by Shannon Hale
“Of course. It would be uncivil to say I will not enjoy making love to you tonight.”
Jane’s mouth was dry. “Wh-what?”
“Tonight as we perform the play,” he said, completely composed. “My character professes love to your character, and to say that such a task is odious would be an insult to you.”
“Ah,” she said with a little laugh. “All right then.” She had forgotten for a moment that “making love” did not mean to Austen what it meant today. Of course, Mr. Nobley the twenty-first-century actor knew that, and she squinted at him to see if he had been playing with her. He stopped walking, seeing something in the distance. She followed his gaze.
Captain East and Amelia were silhouetted by starlight. They stood in front of a bench, and he was holding both her hands.
“Are they acting?” asked Jane. “I mean, rehearsing for the theatrical?”
“They do not appear to be speaking at the moment.”
He was right. They were completely occupied with staring into each other’s eyes. Jane noted that Amelia seemed fluster-free for the first time since Captain East had arrived. If they were acting, they were doing a mighty fine job.
“You think it’s real . . .” said Jane.
“It is not right to watch.”
“If we don’t watch, who will? Seems a shame to waste the moment with no audience to witness it.”
Their lips moved now. Rehearsing lines? Or . . . Captain East leaned forward, Amelia tilted her head back. Her hand trembled on his chest. His lips met hers, briefly, gently. It clearly wasn’t enough, and he seized her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and their faces merged beyond distinction in the darkness. It looked pretty serious, the kind of affection those two might reserve for a sealing-of-the-engagement moment.
Suddenly, it wasn’t like watching a movie—their passion seemed real and watching it started to feel like voyeurism. Jane wondered, Did Amelia the woman really love George East the man? The actor? Could she? What would happen to her heart when she left Pembrook Park?
“I’m in agreement with you now about the not-watching part,” she said.
Jane and Mr. Nobley walked back to the house in silence, the air around them thick, dragging with awkwardness. Witnessing confessions of love and first kisses can be enchanting when you’re with someone comfortable, someone you’ve already had that kiss with, and can laugh about it and feel cozy and remember your own first moment. Seeing it with Mr. Nobley was like having a naked-in-public dream.
“It’s only natural to confuse truth and fantasy as they play parts in a theatrical,” said Jane. “They start to feel as their characters would.”
“True. Which is one reason why I was hesitant to engage in this frivolity. I do not think pretending something can make it real.”
“I find it a little alarming that we agree on something. But do you think, in their case anyway, do you think those feelings could run deeper?”
Mr. Nobley stopped. He looked at her. “I wondered the same.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“It’s more than possible. They reside in compatible stations in life, they have like minds, their sentiments seem suited to each other.”
“You sound like a textbook on matrimony. I’m talking about love, Mr. Nobley. Despite falling in love over a script, do you think they have a chance?”
Mr. Nobley frowned and rubbed his sideburns briskly with the back of his fingers. “I . . . I knew Captain East in the past when he loved another woman. Her changes, her cruelty broke him. He was a shell for some time. If you had asked me last month if another woman’s attentions could make him a whole man again, I would have said that no man can recover from such a wound, that he will never be able to trust a woman again, that romantic love is not air or water and one can live without it. But now . . .” He breathed out. He had not looked away from her. “Now I do not know. Now I almost begin to think, yes. Yes.”
“Yes,” she repeated. The moon hung in the sky just over his shoulder, peering as though listening in, breathless for what was next.
“Miss Erstwhile.”
“Yes?”
He looked at the sky, he took several breaths as if trying to locate the right words, he briefly shut his eyes. “Miss Erstwhile, do you—”
Captain East and Miss Heartwright passed by, walking close without touching. Mr. Nobley watched them, his frown deepening, then he looked back over his shoulder at nothing.
What? What?! Jane wanted to yell.
“Shall we go inside?”
He offered his arm. She felt dumped-on-her-rear disappointment, but she took his arm and pretended she was just fine. Soon the warm safety of roof and walls cut off the luscious strangeness of night in the garden. Servants scurried, candles blazed, the preparations for the play were lively and unconcerned with a moment in the park.
Without another word, Mr. Nobley left her alone, his jacket still around her shoulders. It smelled like gardens.
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, THE DRAWING room converted, the costumes wrapped, the electric-kerosene lamps flickering in a semicircle at their feet, the performers enacted the thirty-minute ode to love and the Mediterranean, Home by the Sea.
Miss Charming kept a ferocious grip on her script and gave oily air kisses to Colonel Andrews. Amelia was calm and sweet, melting into her dialogue with Captain East as though into his arms. Jane knelt beside Mr. Nobley, the wounded war captain, as he nearly died, and did her best to sound earnest. Old Jane would’ve run away or laughed self-consciously throughout. New Jane decided to feel as enchanting as Miss Charming and performed each line with relish and passion. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t a very good actress. Mr. Nobley’s character miraculously recovered all the same, leading to the part where he stood and took her hands. They were still cold. He paused, as though trying to remember what came next.
He looked. Looked at her. At her and into her. Into her eyes as though he couldn’t bear to look away. And there was a delicious curl in his smile.
“I love you,” he said.
Zing, thought Jane.
It was his line, more or less, though simplified. Stripped of similes and farms and rain and moon and all, it pierced her. She opened her mouth to say her own line but couldn’t remember a single word. And she didn’t want to.
He leaned. She leaned.
Then Aunt Saffronia, who’d been laughing encouragingly during the parts that were supposed to be sad and clapping gleefully whenever a new character came onstage, now cleared her throat as though intensely uncomfortable. Mr. Nobley hesitated, then kissed Jane’s cheek. His lips were warm, his cheek slightly scratchy. She smiled and breathed him in.
At length, the six actors stood side by side, pretending the bright yellow wall of the drawing room opened to a view of the Mediterranean Sea, and said their closing lines.
Jane: Trying to sound actress-y. “At last, we are all truly happy.”
Miss Charming: Pause. Crinkling of paper. Frantic searching for line. “Indeed.”
Amelia: With a shy smile for the tall man beside her. “Our travels are ended.”
Captain East: With a manly smile for his lady. “We can rest peacefully in each other’s arms.”
Colonel Andrews: As always, with panache! “And no matter where we may roam . . .”
Mr. Nobley: A sigh. “This will always be our home.” His voice unhappy with the line. “By the sea.”
And, silence as the audience waited for who knows what— a better ending line? A better play? Colonel Andrews cleared his throat, and Jane inclined her head in a hurried curtsy.
“Oh,” Aunt Saffronia said and started the applause.
The audience clapped enthusiastically and arhythmically, and the cast bowed, Miss Charming giggling.
Jane squinted past the lamps to get her first good look at the audience, now that the play was over and stage fright couldn’t prickle her. Aunt Saffronia, beaming. Mrs. Wattlesbrook, looking for all the world like a pro
ud schoolmarm. Matilda, bored, and a few other servants, equally bored.
And Martin. He was in the back, and the room was dark, but no one else was that tall. Imagining the spectacle from his eyes, she saw anew how ridiculous that little play had been, and how all of Pembrook Park must seem so to him—the false lines, the feigned exclamations of love. Artifice. Pretense. Lies. Schoolgirl daydreams.
Jane leaned away from Mr. Nobley.
“Well, my dears, what a show. Quite professional!” Aunt Saffronia said, rushing their little stage. Mrs. Wattlesbrook was right behind her. A barrage of compliments engulfed the cast, and Jane smiled and nodded and smiled. She was conscious of Martin moving up, standing behind Mrs. Wattlesbrook, gesturing to Jane. Such a tall man was difficult to ignore. She ignored him.
“Uh, Miss Erstwhile?” he said quietly. He was shy. He was embarrassed. He sounded a little desperate.
Aunt Saffronia was plunging the profound intricacies of the script. Mrs. Wattlesbrook half-turned to glare at Martin.
“Miss Erstwhile?” he said again, sounding a little braver.
Jane met his gaze dead on. Martin blinked, smiled hopefully, and opened his mouth to speak again. What did he have to do with her? She was trying—for Carolyn, for herself, for her darling Mr. Darcy, she was trying to live this, and Martin’s presence had the effect of shining a light on how shallow it all was, besides reminding her of every guy who had tossed her aside. She was having a grand time and his judgment was souring the punch. She turned her shoulder to him and addressed Mr. Nobley.
“Thank you, sir. Thus far the highlight of my stay has been making love to you.”
Mr. Nobley bowed in acknowledgment. The conversation completely quieted. Jane thought she detected Martin sort of slump his shoulders.
“Well, good night, all,” Jane said, and made a quick getaway to her room . . .
. . . where she lay on her bed, stared at her canopy, and wished that encounter didn’t stick to her still, that she could just scrape it off her shoe. What would Martin have said if she’d let him speak? No, never mind, these things never end well.
Wait, there had been something good, coiling on the edge of her memory . . . ah yes, Mr. Nobley had been about to kiss her. She closed her eyes and held to that moment as she would to the tatters of a really great dream in the waking gray of dawn.
Boyfriend #12
Tad Harrison, AGE THIRTY-FIVE
She’d broken down and purchased the Pride and Prejudice DVDs by now (much to the lament of her video rental store’s bottom line), but she hid them away for Tad’s sake.
Things got serious. They were engaged after a year, adopted a dog together, even picked out future baby names. But he wouldn’t set a date.
“Things don’t feel quite right,” he’d say cryptically. “Not just yet. But soon.”
After another year and some, she suggested they take a breather until things felt right, hoping that with a little distance he’d be ready to commit. She waited five months for him to make up his mind. He waited two weeks to start sleeping around.
The worst part? Worse than wasting over two years on that confirmed loser, worse than the humiliation of being cheated on? He got to keep the dog.
day 19
THE NEXT MORNING, JANE PAINTED in her chemise. She was satisfied with the self-portrait except for the eyes, which still looked back uncertainly. Since she’d only just taken up a brush again, she was not good enough to force the paint to do what it didn’t want to do.
She meant to make it down for lunch, but she didn’t have a timepiece and mislaid several hours tumbling through the second canvas, coming up for air again with a sprawl of the view from her window. She’d originally thought it would be lovely and pastoral, but it ended up very Twilight Zone, which she decided she liked even better. Somehow, it seemed more real.
She put down the brush, stretched, and realized that she was ravenous, so dressed, ate, and walked outside to hunt the gentlemen. With only two days left, her pulse clicked in her neck, Hurry, hurry! She was feeling at home here, no question. But what did she still have to do to feel resolved? How was she going to conquer Mr. Darcy?
No one was in the park. As she strolled by the servants’ quarters, Jane stopped, guilt gnawing at her. Last night, Martin had called her name twice, and in front of Mrs. Wattlesbrook and everything. She should have at least given him the opportunity to speak.
Jane strolled casually to the servants’ building and rapped on his door.
No answer. What a relief.
She rapped one more time and sauntered away, seeming not to wait. As she paced toward the end of the building, she overheard conversational tones. From behind the camouflage of a climbing rose vine, Jane peered around the side of the building and caught sight of Colonel Andrews smoking a cigarette and speaking to someone else just out of sight. The colonel was nodding and smiling, and seemed quite content. He passed the nearly defunct cigarette to the unseen person, who took a drag then flicked the butt away. Colonel Andrews checked his pocket watch and sighed.
“Well, time to get back to work.” His smile vanished.
Probably has a meeting with Miss Charming, Jane thought.
She edged away from the servants’ quarters and was ambling toward the front door when she heard someone overtake her.
“Ah, Miss Erstwhile,” said Colonel Andrews. “I was just coming after you to join me in the stables.”
“You were looking for me?” She waited for him to change his story. He didn’t. “Uh, what about Miss Charming?”
“Miss Charming is resting in her chambers, but I cannot be idle. I must have some diversion.”
“Are you sure she is? I mean, aren’t you looking for her?” Jane felt a little dizzy.
“She told me of her plans after breakfast. You seem surprised that I was seeking you. Don’t tell me that I’ve been so neglectful as to cause you this astonishment.”
“Nap,” she said. “Yes. I think I’ll follow Miss Charming’s example and rest myself. Perhaps, colonel, you need a break, too.”
She left with a quiet swish of her skirt. Back to work. She was the work. She was. Rats. She’d had a sweet little hope that she was the treat, the rest from laboring conversations. Nope, hanging out with Miss Erstwhile was reason to sigh with exhaustion.
Did Mr. Nobley feel the same way? Could he have been the unseen smoker?
Tomorrow was the ball. She’d channeled all her hopes into the ball, where she would face the fantasy of Mr. Darcy and somehow . . . somehow just know what to do? She was all befuddled. The ball had to be her closure, her triumph. But reminded that for these actor men, she was work, it was getting hard to keep her eye on the ball. She was not who she’d thought she was. No one was.
When she got back to her room, her self-portrait’s eyes stared back, startled, even more unsure.
“Stupid art,” she said.
Glum, glum, glum. That was the sound her feet made as she descended to the drawing room that evening. Glum, glum, as she walked alone at the back of the line of precedence into the dining room. It sure felt cold back there. She sniffed and rubbed her arms.
“Mr. and Mrs. Longley will be coming from Granger Hall and the two older Miss Longleys as well,” Aunt Saffronia was saying, her conversation as endlessly full of names as the biblical lists of who-begot-whom. “Oh! And Mr. Bentley. Miss Heartwright, you recall Mr. Bentley? Still single and has four thousand pounds a year. Takes such good care of his mother.”
Jane click-clacked her fork on her plate, pushing her food around. Her mother would’ve been shocked. It was not often that Jane was truly and absolutely despondent, and tonight she felt enslaved by that word. It shouldn’t matter what they thought of her, she reminded herself. This was her game, and when she won it would be her victory. She just had to dig in her heels and keep playing. But the reality of the men being bored by her, paid to pretend to like her, intruded too much on her fun tonight, coupled with the dread that she wouldn’t be able to conque
r her obsession before her time in Austenland was up.
Jane tried to keep the despondency to herself, though Mr. Nobley seemed to be keeping a pretty good eye on her, as usual. She took another bite of . . . poultry of some sort? . . . and decided she’d pull the headache excuse out of the bag and dismiss herself to bed as soon as the dinner torture was over. She hated to waste a single moment of her last days, but she felt pulled inside out and couldn’t figure out how to right herself.
She returned Mr. Nobley’s gaze. His eyebrows raised, he leaned forward slightly, his mannerisms asking, “Are you all right?” She shrugged. He frowned.
When the women stood to leave the gentlemen to their port and tobacco, Mr. Nobley rose as well and made his unapologetic way to Jane’s side.
“Miss Erstwhile, too long have you been asked to walk alone.
May I accompany you to the drawing room?”
Her heart jigged.
“It’s not proper,” she whispered, the fear of Wattlesbrook in her. She didn’t want to be sent home, not before the ball.
“Proper be damned,” he said, low enough for just her ears.
Jane could feel all eyes on them. She took Mr. Nobley’s arm and walked across that negligible distance, stately as a bride. He found her a seat on a far sofa and sat beside her, and except for the fact that she couldn’t kick off her shoes and tuck her feet up under her, all felt pleasantly snug.
“How is the painting going?” he asked.
Of course it had been him (the paints). And of course it hadn’t been him (Colonel Andrews’s unseen smoking companion). Jane sighed happily.
“How do you do it? How do you make me feel so good? I don’t like that you can affect me so much, and I find you much more annoying than ever. But what I mean is, thank you for the paints.”
He wouldn’t acknowledge the thanks and pressed her for details instead, so she told him how it felt to manipulate color again, real color, real paint, not pixels and RGBs, like the joy in her muscles stretching after a long plane ride. She talked about artists she admired, paintings she’d done when she was young and dramatic and how cowed by false emotion they seemed to her now, how the embarrassment of immature art had chased her away from the canvas for too long. And how grateful she felt, how chock-full of happy things just for having returned. She didn’t worry that she was boring him, as Old Jane would’ve done. It didn’t matter, she reminded herself. He was paid to listen to her and make her feel like the most interesting person in the world, and so, by George, she would be.