Day 13. Departure
“Thirteen days,” said Jane. “I thought a fortnight was fourteen.”
“It is. But I deemed it best to have you arrive a day later than my other guest to allow her a chance to settle in.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook made a show of sorting through Jane’s papers, humming theatrically, and then looked up, half her eyes hidden under the flap of her cap. “I know why you are here.”
She knew!
“We receive extensive financial statements, and I know you did not pay your own way, so let us put that drama out of the way, shall we?”
“Is it a drama?” Jane said with a laugh, relieved the woman was just referring to Carolyn’s bequest.
“Hm?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook would not budge from her intended course of conversation. Jane sighed.
“Yes, my great-aunt left me this vacation in her will, but I don’t know what you mean bydrama. I never intended to hide—”
“No need to make a fuss.” She waved her arms as if wafting Jane’s exclamations out the window like a foul odor. “You are here, you are paid in full. I would not have you worry that we will not take care of you just because you are not our usual type of guest and there is no chance, given your economic conditions, that you would ever be a repeat client or likely to associate with and recommend us to potential clients. Let me assure you that we will still do all in our power to make your visit, such as it is, enjoyable.”
Mrs. Wattlesbrook smiled, showing an uncomfortable row of tea-stained teeth. Jane blinked. Economic conditions? Usual type of guest? She made herself take a deep-rooted yoga breath, thought of men in breeches, and replied, “Okay then.”
“Good, good.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook patted Jane’s arm, suddenly the picture of hospitality and maternal tenderness. “Now, do have some tea. You must be quite chilled from your journey.”
The temperature of the car, unlike this pseudo-inn, had been quite comfortable. In the blazing heat from the hearth, the last thing Jane wanted was hot tea, but she reminded herself to play along, so she sweated and drank.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook settled down to quiz her on the rules of whist and speculation, general etiquette, current events of the Regency period, and so on. Jane answered like a nervous teenager giving an oral report.
And then off to the wardrobe, where she put on a calf-length, nightgown-like chemise and over it tried on a series of wrap-around corsets that squeezed her middle and pushed her boobs up. This exercise made swimsuit shopping seem like a walk in the park.
“I’ll just keep these for you until your return,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, picking up Jane’s purple bra and panties with two fingers like something she intended to flush down a toilet. A silent maid handed Jane an awkward pair of long, white cotton drawers. To properly enjoy “the Experience,” Jane was to understand, even the underwear must be Regency. A lot, apparently, must be sacrificed to fully benefit from the Experience, except makeup. Pembrook Park, Jane was realizing, was absolutely, 100 percent devoted to true historical accuracy . . . except when it wasn’t.
The maid opened a wardrobe and revealed that Jane’s measurements had been transformed into four day dresses, three evening dresses, a ball gown in white and lace, two short “spencer” jackets, a brown fitted overcoat called apelisse, two bonnets, a bright red shawl, and a pile of chemises, drawers, stockings, boots, and slippers.
“Wow. I mean, wow,” was all Jane could say. Unexpected joy burst in her middle and was spreading outward. “They’re all for me?”
“For youruse, yes,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said, reentering, “though not to keep, mind. Your great-aunt’s payment did not cover wardrobe souvenirs.” She extracted a gray silk dresswith gathered neckline from Jane’s eager fingers and packed it tenderly into her trunk. “That is an evening dress. You should wear a day dress now, the pink one there.”
In pink, Jane resembled a premature piglet. She took the blue one off its hook, ignoring Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s offended sniff.
In a few minutes, the dressing-of-Jane was complete: stockings fastened to thighs with garters, black ankle boots, blue print day dress trimmed in dark blue ribbon with elbow-length sleeves, and there she was. She stood sideways, looked in the mirror, and experienced a silly, naughty feeling, like she hadn’t had since the sinful pleasure of playing Barbie dolls with her younger cousin when she was twelve and should’ve been too old. Here she was, a grown woman playing dress-up, and it felt so good.
“And there she is,” Jane whispered.
While the maid’s back was turned, Jane hid her phone in the bottom of the trunk. She’d already gone to the trouble to set up international service with her provider because it would be unbearable to be without any real-world contact for two weeks. Besides, it gave her a little glee to sneak something illegal across the border. She wasn’t the usual type of client, was she? Then she certainly wouldn’t try to act like it.
That evening, Jane dined with Mrs. Wattlesbrook and practiced manners during the longest meal she had endured since attending the eighth annual Researchers for a Better Paper Pulp banquet with boyfriend #14 (keynote address: “The Climax and the Downfall of the Wood Chip”).
“When eating fish, use your fork in your right hand and a piece of bread in your left. Just so. No knives with fish or fruit, because the knives are silver and the acids in those foodstarnish. Remember, you must never talk to the servants during dinner. Don’t mention them, don’t make eye contact. Think of it as demeaning to them, if you must, but find a way to obey this society’s rules, Miss Erstwhile. It is the only way to truly appreciate the Experience. I need not remind you again of proper behavior with regard to the opposite sex. You are a young, single woman and should never be unchaperoned with a gentleman behind closed doors and only out-of-doors so long as you are in motion—riding, walking, or in a carriage, that is. No touching, besides the necessary social graces, such as taking a man’s hand as he helps you down from a carriage or his arm as he escorts you into dinner. No familiar talk, no intimate questions. I am to understand from past clients that when simulated romantic experiences bloom under the tension of these restrictions, it is all the more diverting.”
After dinner, Mrs. Wattlesbrook led Jane into the main room of the inn, where an older woman in a brown Regency dress waited at the upright piano.
“As you will have opportunity to participate in informal dances and attend a ball, you must perfect a minuet and two country dances. Ah, here is Theodore. Entrez.”
Theodore appeared to be in his late twenties. He wore his hair a little long, though he didn’t sport the mid-jaw sideburns of the men in Austen movies, and he was, she thought, taller than a man should be if he doesn’t play basketball. Jane caught a glimpse of a worn paperback novel in his hand before he stashed it behind the piano.
“Theodore is just an under-gardener at the estate, but I’ve taught him the dances, and he stands in for a gentleman on the first night so our guests can practice.”
She put out her hand. “Hi, I’m Jane.”
“No, you are not!” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook. “You are Miss Erstwhile. And you are not to talk to him, he is just a servant. For the sake of the Experience, we must be proper.”
