As she ascended the main staircase on the way back to her room, she passed a woman bending over her own boots, the curve in her back declaring she wasn’t wearing a corset.
“Dratted drawers,” said the woman, straightening.
She was unnaturally buxom and sported short, bleached hair, heavily sprayed, and an attached fake bun of a slightly different shade. Her eyes widened when she saw Jane, and her surgery-tightened skin stretched to admit a wide smile.
“Well, hi there, you’re new! My name’s Miss Elizabeth Charming, like Elizabeth Bennet, see? But don’t you like the last name? It was Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s idea. I’d thought just to go ahead and name myself Elizabeth Bennet, because I meanto bag a Mr. Darcy, but she thought Elizabeth Charming was moreenchanting.” She stuck out her left hand, the ring finger of which still bore the mark of a recently removed wedding band. Jane shook it awkwardly with her right hand and then bobbed a curtsy.
“Hello, I suppose I’m Jane Erstwhile.”
“You’re one of those Americans.”
Jane frowned, confused. Clearly Miss Charming was also from the United States, probably from a Southern state—the accent was unclear. And then Jane realized this woman was attempting to sound British, overpronouncing words and occasionally dropping anr. The effect made her sound like a little girl in need of a speech therapist.
“Isn’t this place top drawer? I tell you what, I feel like I’m dead-splat in the middle of a story. I hope it’s a good one, don’t you?”
“I do,” said Jane. “I really do.”
Miss Charming slapped her mouth. “I just remembered. All those papers I didn’t really read—don’t tell—said we can’t talk to people till we’re properly introduced, whatever that means, but proper introductions probably don’t happen on the stairs while I’m fidgeting with my ding-dang hosiery. Let’s pretend we haven’t met.”
Miss Charming started back down the stairs, stuffing one breast more snugly into her dress, then turned back again to speak low and urgently into Jane’s ear. “And by the way, I’m twenty-eight. I told Mrs. Wattlesbrook and now I’m telling you. I didn’t pay a buttload of cash to still be fifty-whatever.” She patted Jane’s behind and trudged down the stairs, holding her long skirts above her ankles.
That evening, they were formally introduced.
“Jane, my dear, you do look lovely!” Aunt Saffronia said.
Jane nearly blushed as she descended the stairs. She did feel lovely, if uncomfortably aware of her own corset-propped breasts, exposed by the lower neck of the evening gown. Matilda had dressed her in a square-necked rust-and-yellow organza and helped her with her hair, attaching a bunch of curls and winding pretty little beads around her head. The feel of the fabric and the cheery autumn colors helped her believe she was girded up to start the make-believe in earnest.
“Jane, may I introduce our house guest Miss Elizabeth Charming of Hertfordshire.”
“How do you do, Miss Erstwhile, what-what?” said Miss Charming, her tightened lips trembling with the effort of approximating a British accent. “Spit spot I hope, rather.”
“How do you do?”
They both curtsied, and Miss Charming made a silent “shh” with her lips, as though Jane would out her for the stairway meeting. Jane had a burst of maternal instinct that made her want to cuddle Miss Charming and help her through this absurd Austenland maze. If she only knew the way herself.
“Miss Charming is about your age, I believe,” Aunt Saffronia said.
“Oh no, Aunt, I’m quite certain that Miss Charming, still in the bloom of her youth, is several years my junior.”
Miss Charming giggled. Aunt Saffronia smiled gratefully as she took Jane’s arm, and the three walked into the drawing room. First Jane noticed the many sources of light: kerosene lamps (real or electric?), lit candles, twinkling chandeliers, and a blazing hearth surrounded by an ornately carved marble mantelpiece. The walls were painted yellow with designs in gold, the furniture upholstered in jewel-toned fabrics of manypatterns. She caught sight of her own self in an enormous gold-framed mirror. Amid all that grandeur, she looked very tiny.
And then, two gentlemen stood up to face her.
Ah, the gentlemen.
At first she took them in as a unit, a matched set of exquisitely handsome men. They each wore the high-collared vests, cravats, buttoned coats with long tails, and tight breeches that had driven Jane’s imagination mad on many an uneventful Tuesday night. It was like watching a movie on her TV screen, but then suddenly the screen part receded, leaving the movie part standing in her apartment.
Her heart bumped around in her chest like a bee at a window, and the movie part seemed to lean in even closer, this new world pressing against her, insisting that all was real and there for the touching. Jane held her hands behind her back in case they trembled with eagerness.
“Jane, may I present Colonel Andrews, Sir John’s cousin and the second son of the Earl of Denton. He passed the partridge-shooting season with us and we have been fortunate enough to persuade him to stay on for the pheasant season. Colonel Andrews, my niece from America, Miss Jane Erstwhile.”
Colonel Andrews had perfectly groomed fair hair, with a decent set of shoulders and a very ready smile. He could not seem more pleased to see her, bowing without removing his gaze from her face.
“What a pleasure, a very pleasant pleasure, indeed.” The way his tone slid over his words gave him a delightful roguish appeal that made Jane want to kiss him on the spot. Or the lips, whichever was closer.
Hm, maybe she really could see this through.
“And this is his good friend Mr. Nobley,” Aunt Saffroniasaid, “who has agreed to honor us with his presence for some of the hunting season while his vast estate is under renovation.”
