CHAPTER1
MARGOT
I wander around for fifteen minutes until I stumble on the Sky Hall. The mansion is huge and full of winding corridors, but that’s not the reason for my protracted search. It took me so long because I went upstairs first. But guess what? The Sky Hall is located on the ground floor.
Ha-ha.Whoever named that hall must’ve thought herself very clever.
She wasn’t.
By the time I scurry in, most of the cast has already arrived. They’re now flocking to our director Sandra—a plump mixed-race woman with a gray-streaked mane billowing around her bespectacled face. On the program today is a fresh read-through for our host’s benefit.
He hasn’t arrived yet.
Sandra points at me. “Margot, I want Caroline Bingley to fawn on Darcy like he’s made of gold. Think Anna Chancellor chasing after Colin Firth in the 1995 BBC show. And then chase harder.”
As much as I worship that adaptation, I don’t seemyCaroline Bingley being quite as cringey as Anna Chancellor’s. It has nothing to do with my feminist views or the fact that I despise women behaving that way, I promise!
Respectfully, I begin, “What about—”
She flashes a palm. “No.”
“But Caroline is such a haughty, proud woman,” I try again.
“My advice is to imagine she has a switch she uses to turn off her dignity wherever she gets a chance to flatter Darcy.”
“OK.” Giving up, I nod.
But someone else takes up the torch. “I believe Caroline is obsequious enough with Darcy the way Jane Austen wrote her.”
That was Peter who plays my brother Charles. It’s sweet of him to side with me against our director. He’s been nothing but kind ever since Sandra brought me in to play Caroline. Everybody on the cast and crew has been helping me fit into the Sandra Wright Company, but this guy has gone the extra mile.
“True,” Sandra agrees with him. “Except, our production isimmersive. Our audience pays accordingly and expects to partake in the fun. That is why I want a more intense Caroline.”
Liam, her assistant, chimes in, “Ten grand! It’s what seven of them forked out each to be Elizabeth Bennet for a day. We owe those superfans a challenging rival.”
“If our Elizabeths have to work hard for their prize, they’ll appreciate it even more,” Sandra says to me.
“Understood.” I do see their point. When Sandra hatchedThe Immersive Pride and Prejudice Experience, everyone in the industry from theater owners to her fellow directors deemed it a risky undertaking. But all seven performances in its pilot season have now sold out. Sandra’s brainchild turned a profit before its opening night, which is rare in our line of work.
Sandra turns to Peter, “Rest easy. My goal is to convey each character just the way Anna Chancellor’s brilliant ancestor wrote them.”
As she carries on, panic stirs in my chest.She won’t give me away, will she?No, I don’t think so. If Sandra had already forgotten our deal, she might’ve said, “the wayMargot’sbrilliant ancestor wrote them.”
Being a grandniece nine generations removed of Jane Austen is what Anna Chancellor and I have in common. My branch of the family is much less distinguished than Anna’s. But like her, I’ve always tried to hide the connection in the professional context.
I’ve been working my tail off since I was eighteen, still a student of theater. Now at twenty-seven, all that effort is beginning to pay off, even though my banker may not agree. But then, my banker is my sister, and she’ll never admit she was wrong to call me a loser. But that’s OK. I can handleloser. What I don’t wish to deal with is my fellow actors whispering behind my back that I got the part of Caroline because of who I am.
A hubbub by the door breaks me from those unpleasant thoughts. Someone is walking toward us. His progress is slow because he stops to greet everyone who greets him.A charmer and a looker!In his mid-thirties, the man is tall, broad chested and firm jawed. As he gets nearer, I catch a scent of fresh, wintry air laced with a panty-melting cologne. His cheeks are reddened by the cold and his impeccable black coat is sprinkled with white snowflakes.
Yay!I was beginning to fear we’d roll into February without any snow.
When the stranger is close enough, Sandra extends an open hand in his direction. “I give you the owner of this modest abode, our savior, Count Jonas d’Alenq!”
My goodness, the man himself has arrived!
I leer even harder. I’d heard that Count d’Alenq was young and yummy, but I hadn’t bothered to look him up, which is why I was unprepared for just how yummy he is.
Our Most Benevolent Savior bows ceremoniously. We clap, resisting the urge to prostrate ourselves at his feet.
