Jane took advantage of the interruption to slip away, searching above the tops of heads for Martin. He’d been just over there . . . A hand grabbed her arm.
She turned right into Mr. Nobley, their faces close, andshe was startled by the wildness in him now. “Miss Erstwhile, I beg you.”
“Oh, Mr. Nobley!” said another lady behind him.
He glanced back with a harried look, and gripping Jane’s arm, he walked her out of the ballroom, down the hall, and into the darkened library, only then releasing her, though he had the good grace to look embarrassed.
“I apologize,” he said.
“I guess you would.” But she gave in and took a chair.
He began to pace, rubbing his chin and occasionally daring to look at her. The candlelight from the hallway made of him a silhouette, the moonlight from the window just touching his eyes, his mouth. It was as dark as a bedroom.
“You see how agitated I am,” he said.
She waited, and her heart set to thumping without her permission.
He wildly combed his hair with his fingers. “I can’t bear to be out there with you right now, all those indifferent people watching you, admiring you, but not really caring. Not as I do.”
Jane (hopeful): Really?
Jane (practical): Oh, stop that.
“Well do I remember the night we met, how you questioned my opinion that first impressions are perfect. You were right to do so, of course, but even then I suspected what I’ve come to believe most passionately these past weeks: from that first moment, I knew you were a dangerous woman, and I was in great peril of falling in love.”
She thought she should say something witty here.
She said, “Really?”
“At first, you and I were the last match possible. I cannotname the moment when my feelings altered. I recall a stab of pain the afternoon we played croquet, seeing you with Captain East, wishing like a jealous fool that I could be the man you would laugh with. Seeing you tonight . . . how you look . . . your eyes . . .” He shook his head, took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his hurried declarations smoothed into a more polished proposal. “My wits are scattered by your beauty and I cannot hide my feelings any longer. I feel little hope that you have come to feel as I do now, but hope I must.”
He took a knee beside her, placing his gloved hand on top of hers, as he had in the park her second day. It seemed years ago.
“You alone have the power to save me this suffering. I desire nothing more than to call you Jane and be the man always by your side.” His voice was dry, cracking with earnestness. “Please tell me if I have any hope.”
Hope. Jane had feasted on hope her whole life, even when it became clear that what she’d called hope was actually delusion. Oh, how she wanted to know real hope. But the spell Mr. Nobley was casting wrapped her up in wild and untenable dreams. She felt herself floating, and with all her strength pressed her slippered feet against the hardwood floor.
After a few moments of silence, Mr. Nobley began to pace again, testing out the length of the room. His imitation of a lovesick man in agony was very well done and quite appealing. Jane was mesmerized as if watching a movie screen. When his pacing reached its zenith, he stopped to stare at her with clenched desperation. “Your reserve is a knife. Can you not tell me, Miss Erstwhile, if you love me in return?”
Oh, perfect, perfect moment.
But even as her heart pounded and her body floated, shefelt a sense of loss, sand so fine she couldn’t keep it from pouring through her fingers. Mr. Nobley was perfect, but he was just a game. It all was. Even Martin’s commitment-free kisses were preferable to phony perfection. She was craving anything real—strong odors and flawed men, missed trains and tedious jobs. But she remembered that mixed up in the ugly parts of reality were also those true moments of grace—peaches in September, honest laughter, perfect light. Real men. She was ready to embrace it now. She was in control. Things were going to be good.
She stared at the hallway and thought of Martin. He’d been the first nonfiction man in a long time who’d made her feel desirable again, and she’d allowed herself to fall for him. And not the Jane-patented-oft-failed-all-or-nothing heartbreak-love, but just the sky-blue-lean-back-happy-calm-giddy fondness. She looked at Mr. Nobley and back at the hallway, feeling like a pulled pillow, her stuffing starting to fall out.
“I don’t know. I want to, I really do . . .” She was replaying his proposal in her mind—the emotion behind it had felt skin-tinglingly real, but some of the words had sounded scripted, secondhand, previously worn. He was so delicious, the way he looked at her, the fun of their conversations, the simple rapture of the touch of his hand. But . . . he was an actor. She would have liked to play into this moment, to live it wholeheartedly in order to put it behind her. An unease stopped her.
The silence stretched, and she could hear him shift his feet. The lower tones of the dancing music trembled through the walls, and stripped of vigor and all high-prancing notes, it sounded muffled and sad.
“Miss Erstwhile, let me impress upon you my utmost sincerity . . .”
“No need.” She sat up straighter, smoothed her hands over her skirt. “I understand completely. But I guess I just can’t. I can’t do it anymore. I did my best, and this place was really good for me.Youwere really good for me. But I’ve come to the end. And it’s okay.”
Something in her tone must have caught at him. He knelt beside her, taking her hand. “Are you? Are you okay?” he asked in more honest, feeling tones than she had ever heard from him.
The change startled her. Despite his austere looks, he had an openness about his expression that she could only account for in his dark eyes, focused on her, pleading. Having to say no to her perfect man was already so painful, she didn’t think she could last much longer. Perhaps she was the one gripping her own soul in her hands and slowly ripping it in half.
He’s not real, she reminded herself. He’s fiction.
