Austenland (16 page)

He kissed her like she knew she was meant to be kissed He smelled of gardens, tricked her brain into believing she was irresistible, and made the idea of 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. Seriously.

Yes, Martin was a schmuck, too. The sheer certainty of that felt invigorating. But really, after all those boyfriends, you’d think she’d have learned that all men are schmucks.

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 get played. Stupid girl. She’d even convinced herself that Mr. Nobley might have been actually fond of her.

“Dream on,” the radio crooned.
“It doesn’t matter how it ended,” she muttered to herself, and realized that it was true. Real or not, Martin had showed her that contented spinsterhood was not an option. And real or not, Mr. Nobley had helped her say no to Mr. Darcy. She leaned her head against the window, watched the countryside go whirling by, and forced herself to smile. Pembrook Park had done its job—it allowed her to live through her romantic purgatory. She believed now in earnest that fantasy is not practice for what is real—fantasy is the opiate of women. And she’d buried her fantasy behind her in the English countryside. Her life now would be open to real possibilities. There was no Mr. Darcy, there was no perfect man. But there might be someone. And she’d be ready.
The flight didn’t leave for another two hours, so she wandered the airport, browsing bookshops and soap boutiques. She bought a best-selling paperback about a giant robot suit, found her gate, and was huddled in a vinyl chair trying to get past the first page when the congested voice of the loudspeaker called, “Miss, uh,
Erstwhile
, please report to the Terminal ~ Customer Service desk. Miss Jane Erstwhile to Customer Service.”
The shock of that name zapped her, static electricity grazing her skin. She closed her book and stood up slowly, fearing to find a camera crew crouched behind her, that she was the victim of reality TV and had been duped not privately but in front of millions of viewers. She swung around, and the airport was full of disinterested bustle. In her present mood (chagrined and zippy mad), it was hard to properly enjoy the relief that came with thinking, “At least I’m not on TV.”
The walk back past security felt impossibly long, the click of her heels much too loud, as though she were all alone and no bodies were present to muffle the sounds of her solitude.
There was Customer Service, a chirpy brunette with a permanent smile behind the desk. And there was someone waiting there, someone dressed in jeans and a sweater, devilishly normal in the twenty-first-century crowd. He saw her, and he straightened, his eyes hopeful. Apparently, Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s barrister hadn’t been in his office to assure her that being a magazine writer doesn’t nullify a confidentiality agreement.
“Jane.”
“Martin. You whistled?” She laid the rancor on thick. No need to tap dance around.
“Jane, I’m sorry. I was going to tell you today. Or tonight. The point is, I was going to tell you, and then we could still see if you and I—”
“You’re an actor,” Jane said as though “actor” and “bastard” were synonymous.
“Yes, but, but....“ He looked around as though for cue cards.
“But you’re desperately in love with me,” she prompted him. “I’m unbelievably beautiful, and I make you feel like yourself. Oh, and I remind you of your sister.”
The chirpy brunette behind the counter furiously refused to look up from her monitor.
“Jane, please.”
‘And the suddenly passionate feelings that sent you running after me at the airport have nothing to do with Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s fear that I’ll write a negative review of Pembrook Park.”
“No! Listen, I know I was a cad, and I lied and was misleading, and I’ve never actually been an NBA fan—go United—but romances have bloomed on stonier ground.” “Romances… stonier ground. . . Did Mrs. Wattlesbrook write that line?”
Martin exhaled in exasperation.
Thinking of Molly’s dead end on the background check, she asked, “Your name’s not really Martin Jasper, is it?”
“Well,” he looked at the brunette as though for help. “Well, it
is
Martin.”
The brunette smiled encouragement.
Then, impossibly, another figure ran toward her. The side-burns and stiff-collared jacket looked ridiculous out of the context of Pembrook Park, though he’d stuck on a baseball cap and trench coat, trying to blend. His face was flushed from running, and when he saw Jane, he sighed with relief.
Jane dropped her jaw. Literally. She had never, even in her most ridiculous daydreaming, imagined that Mr. Nobley would come after her. She took a step back, hit something slick with her boot heel, and tottered almost to the ground. Mr. Nobley caught her and set her back up on her feet.
Is this why women wear heels? thought Jane. We hobble ourselves so we can still be rescued by men?
She annoyed herself by having enjoyed it. Briefly.
“You haven’t left yet,” Nobley said. He seemed reluctant to let go of her, but he did and took a few steps back. “I’ve been panicked that . . .” He saw Martin. “What are you doing here?”
The brunette was watching with hungry intensity, though she kept tapping at a keyboard as though actually very busy at work.
“Jane and I got close these past weeks and—” Martin began.
“
Got close
. That’s a load of duff. It’s one thing when you’re toying with the dowagers who guess what you are, but Jane should be off limits.” He took her arm. “You can’t believe a word he says. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier, but you must know now that he’s an actor.
“I know,” Jane said.
Nobley blinked. “Oh.”
“So, what are
you
doing here?” She couldn’t help it if her tone sounded a little tired. This was becoming farcical.
“I came to tell you that I—” he rushed to speak, then composed himself, looked around, and stepped closer to her so he did not need to raise his voice to be heard. The brunette leaned forward just a tad.
“I apologize for having to tell you here, in this busy, dirty... this is not the scene I would set, but you must know that I . . .” He took off his cap and rubbed his hair ragged. “I’ve been working at Pembrook Park for nearly four years. All the women I see, week after week, they’re the same. Nearly from the first, that morning when we were alone in the park, I guessed that you might be different. You were sincere.”
He reached for her hand. He seemed to gain confidence, his lips started to smile, and he looked at her as though he never wished to look away.
Zing
, she thought, out of habit mostly, because she wasn’t buying any of it.
Martin groaned at the silliness. Nobley immediately stuck his cap back on and stepped back, and he seemed unsure if he’d been too forward, if he should still play by the rules.
“I know you have no reason to believe me, but I wish you would. Last night in the library, I wanted to tell you how I felt. I should have. But I wasn’t sure how you...I let myself speak the same tired sort of proposal I used on everyone. You were right to reject me. It was a proper slap in the face. No one had ever said no before. You made me sit up and think. Well, I didn’t want to think much, at first. But after you left this morning, I asked myself, are you going to let her go just because you met her while acting a part?” Nobley paused as if waiting for the answer.
“Oh, come on, Jane,” Martin said. “You’re not going to buy this from him.”
“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” Jane said. “You . . . you were paid to kiss me! And it was a game, a joke on me, you disgusting lurch. You’ve got no right to call me Jane. I’m Miss Erstwhile to you.”
“Don’t give me that,” Martin said. His patience was fraying. ‘All of Pembrook Park is one big drama, you’d have to be dense not to see that. You were acting too, just like the rest of us, having a fling on holiday, weren’t you? And it’s not as though kissing you was odious.”
“Odious?”
“I’m saying it
wasn’t
.” Martin paused and appeared to be putting back on his romancing-the-woman persona. “I enjoyed it, all of it. Well, except for the root beer. And if you’re going to write that article, you should know that I believe what we had was real.”
The brunette sighed. Jane just rolled her eyes.
“We had something real,” Nobley said, starting to sound a little desperate. “You must have felt it, seeping through the costumes and pretenses.”
The brunette nodded.
“
Seeping through the pretenses
? Listen to him, he’s still acting.” Martin turned to the brunette in search of an ally.
“Do I detect any jealousy there, my flagpole-like friend?” Nobley said. “Still upset that you weren’t cast as a gentleman? You do make a very good gardener.”
Martin took a swing. Nobley ducked and rammed into his body, pushing them both to the ground. The brunette squealed and bounced on the balls of her feet.
“Stop it!” Jane pulled at Nobley, then slipped. He put out an arm and caught her midfall across her middle.
“Here, let me . . .” Nobley tried to give her a hand up and push Martin away at the same time.
“Get off me,” Martin said. “I’ll help her.”
He kicked Nobley in the rear, followed by some swatting of hands. Jane planted her feet, grabbed Nobley’s arm, and pulled him off. Martin was still swiping at Nobley from the ground. Nobley’s cap fell off, then his trench coat twisted up around Martin, who batted at it crazily.
“Cut it out!” Jane said, pushing Nobley back and putting herself between them. She felt more like a teacher stopping a school-boy scuffle than an ingenue with two brawling beaus.
“M-m-martin’s gay!” Nobley said.
“I am not! You’re thinking of Edgar.”
“Who the hell is Edgar?”
“You know, that other gardener who always smells of fish.”
“Oh, right.”
Jane raised her hands in exasperation. “Would you two...
A stuffed-up voice over the PA announced preboarding for Jane’s flight. The brunette made an audible moan of disappointment. Martin struggled to his feet with a hand up from Nobley, and they both stood before Jane, silent, pathetic as wet dogs who want to be let back in the house. She felt very sure of herself just then, tall and sleek and confident.
“Well, they’re playing my song, boys,” she said melodically.
Martin’s tall shoulders slumped as he sulked, and his long feet seemed clownish. Nobley had no trace of a smile now. She looked at them, side by side, two men who’d given her Darcy obsession a really good challenge. They were easily the most scrumptious men of her acquaintance, and she supposed she’d never had so much fun pursuing and being pursued. And she was saying no. To both of them. To all of it. Her skin tingled. It was a perfect moment.
“It’s been a pleasure. Truly.” She started to turn away.
“Jane.” Nobley placed a hand on her shoulder, a desperate kind of bravery overcoming his reserve. He took her hand again. “Jane, please.” He raised her hand to his lips, his eyes down as if afraid of meeting hers. Jane smiled and remembered that he really had been her favorite, all along. She stepped into him, holding both his hands down by her sides, and lightly pressed her cheek against his neck. She could feel him sigh.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Tell Mrs. Wattlesbrook I said tallyho.”
She sauntered away without looking back. She could hear the men calling after her protesting, reaffirming their sincerity. Jane ignored them, smiling all the way back through security, to the gate, down the jetway. Though pure fantasy, it was exactly the finale she’d hoped for.
She liked the way it had ended, had enjoyed her last line.
Tallyho
. What did that mean, anyway? Wasn’t it like,
the hunt is on
, or something? Tallyho. A beginning of something. She was the predator. The fox had been sighted. It was time to run it down.
Okay, Aunt Carolyn, she said in a little prayer. Okay, I’m ready. I’m burying the wishful part of me, the prey part of me. I’m real now.
She snuggled into her seat and stared out the window at the dwarfish people on the tarmac, waving their orange-coned flashlights as though desperate to get her attention. She relaxed, and her mind wanted to puzzle over things. Which parts of Pembrook Park had been real? Any of it? Even herself? The absurdity bubbled up inside her, and she laughed out loud. The woman next to her stiffened as if forcing herself not to look at the crazy person.
“Excuse me.”
The sound of the voice flattened Jane against the back of her seat as though the plane had taken off at a terrifying speed.
It was him. There he was. In the plane. Vest and cravat and jacket and all.
“Holy cow,” she said.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” Nobley said to the woman beside Jane. “My girlfriend and I don’t have tickets together, and I wonder if you would mind switching. I have a lovely seat on the exit row
The woman nodded and smiled sympathetically at Jane as though pondering the sadness of a crazy woman dating a man in Regency clothes.
The man who was Mr. Nobley sat beside her. He lifted his hand to remove his cap, discovered it’d been dislodged during the scuffle with Martin, and then inclined his head just as Mr. Nobley would have.
“How do you do? I’m Henry.”
So he was Henry Jenkins.
“I’m still Jane,” she said. Or, squeaked, rather.
He was trying to fasten his seat belt and his look of confusion was so adorable, she wanted to reach over and help, but that wouldn’t be in keeping with the. . . wait, they were on a plane. There were no more Rules. There was no more game. She felt her hopes rise so that she thought she’d float away before the plane took off, so she pushed her feet flat against the floor. She reminded herself that she was the predator now. Tallyho.
“This is a bit far to go, even for Mrs. Wattlesbrook.”
“She didn’t send me,” said Nobley-Henry. “Not before, not now. I sent myself, or rather I came because I ... I had to try it. Look, I know this is crazy, but the ticket was nonrefundable. Could I at least accompany you home?”
“This is hardly a stroll through the park.”
“I’m tired of parks.”
She noticed that his tone was more casual now. He lost the stilted Regency air, his words relaxed enough to allow contractions—but besides that, so far Henry didn’t seem much different from Mr. Nobley.
He leaned back, as if trying to calm down. “It was a good gig, but the pay wasn’t astronomical, so you can imagine my relief to find you weren’t flying first class. Though I’d prefer a cargo ship, frankly. I hate planes.”
“Mr. Nob—uh, Henry, it’s not too late to get off the plane. I’m not writing an article for the magazine.”
“What magazine?”
“Oh. And I’m not rich.”
“I know Mrs. Wattlesbrook outlines every guest’s financials along with their profiles.”
“Why would you come after me if you knew I wasn’t . . .”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’re irresistible.”
“I am not.”
“I’m not happy about it. You really are the most irritating person I’ve ever met. I’d managed to avoid any women of any temptation whatsoever for four years—a very easy task in Pembrook Park. Things were going splendidly, I was right on track to die alone and unnoticed. And then…”
“You don’t know me! You know Miss Erstwhile, but—”