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“Not come back? Your husband put up a squeal about the price, did he? Well, you just steamroll over his protests. Those men want pretty wives but aren’t willing to put up the cash to make us happy. Tell him to talk to my therapist if he needs convincing. Or my lawyer. I’ll give you their cards.”
Jane shifted a bit to her right, feeling as though she were cuddled up to a stranger. She noticed for the first time Amelia’s roots dark with three weeks’ growth. “Actually, I’m not—”
“Did you see my face when Captain East first arrived? What a thrill! Honestly, I didn’t know that they’d bring back the same actor for me. This year I asked to stay in the cottage because last year the other women at the big house were so annoying, but I was getting bored until George showed up. Uhh, he’s such a hunk. A locked hotel room with him spread out on the bed is almost worth the alimony risk, if you know what I mean. Wattlesbrook can bring him back next time and I’d be hap-hap-happy. But if not, no big deal. He and Miss Heartwright are already engaged, and that’s the fun part. I might like to try someone new next year and alter my character, become a bit more Elizabeth Bennet-y. You ended up with Nobley, didn’t you? Is he a good kisser? He seemed tedious to me, but he did a good job of being into you. It was Nobley who asked me to pretend your cell phone was mine, you know. He said Wattlesbrook would send you home, asked me to do it as a favor. He was in my cast last year, too, and we nearly had a romance until George East swept me up. It was ill-fated at the time, of course, but that’s half the fun. Ah, here we are! Such a tragedy when the vacation ends, but frankly, I’m dying for a massage.”
While Amelia sprang out of the carriage and into the White Stag/Donkey, Jane sat a moment longer. The carriage still seemed to rock, but Jane was the one reeling. So, Amelia had been another Miss Charming in disguise. Surely the actors thought Jane was the same as all the women visitors. And it’d been Mr. Nobley who’d saved her from expulsion. And . . . and . . . and it was over. Time to get out of the carriage and into her own clothes, meet up with Martin (hooray!), and be herself again. No more Mr. Darcy. Old Jane dead; new, confident, vibrant Jane rising from the oyster shell.
She sat in the inn’s main room while Mrs. Wattlesbrook and Amelia had their last-day-of-school chat. Her bag was packed, all remnants of Miss Erstwhile were hanging back in the wardrobe. The old Jane would’ve stashed her ball gown, secretly imagining it could be her wedding dress if she married Martin. But the new Jane was set on just enjoying the early part and the memory of last night’s kissing. The new Jane was still as self-possessed as she had allowed herself to be when she was Miss Erstwhile. It felt strange—and wonderful.
She was feeling sassy in her old street clothes, freshly laundered, bra and panties replacing corset and drawers. Jeans felt wicked to her, tight and strange, and yet so comfortable she hugged her knees to her chest. Wearing her own clothes gave her an eerie feeling, like the occasional moment when she glanced at herself in a mirror and had that frightening thrill of unrecognition. Is that who I am? That woman in the photographs, that’s me?
And now, Who have I been for the last three weeks? Who am I now?
She looked around the room, remembering her first day when she’d danced the minuet there with Martin, how awkward and schoolgirlish she’d felt, how eager and afraid. She scarcely felt like the same woman anymore.
“Jane! Jane!” Amelia strode out of Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s office and took Jane by the arms. “She told me of your financial situation . . . I’m so sorry! I didn’t know.” She embraced her and said quietly in her ear, “You hold on to your dreams, sweetie, you hear me?”
“I’ll do that,” Jane said, not caring to reveal that she’d come here to let her dreams go. She’d turned Mr. Nobley down, her trial in Austenland was over, and she was going home cleansed of entrapping fantasies.
Jane waited in Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s office as the proprietress gushed farewells to her favorite Repeat Client. After Amelia (or “Barbara,” as it turned out) was on her way, Mrs. Wattlesbrook brought in tea, and with undisguised disinterest, plied Jane with a satisfaction survey.
“And I trust you discovered a rewarding romance with one of the gentlemen?”
“Actually, there was someone, but, no, not one of the actors.”
“Oh, well, of course you know that Martin is one of our own,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said.
What?
Clink as teacup was carefully replaced on its saucer.
“He’s your gardener,” Jane said slowly.
“Yes, but the servants are always prepared for an unexpected romance. We have discovered that not all our guests are able to relax and forget themselves enough to fall in love with the key actors, and so we have contingency plans. Besides, many women like to, how would you say, go slumming?”
Jane found herself blinking a lot and opening and closing her mouth. She felt as though she’d had the wind knocked out of her.
“Are you serious?”
“Oh, yes, he reported to me regularly. We knew of your fascination with basketball and the New York Knickerbockers, and the rest was easy.”
“You are serious.”
“You are not the first to fall for Martin,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said. “He is very good.”
“Yes. Yes he is.”
“We do not run a brothel here, miss, and I will have you know we would never let it go that far. I had to pull the plug on you two when Martin said things were spicing up, hm?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook smiled, and her eyes twinkled as if she enjoyed this part very much. “I wanted to make sure you knew that even though you are not our Ideal Client, we still made every arrangement possible for your comfort and entertainment, Miss Erstwhile.”
“My name is Jane Hayes.”
“There is a car waiting to take you to the airport, Jane Hayes. I trust you are ready to get on your way.”
“I certainly am.”
“I hope I have not upset you,” Mrs. Wattlesbrook said with an innocent smile. “I pride myself on matching each client with her perfect gentleman. But one cannot anticipate a woman’s every fancy, and so our talent pool runs deep. You understand?”
“Very deep indeed.” Jane felt like a woman drowning, and she grasped for anything. And as it turned out, bald-faced lies are, temporarily anyway, impressively buoyant, so she said, “It will make the ending to my article all the more interesting.”
