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“That was pretty good,” Jane said. “You genuinely sounded in pain as you said it, but I think you could add a groan or two.”
Mr. Nobley groaned, though perhaps not as part of the theatrical.
“Perfect!” said Jane.
Mr. Nobley rested his head on his knee and laughed. “I cannot believe I let you railroad me into this. I have always avoided doing a theatrical.”
“Oh, you don’t seem that sorry. I mean, you certainly are sorry, just not regretful . . .”
“Just do your part, please, Miss Erstwhile.”
“Oh, yes, of course, forgive me. I can’t imagine why I’m taking so long, it’s just that there’s something so appealing about you there on the ground, at my feet—”
He tackled her. He actually leaped up, grabbed her around the waist, and pulled her to the ground. She screeched as she thudded down on top of him.
His hands stiffened. “Whoops,” he said.
“You did not just do that.”
He looked around for witnesses. “You are right, I did not just do that. But if I had, I was driven to it; no jury in the world would convict me. We had better keep rehearsing, someone might come by.”
“I would, but you’re still holding me.” His hands were on her waist. They were gorgeous, thick-fingered, large. She liked them there.
“So they are,” he said. Then he looked at her. He breathed in. His forehead tensed as if he were trying to think of words for his thoughts, as if he were engaged in some gorgeous inner battle that was provoked by how perfectly beautiful she was. (That last part was purely Jane’s romantic speculation and can’t be taken as literal.) Nevertheless, they were on the ground, touching, frozen, staring at each other, and even the trees were holding their breath.
“I—” Jane started to say, but Mr. Nobley shook his head.
He apologized and helped her to her feet, then plopped back onto the ground, as his character was still in the throes of death.
“Shall we resume?”
“Right, okay,” she said, shaking gravel from her skirt, “we were near the end . . . Oh, Antonio!” She knelt carefully beside him to keep her skirt from wrinkling and patted his chest. “You are gravely wounded. And groaning so impressively! Let me hold you and you can die in my arms, because traditionally, death and unrequited love are a romantic pairing.”
“Those aren’t the lines,” he said through his teeth, as though an actual audience might overhear their practice.
“They’re better than. It’s hardly Shakespeare.”
“Right. So, your love revives my soul, my wounds heal . . . etcetera, etcetera, and I stand up and we exclaim our love dramatically. I cherish you more than farms love rain, than night loves the moon, and so on . . .”
He pulled her upright and they stood facing each other, her hands in his. Again with the held breaths, the locked gazes. Twice in a row. It was almost too much! And Jane wanted to stay in that moment with him so much, her belly ached with the desire.
“Your hands are cold,” he said, looking at her fingers.
She waited. They had never practiced this part and the flimsy play gave no directions, such as, Kiss the girl, you fool. She leaned in a tiny bit. He warmed her hands.
“So . . .” she said.
“I suppose we know our scene, more or less,” he said.
Was he going to kiss her? No, it seemed nobody ever kissed in Regency England. So what was happening? And what did it mean to fall in love in Austenland anyway? Jane stepped back, the weird anxiety of his nearness suddenly making her heart beat so hard it hurt.
“We
should probably return. Curtain, or bedsheet, I should say, is in two hours.”
“Right. Of course,” he said, though he seemed a little sorry.
The evening had pulled down over them, laying chill like morning dew on her arms, right through her clothes and into her bones. Though she was wearing her wool pelisse, she shivered as they walked back to the house. He gave her his jacket.
