“Well, you already have. We may as well meet for real this time, without old Wattlesbrook spying. I’m Jane.”
“Theodore the gardener,” he said, wiping off his hand and then offering it to her. She shook it, wondered if they should be bowing and curtsying, but was that what you did with a gardener? The entire conversation felt forbidden, like a secret Austen chapter that she’d discovered in longhand in a locked drawer.
“The gardens look lovely.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Ma’am? she thought.
“So,” he said, his eyes taking in everything but her face, “you’re from the former colonies?”
She looked hard at him to detect if he was serious and realized how handsome he was, in a tall, strong Paul McCartney kind of way, and his slightly crooked teeth gave his look even more interest. His bone structure would be a dream to sculpt in clay. Perhaps Mrs. Wattlesbrook not only hired the mostgorgeous actors she could find but even insisted on eye-candy staff.
He glanced at her, then down again, and sort of bowed. The rising laugh in her throat burst out.
He tossed his pick into the ground. “I can’t play this. I sound completely daft.”
“What are you trying toplay?”
“I’m supposed to be invisible. You don’t know all the lectures we heard on the matter—stay out of the way, look down, don’t bother the guests. I shouldn’t have said a word, but I was afraid of getting stuck behind that shrub all day trying not to make a peep. Or worse, you discovering me after a time and thinking I was a lecherous lunatic trying to peek up your skirt. So, anyhow, how do you do, the name’s actually Martin. Martin Jasper, originally from Bristol, raised in Sheffield, enjoy seventies rock and walks in the rain, and please don’t tell Mrs. Wattlesbrook. I need this job.”
“I didn’t exactly find Mrs. Wattlesbrook the kind of lady I’d be tempted to confide in. Don’t worry, Martin.”
“I should let you get back to your lady stuff. Cheers.”
“Sure. Right. Thanks.”
Jane hurried away, worried she had done something wrong. By talking to him. By not continuing to talk to him. By merely existing perhaps. He had seemed a little scared of her, and that made her wonder if wealthy and elderly twenty-year-old women had ratted on too-talkative servants in the past. He likely had learned to be paranoid. She just wished he’d known that she was different. For her, speaking to a real person had been like drinking a cold glass of water after too much sugary punch.
Jane had worked up enough of a sweat that her corsetirritated her skin as she walked. She found the path back through the trees that she hoped would lead her toward the house, wanting to grab a bath before the promised call from Pembrook Cottage. But she turned a bend and, only seeing more trees, doubted herself, crisscrossed again and, coming around a large shrubbery shimmering in yellow leaves, suddenly knocked right into Mr. Nobley and Colonel Andrews.
“Crikey, we’re under attack at our broadside,” said Colonel Andrews.
They were both dressed in brown breeches and coats, knee-high boots, and caps as if just returning from hunting. Her heart set to pounding against her pinned-in ribs. She took several steps back, afraid they would notice she was sweating from her surreptitious speed walk. But perhaps the exercise had also reddened her cheeks and brightened her eyes? One could hope.
“This is providential,” said the colonel. “I was just telling Nobley here, I think that divine Miss Erstwhile sneaked off into the grounds alone. We will brave the intemperate seas and cross dazzling deserts till we find her.”
“Oh.” Jane felt herself sway.
For the past twelve or so largely sleepless hours, she had been looking forward to a moment just like this. But the encounter with a real person had riled and roughed her up inside more than she’d realized. Her dress hung on her shoulders like a potato sack, her bonnet felt like a vise, and the sunlight scratched at her skin. In her chest, her breath felt as flat as a hair ribbon.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered, too low to hear.
“I say, Miss Erstwhile, you are tongue-tied today,” ColonelAndrews said. “What secrets is your mouth trying to hold back? I must know!”
“Stop it, Andrews,” Mr. Nobley said, coming up beside her to take her arm. “Can’t you see that she is unwell? Go fetch some water.”
The colonel’s face was suddenly serious. “Apologies, Miss Erstwhile. Do sit down. I will return swiftly.” He set off at once toward the house.
Mr. Nobley put an arm behind her back, guiding her to a nearby boulder, helping her to sit, as though she would break if breathed upon. No matter how she protested, he would not let her shoo away his attention. It did not feel like a romantic moment, especially feeling as she was, sweaty and itchy and fairly hideous in that pink dress. But there was a tenderness to his attention.
“If you permit me,” he said, crouching beside her, “I will carry you inside.”
She managed a thin laugh. “Wow, that sounds like fun, but really I’m fine. I don’t feel sick, I just feel . . . not myself, and that’s not a malady you can throw water at.”
“You are homesick?”
Jane sighed and did wish for Molly, someone safe to talk through all this. But now that she considered it, bouncing truth off this incredibly handsome sideburned actor felt easier somehow. She didn’t have to worry that he would judge her because he didn’t seem interested in anyone enough to bother. Surely his good opinion of her was an impossible achievement, so there was nothing to lose there. And he sat so patiently, radiating the energy of someone who actually listens. She was put in mind of a calm wild animal that is too dangerous to fear any danger.
