“He’s a gardener,” Jane said slowly.
“Yes, but the servants are always prepared for an unexpected romance. We have discovered that not all our guests are able to relax and forget themselves enough to fall in love with the key actors, and so we have contingency plans. Besides, many women like to, how would you say, go slumming?”
Jane found herself blinking a lot and opening and closing her mouth. Her chest felt battered and tight as though she’d had the wind knocked out of her.
“He reported to me regularly,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook continued. “We knew of your fascination with basketball and the New York Knickerbockers, and the rest was easy. I felt it best to pair you with someone outside of the house. Given your background, I wasn’t sure I could trust you to maintain the Experience, and the more you were absent, the more Miss Heartwright and Miss Charming could settle in. I advised you patience, did I not? I took care of you, and in the end you had your romance. You are not the first to fall for Martin. He is very good.”
“Yes. Yes he is.”
“We do not run a brothel here, miss, and I will have you know we would never let it gothatfar. I had to pull the plug on you two when Martin said things were spicing up, hm?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook smiled, and her eyes twinkled as if attempting to convey what a good sport she could be. “I wanted to make sure you knew that even though you are not our IdealGuest, we still made every arrangement possible for your comfort and entertainment, Miss Erstwhile.”
“My name is Jane Hayes.”
“There is a car waiting to take you to the airport, Jane Hayes. I trust you are ready to get on your way.”
“I certainly am.”
“I hope I have not upset you,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said with an innocent smile. “You must have known that everyone is playing a part. I pride myself on matching each client with her perfect gentleman. But one cannot anticipate a woman’s every fancy, and so our talent pool runs deep.”
“Very deep indeed.” Jane felt like a woman drowning, and she grasped for anything. And as it turned out, bald-faced lies are, temporarily anyway, impressively buoyant, so she said, “It will make the ending to my book all the more interesting.”
“Your . . . your book?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook peered over her spectacles as if at a bug she would like to squash.
“Mm-hm,” said Jane, lying extravagantly, outrageously, but also, she hoped, gracefully. “Surely you know I work for a publisher? The editor thought the story of my experience at Pembrook Park would be the perfect addition to a book we’re creating about predatory resorts who lure in the wealthy and desperate.”
She had no intention of becoming a writer, but she had to give Mrs. Wattlesbrook a good jab before departure. She was smarting enough to crave the reprieve that comes from fighting back.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook twitched. That was satisfying.
“And I’m sure you realize that since my contract for the book precedes any paperwork I signed here,” Jane said, “legally it supersedes your confidentiality agreement.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s right eyebrow spasmed. Jane guessed that behind it ran her barrister’s phone number, which she would dial ASAP. Jane, of course, had been lying again. And wasn’t it fun!
Mrs. Wattlesbrook appeared to be trying to moisten her mouth and failing. “I did not know . . . I would have . . .”
“But you didn’t. My late arrival, the phone scandal, and then throwing me to Martin . . . You assumed that I was no one of influence. I guess I’m not. But I wonder how many of our readers are in your preferred tax bracket? Given everything, and especially what happened with Sir John, I’m afraid my chapter on Pembrook Park won’t be glowing.”
Jane curtsied in her jeans and left.
Martin of Sheffield, age twenty-nine
He kissed her like she knew she was meant to be kissed, tricked her brain into believing she was irresistible, and made falling in love seem possible again.
But really he was an actor posing as a gardener, who posed as a gentleman during balls in an Austenland estate where she’d gone to find out if she could let her fantasy of Mr. Darcy die at last.
Also, he turned out to be a real a-hole.
Day 13, Continued
The drive to the airport felt eternal. Jane listened to a rock playlist on her headphones and tried hard to convert her sadness into a nice, proactive anger.
“You vexing, contemptible worm,” she muttered. It was at herself.
Yes, Martin was a worm too. The sheer certainty of that felt invigorating. But really, after all those boyfriends and pseudoboyfriends, she was surprised she still had to learn anew that most nonfictional men were some variety of worm, be they vexing, contemptible, lying, self-interested, callous, despicable, or all of the above.
It didn’t help her humiliation much that she’d had no illusions about Martin. She knew that he’d just been a fling, motivated by her desperation to feel like a genuine woman amid the pageantry. But then she went and let herself getplayed like a gullible bumpkin. She’d even convinced herself that Mr. Nobley might have been actually fond of her.
“Dream on,” a song crooned.
