Austenland

by Shannon Hale

  “No, that’s okay, I won’t be coming back.”

  “Not come back? Your husband put up a squeal about the price, did he? Well, you just steamroll over his protests. Those men want pretty wives but aren’t willing to put up the cash to make us happy. Tell him to talk to my therapist if he needs convincing. Or my lawyer. I’ll give you their cards.”

  Jane shifted a bit to her right, feeling as though she were cuddled up to a stranger. She noticed for the first time Amelia’s roots dark with three weeks’ growth. “Actually, I’m not—”

  “Did you see my face when Captain East first arrived? What a thrill! Honestly, I didn’t know that they’d bring back the same actor for me. This year I asked to stay in the cottage because last year the other women at the big house were so annoying, but I was getting bored until George showed up. Uhh, he’s such a hunk. A locked hotel room with him spread out on the bed is almost worth the alimony risk, if you know what I mean. Wattlesbrook can bring him back next time and I’d be hap-hap-happy. But if not, no big deal. He and Miss Heartwright are already engaged, and that’s the fun part. I might like to try someone new next year and alter my character, become a bit more Elizabeth Bennet-y. You ended up with Nobley, didn’t you? Is he a good kisser? He seemed tedious to me, but he did a good job of being into you. It was Nobley who asked me to pretend your cell phone was mine, you know. He said Wattlesbrook would send you home, asked me to do it as a favor. He was in my cast last year, too, and we nearly had a romance until George East swept me up. It was ill-fated at the time, of course, but that’s half the fun. Ah, here we are! Such a tragedy when the vacation ends, but frankly, I’m dying for a massage.”

  While Amelia sprang out of the carriage and into the White Stag/Donkey, Jane sat a moment longer. The carriage still seemed to rock, but Jane was the one reeling. So, Amelia had been another Miss Charming in disguise. Surely the actors thought Jane was the same as all the women visitors. And it’d been Mr. Nobley who’d saved her from expulsion. And . . . and . . . and it was over. Time to get out of the carriage and into her own clothes, meet up with Martin (hooray!), and be herself again. No more Mr. Darcy. Old Jane dead; new, confident, vibrant Jane rising from the oyster shell.

  She sat in the inn’s main room while Mrs. Wattlesbrook and Amelia had their last-day-of-school chat. Her bag was packed, all remnants of Miss Erstwhile were hanging back in the wardrobe. The old Jane would’ve stashed her ball gown, secretly imagining it could be her wedding dress if she married Martin. But the new Jane was set on just enjoying the early part and the memory of last night’s kissing. The new Jane was still as self-possessed as she had allowed herself to be when she was Miss Erstwhile. It felt strange—and wonderful.

  She was feeling sassy in her old street clothes, freshly laundered, bra and panties replacing corset and drawers. Jeans felt wicked to her, tight and strange, and yet so comfortable she hugged her knees to her chest. Wearing her own clothes gave her an eerie feeling, like the occasional moment when she glanced at herself in a mirror and had that frightening thrill of unrecognition. Is that who I am? That woman in the photographs, that’s me?

  And now, Who have I been for the last three weeks? Who am I now?

  She looked around the room, remembering her first day when she’d danced the minuet there with Martin, how awkward and schoolgirlish she’d felt, how eager and afraid. She scarcely felt like the same woman anymore.

  “Jane! Jane!” Amelia strode out of Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s office and took Jane by the arms. “She told me of your financial situation . . . I’m so sorry! I didn’t know.” She embraced her and said quietly in her ear, “You hold on to your dreams, sweetie, you hear me?”

  “I’ll do that,” Jane said, not caring to reveal that she’d come here to let her dreams go. She’d turned Mr. Nobley down, her trial in Austenland was over, and she was going home cleansed of entrapping fantasies.

  Jane waited in Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s office as the proprietress gushed farewells to her favorite Repeat Client. After Amelia (or “Barbara,” as it turned out) was on her way, Mrs. Wattlesbrook brought in tea, and with undisguised disinterest, plied Jane with a satisfaction survey.

  “And I trust you discovered a rewarding romance with one of the gentlemen?”

  “Actually, there was someone, but, no, not one of the actors.”

  “Oh, well, of course you know that Martin is one of our own,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said.

  What?

  Clink as teacup was carefully replaced on its saucer.

  “He’s your gardener,” Jane said slowly.

  “Yes, but the servants are always prepared for an unexpected romance. We have discovered that not all our guests are able to relax and forget themselves enough to fall in love with the key actors, and so we have contingency plans. Besides, many women like to, how would you say, go slumming?”

  Jane found herself blinking a lot and opening and closing her mouth. She felt as though she’d had the wind knocked out of her.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, yes, he reported to me regularly. We knew of your fascination with basketball and the New York Knickerbockers, and the rest was easy.”

  “You are serious.”

  “You are not the first to fall for Martin,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said. “He is very good.”

  “Yes. Yes he is.”

  “We do not run a brothel here, miss, and I will have you know we would never let it go that far. I had to pull the plug on you two when Martin said things were spicing up, hm?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook smiled, and her eyes twinkled as if she enjoyed this part very much. “I wanted to make sure you knew that even though you are not our Ideal Client, we still made every arrangement possible for your comfort and entertainment, Miss Erstwhile.”

  “My name is Jane Hayes.”

  “There is a car waiting to take you to the airport, Jane Hayes. I trust you are ready to get on your way.”

  “I certainly am.”

  “I hope I have not upset you,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said with an innocent smile. “I pride myself on matching each client with her perfect gentleman. But one cannot anticipate a woman’s every fancy, and so our talent pool runs deep. You understand?”

  “Very deep indeed.” Jane felt like a woman drowning, and she grasped for anything. And as it turned out, bald-faced lies are, temporarily anyway, impressively buoyant, so she said, “It will make the ending to my article all the more interesting.”

  “Your . . . your article?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook peered over her spectacles as if at a bug she would like to squash.

  “Mm-hm,” said Jane, lying extravagantly, outrageously, but also, she hoped, gracefully. “Surely you know I work for a magazine? The editor thought the story of my experience at Pembrook Park would be the perfect way to launch my move from graphic design to staff writer.”

  She had no intention of becoming a staff writer, and in fact the artist bug was raging through her blood now more than ever, but she just had to give Mrs. Wattlesbrook a good jab before departure. She was smarting enough to crave the reprieve that comes from fighting back.

  Mrs. Wattlesbrook twitched. That was satisfying.

  “And I’m sure you realize that since I’m a member of the press,” Jane said, “the confidentiality agreement you made me sign doesn’t apply.”

  Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s right eyebrow spasmed. Jane guessed that behind it ran her barrister’s phone number, which she would dial ASAP. Jane, of course, had been lying again. And wasn’t it fun!

  Mrs. Wattlesbrook appeared to be trying to moisten her mouth and failing. “I did not know . . . I would have . . .”

  “But you didn’t. The cell phone scandal, the dirty trick with Martin . . . You assumed that I was no one of influence. I guess I’m not. But my magazine has a circulation of over six hundred thousand. I wonder how many of those readers are in your preferred tax bracket? And I’m afraid my article won’t be glowing.”

  Jane curtsied in her jeans and turned to leave.

  “Oh, and, Mrs
. Wattlesbrook?”

  “Yes, Jane, my dear?” the proprietress responded with a shaky, fawning voice.

  “What is Mr. Nobley’s first name?”

  Mrs. Wattlesbrook stared at her, blinkless. “It’s J. . . Jonathan.”

  Jane wagged her finger. “Nice try.”

  Martin of Sheffield, AGE TWENTY-NINE

  He kissed her like she knew she was meant to be kissed. He smelled of gardens, tricked her brain into believing she was irresistible, and made the idea of falling in love seem possible again.

  But really he was an actor posing as a gardener, who posed as a gentleman during balls in an Austenland estate where she’d gone to find out if she could let her fantasy of Mr. Darcy die at last. Seriously.

  Also, he turned out to be a jackass.

  the end of day 21

  THE DRIVE TO THE AIRPORT felt eternal. Jane turned the backseat radio to a rock station and worked hard at being more angry than sad. Angry was proactive.

  “Schmuck,” she kept muttering. It was at herself.

  Yes, Martin was a schmuck, too. The sheer certainty of that felt invigorating. But really, after all those boyfriends, you’d think she’d have learned that all men are schmucks.

  It didn’t help her humiliation much that she’d had no illusions about Martin. She knew that he’d just been a fling, motivated by her desperation to feel like a genuine woman amid the pageantry. But then she went and let herself get played. Stupid girl. She’d even convinced herself that Mr. Nobley might have been actually fond of her.

  “Dream on,” the radio crooned.

  “It doesn’t matter how it ended,” she muttered to herself, and realized that it was true. Real or not, Martin had showed her that contented spinsterhood was not an option. And real or not, Mr. Nobley had helped her say no to Mr. Darcy. She leaned her head against the window, watched the countryside go whirling by, and forced herself to smile. Pembrook Park had done its job—it allowed her to live through her romantic purgatory. She believed now in earnest that fantasy is not practice for what is real—fantasy is the opiate of women. And she’d buried her fantasy behind her in the English countryside. Her life now would be open to real possibilities. There was no Mr. Darcy, there was no perfect man. But there might be someone. And she’d be ready.

  The flight didn’t leave for another two hours, so she wandered the airport, browsing bookshops and soap boutiques. She bought a best-selling paperback about a giant robot suit, found her gate, and was huddled in a vinyl chair trying to get past the first page when the congested voice of the loudspeaker called, “Miss, uh, Erstwhile, please report to the Terminal 3 Customer Service desk. Miss Jane Erstwhile to Customer Service.”

  The shock of that name zapped her, static electricity grazing her skin. She closed her book and stood up slowly, fearing to find a camera crew crouched behind her, that she was the victim of reality TV and had been duped not privately but in front of millions of viewers. She swung around, and the airport was full of disinterested bustle. In her present mood (chagrined and zippy mad), it was hard to properly enjoy the relief that came with thinking, “At least I’m not on TV.”

  The walk back past security felt impossibly long, the click of her heels much too loud, as though she were all alone and no bodies were present to muffle the sounds of her solitude.

  There was Customer Service, a chirpy brunette with a permanent smile behind the desk. And there was someone waiting there, someone dressed in jeans and a sweater, devilishly normal in the twenty-first-century crowd. He saw her, and he straightened, his eyes hopeful. Apparently, Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s barrister hadn’t been in his office to assure her that being a magazine writer doesn’t nullify a confidentiality agreement.

  “Jane.”

  “Martin. You whistled?” She laid the rancor on thick. No need to tap dance around.

  “Jane, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you today. Or tonight. The point is, I was going to tell you, and then we could still see if you and I—”

  “You’re an actor,” Jane said as though “actor” and “bastard” were synonymous.

  “Yes, but, but . . .”He looked around as though for cue cards.

  “But you’re desperately in love with me,” she prompted him. “I’m unbelievably beautiful, and I make you feel like yourself. Oh, and I remind you of your sister.”

  The chirpy brunette behind the counter furiously refused to look up from her monitor.

  “Jane, please.”

  “And the suddenly passionate feelings that sent you running after me at the airport have nothing to do with Mrs. Wattles-brook’s fear that I’ll write a negative review of Pembrook Park.”

  “No! Listen, I know I was a cad, and I lied and was misleading, and I’ve never actually been an NBA fan—go United—but romances have bloomed on stonier ground.”

  “Romances . . . stonier ground . . . Did Mrs. Wattlesbrook write that line?”

  Martin exhaled in exasperation.

  Thinking of Molly’s dead end on the background check, she asked, “Your name’s not really Martin Jasper, is it?”

  “Well,” he looked at the brunette as though for help. “Well, it is Martin.”

  The brunette smiled encouragement.

  Then, impossibly, another figure ran toward her. The sideburns and stiff-collared jacket looked ridiculous out of the context of Pembrook Park, though he’d stuck on a baseball cap and trench coat, trying to blend. His face was flushed from running, and when he saw Jane, he sighed with relief.

  Jane dropped her jaw. Literally. She had never, even in her most ridiculous daydreaming, imagined that Mr. Nobley would come after her. She took a step back, hit something slick with her boot heel, and tottered almost to the ground. Mr. Nobley caught her and set her back up on her feet.

  Is this why women wear heels? thought Jane. We hobble ourselves so we can still be rescued by men?

  She annoyed herself by having enjoyed it. Briefly.

  “You haven’t left yet,” Nobley said. He seemed reluctant to let go of her, but he did and took a few steps back. “I’ve been panicked that . . .” He saw Martin. “What are you doing here?”

  The brunette was watching with hungry intensity, though she kept tapping at a keyboard as though actually very busy at work.

  “Jane and I got close these past weeks and—” Martin began.

  “Got close. That’s a load of duff. It’s one thing when you’re toying with the dowagers who guess what you are, but Jane should be off limits.” He took her arm. “You can’t believe a word he says. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier, but you must know now that he’s an actor.”

  “I know,” Jane said.

  Nobley blinked. “Oh.”

  “So, what are you doing here?” She couldn’t help it if her tone sounded a little tired. This was becoming farcical.

  “I came to tell you that I—” he rushed to speak, then composed himself, looked around, and stepped closer to her so he did not need to raise his voice to be heard. The brunette leaned forward just a tad.

  “I apologize for having to tell you here, in this busy, dirty . . . this is not the scene I would set, but you must know that I . . .” He took off his cap and rubbed his hair ragged. “I’ve been working at Pembrook Park for nearly four years. All the women I see, week after week, they’re the same. Nearly from the first, that morning when we were alone in the park, I guessed that you might be different. You were sincere.”

  He reached for her hand. He seemed to gain confidence, his lips started to smile, and he looked at her as though he never wished to look away.

  Zing, she thought, out of habit mostly, because she wasn’t buying any of it.

  Martin groaned at the silliness. Nobley immediately stuck his cap back on and stepped back, and he seemed unsure if he’d been too forward, if he should still play by the rules.

  “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I wish you would. Last night in the library, I wanted to tell you how I felt. I should have. But I wasn’t sure h
ow you . . . I let myself speak the same tired sort of proposal I used on everyone. You were right to reject me. It was a proper slap in the face. No one had ever said no before. You made me sit up and think. Well, I didn’t want to think much, at first. But after you left this morning, I asked myself, are you going to let her go just because you met her while acting a part?” Nobley paused as if waiting for the answer.

  “Oh, come on, Jane,” Martin said. “You’re not going to buy this from him.”

  “Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” Jane said. “You . . . you were paid to kiss me! And it was a game, a joke on me, you disgusting lurch. You’ve got no right to call me Jane. I’m Miss Erstwhile to you.”

  “Don’t give me that,” Martin said. His patience was fraying. “All of Pembrook Park is one big drama, you’d have to be dense not to see that. You were acting too, just like the rest of us, having a fling on holiday, weren’t you? And it’s not as though kissing you was odious.”

  “Odious?”

  “I’m saying it wasn’t.” Martin paused and appeared to be putting back on his romancing-the-woman persona. “I enjoyed it, all of it. Well, except for the root beer. And if you’re going to write that article, you should know that I believe what we had was real.”

  The brunette sighed. Jane just rolled her eyes.

  “We had something real,” Nobley said, starting to sound a little desperate. “You must have felt it, seeping through the costumes and pretenses.”

  The brunette nodded.

  “Seeping through the pretenses? Listen to him, he’s still acting.” Martin turned to the brunette in search of an ally.

  “Do I detect any jealousy there, my flagpole-like friend?” Nobley said. “Still upset that you weren’t cast as a gentleman? You do make a very good gardener.”

  Martin took a swing. Nobley ducked and rammed into his body, pushing them both to the ground. The brunette squealed and bounced on the balls of her feet.

  “Stop it!” Jane pulled at Nobley, then slipped. He put out an arm and caught her midfall across her middle.