“Why don’t you get changed and put your feet up for a second?” Emy nods in my direction. “I can go to the barn and update Mr. Martin on our change of plans.”
We just finished a walk-through and made sure that the third-floor ballroom in Wentworth Mansion is ready to hold all the ticketed spectators for the dance lesson and exposition at two o’clock.
We’re inspecting the horse-drawn carriages next, but today is unseasonably warm for the first week of October. I’m uncomfortable asking the horses to walk around the fairgrounds, so we’ll have them in their stables, with plenty of treats for guests to feed them. The carriages will sit outside the barn for kids to play and take pictures in. I’m sure Emy can handle telling Mr. Martin herself, but there’s still a part of me that can’t let go.
“Nah, I’m fine. I can handle a little more walking,” I say. Another cramp shoots down my left leg, and I stumble, hastily regaining composure before Emy notices.
Emy sighs. “Pumpkin, I can handle Mr. Martin. I’m serious. You have a big day ahead of you flirting with a gorgeous man so in love with you it’s disgusting. Please take a second. All your hard work has paid off. We’re good. We’re ready.”
My cheeks heat, andmy wifeloops again in my brain. I didn’t think Jack would be this good of an actor, but the only other explanation is that he harborssomefeelings for me. I can’t figure out which of the two is more plausible. At the very least, Emy’s wrong about the magnitude. There’s no way he’s in love with me.
Jack’s never been in love with anyone. And if there were ever going to be someone who could earn that kind of affection, it would be someone like Veronica Burke. Not me.
Another spasm grips my stomach, and I double over with a shriek, the intensity catching me off-guard.
Emy opens her mouth to order me back to the tent, and I wave her off. “I’m going. I’m going. You’re the best. I love you. Thank you. Oh—also—” I pause my retreat down the hill. “Speaking of pumpkins, can you—”
“I already checked with Mr. Martin yesterday about the pumpkin patch. He’s having his son Robert bring them by and set them up in the next hour, and his wife will put all the tools for carving on the tables like she did last year. She even figured out how to do silhouettes, so don’t worry. We’ve got this, all of us.”
I nod. I should be thankful that the fair is self-sufficient this many years in that other people can lend a hand, and that it runs just as smoothly. But there’s a weird feeling creeping in my chest, whispering that I’m replaceable.
Who wants someone who always thinks they’re in pain working for them when they could have someone without those complications? What else do I bring to the table? Nothing.
With heavy thoughts about my expendability, I stroll down the hill at the back of the mansion leading to the cast tent and admire the fair unfolding to the left in the rising morning light. Sitting on seventy acres of land, the Wentworth Mansion is the perfect spot to hold an event of this scale.
A Ferris Wheel stands proudly among the rides. The multi-colored seats sway in the breeze, the sun catching off the acrylic chipped paint. Hopefully, I’ll have time to ride it later and see the fair from the bird’s eye. I’ve been too busy the last few years, but maybe with Emy assisting me, I can let go for once—at least, there’s a silver lining in learning I’m superfluous.
Besides the Ferris Wheel, the glint of the gilded carousel sparkles in all its turn-of-the-century glory, and a few other rides that are new this year. Bridget coordinated most of that side of the fair, so I’m not entirely sure what shrieks and thrills rest over there, but I’m excited to wander later.
Next to the rides and games are the booths and stalls. Pastel-colored bunting blows in the breeze from above a handful of shops, selling everything from hats, fans, books, jewelry, Jane Austen-themed t-shirts and sweatshirts, and art.
The breeze picks up, blowing wisps out of my updo and wrapping them around my face. The heavy scent of fried everything follows along the wings of the wind, and I stop and inhale the melding aromas. Apples, cinnamon, fried dough, everything good and fall, kiss my nostrils, and I happily sigh.
As great as the fear was that this wouldn’t come together, we did it.
* * *
With a wicker picnicbasket hanging on my arm and a rumbling stomach, I trudge up the hill, following my fellow sisters, Jane, Elizabeth, Mary, and Kitty, to a bare patch of grass. It’s the designated picnic area, abutting the “gothic ruins” that we take full advantage of duringNorthanger Abbeyweekend on Halloween.
We’re due for a “luncheon with the characters” in its shadows, where fairgoers are invited to bring their fried food findings to the grassy knoll and interact with us. We sit in the middle, chatting about everything and nothing, while Wickham flirts with Elizabeth, and Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy stumble across us about halfway through. Mr. Bingley will have his heart and soul laser-focused on Jane. At the same time, Mr. Darcy and Wickham have a tense interaction.
As the two gentlemen depart, they will loudly invite us to a ball, giving the gathered crowd one last opportunity to purchase tickets for the dance lessons and ball that will shortly follow.
After spending the morning walking around the fairgrounds, including a long stroll through the stalls and booths with my sisters pretending to want absolutely everything, I’m looking forward to sitting down and resting my legs. Who knew playing Lydia would be so exhausting? She’s on twenty-four-seven.
As we make our way to our picnic destination, Cassie-as-Kitty huddles into my arm with a bright smile on her face. It’s easier to act like her silly little sister with her sparkling personality to play off of. “Have you seen your officer yet?” she whispers with a giggle.
“I have no clue who you’re talking about.” I stick my nose up in the air. I’ve tried my best not to think about Jack in the first few hours of the fair because thinking would lead to me looking for his presence, and Lydia wouldn’t have her head on a swivel for him, not yet.
“I caught a peek while he was getting ready. His shoulders fill that jacket out better than Callen’s. I didn’t even know that was possible. And oh my god, his butt in those pants.”
Ahead of us, Bridget’s auburn hair sparkles in the sun. She’s far too striking and fierce to play the role of the sister who, by all accounts, is supposed to be rather plain, so we tried to dull her down in a grey cotton dress.
We failed. She’s still spectacular.
“What are you two talking about?” she calls over her shoulder, gathering her skirt as we march up an incline.
“The officers,” Cassie-as-Kitty says.
