Glum, glum, glum. That was the sound her feet made as she descended to the drawing room that evening. Glum, glum, as she walked alone at the back of the line of precedence into the dining room. It sure felt cold back there. She sniffed and rubbed her arms.
“Mr. and Mrs. Longley will be coming from Granger Hall and the two older Miss Longleys as well,” Aunt Saffronia was saying, her conversation as endlessly full of names as the biblical lists of who-begot-whom. “Oh! And Mr. Bentley. Miss Heartwright, you recall Mr. Bentley? Still single and has four thousand pounds a year. Takes such good care of his mother.”
Jane click-clacked her fork on her plate, pushing her food around. Her mother would’ve been apoplectic. It was not often that Jane was truly and absolutely despondent, and tonightshe felt enslaved by that word. It shouldn’t matter what they thought of her, she reminded herself. This was her game, and when she finished, it would be her victory. She just had to dig in her heels and keep playing. But the reality of the men being bored by her, paid to pretend to like her, intruded too much on her fun tonight, coupled with the dread that she wouldn’t be able to conquer her obsession before her time in Austenland was up. And then, what was the point? To this? To anything?
Jane tried to keep the despondency to herself, though Mr. Nobley seemed to be keeping a pretty good eye on her, per usual. She took another bite of . . . poultry of some sort? . . . and decided she’d pull the headache excuse out of the bag and dismiss herself to bed as soon as the dinner torture was over. She hated to waste a single moment of her last days, but she felt pulled inside out and couldn’t figure out how to right herself.
She returned Mr. Nobley’s gaze. His eyebrows rose, and he leaned forward slightly, his mannerisms asking, “Are you all right?” She shrugged. He frowned.
When the women stood to leave the gentlemen to their port and tobacco, Mr. Nobley rose as well and made his unapologetic way to Jane’s side.
“Miss Erstwhile, too long have you been asked to walk alone. May I accompany you to the drawing room?”
Her heart jigged.
“It’s not proper,” she whispered, the fear of Wattlesbrook in her. She didn’t want to be sent home, not before the ball.
“Proper be damned,” he said, low enough for just her ears.
Jane could feel all eyes on them. She took Mr. Nobley’s arm and walked that negligible distance as stately as a bride. He found her a seat on a far sofa and sat beside her, and except forthe fact that she couldn’t kick off her shoes and tuck her feet up under her, all felt pleasantly snug.
“How is the painting going?” he asked.
Of course. It had been Mr. Nobley who gave her the paints. It was always him.
“How do you do it? How do you make me feel so good? I don’t like that you can affect me so much, and I find you much more annoying than ever. But what I mean is, thank you for the paints.”
He wouldn’t acknowledge the thanks and pressed her for details instead, so she told him how it felt to play with color again, real color, real paint. How it felt like the joy in her muscles stretching after too long sitting. She talked about artists she admired, paintings she’d done when she was young and dramatic and how cowed by false emotion they seemed to her now, how the embarrassment of immature art had chased her away from the canvas for too long, (not to mention the judgment of boyfriend #11). And how grateful she felt, how chock-full of happy things just for having returned. She didn’t worry that she was boring him, as Old Jane would’ve. It didn’t matter, she reminded herself. He was paid to listen to her and make her feel like the most interesting person in the world, and so, by George, she would be.
His lips pressed into a small smile that stayed. A very small smile. Sometimes almost imaginary. Jane wished that it might be bigger, that it might beam at her, but she supposed that wasn’t the Nobley way. Then when she’d decided that his smile was a figment, Mr. Nobley said—or whispered, rather—
“Let’s go look at your paintings.”
What a delight, this man. How he kept surprising her, tossing aside his uptight propriety for her sake, murmuringplans for meeting in secret, fibbing to the others that he would withdraw early, and then waiting upstairs for her to do the same. What a thrill to look around for watchers and scramble into her chamber, shutting the door behind them.
Jane stood with her back to the door, her hands still on the knob, breathing hard and trying to laugh quietly. He was leaning against the wall, smiling. The moment was giddily awkward as she waited to see what he had in mind, if he would suddenly shed Mr. Nobley and become some other man entirely. If he would break any other rules. The wait was agonizing. She realized she didn’t know what she wanted him to do.
“I would love to see those paintings,” he said, his voice still proper.
“Of course,” she said. Of course he was still Mr. Nobley, of course the man, the actor, was not falling in love with her. And a relief it was, too, as she realized she wasn’t ready to let go of Pembrook Park yet. She still wanted to play the game, even if she had to be done by the day after tomorrow.
She presented the first painting, and he held it at arm’s length for some time before saying, “This is you,” though the portrayal was not photorealistic.
“I couldn’t quite get the eyes,” she said.
“You got them just right.” He didn’t look away from the painting when he said, “They are beautiful.”
Jane didn’t know whether to thank him or clear her throat, so she did neither and instead handed him the second painting, of her window and the tree.
“Ah,” was all he said for some time. He glanced back and forth between both paintings. “I like this second one best. Beside it, the portrait looks stiff, as though you were toocautious, measuring everything, taking away the spontaneity. The fearlessness of this window scene is a better style for you. I think that you do very well when you trust yourself and let the color fly.”
He was right, and it felt good to admit it. Her next painting would be better.
“I should let you retire.” He held the self-portrait a minute longer, gazing at it as she had sometimes felt him look at her—unblinking, curious, even urgent.
She peeped through the keyhole to make sure no one was in the corridor before opening the door and letting him slip out. After a moment, she peered again and could see nothing, and then Mr. Nobley reappeared, his shoulders stiff as if nervous.
“Miss Erstwhile?” he whispered.
