The Austen Escape

by Katherine Reay

  “When we were about ten, my mom took us to Dallas to the American Girl store and we each got to pick out a doll. Isabel’s dad sent along the money to fund our expedition, so Mom said she could pick first. She chose Kit Kittredge.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s this spunky blonde from 1934, saves her family from the Depression and is a genuinely adorable heroine. Isabel beelined straight to her. She then spent the next hour cajoling me into picking Ruthie, Kit’s best friend.”

  “Who you didn’t want?”

  I shrugged, which he couldn’t see. “Not exactly. There was nothing wrong with Ruthie. She’s quiet, cute, loyal, and all good things, but it was more complicated than that, at least it felt that way even then. Isabel and I . . . It doesn’t matter. I bought Ruthie.”

  I envisioned Ruthie, with her long, dark hair and her fine coat of dust, sitting in her box at the top of the hallway closet. “She’s probably a collector’s item now. The company doesn’t even make the sidekick dolls anymore.”

  I froze.

  “That’s it, isn’t it? SK. Sidekick.”

  I shrugged again. This time he saw it. He turned back to the stream.

  Einstein was right about the space-time continuum. Massive objects, or statements, or revelations, can cause a bending—a disruption. I sat in such a distortion now. I could physically feel him lining up WATT’s Mary with Isabel’s SK. I looked down the path—it seemed to tunnel away into the distance. Another distortion—that path hadn’t seemed so long before. It wasn’t a viable escape route.

  “I’m sorry about your mom.”

  “What? . . . Oh . . . Thank you.”

  “You never told me. I mean you you. This is confusing, isn’t it?”

  I took a quick breath and shifted the conversation. “So how’d you meet Isabel?”

  Nathan studied me. “Did you ever mention me to her? Not that you would, but . . . Did you?”

  I begged my face not to flush and my eyes to stay steady. “When you started at WATT I must have. You kinda flipped my world, work world that is, a little upside down.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” His mouth lifted in a half smile. “I think everyone was terrified of all those interviews and me shadowing everyone. Only Moira took it in stride.”

  “She would. But back to Isabel?” I wanted to know.

  “We met at the Sahara Lounge last March. She was with Tiffany. Brad, her fiancé, and I have known each other for years.” He faced me. “I told her what I did and where I worked that first night, Mary.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  “You did. On the phone yesterday. You thought I’d been playing you.”

  I felt his focus fix on me; I looked up from my lap. I’d been shredding a dead leaf. “I didn’t know what to think.”

  His focus returned to the water, and a soft “Welcome to my world” reached me.

  I cast for a new topic. I was tired of Isabel standing between us, and I did believe him. It was one reason Isabel used nick-names. She liked to control information, variables. Control gave her security.

  “The Sahara Lounge, huh? You like the blues.” I smiled. Every new bit of information made me like him more.

  “Blues, jazz, classical, rock . . . I like music. I’ve learned your friend does not like music.”

  Your friend. The words were sharp and punctuated. Distanced.

  “No . . .” I couldn’t help grinning. “Roger Taylor, Mick Taylor, James Taylor . . . For Isabel, there’s only one Taylor. Miss Swift.”

  Nathan stared at me. “Whoa . . . Look at you, pulling out the unsung greats from Queen and the Rolling Stones—not to mention the artist behind one of the best songs ever.”

  “Which one?”

  “‘Your Smiling Face.’”

  “Oh . . .” Whenever I see your smiling face, I have to smile myself because I love you . . .

  “Great song, right?” Nathan’s voice carried a light teasing note. He knew exactly what I was doing.

  “Great song.”

  He gestured to my rod, which lay on the ground beside me. “You shouldn’t give up so easily. Come try again.”

  I blew a bubble and popped it for the noise. It sounded like a small pellet gun. “I think this is a much more productive use of my time. Do you know the force it takes to blow a good bubble?”

  This got him striding toward me. “Did you steal my gum?”

  “You left the pack right here on your sumptuous green coat. It wasn’t stealing.”

  “Please don’t call it borrowing.”

  I popped another bubble. The air had changed between us. It felt like it did some days at WATT when the work was light and Nathan and I . . . We just had fun together. “I promise not to give it back.”

  “So . . . What does it take to blow a really good bubble?”

  “I suspect anything over 1 psi is too aggressive. I’m playing with 10 to 15 kPa right now.”

  “You cannot judge that.”

  “Who says?”

  “I do.” He laid his rod on the ground next to the bench. His linen shirt billowed around the waist. He dropped next to me and I scooted a couple inches to give him room. “No, really, can you?”

  “I’m not sure. I like to think I can.” I glanced at him. He was so close I could see the lightest smattering of freckles across his cheek. “That small room off the lab can be pressurized, so the guys play around with it all the time. Sometimes they let me in on the fun. So . . . maybe my guess isn’t without some foundation. But no, I can’t really tell.”

  “Nice. But I’m not the jealous type.”

  “What?” I almost choked on the gum.

  “You know all the lab guys adore you. You’re the only one they bring their hard copies to, and they spend entire lunch breaks trying to figure out how to make your jewelry rise off your neck or create a decibel only you’ll hear or something else that’ll drive you crazy. They even freeze-dried some cookie you love.”

  “That was disgusting.”

  “I know. I was their guinea pig.”

  “I am so sorry. They’re just goofy.”

  Nathan leaned back against the bench, arm crashing into mine, and laughed. “They’re a bunch of brilliant physicists who respect you, trust you, and slightly adore you. Don’t discount the power of the friendships you’ve built . . . But enough of WATT. Do I get a piece of my own gum?”

  I handed him the pack and he joined me. No more words, just several very well-pressurized bubbles.

  After several minutes and as many bubbles, he slid me a glance. Sunbeams caught his eyelashes and the stubble across his chin. It was darker in that little cleft in the center. His whole face became a contrast of light and dark while laughing eyes locked on mine. I also noticed the way the heat from his arm in the thinnest of linen shirts pressed into mine . . . I tucked the moment away.

  “Why do you look so happy?”

  In reply he drew his lips into a straight line and his face turned red. It reminded me of the couple times we bumped into each other climbing off the treadmills in the gym, or of myself, multiple times this morning.

  “I’m not . . . Well, I am, but . . . I feel like I can see you better here. I’m enjoying this.”

  I felt something unfurl within me. I drew it tight again. “We should find Isabel.”

  “Not yet.” He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun as I’d seen him do so often in Austin.

  I did the same. The silence lay light until broken by a muffled sound, a clopping sound. Across the stream Tennyson came into view pulling a carriage. A bonnet . . . Grant . . .

  “Hey.” It felt as if cold water had been thrown at me. I shot off the bench and pointed. “It’s Isabel. They’re probably headed to the stables. We should go back.”

  “Why?”

  I bit my lip. I couldn’t articulate why—we just needed to leave. All my thoughts for the last twenty hours had been focused on this moment. Isabel seeing Nathan; Isabel seeing me with Nathan. Isabel waking up, runn
ing off into the sunset with him. Or Isabel facing us both and knowing I knew she’d lied and finally understanding that things couldn’t be the same again. Isabel finally learning that some lines friends never crossed.

  Without answering I picked up my rod and headed toward the path.

  Nathan caught up within a few feet, his own rod in hand. “I’m serious, Mary. Why the rush? We were having fun.”

  I stopped and looked at him. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Then tell me.”

  Then tell me. Nathan caught the flash of recognition in my eyes. He offered that same half smile. “We’ve been here before, I know, but this time, trust me. Please, Mary. Tell me.” There was nothing professional about his look. It was intimate and compelling.

  “You’re Tall Consultant Guy. That’s a nice thing.”

  His mouth tightened. I dropped my eyes.

  “I’m Sidekick, and that doesn’t feel so nice. I’m so tired. That’s what you can’t understand. I’ve wanted to walk away, and yes . . . I may have mentioned you more than once. Right now, I want her to know she hurt me and I want her to wake up, or come back, or whatever needs to happen to make this all okay. Then maybe I can be done and be okay too.”

  Nathan’s fingers tangled within mine. He held tight and we started walking.

  We stopped in unison when Isabel came into view. She stood patting Tennyson. The horse was free of the carriage now, and Grant was nowhere in sight. Isabel was dressed in a blue dress so pale it looked almost white. I glanced down. My cream felt dingy in comparison.

  I glanced to Nathan. His eyes were fixed on Isabel and I felt myself falter.

  Six months.

  I took in what he saw: Isabel’s matching bonnet was pushed back, and its black trim made her curls only glossier by comparison. She stood gently crooning. The high notes she used for young children were soft, coaxing, and endearing when directed at an enormous black horse.

  I cleared my throat. This was not a moment in which I wanted to linger. “Isabel? Look who’s come.” My voice broke. Nathan squeezed my hand. I coughed to regain a normal tone. “Nathan came to visit yo—us.”

  Nathan smiled at me rather than Isabel. “Hey, Isabel.” He walked to her and bent to kiss her cheek.

  She stepped away before contact.

  “Hello?” Her voice arced her greeting into a question.

  “I . . . I’m sorry.” Nathan shot me a startled look. He hadn’t fully digested what was happening. Who could?

  He took a steady breath and straightened. “That was forward of me, Miss Woodhouse, forgive me. It’s lovely to see you again. We met long ago, in another city and on a much warmer day, at a concert.” Nathan reached for her gloved hand this time. “You were with Miss . . . er . . . Tiffany, and you wore blue, not unlike today.”

  “I’ve never traveled, but I often wear blue.” Her voice was cool and distant, as if she were really saying, I don’t know you, but I’ll be polite.

  “Have you come to see Mary?” Isabel lifted her chin to me. It seemed that if I approved of Nathan, so could she.

  Nathan stepped beside her. Both were now staring at me. He raised an assessing brow. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  Chapter 19

  A line came to me as we walked to the house. Tall, handsome Nathan walked between two Regency women, and we appeared “to uncommon advantage”—the “picturesque” was perfect.

  Lizzy used that remark to skip away from Mr. Darcy and the fawning, competitive Bingley sisters. It was a light, playful comment. She was running away. I glanced to Nathan. I’d thought he had come for Isabel, but the fishing, his words, his looks had ignited something new in me: hope. I didn’t want to step away from this walk, this group. In fact, I wanted more than that—I wanted to stay.

  “Isn’t that right?” Isabel looked across Nathan to me.

  “Hmm?”

  “We won’t be here that long.” She looked back to Nathan, who had been peppering her with questions the entire walk—all general, all polite, none concerning. “We need to head home next week.”

  I hoped Nathan wouldn’t ask where home was. I’d tried that already, and it had brought a furrowed brow and a flit of panic.

  “Did you ever tell Mary how we met?” He delivered the line perfectly—curious indifference.

  Isabel’s lips puckered. “I don’t recall meeting you. Please forgive me.”

  “Not at all. I’m pleased you don’t remember. It usually takes people a third introduction to remember me.”

  Nathan put an odd emphasis on third. Isabel threw me a quizzical glance. I threw it to Nathan. But rather than answer, he seemed pleased at something beyond Isabel and me. He compressed a smile and shoulder-bumped me.

  As we entered the house, he pulled at my hand. Isabel didn’t notice and stepped ahead.

  “You didn’t tell me your character.”

  “Catherine Morland from—”

  “Northanger Abbey. She’s no sidekick, Mary.” Nathan stared at me as if I was yummy. There was no other word or feeling to describe it.

  “I think it’s the dress. Gives me courage.”

  His chuckle wasn’t quite audible and it wasn’t quite suggestive. It was something mysterious, quiet and intriguing. Before I could react, he pulled at my hand to catch up to Isabel.

  We found everyone already seated for lunch. They’d heard of Nathan’s arrival, so after well wishes and warm exclamations, we circled the table for introductions—real names, then fictional. When we reached Nathan, he stalled.

  Helene tapped her finger on the dining room table. “Out with it. Introduce yourself, young man.”

  Nathan, who had just picked up his knife and fork, laid them down again. He glanced to me, then focused on Helene. He took a beat before replying. “Henry Tilney.”

  “Who? Who is that?” Herman tapped his wife’s hand. “I have never heard of him.”

  Helene’s eyes widened. She looked to me and smiled, and before she could answer Herman, Nathan did.

  “He’s the hero from Northanger Abbey. A clergyman, clumsy at times with his delivery, but an all-around good guy.” He glanced at me. “He’s curious. Some might call him a conundrum, but he gets his girl in the end.”

  Helene clapped her hands together. “This is fun. I thought I’d have to winkle a romance out of you all, but this is blossoming splendidly. It’s more than I could have hoped. Oh . . . Dancing will be such fun tonight.”

  I shook my head at Nathan. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  After Sonia cleared dessert, everyone drifted away. Gertrude had printed a list of activities on linen paper, but the women chose to rest—and Clara wanted her iPad. Aaron slapped Nathan on the back with an invitation to go shooting.

  Isabel looped her arm through mine. She tucked me close like a lifeline. “Will you come upstairs with me?”

  “Of course.” There was a concerning fragility about her voice and look.

  Nathan caught it too. He hesitated outside Aaron’s grasp.

  “I’ll find you later?” I asked him before leading Isabel to the stairs. Nathan nodded and followed Aaron.

  “Do you feel okay? Shall we rest?”

  “I’m so tired and heavy feeling.” Isabel dropped to the bed and curled up.

  I pulled out my phone to text Dr. Milton. “Do you have a headache? Chills? Fever?” I pressed my hand to her forehead.

  She swatted at it. “You are such a worrier. Did I know this about you?”

  I dropped next to her. “Probably not. You’ve never given me cause to worry before. Not like this.”

  “I’m fine. A nap will set me right . . . Sonia was looking for you earlier. She wanted to show you a center?”

  The business center.

  “If you nap, I’ll go find her.” I tucked my phone back into my pocket and grabbed my computer.

  Isabel’s eyes were already closed. “Mmm . . . hmm . . .” was her only reply.

  I headed through the front gallery, now cool
, as the sun had passed above the house and it lay in shadow. Down the stairs, I walked toward the back and the kitchen. It was bathed in light. I paused outside the ballroom.

  A budding romance. It’s more than I could have hoped. Oh . . . Dancing will be such fun tonight.

  Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was right.

  “Do you want to see the business center? I’m headed there now.” Sonia approached, carrying a multi-armed candelabra. She gripped the base in both hands. It wobbled within her grasp.

  “I was just coming to find you. Can I help you with that?”

  “If you could grab the candles tucked under my arm. They’re slipping.”

  I pulled out eight candles tucked between her biceps and her body. “How did you get these in there?” I followed her down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  “Everything is so far away in this house. You learn to carry as much as you can to limit the trips.”

  She backed into a side door and laid the silver on a broad, high worktable. “Here it is.”

  I rolled the candles off my makeshift laptop tray and onto the table. The business center was a fourteen-by-fourteen room, a little larger than the Green Room’s bathroom. It felt like a butler’s pantry that covered all the bases from the seventeenth century to the twenty-first.

  In one corner sat a state-of-the-art scanner-printer-copier-fax machine. Above it resided the house’s modem, router, amplifier, and bins for assorted cables. And a twenty-seven-inch plasma monitor and a thirteen-inch laptop stood on a narrow side table. In the center, at which we stood, sat a high worktable, four feet square with a polished wood top. The top was at least two inches thick and formed by woodcuts pressed together, like a fancy cutting board. It was oiled to a velvety finish. Cupboards lined three of the four walls, a paned window was centered on the fourth, and a single armchair with a small circular table beside it was tucked into a corner. It was a perfect little oasis.

  “We use it for odd jobs like sewing, polishing silver, and ruling the modern world.” She nodded to my computer. “May I quickly polish this silver, or is your work private?”

  “Not at all. Please stay.”

  Sonia polished; I checked e-mails and wrote one to Dr. Milton. Sonia whittled the ends of new candles to place within the candelabra. I rewired two green lamps I found resting on the side table.