It was gratifying to see the woman go get some me-time, but of course it meant Jane was left alone in the sitting area with Sir John and the sloshing of his cud. She tried to drown out the sticky sound by concentrating on the voices in conversation at the card table.
Miss Charming: “Crikey, Mr. Nobley, but that was a barmy play!”
Mr. Nobley: “I beg apology, Miss Charming.”
Miss Charming: “Apology? Don’t you know that means it was good? Right smashing?”
Mr. Nobley: “As you say.”
Colonel Andrews: “You must take care with Miss Charming, Nobley. She is a sharp one. I wager she could teach you all sorts of things.”
Miss Charming (giggling): “Why, Colonel Andrews, whatever do you mean?”
And whenever the speed of conversation slowed a tad, Miss Heartwright was there to buoy it back up.
“Oh, good play, Colonel! I didn’t see that one. Well done, Mr. Nobley. You have a fine hand, I wager. Valiantly played, Miss Charming, and what lovely skin you possess.”
Miss Heartwright wasn’t just nice. She was astonishinglyengaging. Even Mr. Nobley seemed more responsive than normal. He still hadn’t spoken with Jane since she’d broken character, and she watched him now, wondering if he’d tell Mrs. Wattlesbrook how her break muddied up the Experience. He glanced at her once or twice, his dark eyes considering her, his mouth serious. That was all.
With no opportunity to spring, all Jane’s wound-up enthusiasm for this evening had slowly wilted to slushy doldrums. How was she managing to spoil absolute perfection?
An intrusive memory: Boyfriend #11 saying, “Oh, Jane, you always find a way to spoil everything.”
Maybe he’d been right, or maybe he’d just been mean. But in all the years Jane had fantasized about living in Austen’s world, she never considered that, once inside its borders, she might feel like an outsider.
The room began to feel unnaturally crowded, the lamps too bright but the light they made too dim. Jane caught a glimpse of herself in the gold-framed wall mirror, propped up in that suddenly ridiculous dress, gawky and silly, a clump of brown curls pinned to her head.
“What a clown,” she whispered to herself.
Mr. Nobley’s thoughtful eyes pinned her from across the room. He spoke something low, and Colonel Andrews turned toward her.
“I say, Miss Erstwhile, nothing would set the mood better than a song. I believe that you promised me a serenade on the pianoforte.”
Jane was quite certain that she had never promised any such thing. His bold declaration made Jane feel a little bolder herself, and if she was a clown, she might as well perform like one. Jane rose and made her way to the piano.
“If you insist, Colonel Andrews, but I must beg you to forgive me at the same time. And you, too, Mr. Nobley, as I know you are particular to music played well and no doubt a harsh critic when a piece is ill-executed.”
“I believe,” said Mr. Nobley, “that I have never been witness to a young lady about to play without her excusing her skill beforehand, only to perform perfectly thereafter. The excuse is no doubt intended as a prelude that sets up the song for deeper enjoyment.”
“Then I pray I do not disappoint.”
With professional suavity, Jane arranged her skirt, spread out the music, poised her fingers, and then with one hand played the black keys, singing along with the notes, “Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife but couldn’t keep her, put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well.”
She rose and curtsied to the room.
Colonel Andrews smiled broadly, if a little stiffly. Mr. Nobley coughed against the back of his hand, almost as if he was trying to disguise a laugh.
“That was . . .” said Miss Heartwright to the silence.
“I knew that song,” Miss Charming whispered loudly to the colonel. “I can play it on the jaw harp. Do you have a jaw harp handy?”
“Oh, er, I don’t believe so . . .”
Jane sat back on the lounge and picked up her absolute train wreck of an embroidery project. No one asked for an encore.
When Sir John started to snore beside her and the card players’ attention had turned firmly back to their game, Jane stuffed her not-safe-for-work sampler under a pillow and slipped out.
She should have gone to her room. There was that Regency rule that single women weren’t supposed to walk out aloneexcept in the morning, but Jane had a headache, and nothing goes worse with a headache than rules. She had no destination except—away.
