“Mr. Nobley!” A stranger woman of retirement age waved a handkerchief gleefully and bustle-jogged toward him. Mr. Nobley fled.
And then, Martin was there, in tails, cravat, and all, and scanning the crowd.
For my face, she thought.
It was Martin’s turn to look up, to see her on the stairs. His expression was—whoa, she knew now that she was looking pretty good. Others noticed his expression and turned as well. The murmuring hushed and music swirled from the other room. She was Cinderella entering alone. What, no trumpets?
Martin rushed up several steps to escort her down.
“That’s a crackin’ dress, Jane. I mean . . . Miss Erstwhile. Might I have the pleasure of obtaining your hand for the next two dances?”
Ah, his smell! She was in his room again, a can of root beer so cold it was sweating, his hands touching her face. She wanted him close. She wanted to feel as real as she had those nights. Her sleeves pinched her shoulders; her dress felt heavy in the skirts.
“I can’t, Martin,” she said. “I already promised—”
“Miss Erstwhile.” Mr. Nobley reached the bottom of the stairs just as she did. He bowed civilly. “The first dance is beginning, if you care to accompany me.”
Was there a look that passed between the two men? Some heated past? Or would they (wahoo!) have a jealous tussle over Jane’s attentions?
Nope. Mr. Nobley led her away. Martin stayed put, watching her go, something of a puppy-dog look in his eyes. She tried to say with her own, “I’m sorry I ignored you the night of the theatrical and I understand why you judged me for being the kind of woman to fall in love with this fantasy and I’ll be back and maybe we can talk then or just make out,” though she didn’t know how much of that she actually communicated. Maybe just a part, like “I’m sorry” or “you judged me” or “make out.”
But then Jane and Mr. Nobley entered the great hall, and like crossing the border into Faerie, the rest of the world wiped away. The chandeliers dazzled with hundreds of candles, which put fire into the white dresses and cravats. Five musicians were seated on a dais—a cello and two violins (or maybe a viola?), a harpsichord, and some kind of wind instrument. From keysand strings, they coaxed a grand prelude to the minuet. Jane smiled at the amusement-park novelty of it all. She looked at Mr. Nobley. He was beaming at her. At last.
“You are stunning,” he said, and every inch of him seemed to swear that it was true.
He kissed her gloved fingers. He was still smiling. There was something different about him tonight, and she couldn’t place what it was. Some new plot twist, she presumed. She was eager to roll around in all the plot she could on her last night, though once or twice her eyes strayed to spot Martin.
Mr. Nobley stood opposite her in a line of ten men. She watched Miss Heartwright and Captain East perform the figures. They held each other’s gazes, they smiled with the elation of new love. All very convincing.
Poor Amelia, thought Jane.
It was a little cruel, now that she thought about it, all these actors who made women fall in love with them. Miss Heartwright seemed so tenderhearted. Miss Charming was gazing adoringly at Colonel Andrews in his red-and-gold military regimentals. Jane felt a thrumming of foreboding. All the ladies were so happy and open to love. What would happen to them in the dregs of tomorrow?
Two pairs of strangers performed. Jane watched them. Mr. Nobley watched her. And then it was her turn. She curtsied to the audience, to Mr. Nobley, and faced him in the center of the floor. Jane recalled first learning the minuet opposite a silent Martin, his calloused hands holding hers.
Maybe I really don’t want this, she thought. This is summer camp. This is a novel. This isn’t home. I need something real. Root beer and disposable umbrellas and bare feet real.
“I believe we must say something.”
It was Mr. Nobley who spoke.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Are you unwell?”
“Do I look unwell?”
He smiled. “You are baiting me. It will not work tonight, Miss Erstwhile. I am completely at ease. I might even say, I have never felt quite so at home.”
Jane pushed the air out of her lungs. Part of her very much wanted to banter and play, to twirl and laugh, to be Miss Erstwhile and fall in love with Mr. Nobley (fall back in love?), but she felt herself on that balance beam, walking toe to heel like a gymnast, and when she fell this time, she wanted to be on the real world side, away from heartless fantasy and into the tangible.
With his hand on her waist to lead her through another figure, Mr. Nobley smiled at her again, and she clean forgot what she wanted besides him.
Him, him, him! sang her thoughts. I want him and this and everything, every flower, every strain of music. And I don’t want it wrapped up in a box—I want it living, around me, real. Why can’t I have that? I’m not ready to give it up.
The first number ended, and the group applauded the musicians. Mr. Nobley seemed to applaud Jane.
“You look flushed,” he said. “I will get you a drink.”
