“I won’t be entreated,” he said.
Jane blew air through her lips like a horse. She’d liked the idea.
“Way to spoil it, Mr. Nobley,” said Miss Charming. “Too bad Sir John isn’t here to play the third fellow. Will he be back soon, do you think, what-what?”
“I think not,” Mr. Nobley said coolly. He briefly exchanged looks with Jane as if making sure she was all right.
“That’s the pits. Hey, Jane, what about that guy, I mean, bloke, I saw you talking to once in the garden? Do you think he’d play the part?”
Jane felt her toes go cold. “I don’t know who you mean, Miss Charming.”
“Sure you do, that tall bloke in the garden, one of the servants, maybe. I thought he looked pretty good standing next to you. He’d be better for your partner than Mr. Nobley.”
“M-maybe it was one of the gardeners?” Now it was Jane’s turn to peek at Mr. Nobley’s face. He was staring dead ahead, the shadows under his eyes making him look sleep deprived.
The walkers tried various other topics on for size, but the Weather fit too loosely, Sir John’s Disappearance was too short, and What Might Have Happened to the Stuffed Duck pinched a bit tight in the midsection. Then Colonel Andrews hit upon it—the fast-approaching Pembrook Park ball. They discussed the musicians who would be there, the guests arriving from other estates, the food, and the opportunity for romance. Miss Heartwright even put aside her melancholy to confer about gowns.
Jane’s heart beat impatiently. A ball—things happen at a ball. Cinderella happened at a ball. Jane might happen. She felt hopelessly and wonderfully fanciful. The sun on her face, the bonnet ribbon under her chin, a wrap around her arms, and a hatted and sideburned man at her side all lent itself to perfect suspension of disbelief.
She was so proud of herself. She really was diving into the world. Looking over Mr. Nobley, she wondered again how this would end. It seemed likely that East and Heartwright would kiss and make up, leaving Jane to Nobley. Or perhaps to no one. The puppet mistress Mrs. Wattlesbrook wouldn’t go to any great lengths to ensure an Austenian engagement for the poor niece from America. And without his boss insisting onit, would Mr. Nobley even bother to woo her? And even if he did, would that be the ending she needed?
Just ahead, the path was drenched in a puddle that could not be bypassed. The men walked through fearlessly. Colonel Andrews took Miss Charming’s hand and helped her step across. Mr. Nobley placed his hands around Jane’s waist and lifted her over. As he set her down, their bodies were very close. They held still for a breath, their faces close together. He smelled good enough to kiss. Her thoughts raged—I irritate him and he irritates me. It’s perfect! Isn’t it? Of course, he isn’t real. Wait, am I supposed to be falling for him or avoiding it? What was it again, Aunt Carolyn?
He was the first to step back. She turned away, and there was Martin. He was on his knees among some rosebushes. His face was shaded by his cap, but she could feel his eyes on her. As the party started to walk again, Martin rose and removed his cap as though the walkers were a funeral cortege. None of the others seemed to notice his presence, and they disappeared along the side of the house.
Martin took a step forward. “Jane, can we talk?”
She realized she was still standing there, staring at him, as though begging to be rejected again. She started to walk away. “Martin, no, I can’t. They’re waiting for me, they’ll see.”
“Then meet me later.”
“No, I’m done playing around.” She left him, that awkward line buzzing around her head like a pesky insect. And Jane thought, Done playing around, she says, as though she’s not actively wearing a bonnet.
She saw that Mr. Nobley had stopped to wait for her. His eyes were angry, but they weren’t on her. She looked back. Martin had lowered his hat, and his hands were back at work.
Her heart was teeter-tottering precariously, and she almost put out her arms to balance herself. She didn’t like to see them together: Martin, the luscious man who’d made her laugh and kept her standing on real earth, and Mr. Nobley, who had begun to make the fantasy world feel 3D. She stood on the curve of the path, her feet hesitating over where to go.
And then, the light became perfect.
After Jane’s LASIK eye surgery, her perception of light had changed. In too-bright light, she saw burned spots on her retina like one-celled creatures through a microscope; in high contrasts of bright and dark, both blurred together, the glow of car headlights bleeding into the night. But there was a certain kind of light that made the whole world 20/20—late afternoon when the sun is on a slant, pushing through the world instead of down on it. Just now, everything was distinct. Above her, all the leaves ringing like bells were individuals with cracks and curls, veins and prickly tips. Below, every blade of grass stood up in its own shadow, sharp and hotly green.
And she saw Mr. Nobley clearly. The thin wrinkles just beginning at the corners of his eyes, the whiskers on his chin darkening after his morning shave, the hint of lines around his mouth that suggested he might smile more in real life. He had the kind of face you wanted to kiss—lips, forehead, cheeks, eyelids, everywhere except his chin. That you wanted to bite.
Jane thought: I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.
Miss Erstwhile thought: My, what a catch. How the society page would rant!
“I think you should stay away from him, Miss Erstwhile.” Mr. Nobley turned his back on Martin and took her arm,returning her the way they had come, toward the front of the house.
“I don’t know why you care, sir,” she said, doing her best to sound Austen-y, “but I certainly will, if you’ll do me a favor. Perform in the theatrical.”
“Miss Erstwhile . . .”
“Oh, come on! It will please me to no end to see you so uncomfortable. You’re not afraid, are you? You seem so stuck on being proper all the time, but there can’t be anything really wrong in doing a little theatrical. This is, after all, the nineteenth century. So perhaps your protests stem from your fear of appearing the fool?”
“You accuse me of vanity. It may be that the enterprise simply does not seem to me amusing. And yet in part you are right. I am not much of an actor.”
“Aren’t you?” She looked at him meaningfully.
