“Walking.” She glared.
His eyes darted to the servants’ quarters. To Martin’s exact window. It made her swallow.
“You are not doing something foolish, are you?”
In fact, she had been, but that didn’t mean she would stop glaring.
“I don’t know if you realize,” he said in his unbearably condescending tone, “but it is not proper for a lady to be out alone after dark and worse to cavort with servants . . .”
“Cavort?”
“When doing so might lead to trouble of the worst nature . . .”
“Cavort?”
“Look,” he said, slipping into slightly more colloquial tones, “just stay away from there.”
“Aren’t you all righteous concern, Mr. Nobley? Five minutes ago, I’d planned on changing careers and becoming a dairymaid, but you’ve saved me from that fate. I’ll kindly release you back to the night and return to my well-bred ways.”
“Don’t be a fool, Miss Erstwhile.”
“Insufferable,” she said under her breath as she walked away, only pausing to glance behind her and make sure Mr. Nobley wasn’t following.
No, she wasn’t going to go to Martin’s, curse him, but she wasn’t going to run back to her room either, if just to spite Mr. Nobley. Because boring, cold, and hateful Mr. Nobley was the most Darcy-esque of them all, she despised him with even more vigorous enthusiasm. Maybe the exercise would speed up her Austenland recovery.
“Grab my arm, will he?” she said, getting a speck of satisfaction by muttering like a batty old woman. “Callmea fool . . .”
She walked through the park in angry circles. Her fingers were cold, and her thoughts wandered to memories of spending so much time in the bath as a kid that her fingertipscrinkled like raisin skin, probably because her mom had dropped her in the tub but forgotten to get her out. Wrinkly skin reminded her of Great-Aunt Carolyn, with her extravagantly soft fingers and conspiratorial eyes.
She bought me this gift, Jane thought. Use it well, you floppy-brained, hopeless romantic, and stop trying to fall in love with gardeners. With anyone.
She emerged from the trees into the grand expanse of lawn, and the night drew back, large and empty, no longer lying against her skin. She felt really alone now. But then, for one long, silvery moment, she felt as though she belonged inside the aloneness, and that feeling made her whisper aloud, “I never have before. I’ve never felt at home with myself.” To see it. To name it. That felt like a first step.
She looked over her shoulder from where she’d come and had Realization #2: She truly didn’t want to go to Martin’s. She hadn’t earlier. It was just habit. In the past she’d always been ready to limp back after being rejected, hopeful to be scooped up again. But now, here, she lost the desire utterly.
“Ha!” she said to the night.
With a shift in the wind and a swish of her quiet skirt, she felt her mission at Austenland begin to change. This was no last hurrah before accepting spinsterhood—oh no. (And what a relief!) Martin had helped her see one thing, at least—she still liked men, a whole lot, in fact, and it did her no good to pretend otherwise. No, this was going to beimmersion therapy. Martin had drunk two six-packs of root beer and instead of feeling repulsed by the flavor, he now craved it. She’d binged Austen books and movies for years and still wanted more. So she hadn’t yet gone far enough. This place was the best, and perhaps only, way to sink even deeper into her addiction, sodeep that she burned every trace of it right out of her bones. Once she was cured of the fantasy, perhaps at last she could accept reality and create a real life for herself. But in order for that alchemy to work, she had to be all in.
She turned her back to the servants’ quarters and squared her shoulders to the glowing confection of the grand house. She had relished the sweetness of Austen’s stories for most of her life. But with the sweetness there had also been the pain in knowing that it would never be enough. And now her task was to consume Austenland wholly into every cell of her body till it made her sick. She would eat nothing but chocolate until she couldn’t bear the thought of eating something sweet again. There was no way out except through. She would not just nibble and sample and admire; she would drown in it, suffocating the fantastical part of herself.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook was right about some things—complete immersion was necessary not only to enter Austen’s stories but to get the hope of them out of her system and know for certain that living inside them wouldn’t really make her happy. Then she’d be her own woman again. Only eight days left to make it happen. But she must plunge in headfirst and stay underwater till she’d done the job, or sure as her houseplants were at that moment gasping their last breaths, one day she would look back at the experience and unsettle herself with regretting:If only I’d done more . . .
When night was definite and all housemates surely abed, Jane creaked open the front door, welcomed by the homey scent of floor wax and candle smoke. Brightness from the drawing room startled her, and she wondered if the group was playing some Olympian round of cards. But the room was deserted. Two lamps burned away the darkness.
On the table lay a book Mr. Nobley had been reading, and she leafed through its pages, wondering what sort of irritating story would fascinate that man’s mind. A piece of paper slipped out, floating to the carpet. It was a pay stub made out to a Henry Jenkins with an address in Clapham. Was this Mr. Nobley? She stuck the paper back and laid it beside the nearly empty crystal decanter that was Sir John Templeton’s dearest friend. Out of curiosity, Jane lifted the cap and sniffed, expecting a sugary punch smell to satisfy her suspicions. Nope, definitely alcohol. She was surprised—how could the actor keep up the virtual drinking and not get literally toasted?
As in answer to her thought, the man himself loomed in the doorway. She startled and dropped the decanter cap on the carpet.
“Well, good evening, Miss Ersssstwhile,” Sir John said, dragging out the snake sound of her name. “Are you still a Miss or were you a Misserstwhile, hm?”
“Yes, that’s clever. Um, you startled me, Sir John.”
“Up late, are you? Where did you go tonight? Up to some mischief, I hope.”
“I just needed some air.”
“Hmm.” He leaned against the doorjamb and seemed to doze for a moment. Jane replaced the cap, clicked off the fake-kerosene lamps, and tried to slip past Sir John without rousing him. But just a few steps into the dark front hall, she felt a hot breath against her neck.
