of this chinless wonder from here. Would you like me to escort you to your chamber first?”
“I’m fine,” she said, “as long as there aren’t any other Sir Johns lurking upstairs.”
“Colonel Andrews is harmless, so I believe your way is safe.”
She stepped closer to Mr. Nobley and whispered, “Are you going to out me to Mrs. Wattlesbrook for the servants’ quarters lurking?”
“I think,” he said, nudging the prostrate and still-groaning Sir John with his foot, “that you have suffered enough.”
Mr. Nobley smiled at her, the first time she had seen his real smile.
His lips were closed, but his eyes brightened and the corners of his mouth definitely turned up, creating pleasing little cheek wrinkles on either side as though the smile were in parentheses.
It bothered her in a way she couldn’t explain, like feeling itchy but not knowing exactly where to scratch.
He was not particularly amused, she saw, but smiled to reassure her.
Wait, who wanted to reassure her? Mr. Nobley or the actual man, Actor X?
“Thanks. Good night, Mr. Nobley.”
“Good night, Miss Erstwhile.”
She hesitated, then left, Sir John’s groans following her up the stairs. On the second floor, Aunt Saffronia was emerging from her room, clutching a white shawl over her nightgown.
“What was that noise? Is everything all right?”
“Yes. It was . . . your husband. He was being inappropriate.”
Aunt Saffronia blinked. “Inebriated?”
“Yes. He propositioned me, grabbed my hand, pressed me again the wall, and would not release me until I kneed him.”
She nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Jane. I’m so sorry.”
Jane wasn’t sure if Aunt Saffronia was speaking to Jane the niece or Jane the client. It didn’t matter; both Janes felt exactly the same.
“I will sort it,” said Aunt Saffronia. “You won’t have to see him again.”
“Mr. Nobley is down there with him now,” said Jane.
Aunt Saffronia’s shoulders relaxed and she exhaled audibly, as if she couldn’t imagine anyone better to trust to the matter.
Jane went to her room and purposefully didn’t lock the door behind her, to prove to herself that she wasn’t afraid.
She thought she might feel traumatized, but when she plopped herself down on her bed and put her face in her pillow, what came out first was a laugh.
She laughed even harder, because it felt good.
“What a joke,” she said, sounding to herself like the movie incarnation of Lydia Bennet. “I come for Mr. Darcy, fall for the gardener, and am assaulted by the drunk husband.”
Eh, screw him. She trusted Aunt Saffronia and Mr. Nobley to take care of it, and Jane refused to waste one more precious second even thinking about that enlarged-livered lecherous louse.
Tomorrow would be different. She had spent her life in training, and now she would play the all-or-nothing game. And while she was at it, she’d have a staggering good time and kick the nasty Darcy habit for good.
She fell asleep with the ticklish thought of Mr. Nobley’s smile.