“No. No way. You might get caught, and I won’t let you get in trouble on my account. I’ll be fine.”
He smiled gratefully, put a hand behind her neck, and kissed her one more time, softly on the mouth, like a promise for more.
Jane hurried away before she said or did anything embarrassing and ruined the perfect night. She didn’t know what hour it was, since a timepiece wasn’t part of her wardrobe allotment, but the moon had slid down the sky. Her arms bare below her thin sleeves, she shivered and crept across the courtyard, the whisper of the gravel path announcing her presence to any lurkers. She entered through the grand front door, clicking it closed behind her, and eased her slippers over the marble tiles and up the creaking stairs.
It was strange creeping through that big house at night, and she had the itchy sensation of being watched or followed.
“Who’s there?” she asked once, feeling less Austen heroine and more gothic waif, lost and alone in a forbidding castle. Did someone see her coming from Martin’s? Would she be sent home? Would he be fired?
She locked her chamber door behind her and didn’t darering for Matilda. It was impossible to do up her corset without help, but she successfully, though awkwardly, managed to undress alone. Stripped to her chemise, she melted into the cool sheets. She could smell Martin on her hands, and she gleefully cozied into her pillows, enjoying the sensation of having recently been kissed.
Of course it meant nothing beyond the fun of it, because she’d given up on men and love, after all, and was quite firm with herself about hoping too much. But it had been nice. And a first for Jane—a harmless vacation fling!
Tonight, Jane had been kissed. Tonight she thought, Mr. Darcy who?
Boyfriend #4
Dave Atters, age sixteen
She really liked this one, the power forward on the high school varsity team and the beginning of her infatuation with basketball. She giggled and sighed and dreamed. He said jump, and she leaped. But when he parked his spoiled-boy convertible in front of her house after a date and thrust his hand up her skirt, she pushed him away. When she wouldn’t relent, he ordered her out of the car. At school, he acted as though they’d never met.
Years later, she wondered if Dave “Fancy Hands” Atters was one of the reasons she felt so pathologically stuck, or if the blame lay completely with Fitzwilliam “I love you against my better judgment” Darcy. At least there’d been one bright spot with Dave. On the night of Homecoming, she and Molly had spray-painteddepraved weaselon the side of his convertible, and that had felt pretty therapeutic.
Day 4
Jane could scarcely wait for night to come again. After her adventure in Martin’s room, breakfast in the morning room seemed dulled and fuzzy, like a copy of a copy. First the ladies waited for the gentlemen while chatting about nothing, and then they welcomed the gentlemen and continued to chat about nothing, every topic harmless and dry, everyone holding themselves a careful arm’s distance away. Mr. Nobley’s dark eyes seemed to seek her out, but her attention kept dancing to thoughts of bedspreads on the curtain rod, root beer, and basketball games. A man who smelled of gardens. Something real.
When Miss Heartwright came to call, Colonel Andrews proposed, “What say we take a turn about the gardens?”
“Like, yard work?” Miss Charming asked with wide eyes.
“Hm?” asked Colonel Andrews, completely lost.
“You said we’re turning dirt, right? In the vegetable garden? I’ve gotta say, that doesn’t really dill my pickle, what-what.”
“Aturn, my pet,” said Colonel Andrews. “A leisurely stroll on the grounds.”
“You mean, walk around thefront yard?” she said, pronouncing itfrunchard. “Well, I guess so.”
He offered his arm gallantly. “It will grant me opportunity to compare the colors of the autumn leaves to the fire in your eyes.”
At that, Miss Charming giggled and eagerly took his arm.
The ladies put on bonnets and spencer jackets, and the men hats and cloaks, and they headed out the door, Heartwright holding Nobley’s arm, Charming with Andrews. Jane hesitated to follow, feeling again the pathetic little caboose.
She felt a tick bite of jealousy and scratched it away. It flared again, though this time it morphed into self-pity, though definitely of the low-key, ladylike variety. The problem was that nagging, life-long question—What was the matter with her? She’d never been in love without having her heart mashed. And now would she be denied even fake love?
She spotted Mrs. Wattlesbrook conversing with the butler in the dining room, and channeling Great-Aunt Carolyn, Jane let a spirit of boldness pivot her step to the threshold to ask, “Excuse me, I have a question.”
“Yes?” asked Mrs. Wattlesbrook, not bothering to step closer.
Jane took a shaky breath, imagined she was a woman of consequence, and asked, “Why are there three ladies and only two gentlemen? It doesn’t seem fair.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s lips pursed, and Jane felt a foreboding shudder.
“Are you questioning my thoughtfulness or my ability?”
“Oh! I, uh, I mean . . .”
