Austenland (12 page)

She made it downstairs late for lunch and a maid served her cold meats and wellcooked vegetables. The house echoed as though long deserted. She thought of returning to her easel, but she felt unsettled by the expression she’d left in her painting—she feared it was forced assurance, an actor’s eyes. She decided to give both pairs of eyes a break.

She sat in the library, staring at the streaks of water against the window, the book
A Sentimental Journey
half open before her. What do gardeners do in the rain? she wondered.

Mr. Nobley had entered the room before he noticed her. He groaned. “And here you are. Miss Erstwhile. You are infuriating and irritating, and yet I find myself looking for you. I would be grateful if you would send me away and make me swear to never return.”
“You shouldn’t have told me that’s what you want, Mr. Nobley, because now you’re not going to get it.”
“Then I must stay?”
“Unless you want to risk me accusing you of ungentleman-like behavior at dinner, yes, I think you should stay. If I spend too much time alone today, I’m in real danger of doing a convincing impersonation of the madwoman in the attic.
He raised an eyebrow. “And how would that be different from—”
“Sit down, Mr. Nobley,” she said.
He sat in a chair on the opposite side of a small table. The chair creaked as he settled himself. She didn’t look at him, watching instead the rain on the window and the silvery shadows the wet light made of the room. She spent several moments in silence before she realized that it might be awkward, that conversation at such a time was obligatory. Now she could feel his gaze on her face and longed to crack the silence like the spine of a book, but she had nothing to say anymore. She’d lost all her thoughts in paint and rain.
“You are reading Sterne,” he said at last. “May I?”
He gestured to the book, and she handed it to him. Jane was remembering a scene from the film of
Mansfield Park
when suitor Henry Crawford read to Frances O’Connor’s character so sweetly, the sound created a passionate tension, the words themselves becoming his courtship. Jane glanced at Mr. Nobley’s somber face, and away again as his eyes flicked from the page to her.
He began to read from the top. His voice was soft, melodious, strong, a man who could speak in a crowd and have people listen, but also a man who could persuade a child to sleep with a bedtime story.
“The man who first transplanted the grape of Burgundy to the Cape of Good Hope (observe he was a Dutchman) never dreamt of drinking the same wine at the Cape, the same grape produced upon the French mountains—he was too phlegmatic for that—but undoubtedly he expected to drink some sort of vinous liquor; but whether good, bad, or indifferent—he knew enough of this world to know, that it did not depend upon his choice . . .”
Mr. Nobley was trying very hard not to smile. His lips were tight; his voice scraped a couple of times. Jane laughed at him, and then he did smile. It gave her a little
thwack
of pleasure as though someone had flicked a finger against her heart.
“Not very, er . . .“ he said.
“Interesting?”
“I imagine not..”
“But you read it well,” she said.
He raised his brows. “Did I? Well, that is something.”
They sat in silence a few moments, chuckling intermittently.
Mr. Nobley began to read again suddenly, “
Mynheer
might possibly overset both in his new vineyard,” having to stop to laugh again. Aunt Saffronia walked by and peered into the dim room as she passed, her presence reminding Jane that this tryst might be forbidden by the Rules. Mr. Nobley returned to himself.
“Excuse me,” he said, rising. “I have trespassed on you long enough.”

HE TRESPASSED ON HER AGAIN the following afternoon, and Jane found she did not mind whatsoever. Surprising twist, that. The rain had stopped, the sky bashful behind clouds, and at Mr. Nobley’s suggestion, the party went walking the paths, avoiding the sodden lawns.

There was some fumbling of pairs, with Andrews and Charming at the lead, then the Nobley and Heartwright coupling turning into Erstwhile and Heartwright, which became Erstwhile and Nobley, and there the musical partners game ended. Jane glanced over her shoulder and wondered what thrills of pain and hope might be pricking Amelia as she walked with her erroneously jilted love. What fun.

“If it keeps raining all the time,” Miss Charming was saying, “I’ll go crazy. Can’t we do something more than play cards and walk around?”
She squinted at Colonel Andrews to detect if he approved of her suggestion.
“Just so,” he said, and Miss Charming beamed. “I’ve brought the very thing from London, a script from some little play or other called
Home by the Sea
. There are six parts, three pairs of lovers, just right for us, and it will give us something to pass the time before the ball, so let’s rehearse and put it on for Lady Templeton.”
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Charming, clasping her hands at her chest, “jolly good, rather.”
“I’ll bet our Miss Erstwhile would be keen on it as well, right? Miss Heartwright would never disappoint me, I know, and East is a seafaring man—always ready for an adventure. What do
you
say, Nobley?”
Mr. Nobley did not answer immediately. “I think it inappropriate to stage a theatrical in the house of a respectable lady.”
Miss Charming whined.
“Oh, come now, Nobley,” the colonel said.
“I won’t be entreated,” he said.
Jane blew air through her lips like a horse. She’d liked the idea.
“Way to spoil it, Mr. Nobley,” Miss Charming said. “Too bad Sir Templeton isn’t here to play the third fellow. Will he be back soon, do you think, what-what?”
“I think not,” Mr. Nobley said coolly.
“That’s the pits. Hey Jane, what about that guy, I mean, bloke, I saw you talking to once in the garden? Do you think he’d play the part?”
Jane felt her toes go cold. “I don’t know who you mean, Miss Charming.”
“Sure you do, that tall bloke in the garden, one of the servants, maybe. I thought he looked pretty good standing next to you. He’d be better for your partner than Mr. Nobley.”
“M-maybe it was one of the gardeners? I don’t know” Jane peeked at Mr. Nobley’s face. He was staring dead ahead, the shadows under his eyes making him look sleep deprived.
“Never mind,” Miss Charming said, already bored with the idea.
The walkers tried various other topics on for size, but the Weather fit too loosely, Mr. Templeton’s Disappearance was too short, and What Might Be for Dinner pinched a bit tight in the midsection. Then Colonel Andrews hit upon it—the fast-approaching Pembrook Park ball. They discussed the musicians that would be there, the guests arriving from other estates, the food, and the opportunity for romance. Miss Heartwright even put aside her melancholy to confer about gowns.
Jane’s heart beat impatiently. A ball—things happen at a ball. Cinderella happened at a ball. Jane might happen. She felt hopelessly and wonderfully fanciful. The sun on her face, the bonnet ribbon under her chin, a wrap around her arms, and a hattedand sideburned-man at her side, all lent itself to perfect suspension of disbelief.
She was so proud of herself! She really was diving into the world. Looking over Mr. Nobley, she wondered how this would end. It certainly was looking like East and Heartwright might kiss and make up, leaving Jane to Nobley. Or perhaps to no one. The puppet mistress Mrs. Wattlesbrook wouldn’t go to any great lengths to ensure an engagement. And without his boss insisting on it, would Mr. Nobley even bother to woo her? It didn’t seem likely.
Just ahead, the path was drenched in a puddle that could not be bypassed. The men walked through fearlessly. Colonel Andrews took Miss Charming’s hand and helped her step across. Mr. Nobley placed his hands around Jane’s waist and lifted her over. As he set her down, their bodies were much nearer than was seemly in the early nineteenth century. They held still for a breath, their faces close together. He smelled good enough to kiss. Her thoughts raged—I hate him and he hates me. It’s perfect! Isn’t it? Of course, he isn’t real. Wait, am I supposed to be falling for someone or avoiding it? What was it again, Aunt Caroline?
He was the first to step back. She turned away, and there was Martin. She’d forgotten Martin. Off and on, she realized now, she’d been forgetting the entire real world in order to let herself sink into the fantasy.
He was on his knees among some rosebushes. His face was shaded by his cap, but she could feel his eyes on her. As the party started to walk again, Martin rose and removed his cap as though the walkers were a funeral barge. None of the others seemed to notice his presence, and they disappeared into the full trees that leaned over the path.
Martin took a step forward. “Jane, can we talk?”
She realized that she was still standing there, staring at him, as though begging to be rejected again. She started to walk away. “Martin, no, I can’t. They’re waiting for me, they’ll see.”
“Then meet me later.”
“No, I’m done playing around.” She left him, that awkward line buzzing around her head like a pesky insect. And Jane thought, Done playing around, she says, as though she’s not wearing a bonnet and bloomers.
Then she saw that Mr. Nobley had stopped to wait for her. His eyes were angry, but they weren’t on her. She looked back. Martin had lowered his hat and thrust his hands back into the upturned earth.
Her heart was teeter-tottering precariously, and she almost put out her arms to balance herself. She didn’t like to see them together, Martin, the luscious man who’d made her laugh and kept her standing on real earth, and Mr. Nobley, who had begun to make the fake world feel as comfortable as her own bed. She stood on the curve of the path, her feet hesitating where to go.
Then, the light became perfect.
After Jane’s LASIK eye surgery, her perception of light had changed. In too bright light, she saw burned spots on her retina like one-celled creatures seen through a microscope; in high contrasts of bright and dark, both blurred together, the glow of car headlights bleeding into the night. But there was a certain kind of light that made the whole world 20/20—late afternoon when the sun is on a slant, pushing through the world instead of down on it. Just now, everything was distinct. Above her, all the leaves ringing like bells were individuals with cracks and curls, veins and prickly tips. Below, every blade of grass stood up in its own shadow, sharp and hotly green.
And she saw Mr. Nobley clearly. The thin wrinkles just beginning at the corners of his eyes, the whiskers on his chin darkening already after his morning shave, the hint of lines around his mouth that suggested he might smile more in real life. He had the kind of face you wanted to kiss—lips, forehead, cheeks, eyelids, everywhere except his chin. That you wanted to bite.
Jane thought: I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.
Miss Erstwhile thought: My, what a catch. How the society page would rant!
“I think you should stay away from him, Miss Erstwhile.” Mr. Nobley turned his back on Martin and took her arm, returning her to the path.
“I don’t know why you care, sir,” she said, doing her best to sound Austen-y, “but I certainly will, if you’ll do me a favor. Perform in the theatrical.”
“Miss Erstwhile . .
“Oh, come on! It will please me to no end to see you so uncomfortable. You’re not afraid, are you? You seem so stuck on being proper all the time, but there can’t be anything really wrong in doing a little theatrical. This is, after all, the nineteenth century. So perhaps your protests stem from your fear of appearing the fool?”
“You accuse me of vanity. It may be that the enterprise simply does not seem to me amusing. And yet in part you are right. I am not much of an actor.”
“Aren’t you?” She looked at him meaningfully.
He flinched and recovered. “My true concerns, however, are in regards to the delicate sentiments of our good hostess.”
“And if we propose the recreation to her and she approves, will you participate?”
“Yes, I suppose I must.” He tightened his lips, in annoyance or against a smile, she wasn’t sure. “You are infuriatingly persistent, Miss Erstwhile.”
“And you, Mr. Nobley, are annoyingly stubborn. Together we must be Impertinence and Inflexibility.”
“That was clever.
“Was it? Thanks, it just came to me.
“No forethought?”
“Not a lick.”
“Hm, impressive.”
Jane jabbed him with her elbow.
When they caught up to the rest of the party, Miss Charming was engaging Colonel Andrews in a discussion on the “relative ickiness of tea” and Captain East and Amelia were either walking in silence or whispering their hearts’ secrets.
“We’re going to do the theatrical,” Jane announced to the others. “Mr. Nobley is clay in my hands.”

Still not over boyfriend #9 and humiliated by #10, Jane declared she would shed her victimhood and become the elusive predator—fierce, independent, solitary! . . . except there was this guy at work, Clark. He’d make her laugh during company meetings, he’d share his fries with her at lunch, declaring that she needed fattening up. He was in layout at the magazine, and she’d go to his cubicle and sit on the edge of his desk, chatting for longer than made her manager comfortable. He was a few years younger than her, so it seemed innocent somehow. When he asked her out at last, despite the dark stickiness of foreboding, she didn’t turn him down.

He cooked her dinner at his place and was goofy and tender, nuzzling her neck and making puppy noises. They started to kiss on the couch, and it was nice for approximately sixty seconds until his hand started hunting for her bra hooks. In the front. It was so not Mr. Darcy. “Whoa, there, cowboy, “she said, but he was “in the groove and had to be told to stop three or four times before he finally pried his fingers off her breasts and stood up, rubbing his eyes.

“What’s the problem, honey?” he asked, his voice stumbling on that last word.
She said he was moving too fast, and he said, then what in the hell had they been building up to over the past six months?
Jane sized up the situation to her own satisfaction: “You are no gentleman.”
Then Clark summed up in his own special way: “Hasta la vista, baby.”

AUNT SAFFRONIA, OF COURSE, DID not mind, and rehearsals began. It was a sentimental romance that even Jane in her present state of extreme openmind/heartedness could not “ooh” at. But it made for several amusing days. She painted in the mornings and felt that artist instinct begin to yawn again inside her. In the afternoons she rehearsed with Mr. Nobley in the library, pacing outside under the apple trees (she didn’t see Martin), or in the north drawing room with the others, wrapping themselves in fabric that was meant to suggest Roman togas.