by Shannon Hale
“Here, let me . . .” Nobley tried to give her a hand up and push Martin away at the same time.
“Get off me,” Martin said. “I’ll help her.”
He kicked Nobley in the rear, followed by some swatting of hands. Jane planted her feet, grabbed Nobley’s arm, and pulled him off. Martin was still swiping at Nobley from the ground. No-bley’s cap fell off, then his trench coat twisted up around Martin, who batted at it crazily.
“Cut it out!” Jane said, pushing Nobley back and putting herself between them. She felt more like a teacher stopping a schoolboy scuffle than an ingenue with two brawling beaus.
“M-m-martin’s gay!” Nobley said.
“I am not! You’re thinking of Edgar.”
“Who the hell is Edgar?”
“You know, that other gardener who always smells of fish.”
“Oh, right.”
Jane raised her hands in exasperation. “Would you two . . .”
A stuffed-up voice over the PA announced preboarding for Jane’s flight. The brunette made an audible moan of disappointment. Martin struggled to his feet with a hand up from Nobley, and they both stood before Jane, silent, pathetic as wet dogs who want to be let back in the house. She felt very sure of herself just then, tall and sleek and confident.
“Well, they’re playing my song, boys,” she said melodically.
Martin’s tall shoulders slumped as he sulked, and his long feet seemed clownish. Nobley had no trace of a smile now. She looked at them, side by side, two men who’d given her Darcy obsession a really good challenge. They were easily the most scrumptious men of her acquaintance, and she supposed she’d never had so much fun pursuing and being pursued. And she was saying no. To both of them. To all of it. Her skin tingled. It was a perfect moment.
“It’s been a pleasure. Truly.” She started to turn away.
“Jane.” Nobley placed a hand on her shoulder, a desperate kind of bravery overcoming his reserve. He took her hand again. “Jane, please.” He raised her hand to his lips, his eyes down as if afraid of meeting hers. Jane smiled and remembered that he really had been her favorite, all along. She stepped into him, holding both his hands down by her sides, and lightly pressed her cheek against his neck. She could feel him sigh.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Tell Mrs. Wattlesbrook I said tallyho.”
She sauntered away without looking back. She could hear the men calling after her, protesting, reaffirming their sincerity. Jane ignored them, smiling all the way back through security, to the gate, down the jetway. Though pure fantasy, it was exactly the finale she’d hoped for.
She liked the way it had ended, had enjoyed her last line. Tallyho. What did that mean, anyway? Wasn’t it like, the hunt is on, or something? Tallyho. A beginning of something. She was the predator. The fox had been sighted. It was time to run it down.
Okay, Aunt Carolyn, she said in a little prayer. Okay, I’m ready. I’m burying the wishful part of me, the prey part of me. I’m real now.
She snuggled into her seat and stared out the window at the dwarfish people on the tarmac, waving their orange-coned flashlights as though desperate to get her attention. She relaxed, and her mind wanted to puzzle over things. Which parts of Pembrook Park had been real? Any of it? Even herself? The absurdity bubbled up inside her, and she laughed out loud. The woman next to her stiffened as if forcing herself not to look at the crazy person.
“Excuse me.”
The sound of the voice flattened Jane against the back of her seat as though the plane had taken off at a terrifying speed.
It was him. There he was. In the plane. Vest and cravat and jacket and all.
“Holy cow,” she said.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” Nobley said to the woman beside Jane. “My girlfriend and I don’t have tickets together, and I wonder if you would mind switching. I have a lovely seat on the exit row.”
The woman nodded and smiled sympathetically at Jane as though pondering the sadness of a crazy woman dating a man in Regency clothes.
The man who was Mr. Nobley sat beside her. He lifted his hand to remove his cap, discovered it’d been dislodged during the scuffle with Martin, and then inclined his head just as Mr. Nobley would have.
“How do you do? I’m Henry.”
So he was Henry Jenkins.
“I’m still Jane,” she said. Or, squeaked, rather.
He was trying to fasten his seat belt and his look of confusion was so adorable, she wanted to reach over and help, but that wouldn’t be in keeping with the . . . wait, they were on a plane. There were no more Rules. There was no more game. She felt her hopes rise so that she thought she’d float away before the plane took off, so she pushed her feet flat against the floor. She reminded herself that she was the predator now. Tallyho.
“This is a bit far to go, even for Mrs. Wattlesbrook.”
“She didn’t send me,” said Nobley-Henry. “Not before, not now. I sent myself, or rather I came because I . . . I had to try it. Look, I know this is crazy, but the ticket was nonrefundable. Could I at least accompany you home?”
“This is hardly a stroll through the park.”
“I’m tired of parks.”
She noticed that his tone was more casual now. He lost the stilted Regency air, his words relaxed enough to allow contractions—but besides that, so far Henry didn’t seem much different from Mr. Nobley.
He leaned back, as if trying to calm down. “It was a good gig, but the pay wasn’t astronomical, so you can imagine my relief to find you weren’t flying first class. Though I’d prefer a cargo ship, frankly. I hate planes.”
“Mr. Nob—uh, Henry, it’s not too late to get off the plane. I’m not writing an article for the magazine.”
“What magazine?”
“Oh. And I’m not rich.”
“I know. Mrs. Wattlesbrook outlines every guest’s financials along with their profiles.”
“Why would you come after me if you knew I wasn’t . . .”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’re irresistible.”
“I am not.”
“I’m not happy about it. You really are the most irritating person I’ve ever met. I’d managed to avoid any women of any temptation whatsoever for four years—a very easy task in Pembrook Park. Things were going splendidly, I was right on track to die alone and unnoticed. And then . . .”
“You don’t know me! You know Miss Erstwhile, but—”
“Come now, ever since I witnessed your abominable performance in the theatrical, it’s been clear that you can’t act to save your life. All three weeks, that was you.” He smiled. “And I wanted to keep knowing you. Well, I didn’t at first. I wanted you to go away and leave me in peace. I’ve made a career out of avoiding any possibility of a real relationship. And then to find you in that circus . . . it didn’t make sense. But what ever does?”
“Nothing,” said Jane with conviction. “Nothing makes sense.”
“Could you tell me . . . am I being too forward to ask? . . . of course, I just bought a plane ticket on impulse, so worrying about being forward at this point is pointless . . . This is so insane, I am not a romantic. Ahem. My question is, what do you want?”
“What do I . . . ?” This really was insane. Maybe she should ask that old woman to change seats again.
“I mean it. Besides something real. You already told me that. I like to think I’m real, after all. So, what do you really want?”
She shrugged and said simply, “I want to be happy. I used to want Mr. Darcy, laugh at me if you want, or the idea of him. Someone who made me feel all the time like I felt when I watched those movies.” It was hard for her to admit it, but when she had, it felt like licking the last of the icing from the bowl. That hopeless fantasy was empty now.
“Right. Well, do you think it possible—” He hesitated, his fingers played with the radio and light buttons on the arm of his seat. “Do you think someone like me could be what you want?”
Jane smiled sadl
y. “I’m feeling all shiny and brand new. In all my life, I’ve never felt like I do now. I’m not sure yet what I want. When I was Miss Erstwhile, you were perfect, but that was back in Austenland. Or are we still in Austenland? Maybe I’ll never leave.”
He nodded. “You don’t have to decide anything now. If you will allow me to be near you for a time, then we can see.” He rested his head back, and they looked at each other, their faces inches apart. He always was so good at looking at her. And it occurred to her just then that she herself was more Darcy than Erstwhile, sitting there admiring his fine eyes, feeling dangerously close to falling in love against her will.
“Just be near . . .” she repeated.
He nodded. “And if I don’t make you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world every day of your life, then I don’t deserve to be near you.”
Jane breathed in, taking those words inside her. She thought she might like to keep them for a while. She considered never giving them up.
“Okay, I lied a little bit.” He rubbed his head with even more force. “I need to admit up front that I don’t know how to have a fling. I’m not good at playing around and then saying good-bye. I’m throwing myself at your feet because I’m hoping for a shot at forever. You don’t have to say anything now, no promises required. I just thought you should know.”
He forced himself to lean back again, his face turned slightly away, as if he didn’t care to see her expression just then. It was probably for the best. She was staring straight ahead with wide, panicked eyes, then a grin slowly took over her face. In her mind was running the conversation she was going to have with Molly. “I didn’t think it was possible, but I found a man as crazy intense as I was.”
The plane was moving, that scatty slow motion that seemed to go both forward and backward at once. Jane kept looking back and forth between the window and the man next to her, checking to see if he was really there. Was this a better ending than tallyho?
“So,” he said, “is New York City our final destination?”
“That’s home.”
“Good.There’s bound to be work for an attractive British actor, wouldn’t you think?”
“There are thousands of restaurants, and those waiter jobs have high turnover.”
“Right.”
“Loads of theaters, too. I think you’d be wonderful in a comedy.”
“Because I’m laughable.”
“It doesn’t hurt.” On impulse, she took his hand, rubbed his index finger between her fingers. It was an intimate gesture, yet felt natural. What did she want? This is so insane . . . Stop thinking that. Maybe it could work . . . Oh, be practical, Jane. So what was she to do? She was no longer prey to the fantastical idea of love, but if she could have something real . . . Was there anything real?
“You want to have kids someday, don’t you?” she asked, just to get that one out of the way.
“Did Mrs. Wattlesbrook tell you my story? I wouldn’t be surprised. Yes, I like children. I always thought I’d like to be called Papa.”
“Okay, that answer was too perfect. Are you honestly being you?”
“Wattlesbrook casts actors who are closest to the parts we play, since we had to stay in character so long. There are some exceptions, of course, like Andrews playing a heterosexual.”
“I knew it,” she said under her breath. “But wait, stop, it’s not supposed to end this way! You’re the fantasy, you’re what I’m leaving behind. I can’t pack you up and take you with me.”
“That was the most self-centered thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
Jane blinked. “It was?”
“Miss Hayes, have you stopped to consider that you might have this all backward? That in fact you are my fantasy?”
The jet engines began to whir, the pressure of the cabin stuck invisible fingers into her ears. Henry gripped his armrests and stared ahead as though trying to steady the machine by force of will. Jane laughed at him and settled into her seat. It was a long flight. There would be time to get more answers, and she thought she could wait. Then in that moment when the plane rushed forward as though for its life, and gravity pushed down, and the plane lifted up, and Jane was breathless inside those two forces, she needed to know now.
“Henry, tell me which parts were true.”
“All of it. Especially this part where I’m going to die . . .” His knuckles were literally turning white as he held tighter to the armrests, his eyes staring straight ahead.
The light gushing through the window was just right, afternoon coming at them with the perfect slant, the sun grazing the horizon of her window, yellow light spilling in. She saw Henry clearly, noticed a chicken pox scar on his forehead, read in the turn down of his upper lip how he must have looked as a pouty little boy and in the faint lines tracing away from the corners of his eyes the old man he’d one day become. Her imagination expanded. She had seen her life like an intricate puzzle, all the boyfriends like dominoes, knocking the next one and the next, an endless succession of falling down. But maybe that wasn’t it at all. She’d been thinking so much about endings, she’d forgotten to allow for the possibility of a last one, one that might stay standing.
Jane pried his right hand off the armrest, placed it on the back of her neck and held it there. She lifted the armrest so nothing was between them and held his face with her other hand. It was a fine face, a jaw that fit in her palm. She could feel the whiskers growing back that he’d shaved that morning. He was looking at her again, though his expression couldn’t shake off the terror, which made Jane laugh.
“How can you be so cavalier?” he asked. “Tens of thousands of pounds expected to just float in the air?”
She kissed him, and he tasted so yummy, not like food or mouthwash or chapstick, but like a man. He moaned once in surrender, his muscles relaxing.
“I knew I really liked you,” he said against her lips.
His fingers pulled her closer, his other hand reached for her waist. His kisses became hungry, and she guessed that he hadn’t been kissed, not for real, for a long time. Neither had she, as a matter of fact. Maybe this was the very first time. There was little similarity to the empty, lusty making out she’d played at with Martin. Kissing Henry was more than just plain fun. Later, when they would spend straight hours conversing in the dark, Jane would realize that Henry kissed the way he talked—his entire attention taut, focused, intensely hers. His touch was a conversation, telling her again and again that only she in the whole world really mattered. His lips only drifted from hers to touch her face, her hands, her neck.
And when he spoke, he called her Jane.
Her stomach dropped as they fled higher into the sky, and they kissed recklessly for hundreds of miles, until Henry was no longer afraid of flying.
Henry
We met on an airplane (economy class) and kissed most of the flight home. Over the Atlantic, we decided to fall in love. When the plane touched down at JFK, he hadn’t changed his mind. When he carried me over the threshold of my apartment, no Mrs. Wattlesbrook lurked in the shadows. While he was in the kitchen, I picked Pride and Prejudice out of my (miraculously) still-living houseplant and tucked it into a harmless spot beside all the other DVDs, spine out and proud.
We’re going to order in tonight.
acknowledgments
HUGE THANKS, OBVIOUSLY, TO THE superhuman Jane Austen for her books. Besides those masterpieces, I also reviewed (obsessively) the BBC 1995 production of Pride and Prejudice, as well as Emma (1996), Sense and Sensibility (1995), Persuasion (1995), and Patricia Rozema’s gorgeous revision of Mansfield Park (1999).
I’m also indebted to Daniel Pool’s What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew for period information. The World of Jane Austen, by Nigel Nicolson, was also useful, and I scoured the Web site Jessamyn’s Regency Costume Companion for clothing information. Despite the research, I’d be surprised if I didn’t make mistakes, but they’re sure to be my fault, so please don’t blame my sources.
; Special thanks to the amazing Amanda Katz for her inspired editing, as well as to Nadia Cornier, Cordelia Brand, Ann Cannon, Rosi Hayes, and Mette Ivie Harrison. And can I just say again how much I love Bloomsbury? I do. Everyone there is so cool. And also quite attractive (though that hardly seems fair, does it?).
And honey, you know that this Colin Firth thing isn’t really serious. You are my fantasy man and my real man. I need no other fella in all the world besides you. It’s just a girl thing, I swear.
a note on the author
SHANNON HALE IS THE AUTHOR of four books for young adults: The Goose Girl, Enna Burning, River Secrets, and the New York Times best-seller Princess Academy, for which she received a Newbery Honor. She and her husband are working together on a graphic novel. Shannon and her family live in Salt Lake City, Utah.
reading group guide
Jane Hayes, a single graphic designer living in Manhattan, has a secret: she won’t settle for anyone less than Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pride and Prejudice, that is, Colin Firth’s Darcy in the BBC miniseries that she watches obsessively on DVD. Jane’s great-aunt uncovers her little secret and bequeaths to Jane an all-expenses-paid trip to Pembrook Park, an “Austenland” for rich women looking to land an Austen hero. Jane hopes Pembrook Park will serve as immersion therapy—one last, luxurious swim in her Darcy obsession before she returns to the real world.
In Austenland, however, figuring out what is real (and what is clever acting) is even more confusing than the rules of whist. Torn between a sexy gardener and an actor playing the brooding Darcy role, Jane finds herself first mastering the etiquette rules, then reveling in her self-created role as the most beautiful girl at the ball. When it’s time to bid Austenland goodbye, can Jane really leave her fantasies behind?
for discussion
These discussion questions are designed to enhance your group’s conversation about Austenland, Shannon Hale’s hilarious novel about one woman’s drastic attempt to end her obsession with Mr. Darcy of Pride and Prejudice and her slow realization that fantasies do come true.