by Shannon Hale
He was still talking. “Our client was . . . eclectic . . . in her will. She made purchases for a few friends and family members and left the bulk of her money to charities. For you, she arranged a vacation.”
He handed her a glossy, oversized pamphlet. On the cover was a photograph of a large manor house. A man in jacket, cravat, and breeches, and a woman in an empire-waist dress and bonnet were walking in the foreground. They seemed awfully content. Jane’s hands went cold.
She read the elegantly inserted text.
Pembrook Park, Kent, England. Enter our doors as a house guest come to stay three weeks, enjoying the country manners and hospitality—a tea visit, a dance or two, a turn in the park, an unexpected meeting with a certain gentleman, all culminating with a ball and perhaps something more . . .
Here, the Prince Regent still rules a carefree England. No scripts. No written endings. A holiday no one else can offer you.
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s an all-inclusive, three-week vacation in England. From what I gather, you dress up and pretend to be someone in the year 1816.” The attorney handed her a packet. “It also comes with a first-class plane ticket. The vacation is nonrefundable, my client saw to that. But if you do need cash, you could exchange the first-class airfare for economy class and pocket the change. I make such suggestions whenever I can. I like to be helpful.”
Jane hadn’t looked away from the pamphlet. The man and woman in the photo held her gaze like a magician’s swaying watch. She hated them and adored them, longed to be that woman but needed to stay firmly in New York City in the present day and pretend she had no such odd fantasies. No one guessed her thoughts, not her mother, not her closest friends. But Great-Aunt Carolyn had known.
“Pocket the change,” she said distractedly.
“Just make certain you report it to the IRS.”
“Right.” Seemed odd, that Carolyn would point out this flaw in her poor, pathetic great-niece and then send her right into the belly of the beast. Jane groaned. “I’m hopeless.”
“What was that?”
“Um, did I say that out loud? Anyway, I’m not hopeless, that’s the problem. I’m too hopeful, if anything.” She sat up, leaning against his desk. “If I were to tell you my first dozen boyfriend stories, you’d call me screwy for ever going out with anyone again. But I have! I’m so thick-headed it’s taken me this long to give up on men, but I can’t give up completely, you know? So I . . . I channel all my hope into an idea, to someone who can’t reject me because he isn’t real!”
The lawyer straightened a stack of papers. “I think I should clarify, Miss Hayes, that I did not mean to flirt. I am a happily married man.”
Jane gaped. “Uh, of course you are. My mistake. I’ll just be going now.” She grabbed her purse and split.
The elevator dropped her back at street level, and even after stepping through the doors, the ground still felt as though it were falling away under her feet. She fell/walked all the way back to work and into her gray rollerchair.
Todd the manager was at her cubicle the moment her chair squeaked.
“How you doin’, Jane?” he asked in his oft-affected pseudo-Sopranos accent.
“Fine.”
She stared. He had a new haircut. His white blond hair was now spiked with an incredible amount of pomade that smelled of raspberries, a do that could only be carried off with true success by a fifteen-year-old boy wielding an impressive and permanent glare. Todd was grinning. And forty-three. Jane wondered if politeness required her to offer a compliment on something glaringly obvious.
“Uh . . . you, your hair is different.”
“Hey, girls always notice the hair. Right? Isn’t that basically right?”
“I guess I just proved it,” she said sadly.
“Super. Hey, listen,” he sat on the edge of her desk, “we’ve got a last-minute addition that needs special attention. It may seem like your basic stock photo array, but don’t be fooled! This is for the all-important page sixteen layout. I’d give this one to your basic interns, but I’m choosing you because I think you’d do a super job. What d’you say?”
“Sure thing, Todd.”
“Su-per.” He gave her two thumbs-up and held them there, smiling, his eyes unblinking. After a few moments, Jane cringed. What did he want her to do? Was she supposed to high-five his thumbs? Touch thumb-pad to thumb-pad? Or did he just leave them there so long for emphasis?
The silence quivered. At last Jane opted for raising her own thumbs in a mirror of the Todd salute.
“All right, my lady Jane.” He nodded, still with the thumbs up, and kept them up as he walked away. At least he hadn’t asked her out again. Why was it that when she was aching for a man, everyone was married, but when she was giving them up, so many men were so awkwardly single?
As soon as Todd’s cologne faded down the hall, Jane Googled Pembrook Park.
There were parks by that name scattered across the United States, but nothing Austen and nothing English. A couple of cryptic mentions in blogs seemed to touch Jane’s Pembrook, such as a blogger named tan’n’fun, “Back from Pembrook Park, my second year. Even better than the first, especially the ball . . . but I signed a confidentiality agreement, so that’s all I’ll say publicly.” No Wikipedia article about the elusive locale. No photos. This was the Area 51 of vacation resorts.
She banged her head lightly on the monitor.
The question Should I go? limped after her all afternoon. Jane certainly had the vacation hours saved up. She had an impressive benefits package including three weeks off a year, and she rarely went on holiday (note: she used the British word for “vacation” in her thoughts, an early sign that she’d already decided to go).
And besides: Nonrefundable. It was a good, solid word, one you couldn’t chew, one that only dissolved after sucking slowly.
Jane argued with her thoughts and her thoughts argued back while she searched through stock photo databases for Todd’s basically super project. Search words: smiling woman. 2,317 results, way too many to scan through. Narrow search results: smiling businesswoman. 214 results. Narrow search results: smiling businesswoman twenties.
And suddenly, there was Jane’s face on her own monitor, as photographed by ex-boyfriend #7, the delinquent artist. She’d stumbled across it before. In her line of work, it was hard not to view every stock photo in the digital empire at least twice. But this was really bad timing. Here she was, dizzy with thoughts of her own stupidity and vulnerability and all other Dr. Philness, and to suddenly confront her own face years younger . . . well, ick, an unpleasant reminder that she was just as stupid and vulnerable back then. She hadn’t changed. She’d been standing knee-deep in the same romance mud for years and she didn’t even care anymore.
The photo array completed and two train rides later, Jane plopped down on Molly’s couch in Brooklyn, keeping one eye on the twins battling over blocks, the other eye ensconced in a throw pillow. She held her arm straight up and waved the brochure like a surrender flag. Molly pulled it out of her hand and read it.
“So it’s come to this,” Molly said.
“Help,” Jane squeaked.
Molly nodded. “I don’t know, Jane, do you really think you should subject yourself to something like this?. . . Good job, Jack! Did you stack those blocks all by yourself? You’re such a smart boy, my big smart boy . . . It might make things worse. You just might fade away into a Mr. Darcy Brigadoon for good.”
Jane sat up. “So you know how bad I am? The whole Darcy thingie?”
Molly put a hand on her leg. “Honey, I don’t blame you. You’ve had rotten luck with that whole romance sh—uh, crap,” she said, amending her diction as she glanced at the kids. Hannah had managed to stick both her fingers into her nostrils and tottered over to Molly to show off her new trick. “Did you find your nose holes? What a smart girl! . . . Janie, are you going to get sad if I say this? Should I say this?”
“Say it.”
“Oka
y.” A deep breath. “This obsession . . .”
Jane groaned at the word and completely buried her face in the throw pillow.
“. . . has been brewing since we were in high school. I used to fantasize about jumping Darcy’s bones myself, but you’ve turned it into a career. You’ve been forced into it by a train wreck of bad relationships, it’s true, but the last couple of years . . .”
“I know, I know,” Jane mumbled into the pillow. “I’ve been freaking out, I sabotaged myself, and I couldn’t see it at the time, but I can now, so maybe I’m okay.”
Molly paused. “Are you okay?”
Jane shook her head and the pillow with it. “No! I’m spooked I’ll do it again. I’m so afraid I’m damaged and castoff-able and unlovable and I’m not even really sure what I’m doing wrong. What should I do, Molly? Please tell me.”
“Oh, honey . . .”
“Uh-oh.”
Molly cleared her throat and adopted her most gentle tone. “Have you noticed that you refer to any guy you’ve ever been on a date with as a ‘boyfriend’?”
Jane had noticed it. In fact, she’d numbered all her boyfriends from one to thirteen and referred to them in her mind by their number. She was relieved now that she’d never mentioned that part to Molly.
“It’s not really normal to do that,” Molly said. “It’s kind of . . . extreme. Kind of slaps expectation on a relationship before it’s begun.”
“Uh-huh,” was all Jane could muster in response, even to her best friend. This was a raw, pin-poking subject. A couple of years ago, she’d toyed with having a therapist, and though in the end she’d decided she just wasn’t a therapy kind of a gal, she did come out of it understanding one thing about herself: At a very young age, she had learned how to love from Austen. And according to her immature understanding at the time, in Austen’s world there was no such thing as a fling. Every romance was intended to lead to marriage, every flirtation just a means to find that partner to cling to forever. So for Jane, when each romance ended with hope still attached, it felt as brutal as divorce. Intense much, Jane? Oh yes. But what can you do?
“Jane.” Molly rubbed her arm. “You’ve got so much going on! You don’t need this Pembrook Park, and you definitely don’t need Mr. Darcy.”
“I know. I mean, he’s not even real. He’s not, he’s not, I know he’s not, but maybe . . .”
“There’s no maybe. He’s not real.”
Jane groaned. “But I don’t want to have to settle.”
“You always do. Every single guy you ever dated was a settle.”
She sat up. “None of them loved me, did they? Ever. Some of them liked me or I was convenient but . . . Am I truly that pathetic?”
Molly smoothed her hair. “No, of course not,” she said, which meant, Yes, but I love you anyway.
“Argh,” Jane arghed. “I don’t know what to do, I don’t trust myself. I mean, how did you ever know for sure that Phillip was the right guy?”
Molly shrugged. It was the same shrug that had twitched in Molly’s shoulders at summer camp eighteen years ago when Jane had asked, “Did you eat all my marshmallows?” It was the same shrug Molly had given when Jane adopted the New Wave style in sixth grade and asked, “How do I look?” Molly had forsworn her shifty days in college and declared she’d be a forthright, unashamed woman forever—but here was that bad-penny shrug turning up again.
Jane glared. “Don’t you do it, Ms. Molly Andrews-Carrero. What is it? Tell me. How do you know that Phillip is the one?”
Molly picked at some dried spaghetti sauce on her pants. “He . . . he makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, every day of my life.”
She’d never admit it, but those words made Jane’s tear ducts sting. “Wow. You’ve never told me that. Why didn’t you ever tell me that before?!”
Molly started to shrug, then stopped. “It’s not something you tell your single best friend. It’d be like rubbing your nose in the poop of my happiness.”
“If I didn’t love you, I’d slap you.” Jane reconsidered and threw a pillow at Molly’s face. “You need to tell me those things, loser. I’ve got to know what’s possible.”
Or what’s impossible, Jane thought.
“Are you okay?” Molly asked.
“Yes. I am. Because I’ve decided to give up men entirely.”
“Come on, not again. Sweetie—”
“I’m serious this time. I’ve had it. I know in my bones that I’m never going to find my Phillip, and all this hoping and waiting is killing me.” She took a breath. “This is good, Molly. You’ll see. Time to embrace spinsterhood. Time to—”
“Watch out!” Molly said, dropping the brochure and jumping up just as Jack placed a full bowl of milk and cereal onto his head like a marvelous dripping hat.
Hannah picked up the glossy paper and handed it to Jane, backing up onto her lap. The little girl felt so cozy and perfect, like warming her hands on a cup of hot chocolate, and with the familiar bliss that came with holding someone else’s child, Jane felt that weird ache in her gut, that ugly nudge that told her she might never have one of her own.
“My ovaries are screaming at me,” Jane said.
“Sorry, honey!” Molly called from the kitchen.
“Book.” Hannah shook the brochure, so they looked at it together.
“There’s a house,” Jane said. “Where’s the man? That’s right! And where’s the woman? Yep, that’ll be me. Did you know that your aunty Jane is a chump? That she secretly wants to be someone else in another time and be loved like a fictional character in a book? And that she loathes this part of herself? Well, no more!”
“The End,” said Hannah. She shut the brochure, squirmed off Jane’s lap, and set off searching for something more interesting while chanting, “Hippo, hippo.” Jane lay back down, but this time placed the throw pillow under her head. Okay, all right, she would go. It would be her last hurrah. Like her friend Becky, who’d taken an all-you-can-eat dinner cruise the night before going in for a stomach stapling, Jane was going to have one last live-it-up and then quit men entirely. She’d play out her fantasy, have a staggering good time, and then bury it all for good. No more Darcy. No more men—period. When she got home she’d become a perfectly normal woman, content to be single, happy with her own self.
She’d even throw the DVDs away.
3 weeks and 1 day ago
JANE FLEW COACH TO LONDON and found a black limo (A limo! she thought) waiting for her at Heathrow. The derbied driver opened the door and took her carry-on bag—just a change of clothes, toiletries, and travel entertainment. She was told she wouldn’t need anything else once she got to the Park.
“Is it far?” she asked.
“About three hours, ma’am,” he said, keeping his eyes on the pavement.
“Another three hours.” She tried to think of something witty and British to say. “I already feel like a thrice-used tea bag.”
He didn’t smile.
“Oh. Um, I’m Jane. What’s your name?”
He shook his head. “Not allowed to say.”
Of course, she thought, I’m entering Austenland. The servant class is invisible.
Jane spent the drive going over her packet of notes, “Social History of the Regency Period,” and felt as though she were cramming for a test in some uninteresting but required college course. It was not like her to come so unprepared, and she admitted to herself that she had shut out the reality of this adventure since the moment she had signed the papers and mailed them back to the frog attorney. Even thinking of it now sent sharp, cold pains shooting down her legs, stirring in her the anxious energy it took to make an end-of-game shot in high school basketball.
There were a lot of notes.
• On meeting, a gentleman is presented to the lady first because it is considered an honor for him to meet her.
• The eldest daughter in the family is called “Miss” plus surname, while any younger daughters are “Miss” plus Chris
tian and surname. For example, Jane, the eldest, was Miss Bennet, while her sister was Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
• Whist is an early form of bridge played by two couples. The rules are . . .
And so on for pages and pages, all irritatingly numbered with Roman numerals. The epilogue was an admonition written by the Pembrook Park proprietress, who bore the unlikely name of Mrs. Wattlesbrook: “It is imperative that these social customs be followed to the letter. For the sake of all our guests, any person who flagrantly disobeys these rules will be asked to leave. Complete immersion in the Regency period is the only way to truly Experience Austen’s England.”
Hours later, when the nameless driver stopped the car and opened her door, Jane found herself in the quaint, green, rolling countryside she recognized from travel brochures, the sky as cloudy as all English October skies ought to be, and the ground, of course, unpleasantly damp. She was led into a solitary building done up like an old inn, complete with swinging sign that read THE WHITE STAG, which bore a painted carving of a grayish animal that looked remarkably like a donkey.
Indoors was cozy and hot, both effects produced by an unseasonably large fire. A woman in Regency dress and marriage cap rose from behind a desk and led Jane to a seat beside the hearth.
“Welcome to 1816. I am Mrs. Wattlesbrook. And what shall we call you?”
“Jane Hayes is fine.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook raised her eyebrows. “Is that so? You are certain you still wish to retain your Christian name? Very well, but we mustn’t keep our entire name, right? We shall address you as Miss Jane Erstwhile.”
Erstwhile? “Uh, okay.”
“And how old are you, Miss Erstwhile?”
“Thirty-three.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook leaned on her arm with an air of impatience. “You misunderstand me. How old are you?” she asked, raising her eyebrows significantly. “You are aware that at this time a lady of thirty-three would be an affirmed spinster and considered unmarriageable.”
