by Shannon Hale
The quiet and cold washed over her, and she stood by his window, waiting for a decision to bite her. In some tree, a bird croaked a suggestion. Jane wished she spoke Bird.
“What are you doing?”
“Ya!” said Jane, whirling around, her hands held up menacingly.
It was Mr. Nobley with coat, hat, and cane, watching her with wide eyes. Jane took several quick (but oh so casual) steps away from Martin’s window.
“Um, did I just say, ‘Ya’?”
“You just said ‘Ya,’” he confirmed. “If I am not mistaken, it was a battle cry, warning that you were about to attack me.”
“I, uh . . .” She stopped to laugh. “I wasn’t aware until this precise and awkward moment that when startled in a strange place, my instincts would have me pretend to be a ninja.”
Mr. Nobley put the back of his hand to his mouth to cough. Or was it really a laugh? No, Mr. Nobley had no sense of humor.
“Excuse me, then, I probably have a secret mission somewhere.” She started to walk past him toward the house, but he grabbed her arm to stop her.
“Wait just a moment, please.” He looked around as if making sure they weren’t observed, then led her rather forcefully to the side of the house where the moon and lamplight did not touch them.
“Let go!”
He did. “Miss Erstwhile, I believe it is in your best interest to tell me what you are doing out here.”
“Walking.” She glared. She did not particularly enjoy being dragged by her arm.
His eyes darted to the servants’ quarters. To Martin’s exact window. It made her swallow.
“You are not doing something foolish, are you?”
In fact, she was, but that didn’t mean she had to stop glaring.
“I don’t know if you realize,” he said in his unbearably condescending tone, “but it is not proper for a lady to be out alone after dark and worse to cavort with servants . . .”
“Cavort?”
“When doing so might lead to trouble of the worst nature . . .”
“Cavort?”
“Look,” he said, slipping into slightly more colloquial tones, “just stay away from there.”
“Aren’t you all righteous concern, Mr. Nobley? Five minutes ago, I’d planned on changing careers and becoming a dairymaid, but you’ve saved me from that fate. I’ll kindly release you back to the night and return to my well-bred ways.”
“Don’t be a fool, Miss Erstwhile.” He returned the way he’d come, from the back of the house.
“Insufferable,” she said under her breath.
No, she wasn’t going to go to Martin’s, curse him, but she wasn’t going to run back to her room either, if just to spite Mr. Nobley. The man deserved to be spited. Or spitted. Or both. Though boring and cold and hateful, Mr. Nobley was the most Darcy-esque of them all, so she despised him with vigorous enthusiasm. Perhaps, she hoped, the exercise would count toward therapy and her ultimate Austenland recovery.
“Grab my arm, will he?” she said, getting a speck of satisfaction by muttering like an old crazy woman. “Call me a fool . . .”
She walked around the park in angry circles. Her fingers were cold, and her thoughts wandered to memories of spending so much time in the bath as a kid that her fingertips crinkled like raisin skin. Wrinkly skin reminded her of Great-Aunt Carolyn, with her extravagantly soft fingers and conspiratorial eyes.
She bought me this gift, Jane thought. Use it well, you floppy-brained, hopeless idiot, and stop trying to fall in love with gardeners. With anyone.
The night drew back, large and empty, no longer lying against her skin. She felt really alone now. But here’s the thing— suddenly, she felt as though she belonged inside the aloneness, and that feeling made her whisper aloud, “I never have before. I’ve never felt at home with myself.”
She looked at the servants’ quarters and had Realization #2: She truly didn’t want to go to Martin’s. She hadn’t earlier. It was just habit. In the past she was always ready to limp back after being rejected, hopeful to be scooped up again. But now, here, she lost the desire utterly.
“Ha!” she said to the night.
With a shift in the wind and a swish of her quiet skirt, she felt her mission at Austenland begin to change. This was no last hurrah before accepting spinsterhood—oh no. (And what a relief!) This was going to be immersion therapy. Martin had helped her see one thing, at least—she still liked men, a whole lot, in fact, and ain’t nothing gonna change that. She just needed to screw her head on straight so that she could properly enjoy being young and female and as beautiful as she wanted to be.
She turned her back to the servants’ quarters and faced the house as she used to look at the goal on her high school basketball court. Her new objective was to drown herself in the ridiculousness of her fantasy, a task like eating nothing but chocolate until she couldn’t bear the thought of eating something sweet again. Get it out of her system. See for certain that this wouldn’t really make her happy. Then she’d be her own woman again. Only two weeks left to make it happen. But she had to plunge in headfirst, she had to really try, or sure as her houseplants were at that moment gasping their last breath, one day she would look back at the experience and unsettle herself with wondering, What if? And, What if?
When night was definite and all housemates surely abed, Jane creaked open the front door, welcomed by the homey scent of floor wax. A light in the drawing room startled her, and she wondered if the group was playing some Olympian round of cards. But the room was deserted. Two lamps burned away the darkness.
On the table lay the book Mr. Nobley had been reading, and she leafed through its pages, wondering what sort of irritating story would fascinate that man’s mind. A piece of paper slipped out, floating to the carpet. It was a pay stub made out to a Henry Jenkins with an address in Brighton. Was this Mr. Nobley? She stuck the paper back and laid it beside the nearly empty crystal decanter that was Sir John Templeton’s dearest friend. Out of curiosity, Jane lifted the cap and sniffed, expecting a sugary punch smell to satisfy her suspicions. Nope, definitely alcohol. She was surprised—how could the actor keep up the virtual drinking and not get literally toasted?
As in answer to her thought, the man himself loomed in the doorway. She startled and dropped the decanter cap on the carpet.
“Well, good evening, Miss Ersssstwhile,” Sir John said, dragging out the snake sound of her name. “Are you still a Miss or were you a Miss erstwhile, hm?”
“Yes, that’s clever. Um, you startled me, Sir John.”
“Up late, are you? Where did you go tonight? Up to some mischief, I hope.”
“I just needed some air. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Hmm.” He leaned against the doorjamb and seemed to doze for a moment. Jane replaced the cap, clicked off the fake-kerosene lamps, and tried to slip past Sir John without rousing him. But just a few steps down the dark hallway, she felt a hot breath against her neck.
“Stay a moment.”
Jane turned around with some apprehension, but she did stay. She had decided to play this game out, and with her personal story at Pembrook Park waning, she didn’t want to pass up any plot twist he might be offering.
“What is it, Sir John?”
“I just thought we might spend a moment alone together, perhaps engage in our own private game of,” he leaned closer to her face, “whissst.”
She coughed once. “That’s a four-person game.”
“If you like. But I thought we could be partners. A little wink-wink, a little nudge-nudge under the table, you understand me?”
She sorted through the Austen plots searching for a scenario when a married man solicits a young lady. There was the doomed tryst in Mansfield Park with married lady and bachelor, but Sir John was no—what was his name?—no suave young Henry Crawford.
“I think I should go to bed,” she said, unsure of how he was expecting her to proceed but not enjoying the game.
“Precisely my poi
nt,” he said.
He began to advance again. She stepped back until she hit the wall.
“Hold on, now,” she said, stopping him with a hand on his chest.
Sir John took her hand and held it in both of his own. His skin was hot and scratchy.
“You are so, so lovely.” His breath hit her again, and she gagged at the stench of food and fermentation. He was clearly much drunker than she’d suspected.
“Sir John, you’re married.”
“Not really,” he said, winking. Or perhaps, blinking poorly. “Me and the missus sleep in separate beds, don’t tell her I told you, and I have been so lonely, lonely and cold, cold like your sweet hands. And we never had a specimen so young and pretty and taut as yourself.”
She tried to push him away, but he pushed her back, pinning her against the wall. A lamp fixture above her rattled at the impact. His hands held both of hers, his round belly pressed against her, his mouth leered near her own.
“Surely a young beauty like yourself is lonely, too. It can be a part of the game, if you like.”
“Get off,” she said, thoroughly done with this.
His answer was to lean in closer. So she kneed him in the groin. As hard as she could.
“Aw, ow, dammit!” He doubled over and thudded onto his knees.
Jane brushed off her knee, feeling like it had touched something dirty. “Aw, ow, dammit indeed! What’re you thinking?”
Jane heard hurried footsteps coming down the stairs. It was Mr. Nobley.
“Miss Erstwhile!” He was barefoot in his breeches, his shirt untucked. He glanced down at the groaning man. “Sir John!”
“Ow, she kicked me,” said Sir John.
“Kneed him, I kneed him,” Jane said. “I don’t kick. Not even when I’m a ninja.”
Mr. Nobley stood a moment in silence, looking over the scene. “I hope you remembered to shout ‘Ya’ when taking him down. I hear that is very effective.”
“I’m afraid I neglected that bit, but I’ll certainly ‘ya’ from here to London if he ever touches me again.”
“Miss Erstwhile, were you perhaps employed by your president’s armed forces in America?”
“What? Don’t British women know how to use their knees?”
“Happily, I have never put myself in a position to find out.” He stared at the prostrate Sir John. “Did he hurt you?”
“Frankly, your arm-yanking earlier was worse.”
“I see. Perhaps you should retire to your chambers, Miss Erstwhile. Would you like me to escort you?”
“I’m fine,” she said, “as long as there aren’t any other Sir Johns lurking upstairs.”
“Well, I cannot give Colonel Andrews a glowing reference, but I believe the way is safe.”
She stepped closer to Mr. Nobley and whispered, “Are you going to out me to Mrs. Wattlesbrook for the servants’ quarters lurking?”
“I think,” he said, nudging the prostrate Sir John with his foot, “that you have suffered enough tonight.”
Mr. Nobley smiled at her, the first time she had seen his real smile. She wouldn’t go so far as to call it a grin. His lips were closed, but his eyes brightened and the corners of his mouth definitely turned up, creating pleasing little cheek wrinkles on either side as though the smile were in parentheses. It bothered her in a way she couldn’t explain, like feeling itchy but not knowing exactly where to scratch. He was not particularly amused, she saw, but smiled to reassure her. Wait, who wanted to reassure her? Mr. Nobley or the actual man, Actor X?
“Thanks. Good night, Mr. Nobley.”
“Good night, Miss Erstwhile.”
She hesitated, then left, Sir John’s groans following her up the stairs. On the second floor, Aunt Saffronia was emerging from her room, clutching a white shawl over her nightgown.
“What was that noise? Is everything all right?”
“Yes. It was . . . your husband. He was being inappropriate.”
Aunt Saffronia blinked. “Inebriated?”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Jane.”
Jane wasn’t sure if Aunt Saffronia was speaking to Jane the niece or Jane the client. For the first time it didn’t matter; both Janes felt exactly the same. She acknowledged the apology with a nod, went to her room, and locked the door behind her. She thought she was angry but instead she plopped herself down on her bed, put her face in her pillow, and laughed.
“What a joke,” she said, sounding to herself like the movie incarnation of Lydia Bennet. “I come for Mr. Darcy, fall for the gardener, and get propositioned by the drunk husband.”
Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow she would play for real. She was going to drive full force into the game, have a staggering good time, and kick the nasty Darcy habit for good. She fell asleep with the ticklish thought of Mr. Nobley’s smile.
Boyfriend #6
Josh Lake, AGE TWENTY
They met when two large groups of friends bumped and merged at the college carnival fundraiser, “Fifty Acres ofFun!”Somehow Jane got strapped together with perfect-stranger Josh and semiacquaintance Britney in the “Drop ’n’ Swing,” only the “drop” function malfunctioned, and the three of them hung facedown, harnessed to the tip of the twelve-story steel tower for fifteen minutes. Britney went nuts, cussing at the scrambling carnival workers, red faced, spit falling 150 feet. When Jane told her to take it easy, Britney’s angry fear knew no bounds. She unleashed her longshoreman vocabulary on Jane and Josh, which made them laugh so hard that when the sudden, stomach-prying drop finally occurred, they had no breath to scream.
So potent was the bond formed at 150 feet, it took Jane three months of inept kisses and conversations poking at subjects of minimal philosophical depth (“But really, Jane, think about it—iflibraries close at nine p.m., how will the nocturnal underprivileged ever advance? I mean, think about it!”) to finally say,
“We should probably just break up.”
He shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”
Way to put up a fight, Josh.
day 8
JANE TOOK THE MORNING SLOWLY, as all Regency and recently scorned women must. She lay on her stomach in bed, sticking her feet in the air with pointed toes, taking comfort in feeling girly, and played with her cell phone. With that device in her hand, she felt an uncanny thrill of power, a time traveler gifted with secret future technology. It was a weapon, and she had questions to attack. Still, phoning Molly felt too scandalous, too rule-breaking, and she was determined to dive into Austenland headfirst. But a brief e-mail to her journalist friend felt just fine:
Hey chica, Need bckgrnd chk. Martin Jasper, Bristol/Sheffield. Also Henry Jenkins, Brighton. Miss you. This place bizarre and fun. Wll hv stories to tell. J.
A peek at her in-box reminded her how piteously dull the real world can be, so Jane began to play Bubble Master, an addicting strategy game for long subway rides. She had not been at it fifteen minutes (with a record high score of 582 points!) when her maid came barging in for their daily round of strapping-Jane-into-her-corset. Jane thrust the phone under her pillow.
The gentlemen were not present to break their fast. With just three ladies clinking the flatware and chewing honey cakes and current cakes, the breakfast room was tense.
“Sir John was not feeling himself last night,” said Aunt Saffronia, her eyes flicking from plate to Jane and back to plate, “so Mr. Nobley offered to accompany him to see an apothecary in town, and Colonel Andrews went as well, having some business to attend to there. They are so attentive, such honest, caring lads. I shall feel their loss when they leave.”
“I feel it today.” Miss Charming pursed her lips. “Eating breakfast with no gentlemen and that Heartwright girl poaching on my men—this isn’t what I was promised.” She looked at Aunt Saffronia with the eye of a haggler.
Aunt Saffronia placed her hands in her lap, a calming gesture. “I know, my dear, but they will be back, and in the meantime . . .”
“I didn’t come here
for the meantime. I came for the men.”
Poor Aunt Saffronia! Jane felt for her. She put a hand on Miss Charming’s arm. “Lizzy, maybe you and I could go visit the stables and go for a ride or—”
“Not today, Jane. My feelings are hurt.” A tear formed in one eye. “I was promised certain things about this place and I can tell you one thing—so far, no one’s made me feel enchanting.”
“Oh, my,” Aunt Saffronia said, “I can’t have unhappiness at my table. Spoils the digestion. Miss Charming, what say we call on Mrs. Wattlesbrook? I believe she would be very concerned to hear of any dissatisfaction during your visit.”
Miss Charming looked at Aunt Saffronia with her dry eye, like a goose considering biting, then nodded her head and said, “Done.”
Jane thought, Mrs. Wattlesbrook will have Mr. Nobley tamed into Charming’s personal pet by sundown.
He’d been Miss Charming’s choice from the beginning, though he’d quickly proved too much work to keep the woman’s interest. He was the most eye-catching, no question, and he gave the appearance of having some real depth, if he’d just relax a bit. Jane was curious to see how he changed once Wattlesbrook ordered him to charm Miss Charming. And that would be fine by Jane. So what that he’d come (needlessly) running to her rescue in his shirttails? The way he’d said, “Don’t be a fool, Miss Erstwhile,” made her want to poke him in the eye. He was supposed to be Darcy-adorable, not teeth-grindingly maddening.
After the ladies left, Jane read in the library, then in the morning room, then in the false summer of the conservatory, the dry tips of leaves whispering to her neck, tickling her to irritation. She did not want to stroll the park yet again, thank you. So, bored to desperate measures, she called on Pembrook Cottage.
It was a brisk five-minute walk down a gravel path, her parasol draping her in a perfect circle of shade. The November morning was chilly and damp and filled the air with ideas of harvest and pumpkins and trick-or-treating in a scratchy ballerina costume completely engulfed by a ski parka. It made Jane wistful.
