“Well, perhaps I was once, but I’ve grown tired of the act. I feel—deeply. I long to have someone who knows the true me, who I can be alone with and share my thoughts. And I havecome to feel, with no uncertainty of the heart, that you are that someone. That someone is you, Miss Charming.”
“Oh, Colonel Andrews!”
“My dear, dear Lizzy.”
Giggling, sounds of smooching and whispers.
“You must tell no one—please, Lizzy. I am sworn to another, an odious widowed countess, but there must be a way out of the arrangement. I will find a way. I must have you, Lizzy. You areenchanting.”
More giggling, some whispering, the sound of someone departing, and then Miss Charming’s voice singing to herself a self-satisfied little tune, “Ha ha-ha ha ha-ha,” before she left as well.
Jane rested her forehead against the bookshelf and breathed out a very slow laugh. Well, she thought, overhearing that proposal should be about as good a tonic to her fantasy as any. Was that her end goal? An actor’s hackneyed declarations of phony love? If she had been the object of Colonel Andrews’s odes, it certainly wouldn’t be enough to crack her addiction. She needed more, but what? To face asinceredeclaration of love and reject that? She certainly couldn’t expect herself to fall sincerely in love with one of the actors, any more than she could expect an actor to fall in love with her.
She walked out of the library in a daze, trying to imagine an ending, any ending, that would solve everything. And she couldn’t help wondering, if Ideal Client Miss Charming could get any gent she wanted, why hadn’t she chosen Mr. Nobley?
The day was sunny, an ultramarine sky that swore winter would never come, and the servants arranged teatime on the manicured lawn. As Colonel Andrews set up a croquet course, Jane observed a blushing Miss Charming looking athim knowingly, coy and self-conscious. Colonel Andrews shot her secretive smiles, confirmations of what had happened in the library.
Colonel Andrews really was delightful, and Jane was a little sorry he was off the market. Still, there were two gentlemen left, and Miss Heartwright couldn’t have them both. Well. She probably could. But Jane channeled some Great-Aunt Carolyn fierceness and determined not to let her.
Captain East was standing alone, his back to the group, and Miss Heartwright sat in a chair at the tea table, melancholy and seemingly unaware of Captain East’s nearness. Strangely, Mr. Nobley (was he Henry Jenkins?) seemed in highest spirits. For him, at least. He took up a croquet mallet with almost a smile and kept something of it around his mouth the whole game.
“Shall we play in pairs?” he proposed.
“Most excellent notion, Nobley,” said the colonel. “I say, Miss Charming, may I tempt you to accompany me once more into the breach?”
“Only if you show me how to use your mallet against the balls, Colonel Andrews,” said Miss Charming, her eyebrows raised so high they twitched.
Colonel Andrews had trouble unplasticizing his smile.
Mr. Nobley was looking at Jane with a strangely earnest expression, almost as if he were about to ask her to be his partner. She doubted her assessment and quickly turned to Captain East, declaring, “I am your eager partner if you’ll have me.”
Captain East joined her at once, his broad smile in place. His easy conversation flowed, keeping her from worrying if she was saying or doing the wrong thing, and his working-man-build-meets-gentlemanly-grace was working for him everyinch. Not that Jane was looking at every inch, except when his back was turned. He kept the discussion on the weather, but did it in a very beguiling manner. To Jane’s mind, clouds had never seemed so sexy.
As the game progressed, Andrews and Charming took the lead with professional zeal, followed by Heartwright and Nobley, a quiet but impressive pairing. Lingering in the rear, Erstwhile and East talked the talk but couldn’t walk the walk. The worse they played, the more Jane felt inebriated on bad sports and her partner’s undulating laughter. Despite his athletic build, Captain East held the mallet in his hand as though being asked to eat steak with chopsticks. Jane found his ineptitude hilarious, he further hammed it up for her benefit, and she laughed so hard she couldn’t get a ball through a wicket to save her life.
Captain East straddled the ball and pulled the mallet back.
“Careful, careful,” Jane said.
He swung—a hollowthock, and the ball smashed into a tree.
“I swear I’m trying my best.” The captain’s chuckle made his voice go dry and deep, and Jane thought if he really let himself go, he might actually bray. “I’ve never played this game before.”
Jane leaned against his arm, snorting through a giggle, which made her giggle harder. Through tears, she spotted a hazy Mr. Nobley looking back in her direction.
“Captain East, do you see how Mr. Nobley keeps giving us that look?” said Jane, wiping her eyes. “Do you suppose he’s ashamed to know us?”
“No one could be ashamed to know you, Miss Erstwhile,” said Captain East.
It was precisely the right thing to say, and somehow that made it wrong. Jane wondered if Mr. Nobley had heard it,wondered what he thought. Then asked herself why she cared about Mr. Nobley’s opinion. The only discovery she could make was a hard bite of truth, like a piece of apple stuck in her throat—she did care. A lot. The thought rankled. Why was the judgment of the disapproving so valuable? Who said that their good opinions tended to be any more rational than those of generally pleasant people?
Jane’s turn to swing. Her grip on the mallet slipped, the ball lurched forward a dramatic two inches, and they laughed again. Mr. Nobley was still staring their way. Was it possible that he wished he were laughing too?
“Look, Miss Erstwhile,” said Captain East. “Someone is arriving.” His voice twinged with interest, and she guessed the actor had no idea who it could be.
A carriage and two horses pulled up at the house’s entrance. A new guest was big news at Pembrook Park, and all three couples abandoned the game to inquire. But soon they were able to see two servants carrying a trunk the wrong way—from the house to the carriage. Someone was going, not coming. And the trunk was Jane’s.
When she spied Mrs. Wattlesbrook hovering about the scene, Jane felt her stomach squirm as though she smelled rotten meat.
