The Austen Escape

by Katherine Reay

  “Thank you. All my best colors.” I pulled one out and draped it across my bed. “Can you imagine peeking into the room to find this lying across the bed? Maybe Lizzy has just stepped into the bathroom and you missed her, right before the Netherfield ball.”

  “Or Emma has pulled out one of her good gowns to go to the Coles’ party. After all, she’ll lead the dance. She takes special care in hopes it might be with Mr. Churchill, but of course, little does she know . . .” Isabel raised her brows as if keeping back a salacious secret.

  “Or maybe we’ve just missed . . .” I searched my newly gained repertoire of knowledge. “Anne going to check on little Charles, because this is Mary’s room and she’s wearing this dress to dinner at the Musgroves’, terrible mom that she is.”

  “Well done.” Isabel’s grin lit her whole face. “You’re deep into Persuasion now.” She pulled down a dress, a light summer sky blue, from her own wardrobe. “Come feel this.”

  It was made of thin wool and felt heavenly soft, like cashmere.

  “These aren’t cheap.” I picked up the one I’d pulled down, a dark-brown silk with red and rose flowers embroidered along the edges. There was a narrow matching ribbon circling each sleeve. It looked rare and special and long enough to fit my five-nine frame. “Not cheap at all. Look at this detail . . . This one’s definitely the loveliest.” I held the dress at my chest.

  Isabel stepped to me and dropped the gold chain around my neck over the dress’s collar. The stone’s gold and maple tones glowed atop the brown silk. “The color matches your eyes and it’s beautiful with your amber.”

  I reached up and fingered the necklace my father had given me for my college graduation—a beautiful chunk of polished and radiant amber hanging from a delicate gold chain. It was the only piece of jewelry I always wore. He loved that amber meant “electron” in Greek. It was to remind me of him, of our work each and every summer, and, in many ways, to signal my bright future. Dad was optimistic like that. It also meant “beaming sun.” I liked that definition best; it felt hopeful. And after Nathan’s recent gift of the unpolished rubbing stone, it now reminded me of him too. “You know—”

  “Electron from ancient Greek. Electricity. Energy. Light.” Isabel smiled and recited words I’d probably told her a thousand times. I appreciated that she understood its importance to me and never made fun of the gift, just the fact that I constantly defined it for her.

  “Nathan, that guy at work, gave me a piece of amber the other day. It’s about the size of a small egg, unpolished, and you rub it to relieve stress.”

  Isabel held the blue dress to her body and crossed to the full-length standing mirror. “That was nice of him. I haven’t heard his name in a while; I thought nothing was happening there.”

  “Nothing is. He saw it in a shop, I guess.”

  She turned back to me. “Put on the brown. You’ll be beautiful in it.”

  Her lack of interest surprised me. She was constantly trying to set me up, console me after bad dates, or celebrate with me after great ones. I laid the dress on my bed to untie the laces.

  “We’re not wearing them outside our room, right? Gertrude said dressing begins tomorrow.”

  “We’re just having a little fun.” Isabel slipped on the blue dress.

  The brown one dropped over my head and cascaded in a wave of silk to my feet. “Will you fix the back?”

  I felt Isabel first work the eye hooks, then pull the ribbon at the neck tight. “No wonder we have our own Sonia,” she said. “If you came here alone, you’d never get yourself into these.”

  “No one would come alone. That’d be embarrassing, wouldn’t it?” I twisted to catch her eye; after all, she was the expert.

  “You’d be surprised. True escapism is not something people tend to do in groups. Like many addictions, it can be kept hidden.”

  My back arched as she pulled and the bodice cinched into place. I did the same for her, and then we walked together to the standing mirror.

  It was like stepping into a fairy tale. Better actually. The dress was formfitting, flattering, and the silk caught the light and shimmered. It danced around my hips, and the weight of the embroidery allowed for a good swish at the ankles. I gently twisted to enjoy its movement.

  “Let’s do your hair. I’ll play Sonia and ‘arrange’ it for you.” Isabel pulled me into the bathroom and pushed me onto the small stool in front of the vanity. In minutes she had my hair piled high, twisted and secured with bobby pins. She even pulled a ribbon off the neck of another dress to weave through the coils.

  I moved my head from side to side. “Whoa . . . Where’d you learn how to do this?”

  “YouTube.”

  A firm, and loud, knock silenced us.

  “Miss Dwyer? Miss Davies?”

  I froze.

  “Yes?” Isabel managed a normal tone. She caught my eye in the mirror. “Oops . . . I rang the bell. I thought more tea might be nice.” She narrowed her eyes at something she saw in mine. “It’s why it’s there, Mary. It’s no big deal.”

  “May I help you?” Sonia called again.

  “Never mind. I completely forgot I pulled the cord. We’re fine.”

  “Thank you,” I added to Isabel’s call.

  I almost wilted with relief. I did not want Sonia to open the door. First, summoning her felt wrong. Second, as much as I loved the feel of this silk and thought I might enjoy dipping a toe into Austen’s world, the appearance of a witness terrified me.

  True escapism is hidden.

  Sonia called again. “Very well. If you are interested, drinks will be served soon in the front parlor. Or you can meet everyone at dinner this evening.”

  “We’ll be right down.” Isabel owned the full reply this time.

  “That’s it . . . What if she’d walked in? We look ridiculous.” I stood and yanked at the dress’s neck. “Get me out of this.”

  “Slow down. Sit. There’s a knot.” Isabel worked at the ribbon, then used it to pull me back down. “And it’s not silly, Mary. This is a big deal to me.”

  I dropped to the stool and watched her in the mirror. She kept her eyes on the knot.

  “You’re right,” I acknowledged. “But actually dressing like this is harder than I thought. I feel exposed somehow. Like in costume, I’m not actually covered, I’m naked.”

  “Stop squirming or you’ll feel more exposed than that. You’ll feel ‘humiliations galore.’” She cast a sideways smile into the mirror. She knew Austen, but we both knew The Princess Bride.

  She paused and watched me. “Or shall I ring for Sonia again and get some help?”

  Chapter 9

  Within ten minutes, Isabel turned the key in the lock and we headed to the stairs. I hesitated. What if Sonia came to “freshen” our room? Dresses and loose ribbons littered the floor like confetti.

  While Isabel led the way down the gallery to the front stairs, fully set on what was ahead, my mind remained fixed behind us—first by my wonder of this experience, then by my reaction. I couldn’t deny that when Sonia knocked on the door, I had felt fear and—Isabel wasn’t wrong—humiliation. Dressing up felt weak and frivolous—like a part of my armor was being stripped away. Rather than the “ultimate escape,” it felt like an augmented reality. And I had two weeks of this to look forward to. Would it get easier? Worse?

  Isabel must have felt me stall behind her. She stopped and studied me. Again, I felt exposed.

  “I was willing to take the risk. Are you?”

  My expression must have conveyed confusion, for she twirled a finger at me, circling me from head to toe.

  “I need you here, Mary, but it was a risk to ask you. What you must think of all this . . . And you can’t deny it; it’s all over your face.”

  She continued down the stairs. I took a deep breath and ran my hand down the front of my khakis to smooth the wrinkles. Slim beige pants, a deep purple sweater, and ballet flats for me. Twenty-first-century simplicity at its best.

 
Isabel, on the other hand, was dressed in a bright multicolored blouse and an A-line skirt that swirled about her knees with each step. She skipped down the stairs. The skirt bounced in ripples of black.

  I caught up to her on the marbled floor. I stood in a black square, she in a white. “Hey . . . I’m sorry. But you have to cut me some slack. You just said you knew I’d have trouble with this; you can’t get angry now because you were right. Besides, I’m here. I’m all in.”

  “Are you?”

  I felt myself nod.

  Isabel smiled. She believed me. “Okay then . . . Do I look okay?”

  “I love the blouse.”

  “I found it on sale, then had it tapered further. It’s not too tight?”

  “Not at all.” I felt a pinch above my ear and pulled a bobby pin from my hair. “How many of these are in here?”

  She batted at my hand. “Stop pulling them out. You look gorgeous.” Her tone lifted, and I recalled her first question.

  “You too; you look beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” She gave me a slow smile at odds with the quick repeat her fingers tapped against her thigh.

  “You’re going to be fine, Isabel.”

  I expected a “parlor” to be small, wood-lined, and intimate. And this room was paneled, but it was huge. First glance revealed four furniture groupings and plenty of carpeted space between. The small band of guests stood gathered around a fireplace so deep and tall, I could have stood within it.

  Isabel immediately entered the scene. I heard “Good evening, I’m Isabel Dwyer” in her signature notes as I scanned the room from the doorway.

  There was an elderly couple, at least eighty, and I knew they must be the Muellers. Mrs. Mueller sat next to the fireplace and watched, an amused expression on her face, as her husband took one of Isabel’s hands in both his own.

  The Swiss family Gertrude had mentioned stood nearby. The wife was tall, only a little shorter than me, blond and delicate. The husband looked two, no, three times her size—six-foot-sixish, muscular and thick. Boxing huge? Soccer huge? Do soccer players get that large?

  Presently he was discussing something very serious with his daughter, a tiny girl, blond like her mom. Gertrude had mentioned an eight-year-old, but this girl looked about six. Her obvious concentration and distress led me to believe her father was delivering a serious reprimand. Then she popped something into her mouth and smiled.

  “Est-ce délicieux?”

  She nodded. “Not bad at all, Papa, but not my favorite.”

  Isabel called me over. “Mary, this is Mr. Mueller. He and Mrs. Mueller are here from—”

  “Herman and Helene, please,” Mr. Mueller cut in. “We are from Salzburg.” His chest swelled and broadened.

  “The Sound of Music,” I blurted.

  Helene laughed. “You would be surprised how often we hear that.”

  “It was not real; they do not get it right.”

  “He is talking about the movie,” Helene clarified.

  Herman thrust a finger straight at me. It was an aggressive gesture, but the arthritic bend at the second knuckle softened any insult. “They changed all the names to make them American sounding. They were not Americans and they did not carry their suitcases over the Alps while singing. They boarded a train to Italy. It was all scheduled and planned and dangerous enough without all that hiking, chasing, and whistle blowing.”

  “Herman,” his wife said.

  He waved her off. “There was no need to change the truth. They did it for the Americans; they do not understand.” He turned back to me. “But they still sing. That is true.”

  “Who still sings?” I looked back to Helene.

  Herman shifted into my line of sight. “The Von Trapps.”

  “Aren’t they all . . .”

  “They are dead, yes, but the great-grandchildren, Werner’s grandchildren. Another lie. They named him Kurt in the movie. They still sing. They make recordings and tour. They came to the Altstadt’s music hall. The Von Trapp Family Singers.”

  “We saw them in concert,” Helene added, then addressed me directly. “Where are you and your friend from?”

  “We’re from Austin, Texas. I work as an electrical and design engineer for a technology company, but Isabel here is an Austen scholar. This trip is part of the research for her dissertation.”

  Helene brightened. “Gertrude mentioned her. I consider it very lucky to have her here. I have loved Jane Austen all my life, but I have never studied her. I only know her stories, but your friend will know what our characters should do and say.”

  “Our characters?” I tapped Isabel’s arm.

  “You didn’t read that part? It was on the website. You get to pick a character.”

  “But Gertrude said we didn’t—”

  Isabel flicked her fingers at me, breaking contact. “No matter. I picked Emma Woodhouse from Emma. We can be in the same story. What about Harriet Smith or Jane Fairfax?”

  I schooled my expression.

  “Well then, what about Eleanor Tilney from Northanger Abbey? You liked that book.” She added a pointed inflection to her words.

  “If I get to choose, I’ll guess I’ll pick a heroine too. What about Catherine Morland from Northanger Abbey? And if you still want to be in the same story, you can be Isabella Thorpe.”

  Isabella, as I’d stated the other night, was beautiful and charming. But her other attributes hung between us now—she was also a cunning and manipulative gold digger who relished adoration and flattery.

  Isabel matched my flat expression. She glanced to the Muellers, then shot her gaze back to me.

  “I’ve already chosen Emma.”

  “I choose Catherine.” I nodded to the Muellers, as if their witnessing the decision made it final.

  I liked Catherine Morland. She was young, naïve, got carried away with Gothic romances, and made some pretty poor assumptions, but she was also honest, kind, intelligent, and eager to get things right—and she wasn’t the sidekick. From page one, with her plain tomboyish beginnings, I cheered this unlikely heroine on as she grew, learned to think for herself, question, and take ownership of her own story.

  Helene looked between us. I sensed she caught our swirling undercurrents. They were so tangible I almost raised my hand to swipe them away.

  She cleared her throat. “I have chosen Mrs. Jennings from Sense and Sensibility. Isn’t she fun?” Her words landed like a white flag between us. “And because I have long since married off my own children, I have little to do but . . .” She slipped a piece of paper from her pocket and read, “‘project romance upon all.’ Also I have a knack for the ‘quick discovery of attachments.’”

  Isabel scrunched her face. “Austen’s description didn’t deter you? She has some fine qualities but is also marked as vulgar immediately.”

  “Isabel.” I squeezed her forearm. She was annoyed with me, not Helene. She was angry that I had balked at dressing up and about something else I had noticed. Her eyes had hardened right after she’d dropped my necklace upon the dress. Isabel was ticked with me on multiple levels.

  She shirked away from my grip as I addressed Helene. “I loved Mrs. Jennings. She enjoyed her daughters and life and had fun, and in the end was an incredibly practical woman.”

  “I thought so too. Good common sense.” Helene’s words held hesitancy now.

  “And you, Herman?” I said.

  Isabel stood silent.

  Herman looked confused, and his eyes clouded with worry. “I . . . I don’t remember. I haven’t read any of the novels. I don’t want to disappoint Helene. This means so much to her.”

  Helene stood and looped her hand through the crook of her husband’s arm. He laid his hand over hers. I could see it whiten as he pressed hers close. No words were spoken, but by looks alone, I sensed he could never disappoint his wife. He took a breath. “She said I could play . . .”

  Helene supplied the name. “Sir Walter Elliot from Persuasion.”

  “She s
aid it was okay I hadn’t read the story. Is that right?” he asked Isabel.

  Helene and Herman both looked at her and waited. Isabel’s eyes flashed an entire conversation but her lips remained pressed together, before she remembered her manners and offered a flat smile.

  “Are you discussing characters?” The blond joined us. “I’m Sylvia Lotte. I chose Pride and Prejudice’s Jane Bennet, and Aaron—he hasn’t read the books either, Herman—will play Mr. Bingley.” She waved her daughter over and held her so she faced Helene. “And did I hear you say Mrs. Jennings? You and Clara will have fun. There aren’t many young girls in Austen, so she will be styled as a young Margaret Dashwood from Sense and Sensibility as well.”

  “You come sit with me, ‘Margaret.’” Helene returned to the love seat and patted the silk cushion beside her. Clara looked to her mom, who gave a quick, eager nod, then sat beside Helene, feet swinging a couple inches above the floor. “We will have great fun together,” Helene whispered to her.

  Clara grinned. “Mama says I don’t have to be Margaret in our room, and I can play my iPad there too.”

  Helene looped an arm around Clara and squeezed.

  I stepped away as they talked on about characters, dress, and activities. Sylvia was keeping up with Isabel. They batted facts, impressions, and Austen trivia back and forth like players in a tennis match.

  Clara came over to me and lifted a small plate.

  “For me?”

  “Duncan is passing these around. I tried one.”

  “Thank you.” I selected a small corner of toast spread with brown. “I’m Mary, by the way.”

  “You’re not going to like that.” Isabel’s voice, so close, startled me.

  I popped the bite into my mouth and widened my eyes.

  “See? A country pâté. You should see your face.”

  I wiped my face free of any expression. From the set of her mouth, Isabel was apparently still irritated with me. “I know you better than you know yourself, Mary. You hate stuff like that.” She looked down to Clara. “Are there other things you can go and find?”