Austenland

by Shannon Hale

  Sir John cleared his throat with a bit more phlegm involved than made Jane comfortable. “Young people? Lady Templeton, you forget Miss Charming.”

  “Ah, yes, of course! How could I forget Miss Charming? She is the daughter of a dear friend and only arrived yesterday. What fortunate timing for you, I think. It is so nice for young people to share each other’s company.”

  Aunt Saffronia took Jane’s arm and led her upstairs to a comfortable-sized room with a canopied bed, baby blue walls, sparsely furnished, not gothic enough to tempt her to look for “Catherine Heathcliff ” engravings on the windowsill. It was exactly the kind of room Jane would have imagined. She couldn’t think why this discovery was disappointing. It was slightly more disheartening to discover that the “kerosene” lamp by her bed had a flame-shaped lightbulb and was plugged into an outlet.

  Jane dismissed her properly taciturn maid, Matilda, saying that she would rest until dinner, since the jet lag was making gravity feel alarmingly heavy. She spent a fidgety hour on a soft mattress, lifted up the sheets to spy out a DEVON brand tag, then poked around in the attached bathroom and found a flush toilet and bathtub with running water. It was a relief not to have to use a bedpan, but it also made her feel more guilty than ever. The less historical vigor observed, the more difficult it was for Jane to pretend that this whole exercise was anything beyond wish fulfillment. She felt too weird to rest.

  The day continued to drizzle, so she ambled the burgundy corridors, peeking into open doors. The house was perfect. It even carried the old, clean smell of a museum. Her heart pounded a bit, and she felt as if she had sneaked away from a tour guide.

  She walked a long gallery with north-facing windows and matched gazes with the portraits. Men and women in stiff costumes, old jewelry, their backgrounds faded countryside, their eyes imperious. They were marvelous. She wondered if those rich people had naturally looked on the world with such assurance of their own nobility or if the painter had created it for them. An itch inside her hand made her want to give it a try, but she scratched the desire away. She hadn’t picked up a paintbrush since college.

  She ran out of upstairs, so down she went, only to be stopped fast by voices coming from a sitting room. Jane wasn’t ready to face real people yet, not as Miss Erstwhile. The portraits had been intimidating enough. Footsteps scared her out of the hall and into an open doorway. It was a large, square, empty room, wooden floors, no furniture. The grand hall. The place where balls happen. The walls were an impatient green, the crystals on the chandeliers winked in the window light. If she were the type of person who looked for signs, Jane would have thought the room was shivering in anticipation of something momentous. But she wasn’t.

  She turned to leave, and from the far door saw the dark outline of a man enter. He stopped. She stopped. She couldn’t see his face.

  “Pardon,” he said and turned back.

  She stood staring at where he’d been for a few moments, relieved at first that she hadn’t been forced to make conversation yet, then soon, actually sorry that he’d gone. Just his presence had set her heart to pounding, and the feeling prickled in her the delightful expectation of things to come.

  Goody, she thought.

  As she ascended the main staircase on the way back to her room, she bumped into a woman bending over her own boots, the curve in her back declaring that she wasn’t wearing a corset.

  “Dratted drawers,” said the woman, straightening.

  She was unnaturally buxom, in her fifties, and sported short, bleached hair heavily sprayed and an attached fake bun of a slightly different shade. Her eyes widened when she saw Jane, and her surgery-tightened skin stretched to admit a wide smile.

  “Well, hello, you’re new, aren’t you? My name’s Miss Elizabeth Charming, like Elizabeth Bennet, see? But don’t you like the last name? It was Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s idea. I’d thought just to go ahead and name myself Elizabeth Bennet, because I mean to bag a Mr. Darcy, but she thought Elizabeth Charming was more enchanting. Anyhoo, my friends call me Eliza.” She stuck out her left hand, the ring finger of which still bore the mark of a recently removed wedding band. Jane shook it awkwardly with her right hand, then bobbed a curtsy.

  “Hello, I suppose I’m Jane Erstwhile.”

  “You’re one of those Americans.”

  Jane frowned, confused. Clearly this woman was also from the United States, possibly from a southern state—the accent was unclear. Then Jane realized that she was attempting to sound British, over-pronouncing words and occasionally dropping an “r.” The effect made her sound like a little girl in desperate need of a speech therapist.

  “Oh dear,” Eliza said miserably. “I don’t think I’m supposed to talk to you until we’ve been properly introduced. Let’s pretend we haven’t met.”

  Eliza started back down the stairs, stuffing one breast more snuggly into her dress, then turned back again to speak low and urgently into Jane’s ear. “And by the way, I’m twenty-two. I told Mrs. Wattlesbrook and now I’m telling you. I didn’t forgo a new car and a month in Florence to be fifty again.” She patted Jane’s behind and trudged down the stairs, holding her long skirts above her ankles.

  * * *

  THAT EVENING, THEY WERE FORMALLY introduced.

  “Jane, my dear, you do look lovely!” Aunt Saffronia said.

  Jane nearly blushed as she descended the stairs. She did feel lovely, actually, if a little too aware of her own breasts exposed within the lower neck of the evening dress. Her maid, Matilda, had helped her with her hair, attaching a bunch of curls (she flattered herself that they looked more natural than Miss Charming’s bundle of plastic) and winding pretty little beads around her head. She had been wary of empire waists, but the feel of the fabric and the splendid rust and yellow of her evening dress made her feel so different that she girded herself up to start the make-believe.

  You can do it, you can do it, she chanted silently as if she were attempting the last set in kickboxing. She hated kickboxing.

  “Jane, may I introduce our house guest Miss Elizabeth Charming of Hertfordshire?”

  “How do you do, Miss Erstwhile, what-what?” said Miss Charming, her tightened lips trembling with the effort of approximating a British accent. “Spit spot I hope, rather.”

  “How do you do?”

  They both curtsied and Miss Charming made a silent “shh” with her lips, as though Jane would out her for the stairway meeting. Jane had a burst of maternal instinct that made her want to cuddle Miss Charming and help her through this crazy Austenland maze. If she only knew the way herself.

  “Miss Charming is about your age, I believe,” Aunt Saffronia said.

  “Oh no, Aunt, I’m quite certain that Miss Charming, still in the bloom of her youth, is several years my junior.”

  Miss Charming giggled. Aunt Saffronia smiled graciously as she took Jane’s arm, and the three walked into the drawing room. At their entrance, two gentlemen stood.

  Ah, the gentlemen.

  They wore the high-collared vests, cravats, buttoned coats with long tails, and tight little breeches that had driven Jane’s imagination mad on many an uneventful Tuesday night. Her heart bumped around in her chest like a bee at a window, and everything seemed to move in closer, the world pressing against her, insisting that all was real and there for the touching. She was really here. Jane held her hands behind her back in case they trembled with eagerness.

  “Jane, may I present Colonel Andrews, Sir John’s cousin and the second son of the earl of Denton? He passed the partridge-shooting season with us and we have been fortunate enough to persuade him to stay on for the pheasant season. Colonel Andrews, my niece from America, Miss Jane Erstwhile.”

  Colonel Andrews was fair-haired with a decent set of shoulders and a very ready smile. He could not seem more pleased to see her, bowing without removing his gaze from her face.

  “What a pleasure, a very pleasant pleasure, indeed.” The way his tone slid over his words gave him a delightful, roguish
appeal that made Jane want to kiss him on the spot. Or the lips, whichever was closer.

  Hm, maybe she really could see this through.

  “And this is his good friend Mr. Nobley,” Aunt Saffronia said, “who has agreed to honor us with his presence for some of the hunting season while his estate is under renovation.”

  Mr. Nobley was taller than Colonel Andrews, and his jaw was in no need of the long sideburns to give it definition. The line of his shoulders identified him as the most likely of the bunch to have been the shadowy lurker from the great hall. In the light, she found him handsome, in a brooding sort of way.

  Of course, Jane thought, one man of each type for the buffet. Don’t mind if I do.

  Mr. Nobley bowed stiffly, then walked away to look out the window.

  “How do you do?” said Jane to his back.

  Aunt Saffronia laughed. “Do not mind Mr. Nobley. He is annoyed to be trapped here with such minor country gentry, are you not, sir?”

  Mr. Nobley looked back at Aunt Saffronia. “I do not know what you mean, madam.” His eyes flicked to Jane.

  She found herself thinking, I wonder if he thinks I’m pretty? Then thought, don’t be silly, it’s all an act. Then thought, What fun!

  “And you gentlemen already have made the acquaintance of Miss Charming.”

  “Indeed,” said Colonel Andrews, bowing again.

  “You boys know you can call me Lizzy.”

  Jane glanced at Aunt Saffronia, wondering what would happen to this request. According to the Rules, it was completely improper for a man to call a woman by her first name unless they were engaged. Before Aunt Saffronia could speak or Mrs. Wattlesbrook magically appear with a disapproving look, Colonel Andrews came to the rescue.

  “I would never dream of doing you such a dishonor, Miss Charming.” His voice drew out all the allure in her name, and he smiled with a sly, teasing expression.

  Miss Charming giggled. “Tallyho.”

  Oh no, thought Jane as she watched the exchange, panic tickling her heart. Oh no, oh no, they’ll assume I’m a Miss Charming. I don’t want to be a Miss Charming!

  She tried to catch Mr. Nobley’s eye and somehow smile or wink or do anything to indicate that she would never say “tallyho.” He didn’t look away from the window, and after a few moments, Jane had cause to be relieved. In a burst of panic, she had actually been ready to wink at him. Yikes.

  The dinner bell rang. Sir John, who had been slouching in a chair, roused at the sound and offered his arm to Miss Charming. He patted her hand and grumbled in a too-loud voice, “Let us hope there are enough game birds tonight. My stomach is not up to much boiled mutton, what.”

  Aunt Saffronia took Mr. Nobley’s arm, leaving Jane and the colonel at the tail end of the parade from drawing room to dining room. The precedence told Jane two things: Mr. Nobley must be very rich and well connected to outrank an earl’s second son, and she was the lowest-ranking woman. She supposed that was no surprise, considering she was not their “usual type of guest.”

  They ate pigeon soup with lemons and asparagus, then heaped their own plates in self-service Regency style with fish and grouse, cooked celery and cucumbers. A cup of something like creamy applesauce served as dessert, and the wine was exchanged for Madeira. The food was pretty good, though a bit bland. When would Indian food arrive in England to spice things up? Jane thought she could go for a decent curry.

  Aunt Saffronia kept the conversation flowing about the weather, the state of pheasants in the park this year, and the doings of mythic acquaintances in the city. Jane did not speak much during dinner, still oppressed with jet lag and curious to observe before opening her mouth and proving herself a fool. Mr. Nobley, too, barely spoke. Not that Miss Charming at his side didn’t do her best.

  “What do you think of me dress, Mr. Nobley?”

  “It is very nice.”

  “Do you like the fish?”

  “Yes, it is a good fish.”

  “Do I have something in my eye?” This spoken while twisting toward him, her amazing bosom pressing against his shoulder.

  No way Mrs. Wattlesbrook could find a corset to fit that, Jane thought.

  “ I . . . I am afraid I cannot see well in this low light,” Mr. Nobley said without really looking.

  Miss Charming giggled. “You’re quite a bloke, Mr. Nobley. Rather!”

  After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing room while the men stayed in the dining room to pass around snuff and port, which activities the Rules forbade them from doing in front of women. Aunt Saffronia sat between one real and one electric kerosene lamp, embroidering and chattering about the gentlemen, while Miss Charming paced the drawing room floor.

  “The colonel is all kindness, is he not, Miss Charming? He has such a sad reputation in the city, I have heard, for carousing and card playing and the like, but I say, what else is a young, unattached man to do with the war over, thanks be, and he the younger son with no title to claim him? A small mercy his mother is not alive to see how he’s turned out, rest her. Now Mr. Nobley, of course, is most respectable, perhaps too respectable, what do you say, Jane? No title, but an old, solid family name and wonderful lands. He will be a steadying influence on the colonel, a solid oar for a dinghy. He has such high connections and such a dignified bearing, though I tease him that he seems a bit stiff—”

  “Do they really have to drink port alone?” Miss Charming asked, pacing at double speed. “Can’t they come any faster?”

  “Ah, here they are,” Aunt Saffronia said.

  Jane smelled a mild waft of alcohol and tobacco sweep before them, and the gentlemen emerged triumphant—shiny colonel, glowering gentleman, soggy husband.

  Aunt Saffronia proposed a rousing game of whist to pass the evening. Miss Charming, seemingly bored of trying to seduce the Darcy out of Mr. Nobley, secured Colonel Andrews as a partner. Jane played opposite Aunt Saffronia. As for the rest of the party, Sir John drank from a crystal decanter (probably full of cherry Kool-Aid, Jane guessed), while Mr. Nobley read a book and generally ignored everybody.

  Jane focused on the rules of whist, losing horribly. She felt like hand-washed laundry, rubbed and heavy and ready to be laid out to dry. Her routine-addicted brain never handled time changes well, and the cards and conversation and exhaustion melted together, making her dizzy. She looked up to ground herself in her surroundings.

  Mr. Nobley was absorbed in his book. She looked left. Colonel Andrews was grinning at her, his smile conscious of just how smoking hot he really was. All around her were yellow walls, gaudy Georgian finery, the deliciously historic smell of furniture wax and kerosene. She looked down at herself, dressed in foreign fabric, cleavage encased in rust-colored satin, slippered feet resting on an Oriental rug. She was completely ridiculous. At the same time, she wanted to stomp the ground and squeal like a teenager just asked to prom. She was here!

  And if this were an Austen novel, the characters would be up for a little banter about now. Jane cleared her throat.

  “Mr. Nobley, Lady Templeton says Pembrook Park will host a ball in just over a fortnight. Do you enjoy a good dance?”

  “Dancing I tolerate,” he answered in a dry tone. “I might say I enjoy a good dance, though I have never had one.”

  “Scandalous!” Aunt Saffronia said. “You have danced in this drawing room several times, and I have seen you escort many a fine young lady onto a ballroom floor. Are you saying that none of those qualified as a good dance?”

  “Madam, you may choose to understand my comments any way you like.”

  Jane glared. He was, in his subtle manner, insulting dear Aunt Saffronia! Wait, no he wasn’t, they were both actors playing parts. Being inside this story felt a tad more surreal than she’d expected. For one thing, if this were real, she’d find Mr. Nobley’s arrogance annoying and his self-absorption unbearably boring. The character deserved a good thrashing.

  “I suppose the lack in all such occurrences was to be found in your partners, Mr. Nobl
ey?” Jane asked.

  Mr. Nobley thought. “In them, yes, and partly in myself. I cannot imagine a dance truly being enjoyable unless both partners find themselves equals in rank, grace, and aptitude, as well as naturally fond of each other.”

  “One might say the same for conversation.”

  “Indeed one might,” he said, turning in his chair to face her. “We are ill-fated in that our society demands we engage in unworthy conversations and dances in order to seem courteous, and yet such actions are ultimately vulgar.”

  “But pray tell, Mr. Nobley,” Jane said, enthused, “how is one to find out if another is her equal in rank, grace, and aptitude, and how is one to discover a natural fondness, without first engaging in conversations and social gatherings? Would you say a hunter were vulgar when coursing through the fields and only dignified when actually shooting at prey?”

  “I think she has you there, Nobley,” Colonel Andrews said with a laugh.

  Mr. Nobley’s expression did not change. “A hunter need not spend hours with a pheasant to know it would make a good dinner. A pheasant is nothing more than what it seems, as are hens, foxes, and swans. People are no different. Some may need endless hours of prattle and prancing to know another’s worth. I should not.”

  Jane turned her gaping mouth into a smile. “So, you can tell the worth, the merit, the nobility of a person at a glance?”

  “And you cannot?” His expression held a mild challenge. “Can you tell me that within the first few moments of knowing each person in this room, you had not formed firm judgments of their character, which up to this very moment you have not questioned?”

  She smiled ever so slightly. “You are correct, sir. However, I do hope that, in at least one regard, my first impression will eventually prove not to be completely accurate.”

  There was a tense silence, and then Colonel Andrews laughed again.

  “Excellent. Most excellent. Never heard someone give old Nobley the what-for quite like that.” He slapped the table emphatically.