Day 7, Continued
Post-croquet, Miss Charming declared she would take a nap till dinner, and Colonel Andrews absconded somewhere, but Amelia still had hold of Jane’s arm and begged her to go riding.
“I adore a ride,” said Jane, even though napping sounded nicer. Engaging thoroughly with the story took so much energy, and she was still buzzing over her near-banishment. But if she was going whole-hog for Austenland, then her answer must be yes.
She changed back into her rough-and-ready pink dress (the bottom inch stained from her surreptitious speed walks), paired with an outdoorsy spencer jacket and her action bonnet.
She exited out the back of the house and stopped short when she noticed that Mr. Nobley had changed into his pleasantly snug hunting breeches, which was far from unpleasant.
Then Amelia joined them, somehow even more bright and beautiful in a gorgeously tailored riding dress, glowing under the autumn sun.
Spending an afternoon as the third wheel sounded tiresome, but Jane was curious to watch the pair.
Were they already secretly engaged? Mr. Nobley never touched Amelia, didn’t so much as lean, step in closer, whisper in her ear, any of the subtle, Regency-approved PD of A that Colonel Andrews had gallantly drizzled over Miss Charming during the croquet game.
Really, if Mr. Nobley had already declared his love for Amelia, then he was a pathetic lover.
Or was he the kind of man who loved too much, who only left his crazy wife because he wanted that much to be a father?
Wait, that wasn’t Mr. Nobley, that was Henry Jenkins. Were they the same? Real and imaginary were crisscrossing in a dizzying way.
Jane tightened her bonnet ribbon, hoping it might help keep her thoughts snug in her head.
She had clambered into the ever-intimidating sidesaddle and was whispering, “Easy, there, donkey friend,” when Captain East appeared.
“Going for a ride, Miss Erstwhile?”
“Yes, and I wish you would come.”
He had agreed before Amelia walked her horse into view. Captain East flinched but couldn’t back out now.
Jane was determined to keep distant from the Nobley-Heartwright couple and have a little alone time with prince charming.
Captain East didn’t make her heart patter, but he was beyond high school quarterback cute, and being fake-courted by him seemed like the best, biggest way to go all-in.
But like a bumbling fool, Mr. Nobley kept letting his horse trot forward, separating Jane and Captain East, and leaving Amelia riding alone.
Jane would correct it, and Mr. Nobley would mess it all up again.
She glared. And still he didn’t get it.
Soon he was glaring at her, and she glared back the why-are-you-glaring-at-me glare, and his eyes were exasperated, and she was about to call him ridiculous, when he said, “Miss Erstwhile, you look flushed. Will you not rest for a moment? Do not trouble yourself, Captain East, you go on with Miss Heartwright and we will follow straightaway.”
When the other two were out of hearing range, Jane turned her glare into words. “What are you doing?”
“Pardon, Miss Erstwhile, but I was trying to allow Captain East and Miss Heartwright a few moments alone. She confided in me about their troubled past, and I hoped time to talk would help ease the strain between them.”
Jane exhaled a laugh. “Okay, so I’m a little slow.” She knew she didn’t sound Austen-y, but yet again, she struggled to approximate the forced dialect when alone with Mr. Nobley.
After she swore secrecy and did her best to seem trustworthy, Mr. Nobley revealed that Heartwright and East had been more than fond acquaintances. In fact, last year he’d proposed and she’d accepted.
“Her mother disapproved, as he was merely a sailor. Her brother informed East that he was dismissed from being her suitor, and Miss Heartwright never had an opportunity to explain that it hadn’t been her wish. She fears it is too late now, but I don’t believe her heart ever let go of the man.”
“Ah,” Jane said, now fitting their story into the correct Austen novel context—Persuasion, more or less. And that was a real bummer. Captain East had offered Jane the best shot at curative romance.
So wait . . . did that mean . . . was Mr. Nobley for her?
Certainly not! came her immediate and resolute thought.
And at the same moment, a thrill rolled down through her, from the base of her neck, zapping through her spine, all the way down to curl her toes in her riding boots. Her whole body visibly shivered.
“Are you cold, Miss Erstwhile?” asked Mr. Nobley. “Shall I—”
“NO!” Jane answered way too loudly. Her cheeks burned, embarrassed that he’d spotted any sign of her freakishly excited physical reaction just at the idea of him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . sorry.”
He was watching her, and she had the impression he could see all of her, down to the rapid firing of her neurons and the confusing cause of her shivers. Feeling so exposed in front of this man felt unbearable, and she wished to turn the attention back on him.
“How do you feel about this development, Mr. Nobley?” she asked.
“It does not matter how I feel about Miss Heartwright.” He nudged his horse forward, and hers followed without any action on her part.
“Wait, are you heartbroken?” She knew Miss Erstwhile shouldn’t ask the question, but Jane couldn’t help it.
“No, of course not.”
“Not about Miss Heartwright, anyway.” Jane watched Mr. Nobley’s face closely for signs of Henry Jenkins. His mouth was still, unrevealing, but his eyes were sad. “Maybe you’re not heartbroken anymore, maybe you’ve passed that part, and now you’re just lonely.”
Mr. Nobley smiled with just half of his mouth. “You are very good at nettling me, Miss Erstwhile. As I said, it does not matter how I feel. We are speaking of Miss Heartwright and Captain East. I think it nonsense how they have kept silent. They should speak their minds to each other.”
“You think so? But you didn’t approve of me speaking my mind last week. What’s changed?”
He looked visibly upset—or embarrassed perhaps.
Could it be that Mr. Nobley felt as exposed around her as he made her feel?
His frown deepened, his cheeks seemed to have a bit more color, and it appeared Mr. Nobley had no intention of answering the question.
Jane was stumped at how to restart the conversation, so they rode on in silence.
Of course just at that moment, she would see Martin by a line of trees, looking her way.
Why couldn’t she be chatting and laughing and having a wonderful time?
She smiled generously at the world around her and hoped that Martin would think she was enthralled with Mr. Nobley’s company and perfectly happy.
Mr. Nobley turned to ask her a question, but when he saw her grinning without apparent cause, the words hung in his mouth. His eyes widened. “What? You are laughing at me again. What have I done now?”
Jane did laugh. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to help myself around you. You are so tease-able.” Which was precisely not true, and yet saying it somehow made it so.
Mr. Nobley looked over his shoulder just as the line of trees hid Martin from view. Jane wasn’t sure if he saw him.
“I’m going to try to be easier on you,” said Jane. “I am sorry I annoy you so much.”
“You don’t annoy me.” Mr. Nobley cleared his throat uncomfortably, and his fingers fiddled with the reins. “You bring out something rare in me that I cannot name. It is an agitation, I suppose, and yet one that I begin to crave.”
Jane was stunned to speechlessness. Could he be serious? He was looking at his hands thoughtfully, not speaking again for several moments, and in the silence, Jane became aware of her heart beating. Why had that declaration completely upended her?
When he spoke again, his tone had changed, innocuous, chitchatty. “How do you find Pembrook Park, Miss Erstwhile?”
“Do you mean the house itself?” asked Jane, grateful for a change of subject.
“Well, it’s beautiful, no question, friendly and yet too grand to be really comfortable.
Like wearing a corset, I like how it looks and feels, but I can’t relax in it.
” She shook her head. How did she keep slipping up?
Saying things to this man that the Rules said she shouldn’t.
She tried to think of something more innocent to say.
“I love the paintings. The ones hanging in the gallery, they’re all in the grand style of portrait art, luminous with natural light.
The artist isn’t just concerned with outer beauty but takes pains to express the virtue of soul in the subjects and catch that gleam of importance in their eyes.
No matter how portly or drastically thin, how sickly or sad, all the people in those paintings know that they’re significant.
You have to envy that kind of self-assurance. ”
Jane stopped herself, realizing that she’d gotten carried away in the subject and her audience probably wasn’t the least bit interested. A glance sideways at Mr. Nobley—he was watching her, intently.
“You’re a painter.”
Jane blinked. “I used to paint, but it’s been years. Now I . . .” She paused, not knowing how to translate “non-creative book design” into Austen lingo. “It’s been a while since I’ve used that medium.”
“Do you miss it?”
“You know, I do, especially lately. Maybe it’s because my head’s all mixed-up”—she gestured toward him, acknowledging her awkward breakdown days ago—“but all the new things I’m seeing make my hands twitch, wanting to work out those images on paper.
I think drawing and painting used to be a way of thinking for me.
Until I came here, I’d almost forgotten about it. ”
“Here I am!” Captain East was cantering his mount toward them.
He rode beautifully, confidently. Molly had grown up horseback riding, and she used to say that the way a man rides a horse could give you a pretty good idea how he would do something else.
Jane eyed Mr. Nobley on his mount, noted that he was a smooth, gentle rider.
The surprise of thinking this while wearing a bonnet made Jane choke.
Her breath snarled in her throat, and she laughed.
Mr. Nobley’s eyes widened. “What’s funny? You often have some secret laugh, Miss Erstwhile.”
“The way you have some secret displeasure?”
“No, not displeasure,” he said, and she realized he was right. Sadness, or heartbreak, or grief that there was nothing to give him hope. Perhaps he really was Henry Jenkins.
Captain East reined in beside Jane. “Miss Heartwright had a headache and went inside. So sorry to neglect you, Miss Erstwhile. You must tell me what I missed.”
“I have discovered that Miss Erstwhile is an artist,” Mr. Nobley said.
“Is that so?”
“It’s been years since I picked up a paintbrush.” She glared at
Mr. Nobley, and zing, there was his smile again, brief, urgent.
When his lips relaxed she wanted it to come back.
“That is a shame,” said Captain East.
After dinner that evening when Jane retired from the drawing room, she found a large package wrapped in brown paper on her side table.
She ripped open the paper, and out tumbled neat little tubes of oil paints and three paintbrushes.
She saw now that an easel waited by the window, with two small canvases.
She smelled the paints, and sense memory of a younger and more hopeful Jane bloomed up from her middle.
She ticked her palm with the largest brush and wondered: Who was her benefactor?
It might be Captain East. Maybe he still liked her best, even after his tête-à-tête with Miss Heartwright.
It could happen. Even so, she found herself hoping it was Mr. Nobley.
Instinct urged her to stomp on the hope.
She ignored it. She was firmly in Austenland now, where hoping was not only tolerated but buoyed and buttressed.
Had Austen herself felt that way as she wrote? Hopeful for her characters—for her own self? She imagined Austen leaning close to Jane’s own sensibility—amused, horrified, but in very real danger of being swept away.
Her time was half over. Only one week left to fix everything.