She’d meant to avoid the servants’ quarters, really she had, but she was lost in imaginings of some sort of violently gorgeous triumph—she’d be the prettiest one at the ball, all the actors would really fall in love with her, and she’d say no to them all and leave Pembrook Park a whole woman who buries all her teenage fantasies in one fell swoop. . . And she came upon Martin’s window dark as the sky. No, there was a flicker; a gray haze of light. Did he have the bedspread up? Did he get a new television? Should she knock and apologize for being freak-out Jane and see if they could start over again or just skip to the making out part? In her current state—jilted in England and wearing Regency dress—Jane found she had a difficult time rating that proposal on her list of alltime bad ideas.
The quiet and cold washed over her, and she stood by his window, waiting for a decision to bite her. In some tree, a bird croaked a suggestion. Jane wished she spoke Bird.
“What are you doing?”
“Ya!” said Jane, whirling around, her hands held up menacingly.
It was Mr. Nobley with coat, hat, and cane, watching her with wide eyes. Jane took several quick (but oh so casual) steps away from Martin’s window.
“Um, did I just say, ‘Ya’?”
“You just said ‘Ya,”’ he confirmed. “If I am not mistaken, it was a battle cry, warning that you were about to attack me.”
“I, uh. . .“ She stopped to laugh. “I wasn’t aware until this precise and awkward moment that when startled in a strange place, my instincts would have me pretend to be a ninja.”
Mr. Nobley put the back of his hand to his mouth to cough. Or was it really a laugh? No, Mr. Nobley had no sense of humor.
“Excuse me, then, I probably have a secret mission somewhere.” She started to walk past him toward the house, but - grabbed her arm to stop her.
“Wait just a moment, please.” He looked around as if making sure they weren’t observed, then led her rather forcefully the side of the house where the moon and lamplight did touch them.
“Let go!”
He did. “Miss Erstwhile, I believe it is in your best interest to tell me what you are doing out here.”
“Walking.” She glared. She did not particularly enjoy being dragged by her arm.
His eyes darted to the servants’ quarters. To Martin’s exact window. It made her swallow.
“You are not doing something foolish, are you?”
In fact, she was, but that didn’t mean she had to stop glaring. “I don’t know if you realize,” he said in his unbearably condescending tone, “but it is not proper for a lady to be out alone after dark and worse to cavort with servants. . .
“Cavort?”
“When doing so might lead to trouble of the worst nature ...
“Cavort?”
“Look,” he said, slipping into slightly more colloquial tones “just stay away from there.”
“Aren’t you all righteous concern, Mr. Nobley? Five minutes ago, I’d planned on changing careers and becoming a dairymaid but you’ve saved me from that fate. I’ll kindly release you back the night and return to my well-bred ways.”
“Don’t be a fool, Miss Erstwhile.” He returned the way come, from the back of the house.
“Insufferable,” she said under her breath.
No, she wasn’t going to go to Martin’s, curse him, but she wasn’t going to run back to her room either, if just to spite Mr. Nobley. The man deserved to be spited. Or spitted. Or both. Though boring and cold and hateful, Mr. Nobley was the most Darcyesque of them all, so she despised him with vigorous enthusiasm. Perhaps, she hoped, the exercise would count toward therapy and her ultimate Austenland recovery.
“Grab my arm, will he?” she said, getting a speck of satisfaction by muttering like an old crazy woman. “Call me a fool…”
She walked around the park in angry circles. Her fingers were cold, and her thoughts wandered to memories of spending so much time in the bath as a kid that her fingertips crinkled like raisin skin. Wrinkly skin reminded her of Great-Aunt Carolyn, with her extravagantly soft fingers and conspiratorial eyes.
She bought me this gift, Jane thought. Use it well, you floppy- brained, hopeless idiot, and stop trying to fall in love with gardeners. With anyone.
The night drew back, large and empty no longer lying against her skin. She felt really alone now. But here’s the thing— suddenly, she felt as though she belonged inside the aloneness, and that feeling made her whisper aloud, “I never have before. I’ve never felt at home with myself.”
She looked at the servants’ quarters and had Realization #2:
She truly didn’t want to go to Martin’s. She hadn’t earlier. It was just habit. In the past she was always ready to limp back after being rejected, hopeful to be scooped up again. But now, here, she lost the desire utterly.
“Ha!” she said to the night.
With a shift in the wind and a swish of her quiet skirt, she felt her mission at Austenland begin to change. This was no last hurrah before accepting spinsterhood—oh no. (And what a relief!) This was going to be immersion therapy. Martin had helped her see one thing, at least—she still liked men, a whole lot, in fact, and ain’t nothing gonna change that. She just needed to screw her head straight so that she could properly enjoy being young and fem~ and as beautiful as she wanted to be.
She turned her back to the servants’ quarters and faced house as she used to look at the goal on her high school basketball court. Her new objective was to drown herself in the ridiculousness of her fantasy, a task like eating nothing but chocolate until couldn’t bear the thought of eating something sweet again. Get out of her system. See for certain that this wouldn’t really make happy. Then she’d be her own woman again. Only two weeks to make it happen. But she had to plunge in headfirst, she had really try, or sure as her houseplants were at that moment gasping their last breath, one day she would look back at the experience and unsettle herself with wondering, What if? And, What if?
When night was definite and all housemates surely abed Jane creaked open the front door, welcomed by the homey see of floor wax. A light in the drawing room startled her, and wondered if the group was playing some Olympian round cards. But the room was deserted. Two lamps burned away darkness.
On the table lay the book Mr. Nobley had been reading, she leafed through its pages, wondering what sort of irritating story would fascinate that man’s mind. A piece of paper slipped floating to the carpet. It was a pay stub made out to a Henry Jenkins with an address in Brighton. Was this Mr. Nobley? She stuck the paper back and laid it beside the nearly empty crystal decanter that was Sir Templeton’s dearest friend. Out of curiosity, Jane lifted cap and sniffed, expecting a sugary punch smell to satisfy her suspicions. Nope, definitely alcohol. She was surprised—how could actor keep up the virtual drinking and not get literally toasted?