My love is a fairy queen who meant no harm but accidentally contributed to the tragic deaths of both your loves.
As the action wrapped up, the six players stood side by side facing their long-suffering audience. Jane’s line was first, but she paused, not quite ready for it to be over. She felt Nobley’s hand reach for hers and give her a reassuring squeeze. His warmth flooded her, and she smiled.
jane(trying to sound actress-y?):
At last, we are all truly happy.
charming(while hopping happily):
Yes indeedy!
heartwright(with a glittery cough?):
Our woes are ended.
east(straight-up reading from his script?):
We can rest peacefully in each other’s arms.
andrews(as always, with panache!):
And no matter where we may roam . . .
nobley(with a sigh?):
This will always be our home . . . [a second sigh, as if hoping to be saved from speaking any more words of this wretched theatrical] . . . by the sea.
And, silence as the audience waited for who knows what: A better ending line? A better play? Colonel Andrews cleared his throat, and Jane inclined her head in a hurried curtsy.
“Oh,” Aunt Saffronia said, and started the applause. The audience clapped sporadically, and the cast bowed, Miss Charming giggling.
Mr. Nobley let go of Jane’s hand, and she immediately mourned the loss of that warmth, but she resisted reaching back for him. The play was over. She no longer had her character’s actions as an excuse to touch him. Instead, she squinted past the lamps to get her first good look at the audience, now that stage fright couldn’t prickle her. Aunt Saffronia, beaming. Mrs. Wattlesbrook, looking for all the world like a proud schoolmarm. Matilda, bored, and a dozen other servants, equally bored.
And that must have been Martin. He was in the back, and the room was dark, but no one else was that tall. Imagining the spectacle from his eyes, she saw anew how ridiculous that little play had been, and how all of Pembrook Park must seem so tohim—the false lines, the feigned exclamations of love. Artifice. Pretense. Lies. Schoolgirl daydreams.
Jane took a step away from Mr. Nobley.
“Well, my dears, what a show. Quite professional!” Aunt Saffronia said, rushing their little stage. Mrs. Wattlesbrook was right behind her. A barrage of compliments engulfed the cast, and Jane smiled and nodded and smiled. She was conscious of Martin moving up, standing behind Mrs. Wattlesbrook, gesturing to Jane. Such a towering presence was difficult to ignore. She ignored him.
“Uh, Miss Erstwhile?” he said quietly. He sounded a little desperate.
Aunt Saffronia was plunging the profound intricacies of the script. Mrs. Wattlesbrook half turned to glare at Martin.
“Miss Erstwhile?” he said again, sounding a little braver.
Jane met his gaze dead-on. Martin blinked, smiled hopefully, and opened his mouth to speak again. What did he have to do with her? She was trying—for Aunt Carolyn, for herself, for her darling Mr. Darcy—she was trying to live this, and Martin’s presence had the effect of shining a light on how shallow it all was, besides reminding her of every guy who had ever tossed her aside. She was having a grand time, and his judgment was souring the punch. She turned her shoulder to him and addressed Mr. Nobley.
“Thank you, sir. Thus far the highlight of my stay has been making love to you.”
Mr. Nobley bowed in acknowledgment. The conversation completely quieted. Jane thought she detected Martin sort of slump his shoulders.
“Well, good night, all,” Jane said, and made a quick getaway to her room . . .
. . . where she lay on her bed, stared at her canopy, and wished that encounter didn’t stick to her still, that she could just scrape it off her shoe. What would Martin have said if she’d let him speak? No, never mind, these things never end well.
Wait, there was something good, coiling on the edge of her memory . . . Ah yes, Mr. Nobley had smiled at her. Had held her hand. And maybe, he’d wanted to kiss her too. She closed her eyes and held to that almost-kiss as she would to the tatters of a really great dream in the waking gray of dawn.
Boyfriend #14
