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She stood there after he left, staring into the cavern of her mailbox, cold tingles passing through her body because she’d just had an Emma–loves–Mr. Knightley epiphany experience. She had just realized, “I might be secretly smitten with Jake.”
She did not so much as whisper the idea to her houseplants. Then the week after it had become excruciatingly clear that she and Tad were over, Jane remembered Jake and let herself wish that tragedy might actually be opportunity. She walked down the hall to 302, hope bouncing in her step.
A bed-headed Jake opened the door, squinting.
“Hi, Jake! Hey, it’s a beautiful day, and I was wondering, I noticed that you have Rollerblades, too, and I was wondering ifyou’d like to go to the park, with me, maybe after—”
“You woke me up for this? It’s not even ten in the morning.”
He rubbed his face and appeared to be heading back to bed as he shut the door.
day 20
JANE’S BALL GOWN WAS BRIDAL white. Lace and ruffles, tiny seashells beaded around bodice and hem, a low neck, and cap sleeves. She wore long gloves, her hair up with rosebuds, a string of pearls around her neck, and twenty-first-century makeup products. A maid other than Matilda helped her dress and do her hair, then stood back and said, “Oh, my.”
It was very gratifying.
Jane surveyed the party from the top of the stairs, hoping to hear music before she descended. Gentlemen, most of whom she had never seen before, were in their fine black-and-white attire. Women swirled and laughed, all in white, coming and going between the drawing room and great hall, helping each other pin up their trains for the dance. It reminded Jane of the time she’d used the women’s bathroom at the Mirage in Las Vegas, every inch of mirror jammed with brides in a hurry.
Some of the guests she recognized as servants and gardeners, dressed up for the night as local gentry. Others had that thin college undergrad look, the kind who donate plasma and volunteer for bizarre clinical studies to make a few extra bucks. Others seemed to be actors of the community-theater variety—slick and self-aware, overanimated, their ball gowns wafting a costume-closet scent of mothballs and cloves. But there were at least three women who had that Miss Charming jovial glint, that Miss Heartwright engaging earnestness, or that (did she dare admit it?) Miss Erstwhile bewildered hope. There were other Pembrook Parks, then. Sister estates. Some of the guests were actors, some players. Just who was real in this place, anyway?
Mr. Nobley was walking briskly from one room to the next, his eyes up as though trying to avoid eye contact. He looked scrumptious in his black jacket and white tie. Even better when he saw her and stopped. Really looked. Zing. Hello, Nobley.
“Mr. Nobley!” A stranger woman of retirement age waved a handkerchief gleefully and bustle-jogged toward him. Mr. Nobley fled.
And then, Martin was there, in tails, cravat, and all, and scanning the crowd.
For my face, she thought.
It was Martin’s turn to look up, to see her. His expression was—whoa, she knew now that she was looking pretty good. Others noticed his expression and turned as well. The murmuring hushed and music swirled from the other room. She was Cinderella entering alone. What, no trumpets?
Martin rushed up several steps to escort her down.
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
He took her arm anyway. “That’s a crackin’ dress, Jane. I mean . . . Miss Erstwhile. Might I have the pleasure of obtaining y
our hand for the next two dances?”
Ah, his smell! She was in his room again, static on the TV, a can of root beer so cold it was sweating, his hands touching her face. She wanted him close. She wanted to feel as real as she had those nights. Her sleeves pinched her shoulders, her dress felt heavy in the skirts.
“I can’t, Martin,” she said. “I already promised—”
“Miss Erstwhile.” Mr. Nobley was standing at her elbow. He bowed civilly. “The first dance is beginning, if you care to accompany me.”
Was there a look that passed between the two men? Some heated past? Or would they (wahoo!) have a jealous tussle over Jane’s attentions?
Nope. Mr. Nobley led her away. Martin stayed put, watching her go, something of a puppy dog in his eyes. She tried to say with her own, “I’m sorry I ignored you the night of the theatrical and I understand why you judged me for being the kind of woman to fall in love with this fantasy and I’ll be back and maybe we can talk then or just make out,” though she didn’t know how much of that she actually communicated. Maybe just a part, like “I’m sorry” or “you judged me” or “make out.”
Jane and Mr. Nobley entered the great hall, the ceiling dazzling with thousands of real candles that put fire into the white dresses and cravats. Five musicians were seated on a dais—a cello and two violins (or maybe a viola?), a harpsichord, and some kind of wind instrument. From keys and strings, they coaxed a grand prelude to the minuet. Jane looked at everything, smiling at the amusement park novelty of it all. She looked at Mr. Nobley. He was beaming at her. At last.
“You are stunning,” he said, and every inch of him seemed to swear that it was true.
“Oh,” she said.
He kissed her gloved fingers. He was still smiling. There was something different about him tonight, and she couldn’t place what it was. Some new plot twist, she presumed. She was eager to roll around in all the plot she could on her last night, though once or twice her eyes strayed to spot Martin.
Mr. Nobley stood opposite her in a line of ten men. She watched Amelia and Captain East perform the figures. They held each other’s gazes, they smiled with the elation of new love. All very convincing.
