Day 13 #2
Still, she was feeling sassy in her old street clothes, freshly laundered, bra and panties replacing corset and drawers.
Jeans felt wicked to her, tight and strange, and yet so comfortable she hugged her knees to her chest. Wearing her own clothes gave her an eerie feeling, like the occasional moment when she glanced at herself in a mirror and had that frightening thrill of nonrecognition.
Is that who I am? That woman in the photographs, that’s me?
And now, who have I been for the last two weeks? And who have I become?
She looked around the room, remembering her first day, when she’d danced the minuet with Martin, how awkward and schoolgirlish she’d felt, how eager and afraid.
She felt years older now. But if she was being totally honest with herself, she still felt unsettled.
Maybe aiming for total transformation had been shooting for the moon.
Maybe after a day or two with Martin she’d feel more closure.
“Jane! Jane!” Amelia strode out of Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s office and took Jane by the arms. “She told me of your financial situation . . . I’m so sorry! I didn’t know.” She placed Jane’s phone into her hands, squeezed them affectionately, and said, “You hold on to your dreams, sweetie, you hear me?”
“I’ll do that,” Jane said, not caring to reveal that she’d come here to let her dreams go. She’d turned Mr. Nobley down, her trial in Austenland was over, and she would be going home cleansed of entrapping fantasies. Hopefully.
Jane waited in Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s office as the proprietress gushed farewells to her favorite Repeat Client. After Amelia (or “Naomi,” as it turned out) was on her way, Mrs. Wattlesbrook brought in tea, and with undisguised disinterest, plied Jane with a satisfaction survey.
“And I trust you discovered a rewarding romance with one of the gentlemen?”
“Actually, there was someone, but, no, not one of the actors.”
“Oh, well, of course you know that Martin is one of our own,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said.
What?
Clink as teacup was carefully replaced on its saucer.
“He’s a gardener,” Jane said slowly.
“Yes, but the servants are always prepared for an unexpected romance. We have discovered that not all our guests are able to relax and forget themselves enough to fall in love with the key actors, and so we have contingency plans. Besides, many women like to, how would you say, go slumming?”
Jane found herself blinking a lot and opening and closing her mouth. Her chest felt battered and tight as though she’d had the wind knocked out of her.
“He reported to me regularly,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook continued.
“We knew of your fascination with basketball and the New York Knickerbockers, and the rest was easy. I felt it best to pair you with someone outside of the house. Given your background, I wasn’t sure I could trust you to maintain the Experience, and the more you were absent, the more Miss Heartwright and Miss Charming could settle in.
I advised you patience, did I not? I took care of you, and in the end you had your romance.
You are not the first to fall for Martin. He is very good.”
“Yes. Yes he is.”
“We do not run a brothel here, miss, and I will have you know we would never let it go that far. I had to pull the plug on you two when Martin said things were spicing up, hm?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook smiled, and her eyes twinkled as if attempting to convey what a good sport she could be.
“I wanted to make sure you knew that even though you are not our Ideal Guest, we still made every arrangement possible for your comfort and entertainment, Miss Erstwhile.”
“My name is Jane Hayes.”
“There is a car waiting to take you to the airport, Jane Hayes. I trust you are ready to get on your way.”
“I certainly am.”
“I hope I have not upset you,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said with an innocent smile. “You must have known that everyone is playing a part. I pride myself on matching each client with her perfect gentleman. But one cannot anticipate a woman’s every fancy, and so our talent pool runs deep.”
“Very deep indeed.” Jane felt like a woman drowning, and she grasped for anything. And as it turned out, bald-faced lies are, temporarily anyway, impressively buoyant, so she said, “It will make the ending to my book all the more interesting.”
“Your . . . your book?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook peered over her spectacles as if at a bug she would like to squash.
“Mm-hm,” said Jane, lying extravagantly, outrageously, but also, she hoped, gracefully.
“Surely you know I work for a publisher? The editor thought the story of my experience at Pembrook Park would be the perfect addition to a book we’re creating about predatory resorts who lure in the wealthy and desperate. ”
She had no intention of becoming a writer, but she had to give Mrs. Wattlesbrook a good jab before departure. She was smarting enough to crave the reprieve that comes from fighting back.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook twitched. That was satisfying.
“And I’m sure you realize that since my contract for the book precedes any paperwork I signed here,” Jane said, “legally it supersedes your confidentiality agreement.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s right eyebrow spasmed. Jane guessed that behind it ran her barrister’s phone number, which she would dial ASAP. Jane, of course, had been lying again. And wasn’t it fun!
Mrs. Wattlesbrook appeared to be trying to moisten her mouth and failing. “I did not know . . . I would have . . .”
“But you didn’t. My late arrival, the phone scandal, and then throwing me to Martin .
. . You assumed that I was no one of influence.
I guess I’m not. But I wonder how many of our readers are in your preferred tax bracket?
Given everything, and especially what happened with Sir John, I’m afraid my chapter on Pembrook Park won’t be glowing. ”
Jane curtsied in her jeans and left.