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“Yes, of course. Quite, quite.”
“So, uh, do you shoot much?”
“Shoot what?”
“Birds?”
“Birds? Are you chirping about birds? Miss Erstwhile?”
Aunt Saffronia wasn’t as quick as usual in detecting uncomfortable situations. She sat by a lamp, an open book on her lap and a glazed expression in her eyes. It made Jane wonder how many breaks the poor woman got. The men were often off doing man things, but Aunt Saffronia always had to be on.
“Aunt Saffronia.” Jane sat beside her so the others wouldn’t hear. “Can I persuade you to retire early? You do so much for all of us, all day long. I don’t think anyone would deny you a little rest.”
Aunt Saffronia smiled and patted her cheek. “I think I may, just this once. If you promise not to tell.”
It was gratifying to see the woman go get some me-time, but of course it meant Jane was left alone on the sofa with Sir John and the sloshing noise of his cud. She sat straight in her corset, shut her eyes, and tried to drown out the sticky sound by concentrating on the voices in conversation at the card table.
Miss Charming: “Crikey, Mr. Nobley, but that was a barmy play!”
Mr. Nobley: “I beg apology, Miss Charming.”
Miss Charming: “Apology? Don’t you know that means it was good? Right smashing?”
Mr. Nobley: “As you say.”
Colonel Andrews: “You must take care with Miss Charming, Nobley. She is a sharp one. I wager she could teach you all sorts of things.”
Miss Charming (giggling): “Why, Colonel Andrews, whatever do you mean?”
And whenever the speed of conversation slowed a tad, Miss Heartwright wa
s there to buoy it back up.
“Oh, good play, colonel! I didn’t see that one. Well done, Mr. Nobley. You have a fine hand, I wager. Valiantly played, Miss Charming, and what lovely skin you possess.”
Miss Heartwright wasn’t just nice. Oh no. She was astonishingly engaging. Even Mr. Nobley seemed more responsive than normal. He still hadn’t spoken with Jane since she broke character, and she watched him now, wondering if he’d tell Mrs. Wattles-brook how her break muddied up the Experience. He glanced at her once or twice. That was all.
Meanwhile, Miss Heartwright continued to effuse.
The room had begun to seem unnaturally crowded, the lamps too bright but the light they made too dim. Jane caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, propped up in that ridiculous dress, gawky and silly, a clump of brown bun and curls pinned to her head. Just the sight was enough to tip her back again.
“What a crackpot,” she whispered to herself. In all the years Jane had fantasized about an Austenland, she never considered how, once inside its borders, she would feel like an outsider.
When Sir John started to snore and no one was paying her any mind, she stuck her theoretical pillowcase under her chair and slipped out.
She should’ve gone to her chambers. There was that Regency rule that single women weren’t supposed to walk out alone except in the morning, but Jane had a headache, and nothing goes worse with a headache than rules.
The night air sloshed on her bare skin and nudged her into shivering. Jane rubbed her arms and imagined Mrs. Wattles-brook’s voice crying out in Obi-Wan Kenobi tones: “Remember to wear a wrap and bonnet when you go out!” She half hoped that the old woman would find her now and just send her home and get it over with. But she was alone.
She wandered the garden path (so as not to get grass stains on her hem), and gave up a halfhearted hope that Colonel Andrews would come looking for her. Without hope, it was impossible to fantasize. That was her problem, Jane decided—she’d always lugged around an excess of hope. If only she were more of a pessimist, she wouldn’t have to grapple with these impossible whimsies and wouldn’t be here now, forlorn and pathetic in make-believe England.
She wound around with the path until she approached the smaller second building that housed the servants. A first-story window flickered with the unmistakable bluish light of a television set, and it drew her nearer, a moth to flame. She could hear an announcer burble “New York Knicks” and “Pacers,” though she couldn’t make out any details. The real, gritty, urban, twenty-first-century clamor of U.S. basketball sounded as good to her as chocolate soup.
That’s right—she remembered now that those teams were opening the NBA season in a game on October 30, which meant if someone was watching it tonight in England they must have played yesterday in New York, making today— “Halloween,” she said aloud. “How appropriate.”
The cold and the dark night rubbed against the blue light and the sound of the game, and the thought of going back alone to bed or returning to watch the whist game made her want to scream. She stepped up to the door and knocked.
The television voice cut off, replaced by the sound of pattering activity. “Just a moment,” said a male voice.
