“You think it’s real . . .” said Jane.
“It is not right to watch.”
“If we don’t watch, who will? Seems a shame to waste the moment with no audience to witness it.”
Their lips moved now. Rehearsing lines?
Captain East leaned forward, Amelia tilted her head back. Her hand trembled on his chest. His lips met hers, briefly, gently. It clearly wasn’t enough, and he seized her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and their faces merged beyond distinction in the darkness. It looked pretty serious, the kind of affection those two might reserve for a sealing-of-the-engagement moment.
Suddenly, it wasn’t like watching a movie—their passion seemed real, and observing it started to feel like voyeurism. Jane wondered, did Amelia the woman really love George East the man? The actor? Could she? What would happen to her heart when she left Pembrook Park?
“I’m in agreement with you now about the not-watching part,” she said.
Jane and Mr. Nobley walked back to the house in silence, the air around them thick, dragging with awkwardness. Witnessing confessions of love and first kisses can be enchanting when you’re with someone comfortable, someone you’ve already had that kiss with, and can laugh about it and feel cozy and remember your own first moment. Seeing it with Mr. Nobley was like having a naked-in-public dream.
“It’s only natural to confuse truth and fantasy as they playparts in a theatrical,” said Jane. “They start to feel as their characters would.”
“True. Which is one reason why I was hesitant to engage in this frivolity. I do not think pretending something can make it real.”
“I find it a little alarming that we agree. But do you think, in their case anyway, do you think those feelings could run deeper?”
Mr. Nobley stopped. He looked at her. “I wondered the same.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“It’s more than possible. Now that he is a captain, they reside in compatible stations in life, they have like minds, their sentiments seem suited to each other—”
“You sound like a textbook on matrimony. I’m talking about love, Mr. Nobley. Despite falling in love over a script, do you think they have a chance?” The question felt urgent to Jane, though she refused to look at it closely enough to understand why.
Mr. Nobley frowned and rubbed his sideburns briskly with the backs of his fingers. “I . . . I knew him in the past when he loved another woman. Her changes, her cruelty broke him. He was a shell for some time. If you had asked me last month if another woman’s attentions could make him a whole man again, I would have said that no man can recover from such a wound, that he will never be able to trust his heart to vulnerability again, that romantic love is not air or water and one can live without it. But now . . .” He breathed out. He had not looked away from her. “Now I do not know. Now I almost begin to think, yes. Yes.”
“Yes,” she repeated. The moon hung in the sky just over hisshoulder, peering as though listening in, breathless for what was next.
Maybe he was Henry Jenkins, a man who had loved and lost. Oh, did she ever know how that felt. She had to fight the instinct to wrap her arms around him, to hold him close and assure him that he wasn’t broken, that he was worth loving. She clutched her hands to hold them back, but some of the words escaped anyway, and she blurted, “You deserve to be seen for who you are, you know. You deserve . . . happiness,” she finished haltingly.
She knew her words must sound odd and random to him, and yet his look was soft. He raised an eyebrow. She shrugged.
“I was just thinking about how you’re pretty great, and whatever has happened in the past, you deserve to be loved by someone who cares about you at least as much as she cares about herself. That’s all. Never mind, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
She felt her cheeks heat, and she looked away. But Mr. Nobley did not. His gaze on her face felt warmer than her blush.
“Miss Erstwhile.”
“Yes?” She barely got the word out. Her entire body felt paused, her blood frozen, her heart silenced until she knew what he would say.
He took several breaths as if trying to locate the right words. “Miss Erstwhile, do you—”
Captain East and Miss Heartwright passed by, walking close without touching. Mr. Nobley observed them, his frown deepening, and then he looked back over his shoulder at nothing.
What? What?! Jane wanted to yell.
“Miss Erstwhile . . . shall we go inside?” he said with a note of defeat.
He offered his arm. She took it, and her heart reluctantly started to beat again. She felt certain that something had almost happened. Something momentous. But the moment had passed, leaving a pale sadness in its wake.
Soon the warm safety of roof and walls cut off the luscious strangeness of night in the garden. Candles blazed, servants scurried, the denizens of that cultivated edifice unconcerned with a wild moment in the wilderness.
Without another word, Mr. Nobley left her alone, his jacket still around her shoulders. It smelled like gardens.
