“Yes, yes,” Lydia said crossly, leaning into Morrie’s arm. “One doesn’t like to be constantly reminded of one’s impermanence. I have come for the dancing, not to make conversation about books!”
We passed a visitors’ parking area off to the left. A stream of people in Regency attire flowed around the fountain, heedless to the traffic as they ambled toward the house. Hired staff from the village in period uniform rushed about, collecting luggage and handing out room keys.
“See?” Lydia pointed to one of the parking attendants, dressed as a footman. “I told you grand families would never give up their servants.”
We pushed through the crowd and entered the lobby, which was even grander than the exterior. Twin staircases swooped down from the upper story, framing a small fountain at the center of the room. My bootsclack-clackedacross the marble as we made our way to the crowded information desk, taking in the decor and soft furnishings that adorned the impressive space.
In the elegant and handsomely-proportioned room, Cynthia Lachlan’s “additions” stood out like a nun at a Clash concert. A wingback chair covered in leopard-print fabric sat under one of the windows. Fashion magazines stacked on the reception table. An industrial-looking lamp on the card table beside it. A rug in a garish shade of pink delineated a short hallway. I’d heard from Mrs. Ellis that some people in the village looked down on Cynthia and Grey for being new money pretending to be old money. Looking at this room, I could kind of see what they meant. But at the same time, I liked that Cynthia was having fun with her home. That was what a home should be for.
“Mina, I’m so pleased you could come.”
I glanced up. Cynthia descended the stairs, wearing a lilac empire-waist gown and matching bonnet blinged up with sequins. She kissed me on the cheeks and made me re-introduce her to my party. Morrie and Lydia both gave the customary Regency bow and curtsey, but Heathcliff only grunted in acknowledgment. If Cynthia noticed, her meticulous study of Heathcliff’s impressive muscles straining against his black dress shirt had convinced her to ignore his rudeness.
“I have your rooms all ready for you,” she said, removing a set of keys from the hook on the wall behind the information desk. “You have our finest suite. It won’t do for our VIPs to be with the rest of the riff-raff…” her voice trailed off as her eyes swept over my t shirt. “Are your costumes in your bags? You haven’t left much time to change before the opening plenary.”
“No costumes,” Heathcliff barked, moving closer to me as if my body would shield him from rogue cravats.
Cynthia frowned at my tiny backpack covered with band patches and Morrie’s slim-leg trousers. “No, no, those outfits won’t do, not for our VIPs. Not to worry, we’ll pop along to Adelia Maitland in Netherfield. That’s the marketplace room. We’ve renamed all the rooms after famous places in Jane Austen’s books, just for the weekend. Isn’t that fabulous?”
“What fun!” Lydia exclaimed.
Cynthia beamed. “Adelia will sort you out with the perfect attire.”
“But I don’t want to wear—” Heathcliff’s protests fell on deaf ears as Cynthia ushered us down a wide hallway and into an enormous receiving room. People bustled back and forth, examining the stalls lining the walls and extending down the center of the cavernous space. Throngs of bonneted women perused the aisle, while yet more costumed ladies stood behind the stalls, selling everything from Austen branded teas, costumes, jewelry, fans, leather notebooks, and even self-published works of Jane Austen erotica. I smirked as my eye caught the title of one woman’s book –Spank Me, Mr. Darcy. She had a long line of eager customers in front of her stall.
As we went past, Lydia’s hand snaked out to grab a copy of the erotica book. Morrie slapped it down.
We stopped at a large stall in the corner. Racks burst with period dresses, cloaks, and breeches. A plump woman with dark cheeks and a yellow bonnet that gave her the appearance of a bloated sunflower bustled over to meet us. “Mrs. Maitland, this party is in need of proper attire. They’ll have both outfits for the day and something more dramatic for the ball. Please see to it, and bill me for the rental.”
Mrs Maitland gave a short curtsey. “As you wish, M’Lady.” She grabbed Heathcliff and thrust a jacket into his arms. “You. Wear this.”
“I prefer my own jacket.” Heathcliff glowered at her as he whipped his coat off my freezing shoulders and held it in front of his chest like a shield.
Unperturbed, Mrs. Maitland wrestled it from his arms and tossed it into a pile of dirty clothing. “Now you wear this.”
“You knew about this?” Heathcliff growled, accepting the stiff blue top-coat with all the terror of a soldier handling a live grenade.
I grinned. “Maybe a little.”
“If you’re to dance with me, then we shall match.” Lydia dragged Morrie over to one of the other racks and flung clothes at him.
Heathcliff tore off his shirt, grumbling under his breath as he fumbled with the collar of the white one Mrs. Maitland handed him. Every female head in the room turned to admire his broad shoulders, toned torso, and the dip of his ab muscles as they descended into the waistband of his jeans. My mouth watered, and a pang of desire shot through my chest. By Astarte, even if I went blind tomorrow I didn’t think I’d ever forget that body. Everything about Heathcliff oozed danger, wildness, and unbidden passion.
Mrs Maitland dragged me away from my glorious view to a rack of dresses, pulling out gown after gown and holding them up to my face. “No, not the cream, or the yellow, or the blue. Red, for you, with your hair and complexion,” she cooed. “Are you happy with red? In the Regency era, it was a color mainly reserved for older ladies, for white and pastel were all the rage with younger women. This dress would have been seen as quite daring.”
“Sounds perfect.” I accepted the silk dress with black lace detailing. Mrs. Maitland pulled aside a curtain to reveal a small changing room. I slipped inside, pulled off my t shirt, pullover, and skirt (leaving on my fleece leggings, because it was freezing inside the Hall) and shimmied into the petticoat. My teeth chattered. Women’s clothing in the Regency wasn’t exactly designed for insulation.
I pulled the red dress over my head. It sat perfectly over the petticoat, nipping in just below my breasts. The scoop neck pushed my tits together so I actually had cleavage. I turned this way and that, admiring the way the skirt swirled around my legs.
Mrs Maitland poked her head inside and handed me a blush-colored gown. “The red is perfect for the ball, and I’ve set aside matching silk flowers and a string of pearls for your hair. Here are your gloves and a matching fan, but I don’t think you’ll need the fan in this weather. For daytime wear, you want this simpler dress.”
I wasn’t a fan of pastel pink, but when I pulled the muslin dress over my head and arranged the puffed sleeves and neckline to best show off what little cleavage I had, I realized how pretty it was. The blush picked up reddish hues in my hair and the color of my cheeks. I tucked my phone and my father’s letter into mydecolletageand smiled at the girl in the mirror. “I feel ready to land a husband of at least five-thousand a year.”
“That’s the spirit.” She threw the curtain open, setting a pair of slippers down on the floor. “Slip your feet into these and you’re ready for your Jane Austen Experience.”
I winced as I tugged on the silk slippers. They were paper thin and super flimsy. As I stepped out into Mrs. Maitland’s stall, every piece of lint and every imperfection in the marble was revealed through the fragile soles.
I miss my Docs already. I am definitely not cut out to be a Regency lady.
