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She found herself thinking, I wonder if he thinks I’m pretty? Then thought, don’t be silly, it’s all an act. Then thought, What fun!
“And you gentlemen already have made the acquaintance of Miss Charming.”
“Indeed,” said Colonel Andrews, bowing again.
“You boys know you can call me Lizzy.”
Jane glanced at Aunt Saffronia, wondering what would happen to this request. According to the Rules, it was completely improper for a man to call a woman by her first name unless they were engaged. Before Aunt Saffronia could speak or Mrs. Wattlesbrook magically appear with a disapproving look, Colonel Andrews came to the rescue.
“I would never dream of doing you such a dishonor, Miss Charming.” His voice drew out all the allure in her name, and he smiled with a sly, teasing expression.
Miss Charming giggled. “Tallyho.”
Oh no, thought Jane as she watched the exchange, panic tickling her heart. Oh no, oh no, they’ll assume I’m a Miss Charming. I don’t want to be a Miss Charming!
She tried to catch Mr. Nobley’s eye and somehow smile or wink or do anything to indicate that she would never say “tallyho.” He didn’t look away from the window, and after a few moments, Jane had cause to be relieved. In a burst of panic, she had actually been ready to wink at him. Yikes.
The dinner bell rang. Sir John, who had been slouching in a chair, roused at the sound and offered his arm to Miss Charming. He patted her hand and grumbled in a too-loud voice, “Let us hope there are enough game birds tonight. My stomach is not up to much boiled mutton, what.”
Aunt Saffronia took Mr. Nobley’s arm, leaving Jane and the colonel at the tail end of the parade from drawing room to dining room. The precedence told Jane two things: Mr. Nobley must be very rich and well connected to outrank an earl’s second son, and she was the lowest-ranking woman. She supposed that was no surprise, considering she was not their “usual type of guest.”
They ate pigeon soup with lemons and asparagus, then heaped their own plates in self-service Regency style with fish and grouse, cooked celery and cucumbers. A cup of something like creamy applesauce served as dessert, and the wine was exchanged for Madeira. The food was pretty good, though a bit bland. When would Indian food arrive in England to spice things up? Jane thought she could go for a decent curry.
Aunt Saffronia kept the conversation flowing about the weather, the state of pheasants in the park this year, and the doings of mythic acquaintances in the city. Jane did not speak much during dinner, still oppressed with jet lag and curious to observe before opening her mouth and proving herself a fool. Mr. Nobley, too, barely spoke. Not that Miss Charming at his side didn’t do her best.
“What do you think of me dress, Mr. Nobley?”
“It is very nice.”
“Do you like the fish?”
“Yes, it is a good fish.”
“Do I have something in my eye?” This spoken while twisting toward him, her amazing bosom pressing against his shoulder.
No way Mrs. Wattlesbrook could find a corset to fit that, Jane thought.
“ I . . . I am afraid I cannot see well in this low light,” Mr. Nobley said without really looking.
Miss Charming giggled. “You’re quite a bloke, Mr. Nobley. Rather!”
After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing room while the men stayed in the dining room to pass around snuff and port, which activities the Rules forbade them from doing in front of women. Aunt Saffronia sat between one real and one electric kerosene lamp, embroidering and chattering about the gentlemen, while Miss Charming paced the drawing room floor.
“The colonel is all kindness, is he not, Miss Charming? He has such a sad reputation in the city, I have heard, for carousing and card playing and the like, but I say, what else is a young, unattached man to do with the war over, thanks be, and he the younger son with no title to claim him? A small mercy his mother is not alive to see how he’s turned out, rest her. Now Mr. Nobley, of course, is most respectable, perhaps too respectable, what do you say, Jane? No title, but an old, solid family name and wonderful lands. He will be a steadying influence on the colonel, a solid oar for a dinghy. He has such high connections and such a dignified bearing, though I tease him that he seems a bit stiff—”
“Do they really have to drink port alone?” Miss Charming asked, pacing at double speed. “Can’t they come any faster?”
“Ah, here they are,” Aunt Saffronia said.
Jane smelled a mild waft of alcohol and tobacco sweep before them, and the gentlemen emerged triumphant—shiny colonel, glowering gentleman, soggy husband.
Aunt Saffronia proposed a rousing game of whist to pass the evening. Miss Charming, seemingly bored of trying to seduce the Darcy out of Mr. Nobley, secured Colonel Andrews as a partner. Jane played opposite Aunt Saffronia. As for the rest of the party, Sir John drank from a crystal decanter (probably full of cherry Kool-Aid, Jane guessed), while Mr. Nobley read a book and generally ignored everybody.
Jane focused on the rules of whist, losing horribly. She felt like hand-washed laundry, rubbed and heavy and ready to be laid out to dry. Her routine-addicted brain never handled time changes well, and the cards and conversation and exhaustion melted together, making her dizzy. She looked up to ground herself in her surroundings.
Mr. Nobley was absorbed in his book. She looked left. Colonel Andrews was grinning at her, his smile conscious of just how smoking hot he really was. All around her were yellow walls, gaudy Georgian finery, the deliciously historic smell of furniture wax and kerosene. She looked down at herself, dressed in foreign fabric, cleavage encased in rust-colored satin, slippered feet resting on an Oriental rug. She was completely ridiculous. At the same time, she wanted to stomp the ground and squeal like a teenager just asked to prom. She was here!
And if this were an Austen novel, the characters would be up for a little banter about now. Jane cleared her throat.
