Tad Harrison, age thirty-five
She’d broken down and purchased thePride and PrejudiceDVDs by now, but she hid them away for Tad’s sake. It was the least she could do to help him feel like the most important anything in her life.
He certainly seemed like the real deal. She’d found him on the apps where his profile indicated that he was as serious about marriage and children as she was, and their relationship progressed in an efficient, mutually satisfying manner. They were engaged after a year (no ring, just a verbal agreement), and though they kept separate apartments at Tad’s request, they adopted a dog together and sometimes even talked baby names. This was it. Jane was finally going to get the family of her dreams.
If only Tad would set a date.
“Things don’t feel quite right,” he’d say cryptically. “Not just yet. But soon.”
It was her best friend, Molly, who grew suspicious first and used her investigative skills to uncover the truth—Tad had not only a “backup fiancée” but an additional on-again off-again girlfriend.
The worst part? Worse than wasting over two years on that confirmed loser, worse than the humiliation of betrayal? He kept the dog.
Day 11
The next morning, Jane painted in her chemise. It was strange. She’d spent much of her life wishing for an experience like Austenland, and then spent much of her time here fearing she couldn’t immerse herself enough, get enough out of it so that it would change her. And now here she was, wasting hours of her precious time alone with paint and canvas. Even so, it didn’t feel like a waste. It felt right.
She was satisfied with the self-portrait except for the eyes, which still looked back uncertainly. Since she’d only just taken up a brush again, she was not good enough to force the paint to do what it didn’t want to do.
She meant to make it down for the end of breakfast, but she didn’t have a timepiece and mislaid several hours tumbling through the second canvas, coming up for air again with a sprawl of the view from her window. At first she’d intended to make the painting pastoral and realistic, but she followed thecolors into a spare, expressionist style that somehow felt even more real.
She put down the brush, stretched, and realized that she was ravenous, so she dressed, ate a cold breakfast, and walked outside to hunt the gentlemen. With only two days left, her pulse clicked in her neck, Hurry, hurry! She was feeling more confident here, no question. But what did she still have to do to feel resolved? How was she going to conquer Mr. Darcy?
No one was in the park. As she strolled by the servants’ quarters, Jane stopped, guilt gnawing at her. Last night, Martin had called her name twice, and in front of Mrs. Wattlesbrook and everything. What would he have said? The unknown of it nagged at her.
Jane strolled casually to the servants’ building and rapped on his door.
No answer. What a relief.
She rapped one more time and sauntered away, seeming not to wait. Just the thought of Martin made her feel antsy enough to skip, and yet she kind of craved the idea of him. Besides the painting, nothing had felt realer to her in a long time than Martin. And nothing had felt more exciting and blissful than Mr. Nobley—but he was all fantasy.
As she paced toward the end of the building, she overheard conversational tones. From behind the camouflage of a climbing rose vine, Jane peered around the side of the building and caught sight of Colonel Andrews smoking a cigarette and speaking to someone else just out of sight. The colonel was nodding and smiling, and seemed quite content. He passed the nearly defunct cigarette to the unseen person, who took a drag and then flicked the butt to the ground. Colonel Andrews checked his pocket watch and sighed.
“Well, time to get back to work.” His smile vanished.
Jane wondered if he had a meetup planned with Miss Charming. She didn’t love that he seemed exhausted by the idea. Part of her had hoped that, even if it was pretend, the actors enjoyed the ladies’ company. She edged away from the servants’ quarters and was ambling toward the front door when she heard someone overtake her.
“Ah, Miss Erstwhile,” said Colonel Andrews. “I was just coming after you to join me in the stables.”
“You were looking for me?” She waited for him to change his story. He didn’t. “Uh, what about Miss Charming?”
“Miss Charming is resting in her chambers, but I cannot be idle. I must have some diversion.”
“Are you sure she is? I mean, aren’t you looking for her?” Jane felt a little dizzy.
“She told me of her plans after breakfast. You seem surprised that I was seeking you. Don’t tell me that I’ve been so neglectful as to cause you this astonishment.”
“Nap,” she said. “Yes. I think I’ll follow Miss Charming’s example and rest myself. Perhaps, Colonel, you need a break too.”
She left with a quiet swish of her skirt.Back to work.She was the work. She’d harbored a sweet little hope that the man behind Colonel Andrews actually did like her. That she wasn’t a labor to be around. And yet, hanging out with Miss Erstwhile was reason to sigh with exhaustion. Did all the gents feel that way? Or was there any chance Mr. Nobley might actually, really, truly—Stop it, Jane. She felt four years old again with scraped knees, reaching to her mother, hoping to be picked up and held and . . . andwanted.
Hope hurt too much. Probably Mr. Nobley was the unseensmoker, and he too couldn’t wait for his downtime away from needy, demanding guests like Miss Erstwhile. She shook her head, trying to clear out the sticky thoughts. None of this should matter! She wasn’t here to find love and acceptance, for pity’s sake. She had to keep her eye on the ball. In fact, tomorrow was the actual ball. There she must face the fantastical idea of Mr. Darcy and somehow . . . somehow just know what to do?
The ballhadto be her closure, her triumph. This reminder that she was a day at the office for these actor men kind of tugged the Persian rug from beneath her slippered feet. Part of her wanted to scream that she wasn’t who they thought she was. But then again, maybe she wasn’t who she’d thoughtshewas either. No one was.
When she got back to her room, her self-portrait’s eyes stared back, startled, even more unsure.
“Worthless art,” she said.
