Day 12
Jane’s ball gown was bridal white. Lace and ruffles, tiny seashells beaded around bodice and hem, a low neck, and cap sleeves.
She wore long gloves, her hair up with rosebuds, a string of pearls around her neck, and twenty-first-century makeup products.
An older maid helped her dress and do her hair, and then stood back and said, “Oh my.”
It was very gratifying.
Jane surveyed the party from the top of the stairs, hoping to hear music before she descended.
Gentlemen, most of whom she had never seen before, were in their fine black-and-white attire.
Women swirled and laughed, dressed in shades from bright white to dark cream, coming and going between the drawing room and great hall, helping each other pin up their trains for the dance.
It reminded Jane of the time she’d used the women’s bathroom at the Bellagio in Las Vegas, every inch of mirror jammed with brides in a hurry.
Some of the guests she recognized as servants and gardeners, dressed up for the night as local gentry.
Others had that thin college undergrad look, the kind who donate plasma and volunteer for sketchy clinical studies to make a few extra bucks.
Others seemed to be actors of the community-theater variety—slick and self-aware, overanimated, their outfits wafting a costume-closet scent of mothballs and cloves.
But there were at least three women who had that Miss Charming jovial glint, that Miss Heartwright engaging earnestness, or that (did she dare admit it?) Miss Erstwhile bewildered hope.
There were other Pembrook Parks, then. Sister estates.
Some of the guests were actors, some players.
Just who was real in this place, anyway?
Mr. Nobley was walking briskly through the great hall toward the drawing room, his gaze up as though trying to avoid eye contact.
He looked scrumptious in his black jacket and white cravat.
Even better when he saw her and stopped cold.
His eyes glistened as he looked at her. His chest heaved, as if he couldn’t catch his breath. Zing.
“Mr. Nobley!” A stranger woman of retirement age waved a handkerchief gleefully and bustle-jogged toward him. Mr. Nobley fled.
And then, Martin was there, in tails, cravat, and all, and scanning the crowd.
For my face, she thought.
It was Martin’s turn to look up, to see her on the stairs. His expression was—whoa, she knew now that she was looking pretty good. Others noticed his expression and turned as well. The murmuring hushed and music swirled from the other room. She was Cinderella entering alone. What, no trumpets?
Martin rushed up several steps to escort her down.
“That’s a crackin’ dress, Jane. I mean . . . Miss Erstwhile. Might I have the pleasure of obtaining your hand for the next two dances?”
Ah, his smell! She was in his room again, a can of root beer so cold it was sweating, his hands touching her face. She wanted him close. She wanted to feel as real as she had those nights. Her sleeves pinched her shoulders; her dress felt heavy in the skirts.
“I can’t, Martin,” she said. “I already promised—”
“Miss Erstwhile.” Mr. Nobley reached the bottom of the stairs just as she did. He bowed civilly. “The first dance is beginning, if you care to accompany me.”
Was there a look that passed between the two men? Some heated past? Or would they (wahoo!) have a jealous tussle over Jane’s attentions?
Nope. Mr. Nobley led her away. Martin stayed put, watching her go, something of a puppy-dog look in his eyes.
She tried to say with her own, “I’m sorry I ignored you the night of the theatrical and I understand why you judged me for being the kind of woman to fall in love with this fantasy and I’ll be back and maybe we can talk then or just make out,” though she didn’t know how much of that she actually communicated.
Maybe just a part, like “I’m sorry” or “you judged me” or “make out.”
But then Jane and Mr. Nobley entered the great hall, and like crossing the border into Faerie, the rest of the world wiped away.
The chandeliers dazzled with hundreds of candles, which put fire into the white dresses and cravats.
Five musicians were seated on a dais—a cello and two violins (or maybe a viola?), a harpsichord, and some kind of wind instrument.
From keys and strings, they coaxed a grand prelude to the minuet.
Jane smiled at the amusement-park novelty of it all.
She looked at Mr. Nobley. He was beaming at her. At last.
“You are stunning,” he said, and every inch of him seemed to swear that it was true.
He kissed her gloved fingers. He was still smiling. There was something different about him tonight, and she couldn’t place what it was. Some new plot twist, she presumed. She was eager to roll around in all the plot she could on her last night, though once or twice her eyes strayed to spot Martin.
Mr. Nobley stood opposite her in a line of ten men. She watched Miss Heartwright and Captain East perform the figures. They held each other’s gazes, they smiled with the elation of new love. All very convincing.
Poor Amelia, thought Jane.
It was a little cruel, now that she thought about it, all these actors who made women fall in love with them.
Miss Heartwright seemed so tenderhearted.
Miss Charming was gazing adoringly at Colonel Andrews in his red-and-gold military regimentals.
Jane felt a thrumming of foreboding. All the ladies were so happy and open to love.
What would happen to them in the dregs of tomorrow?
Two pairs of strangers performed. Jane watched them. Mr. Nobley watched her. And then it was her turn. She curtsied to the audience, to Mr. Nobley, and faced him in the center of the floor. Jane recalled first learning the minuet opposite a silent Martin, his calloused hands holding hers.
Maybe I really don’t want this, she thought. This is summer camp. This is a novel. This isn’t home. I need something real. Root beer and disposable umbrellas and bare feet real.
“I believe we must say something.”
It was Mr. Nobley who spoke.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Are you unwell?”
“Do I look unwell?”
He smiled. “You are baiting me. It will not work tonight, Miss Erstwhile. I am completely at ease. I might even say, I have never felt quite so at home.”
Jane pushed the air out of her lungs. Part of her very much wanted to banter and play, to twirl and laugh, to be Miss Erstwhile and fall in love with Mr. Nobley (fall back in love?), but she felt herself on that balance beam, walking toe to heel like a gymnast, and when she fell this time, she wanted to be on the real world side, away from heartless fantasy and into the tangible.
With his hand on her waist to lead her through another figure, Mr. Nobley smiled at her again, and she clean forgot what she wanted besides him.
Him, him, him! sang her thoughts. I want him and this and everything, every flower, every strain of music. And I don’t want it wrapped up in a box—I want it living, around me, real. Why can’t I have that? I’m not ready to give it up.
The first number ended, and the group applauded the musicians. Mr. Nobley seemed to applaud Jane.
“You look flushed,” he said. “I will get you a drink.”
And he was gone.
Jane smiled at his back. She liked a man in tails. Something bumped her elbow.
“Excuse me . . . Oh, it is you, Jane, dear,” said Aunt Saffronia. She’d been watching Mr. Nobley as well, and her expression was still misty with contemplation. “Where has your partner gone?”
“He is fetching me a drink,” said Jane. “I’ve never seen him so attentive. Or so . . . I don’t know, relaxed.”
“Nor I, not in the four years I have known him. He is acting like a proper gentleman in love, is he not? I might almost say that he looks happy.” Aunt Saffronia was thoughtful, and while she stared, she idly bit her fingernail right through her glove.
“Is he in love?” asked Jane. She was feeling bold in her bridal-white gown.
“Hm, a question only hearts can answer.” Aunt Saffronia looked fully at Jane now and smiled approvingly. “Well, don’t you look like spun sugar! And no wonder.”
Aunt Saffronia leaned in to touch cheeks and kiss, and Jane caught a trace of cigarette smoke. Could the dear lady be the unseen smoker? What a lot of secrets in this place, thought Jane. She’d never before considered that Austen didn’t write just romances and comedies but mysteries as well.
Mr. Nobley walked briskly to her side, offering a cup from the punch bowl, asking her if she required anything else while she drank.
“Is it too hot in here for you? I will have them open the doors to the veranda. Or I could fetch you a fan.”
“No, I’m fine, sir.”
He was impatient for a servant to come take her empty cup and glared at anyone who interrupted their path back to the dance floor.
“You’re not enjoying the ball?” she asked.
“I assure you, I am taking an inordinate amount of pleasure from this ball, but none of it has to do with any of these bumblers.”
“I think you just complimented me,” said Jane. “You should take better care next time.”
“You think I compliment by accident?” The music had started, the couples had begun a promenade, but Mr. Nobley paused to hold Jane’s arm and whisper, “Jane Erstwhile, if I never had to speak with another human being but you, I would die a happy man. I would that these people, the music, the food and foolishness all disappeared and left us alone. I would never tire of looking at you or listening to you.” He took a breath.
“There. That compliment was on purpose. I swear I will never idly compliment you again.”
Jane’s mouth was dry. All she could think to say was, “But . . . but surely you wouldn’t banish all the food.”
He considered, then nodded once. “Right. We’ll keep the food. We’ll have a picnic.”