by Shannon Hale
His lips pressed into a small smile that stayed. A very small smile. Sometimes almost imaginary. Jane wished that it might be bigger, that it might beam at her, but she supposed that wasn’t the Nobley way. Then when she’d decided that his smile was a figment, Mr. Nobley said—or whispered, rather—
“Let’s go look at your paintings.”
What a delight, this man. How he kept surprising her, tossing aside his uptight propriety for her sake, murmuring plans for meeting in secret, fibbing to the others that he would withdraw early, then waiting upstairs for her to do the same. What a thrill to look around for watchers and scramble into her chamber, shutting the door behind them.
Jane stood with her back to the door, her hands still on the knob, breathing hard and trying to laugh quietly. He was leaning against the wall, smiling. The moment was giddily awkward as she waited to see what he had in mind, if he would suddenly shed Mr. Nobley and become some other man entirely. If he would break any other rules. The wait was agonizing. She realized she didn’t know what she wanted him to do.
“I would love to see those paintings,” he said, his voice still proper.
“Of course,” she said. Of course he was still Mr. Nobley, of course the man, the actor, was not falling in love with her. And a relief it was, too, as she realized she wasn’t ready to let go of Pem-brook Park yet. Somehow she had to be by the day after tomorrow.
She presented the first painting, and he held it at arm’s length for some time before saying, “This is you,” though the portrayal was not photo-realistic.
“I couldn’t quite get the eyes,” she said.
“You got them just right.” He didn’t look away from the painting when he said, “They are beautiful.”
Jane didn’t know whether to thank him or clear her throat, so she did neither and instead handed him the second painting of her window and the tree.
“Ah,” was all he said for some time. He glanced back and forth between both paintings. “I like this second one best. Beside it, the portrait looks stiff, as though you were too cautious, measuring everything, taking away the spontaneity. The fearlessness of this window scene is a better style for you. I think, Miss Erstwhile, that you do very well when you loosen up and let the color fly.”
He was right, and it felt good to admit it. Her next painting would be better.
“I should let you retire.” He held the self-portrait a minute longer, gazing at it as she had sometimes felt him look at her— unblinking, curious, even urgent.
She peeped through the keyhole to make sure no one was in the corridor before opening the door and letting him slip out. After a moment, she peered again and could see nothing, then Mr. Nobley’s face dropped into view. He was crouching outside her door, looking back.
“Miss Erstwhile?” he whispered.
“Yes, Mr. Nobley?”
“Tomorrow evening, will you reserve for me the first two dances?”
“Yes, Mr. Nobley.” She could hear how her voice was full of smile.
“Miss Erstwhile, may I come back in a moment?”
She yanked him back in and shut the door. Now he was going to grab her and kiss her and call her Jane, now she’d witness the pent-up passion that explodes behind Regency doors! But . . . he just stood with his back to the door and looked at her. And smiled in his way, the way that made her stare back and wish she could breathe.
“I should not put you in danger of Mrs. Wattlesbrook by staying,” Mr. Nobley said, “but I suddenly had to see you again. I know that seems ridiculous, but I look at you, and I feel sure of something. Things are changing, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” she said, and they were, right at that moment.
He took her hand and looked at it a moment, then he turned it over. He lifted it to his mouth and kissed her palm.
“Tomorrow, then.” And he left.
If only he was real! She stood and pressed her palm to her chest and breathed her pulse back into submission and thought she’d rather fancy a swoon.
To her self-portrait, Jane whispered, “This is the best therapy ever.”
Guy after Boyfriend #12
Jake Zeiger, AGE THIRTY-ISH
One Saturday during the Tad era, Jane was checking the mail slot when Jake from 302 came up beside her. The nearness of their slots meant the back of his hand touched hers as he inserted the key.
“Hey, how’s your dog?” he asked.
“Better. The vet said it was just something he ate.”
“That’s a relief, huh?” His smile was like a first kiss.
She stood there after he left, staring into the cavern of her mailbox, cold tingles passing through her body because she’d just had an Emma–loves–Mr. Knightley epiphany experience. She had just realized, “I might be secretly smitten with Jake.”
She did not so much as whisper the idea to her houseplants. Then the week after it had become excruciatingly clear that she and Tad were over, Jane remembered Jake and let herself wish that tragedy might actually be opportunity. She walked down the hall to 302, hope bouncing in her step.
A bed-headed Jake opened the door, squinting.
“Hi, Jake! Hey, it’s a beautiful day, and I was wondering, I noticed that you have Rollerblades, too, and I was wondering ifyou’d like to go to the park, with me, maybe after—”
“You woke me up for this? It’s not even ten in the morning.”
He rubbed his face and appeared to be heading back to bed as he shut the door.
day 20
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. A maid other than Matilda helped her dress and do her hair, 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, all in white, 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 Mirage 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 bizarre clinical studies to make a few extra bucks. Others seemed to be actors of the community-theater variety—slick and self-aware, overanimated, their ball gowns 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 from one room to the next, his eyes up as though trying to avoid eye contact. He looked scrumptious in his black jacket and white tie. Even better when he saw her and stopped. Really looked. Zing. Hello, Nobley.
“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. 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.
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
He took her arm anyway. “That’s a crackin’ dress, Jane. I mean . . . Miss Erstwhile. Might I have the pleasure of obtaining y
our hand for the next two dances?”
Ah, his smell! She was in his room again, static on the TV, 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 was standing at her elbow. 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 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.”
Jane and Mr. Nobley entered the great hall, the ceiling dazzling with thousands of real candles that 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 looked at everything, smiling 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.
“Oh,” she said.
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 Amelia 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 bit cruel, now that she thought about it, all these actors who made women fall in love with them. Amelia seemed so tenderhearted, and Miss Charming and her heaving breasts so delighted with this world. Jane caught sight of a very striking Colonel Andrews who, now that she watched him dance, might just be gay.
Jane felt a thrumming of foreboding. All the ladies were so happy and open-hearted and eager to love. What would happen to them in the dregs of tomorrow?
Two pairs of strangers performed. Jane watched them. Mr. Nobley watched her. Then it was her turn.
She curtsied to the audience, to Mr. Nobley, and faced him in the center of the floor. All eyes watched them. Jane looked for Martin in the crowd.
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 tonight?”
“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 am quite content.”
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 razor’s edge, 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, into the tangible.
Then, 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.
Him, him, him! she thought. 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, 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 is your partner off to?”
“He is fetching me a drink,” said Jane. “I’ve never seen him so attentive. Or so at ease.”
“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 gown.
“Hm, a question only hearts can answer.” She looked fully at Jane now and smiled approvingly. “Well, you are a confection tonight! 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 un- seen smoker? What a lot of secrets in this place, thought Jane. She’d never before considered that Austen didn’t just write 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 windows. 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.”
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 will keep the food. We will have a picnic.”
And he spun her into the middle of the dance. While the music played, they didn’t speak again. All his attention was on her, leading her through the motions, watching her with admiration. He danced with her as though they were evenly matched, no indication that she was the lone rider of the Precedence Caboose. She had never before felt so keenly that Mr. Nobley and Miss Erstwhile were a couple.
But I’m not really Miss Erstwhile, thought Jane.
Her heart was pinching her. She needed to get away, she was dizzy, she was hot, his eyes were arresting, he was too much to take in.
What am I supposed to do, Aunt Carolyn? she asked the ceiling. Everything’s headed for Worse Than Before. How do I get out of this alive?
She spun and saw Martin, and kept her eyes on him as though he were the lone landmark in a complicated maze. Mr. Nobley noticed her attention skidding. His eyes were dark when he saw Martin. His recent smile turned down, his look became more intense.
As soon as the second number ended, Jane curtsied, thanked her partner, and began to depart, anxious for a brea
th of cold November air.
“A moment, Miss Erstwhile,” Mr. Nobley said. “I have already taken your hand for the last half hour, but now I would beg your ear. Might we . . .”
“Mr. Nobley!” A woman with curls shaking around her face flurried his way. Had Mr. Nobley been making visits to other estates while he was supposed to be hunting? Or was this a repeat client who might’ve known the man from a past cast? “I’m so happy to find you! I insist on dancing every dance.”
“Just now is not . . .”
Jane took advantage of the interruption to slip away, searching above the tops of heads for Martin. He’d been just over there . . . a hand grabbed her arm.
She turned right into Mr. Nobley, their faces close, and she was startled by the wildness in him now, a touch of Heathcliff in his eyes. “Miss Erstwhile, I beg you.”
“Oh, Mr. Nobley!” said another lady behind him.
He glanced back with a harried look and gripped Jane’s arm tighter. He walked her out of the ballroom and into the darkened library, only then releasing her arm, though he had the good grace to look embarrassed.
“I apologize,” he said.
“I guess you would.”
He was blocking the escape, so she gave in and took a chair.
He began to pace, rubbing his chin and occasionally daring to look at her. The candlelight from the hallway made of him a silhouette, the starlight from the window just touching his eyes, his mouth. It was as dark as a bedroom.