“She is off with that handsome Grant from the stables. They went to meet his grandfather.”
“Oh, this is fun. He’ll have to join us for dancing. I hear he’s in the military.” Helene’s eyes lit. “Do you think he dances?”
“I have no idea.” As I walked to my seat, I noted everyone was halfway through a salad of greens and what looked like pears. “I’m late. I’m sorry.”
“Not at all. I’m Mr. Bingley from Netherfield Park. We missed each other at breakfast this morning.” Aaron popped up and pulled out my chair.
“I . . .” I felt myself heat. It was time. “I’m Catherine Morland from some small village, I can’t remember the name, but I’m happy to be here and sorry I missed breakfast. Emma and I went riding.”
Mr. Bingley sat again. “Capital. Miss Bennet”—he gestured to Sylvia—“assured me that a love of the outdoors was part of Mr. Bingley’s charm. Glad to hear you feel the same and have already been out and about this morning.”
“That was the movie, darling. In the book, it just says Bingley is an idle fellow who has more books than he’ll ever look into,” Sylvia called from across the table.
“I think I prefer the movie description. No one has ever called me idle.”
Sylvia laughed. “True.”
Sonia and Duncan passed around the platters while the table indulged in stories—all made up—of exploits on horses, duels with swords, or drawing room happenings that never happened.
By the sticky toffee pudding we were toasting our adventures, making up new ones, gossiping about the accomplishments of local young ladies, discussing the dangers of war with cannon fire, and sharing our hopes for the upcoming social season.
Isabel joined us as we finished dessert. She seemed flustered at first that she had missed the meal, but Sonia quickly seated her and brought a plate. Her face soon lost its pinched expression.
Watching her, I realized that no one would notice anything was different. She spoke with her slight British tones and inflections. She sat at the table with ease, as if in command of the room. She added to the conversation here and there and sat with a certain degree of formality. She was Emma.
Helene soon brought up dancing, and the advantages to having military men nearby. If Isabel caught that “Mrs. Jennings” was teasing her and planning a great romance, she didn’t let on.
“It’s very nice to have him stationed here. If offered, I don’t think an invitation to dine and dance would be rejected.”
Isabel enjoyed herself until the conversation turned to gossip again and Sylvia started making up names. Then her eyes widened and her face paled.
“Miss Thistlebum has thirty thousand a year, but her betrothed is a rake.”
Helene joined in. “Yes, but Miss Mopflop has an estate in Devonshire and her betrothed is a rattle. That’s far worse.”
“Is it? I’d think sexual indiscretions far more damaging than silly talk,” Sylvia shot back.
“I suppose it depends on how much silly talk is foisted upon one,” Aaron added on a dry note that made me smile.
“Who is this Miss Mopflop and why are we talking of her?” Herman punctuated his inquiry with a few fist taps on the tabletop. He looked as anxious as Isabel.
Helene smiled and reached for his hand. “It’s pretend, dear. We are making up names.”
“But aren’t we already making up names? Why do we need more of them? It’s too much.”
She shifted to him more fully. “You are right. You are playing Sir Walter. Remember, we talked about him this morning.”
We caught the hint and Aaron steered the conversation back to Austen. Helene took it a step further and gently focused our comments on Sir Walter and his friends and family from Persuasion. Herman soon looked more comfortable and so did Isabel.
Lunch wound down and we broke apart for quieter activities. The Muellers excused themselves to rest. Clara, with a yawn of her own, expressed an interest in returning to her room as well—“One show, Mama?” Sylvia acquiesced and joined her. Only Aaron was not to be “idle.” Grant had promised him shooting.
I walked to the end of the table and looped my arm through Isabel’s. I led her from the room and toward the stairs. I didn’t want to talk to her in front of the others.
When we reached the Green Room, she curled against her headboard and hugged her knees tight.
I sat next to her. “Was lunch confusing?”
“How do you know everyone so well? Miss Mopflop? Miss Thistlebum? I had no idea what to say.”
“I could tell that bothered you. Jane Bennet was just being playful. Sir Walter didn’t understand either.”
“So they weren’t real?”
“No. You’ll have to dismiss a lot of what people say here. They are having fun, playing roles at a party. There might be a lot you won’t understand.”
I wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do, but this wasn’t as contained an atmosphere as fifteen years ago. That week we never left the house. My parents controlled all the variables. Here I was alone and lost. I peeked at my phone. No message from my dad or Dr. Milton.
“Oh . . . There’s that noise again. I heard it this morning.” Isabel swept her hand around the room.
“It’s your phone.” I slid it from the bedside table and held it out to her. She shied away and crawled off the bed, then crossed to my side of the room and opened my wardrobe. “After we change, what shall we do this afternoon?”
“Everyone is resting.” I tossed her now silent phone onto her bed. “Except Mr. Bingley. He’s off shooting with Grant.”
That piqued her interest. “Could we walk out with them?”
“I suppose . . . But I don’t think they are walking the fields. There’s a clay shooting range beyond the stable.” I pushed off the bed and stood beside her. “How’s this? We’ll spend some time here doing whatever ladies are supposed to do in the afternoon, then we’ll join the bowls game Mrs. Jennings plans to set up on the south lawn.” I couldn’t stop my smile—how often did one get to say that sentence? “Mr. Bingley, and maybe Grant, plans to meet everyone there.”
“May we change first? I’m covered in dirt, and you have mud on your hem. Try this one.” She pulled out a dark-green dress, then crossed the room to her own wardrobe. “It really is embarrassing to be so disheveled. I once knew a girl who walked three miles in the mud. It covered her dress six inches deep. She wasn’t fit to be seen . . .”
As we dressed, Isabel told story after story of awkward situations and happenings. Most I recognized as from Austen. The ones from Emma she told in the first person. They were more definite, like real memories. The game of “blunder” with Mr. Churchill seemed to have actually happened to her and caused her real embarrassment. There were also a few stories I did not recognize, and I concluded they must have come from the movies, for they all involved the same sets of names.
The stories slowed as Isabel became increasingly agitated over my hairdressing skills. She had already fixed mine. It had fallen out during our ride, so I’d fashioned a ponytail and fastened it with my own electrical wire. She had taken the ponytail, twisted it high, and looped it around itself. Once again, I was amazed and secretly in awe of the transformation.
“Sit still or I won’t get it to stay.” I pulled a bobby pin from my lips and anchored it into her curls.
“Ouch,” Isabel yelped as a section flopped over her eyes.
“It’s too heavy. How do you have so much hair? I don’t know how you get it all piled up.” I needed a new approach. My approach. I reached across the dressing table.
“What are you doing?”
“Securing it with something that will work.” I grabbed an eight-inch length of black electrical wire, wrapped it around the bun, tucked in a few loose strands, wrapped again, and stepped back. “There. See? We could have accomplished that an hour ago—and the wire matches your hair color so you can’t even see it.”
“What is this stuff?”
I watched thro
ugh the mirror as Isabel rolled another piece of wire around her finger, unrolled it, and rolled it again.
“It’s electrical wire.” I paused to gauge her reaction. I wasn’t sure about the rules . . . Was I to gently remind her of the present? Avoid it at all costs?
Fascinated, she continued to twist the wire. I continued. “My dad used to bring me home spare clippings from jobs. Everything in our house, growing up, revolved around electricity.” I paused again. She said nothing. “You’d like my dad. He gave me this too.” I lifted my necklace in another gentle reminder of who we were and what we knew about each other. I almost expected the usual litany. Of course, Mary. Amber means “electron” in ancient Greek. It’s all about electricity.
Instead she turned it over in her fingers, inspecting every detail. “What’s on the back?”
I resisted the urge to pull it away. We never talked about the back, and most days I forgot about it. “Dad soldered my mom’s Saint Cecilia medallion to the frame. She is the patron saint of music.”
I hadn’t wanted my dad to solder that to the stone. He did it right after my mom died, and rather than a blessing, it felt like an indictment. It reminded me of my push-pull relationship with the piano, which mirrored my relationship with my mom. A never-ending cycle of yearning-delight-fear-distance. How could you love something, invest in it, as you saw it slipping away?
Inches away I could see Isabel’s focus cloud. “I don’t remember my mother.”
I wasn’t sure if this was real or pretend. Emma didn’t remember her mother either. “I know.”
Isabel let the necklace drop. The gold medallion against my skin was now warm from her fingers. Her hand fluttered at her neck. She looked around the room as if searching for something safe and familiar.
“Let’s go for a walk.” My own brightness surprised me.
Her face cleared. “I need to get my boots. Can we go back down to the stables? Grant mentioned another horse that should be back by now. He’s bigger than Tennyson. He was pulling that Mrs. Jennings and Sir Walter around in a gig all morning.”
Isabel sank to the desk chair and pulled on the brown leather boots she’d worn riding. I heard a snap and a sigh as I did the same from across the room.
“I broke the lace and I don’t have another.” She crossed toward the bell pull—again. Clearly she didn’t remember our conversation.
“Don’t. That’s more work for Sonia. She’ll have to come up here, then go back down to find a shoelace. I’ll go find her.”
Isabel stood. “But you are less ready than I am. I will find her and meet you in the drawing room.”
“That’s the Day Room, right?”
“Yes, isn’t that odd? Day Room. That’s what Gertrude called it this morning.” Isabel left the room.
I dropped to the bed and tapped my phone. There was a text from Dad.
Dr. Milton will call you soon. He agrees with keeping her there. He wants to talk with a few colleagues as to timing and next steps. More soon.
I was on my own.
Chapter 15
Fifteen years ago, I had simply watched movies and sat beside Isabel. I knew something was wrong, that was obvious. But I also trusted my parents, and they assured me she needed rest and comfort and she’d be fine.
I hadn’t been in charge. I hadn’t been responsible. I’d simply watched fun movies and eaten macaroni and cheese and pizza for three days straight.
Now . . . I sat up, swiped at my eyes, and reached for my other boot. It was time for a walk. Sunshine. Fresh air. Peace. One step at a time.
A phone rang. I grabbed for mine, but it wasn’t ringing. I reached across to Isabel’s bed and tapped accept before I glanced at the screen.
TCG. “Oh . . . Oops.” I almost tapped it off, then realized I’d said the words aloud. I recovered with a quick “Isabel Dwyer’s phone.”
“Isabel?” an oddly familiar voice replied. “Is Isabel there?”
“She isn’t right now. May I have her call you back?” As soon as I said the words, my heart dropped and I shot to standing. I recognized that voice. “Nathan?”
“Who is this?”
“Mary Davies. From WATT.”
Time stopped—at least on my end. It seemed to take a beat on his end too, because he rushed on after an inordinately long pause.
“I’m sorry, Mary. I thought I called someone . . . You did just say . . . I . . . Did you say you have Isabel Dwyer’s phone? Or did I call you?”
I imagined him pulling his phone away from his ear and staring at it—his brow furrowing and his top lip dragging through his teeth like they did whenever he concentrated. I could practically hear the questions spinning through his brain. Did I call Mary? Did I call Isabel? Why is she answering Isabel’s phone?
And if I wasn’t sure laughter would tip to tears, I would have laughed at the absurdity of it all—at every single aspect of my life.
“You called Isabel’s phone. We’re on vacation together.”
“You’re in England with Isabel Dwyer? How do you even know her?”
I countered with a “How do you?” then cringed. My tone was aggressive, defensive, and hurt—all conveyed clearly in three little words. “Sorry . . . We’re friends. Best friends since second grade, I guess. How do you know her?”
“We . . . have a bunch of mutual friends. She left me a voice mail, and I was just calling her back . . . Did you know I knew her? Why didn’t you say something? Did you think—Why didn’t you tell me you knew we both . . .”
Nathan sounded as flustered as I felt.
“Me? No one told me anything.” My tone wasn’t defensive or hurt now—only aggressive. The pieces fell into place. Six months of pieces fell into place and got capped off with last night’s Who? I never thought much of him. Isabel knew exactly who. “You’re dating Isabel.” The realization came, not as a lightbulb, but as a slow dawning. “I wish you had told me, Nathan. Isabel . . . She never said a word. How long have you two been dating?”
“It’s not like that. I met her with a couple friends in March and we exchanged numbers. She called me.”
Seven months. After he’d started working at WATT. After we’d met. After I’d told Isabel all about him. I closed my eyes. My face flamed. “She gave you her number. She called you . . . She knew who you were.” I saw the scene, felt it too. “I’ll tell her you called.” I lowered the phone from my ear.
“Wait; don’t hang up.”
I pulled it back. “It’s okay, Nathan. I’ll tell her you called, but it’s going to be a few days before I do, before she can call you back.” I pressed my thumb and pointer finger into the corners of my eyes. Questions and answers, so many answers, flooded my brain. It hurt. Each and every question and the story I was imagining simultaneously overwhelmed and tore apart something inside me.
“Wha—”
I cut him off. I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t breathe. “I can’t deal with this right now. She’ll call you, I promise, but not for a while because I can’t reach her, I can’t tell her you called, and I don’t know what to do and I’m alone over here and—” Tears filled my throat and burst beyond my fingers. I tapped off the phone and tossed it on her bed.
It rang. TCG. I clicked decline.
My phone rang.
Nathan Hillam. I tapped decline. It rang again. I tapped again. It rang again. I tapped accept but couldn’t speak.
“Don’t hang up.”
I scrubbed at my eyes and held the phone away from me for several deep breaths. I refused to let him hear the tears. Finally a breath came out without a shudder. “What do you need?”
“I need to talk to you or listen to you. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t, Nathan. I feel like an idiot right now and there’s nothing you can do.”
“What do you mean you can’t reach Isabel? You just said you were with her.”
“I am. I mean . . . I can’t explain.”
“Try.” His voice was calm.
“You
always say that.” The tears were evident in my voice. I pressed my lips shut. But he stayed silent. And I soon found myself, despite everything and a steady flow of tears, telling him what had happened only hours before and how that aligned with fifteen years ago.
“Can you bring her home?”
I shook my head, then realized he couldn’t see it. “I just got a text from my dad. He’s talking to her doctor. I’ll get more details, but right now they say no . . . She’s happy here. Her expression is clear—like there aren’t any shadows or pain, if that makes sense, and before, that’s how she was at our house. There’s a man here, Grant, who works with the horses, and he saw it too. He’s been in combat; he wasn’t comparing Isabel to a horse.” I flopped back onto the bed.
“How can I help?”
A snort escaped. I sat up and swiped at my eyes again—now he would know how messy all this crying really was. But if something was going to hurt even more, it was hearing that question. It was quintessentially Nathan.
In the months I’d known him, I’d heard him ask it countless times, and he meant it too. Nathan was hardwired to help. He explained things again and again until someone at work understood; he once held a thirty-pound compressor for an hour while Benson worked to reconfigure a sensor he’d designed; he’d brought boxes of Starbucks coffee to our staff meetings since day one; he even helped Peter deliver mail after we’d played musical cubicles for the third time in as many months.
“I have no idea . . . I don’t know what to do.”
“What if I came to help you?”
I felt the blood drain from my face and was surprised that I could actually feel it. It wasn’t merely an expression. My skin felt cool. It felt blue.
“Mary?”
“You and Isabel are that close? You’d fly here for her? I didn’t realize.” My voice broke. My heart broke. I tried to cover it with a cough. “I mean I can ask her, but she won’t—”
“I didn’t ask Isabel. I asked you.” He took a breath and rushed on as if afraid I’d interrupt. “I’m asking if you want me there, for you, not for Isabel. I mean for Isabel too, but mostly for you.”
The Austen Escape Page 12
