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“There’s something about those stories. That’s where I want to be right now. Even if just for a minute, to be there would be so nice.”
Sunny’s keyboard stopped clicking.
“Charlotte, hang on a sec, okay?”
Hold music. Disco. Charlotte’s toes tapped along. Charlotte’s toes loved disco.
The phone clicked and a new voice spoke—deeper, velvety.
“Ms. Kinder, this is Noel Hess, owner of Endless Summers. Sunny told me of your desire for an Austen vacation. I have a suggestion for you—one we reserve for our exclusive clientele.”
Charlotte listened. Charlotte swallowed. Charlotte rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. This Austen vacation would cost four times what she’d thought she’d spend. But Charlotte was breathless. She felt as if she were Ponce de León being guided to the fountain of youth and invited to dip in his toes. Surely Ponce de León would have preferred full immersion, but, hey, immortal toes are better than nothing. Even if they love disco.
The travel agent overnighted a glossy pamphlet emblazoned with a grand estate, a man and woman in Austen-era clothing walking arm in arm. It wasn’t a drawing. It was a photo of an actual, brick-and-mortar, flesh-and-blood venue.
Charlotte opened the pamphlet and read the scripty font:
Pembrook Park, Kent, England. Enter our doors as a houseguest come to stay two weeks, enjoying the country manners and hospitality—a tea visit, a dance or two, a turn in the park, an unexpected meeting with a certain gentleman, all culminating with a ball and perhaps something more …
Charlotte closed her eyes and clutched the pamphlet. Lately the nonfictional world had been thin and drab. But in Austenland, life could be lived in full color. It was real! Well, real-ish. If she went, would the dead and frozen part of herself revive? Austen’s words had started the thawing process. Imagine what could happen if Charlotte could actually step inside the story.
Everything was about to change.
Austenland, Day 1
An Aston Martin, complete with hatted and jacketed driver, picked her up at her London hotel. She’d been in the city for a week, ostensibly to start her vacation early, though she spent most of her time working on her laptop. Why relax and think when there was wonderful, numbing work at hand?
She’d been to England once before, while touring Europe after college with a backpack, a rail pass, and a “best friend” who’d ditched her in Vienna for a guy from Albania. She’d had no romantic notions of England then, her experience mostly revolving around the question “Will it rain before I can book it to the next hostel?”
Now she looked over the landscape with expectation. With hope.
Come on, she willed through the car window. Come on, change me. I dare you.
They entered a drowsy countryside of low green hills and hedged pastures. Trees engulfed any sight of the nearby town, and a building styled as an inn came into view. A woman of sixty waited in the threshold. She wore an Empire-waist dress, a lacy cap over her hair, and a smile that seemed to pinch a bit. Charlotte wanted to pat her on the back and say, Don’t worry, you don’t have to smile on my account.
“Welcome to 1816,” the woman said as Charlotte stepped out of the car. “I am Mrs. Wattlesbrook, proprietress of Pembrook Park and your hostess for the next two weeks. Please come in.”
The inn was cozy and quaint, with a fire in the fireplace, a table set for tea.
“Have a seat and refresh yourself while we get acquainted,” said Mrs. Wattlesbrook.
“Would it be all right if I changed first?” It was weird standing there in jeans beside Mrs. Wattlesbrook in her old-timey attire, like being the only person at a dance who’d worn a costume. (Tenth grade: Charlotte went as a disco queen.)
Mrs. Wattlesbrook sniffed but escorted her to an upper room, where an ancient maid awaited. A full forty-five minutes later, Charlotte was dressed: socks, garters, boots, bloomers, chemise, corset, dress. The maid scooped Charlotte’s shoulder-length hair into a well-pinned twist, and Charlotte inspected herself in the mirror. She squinted. She gaped. She flared her nostrils menacingly. Nope. No significant change yet. Her insides still felt chilled. She might as well have been dressed as a disco queen.
So it’s not the corset that does the trick, she thought. It’s not the dress. But it’s a start.
Lately she’d become the Divorced Woman. She’d let herself be defined by what James had done to her. Now it was her chance to redefine things.
I choose this, she told the reflection.
The reflection didn’t change. She hoped it wouldn’t take its time. She only had two weeks.
Charlotte returned to the tea table. The corset was as stiff as a life vest. She couldn’t lean back comfortably or bend easily to scratch her ankle. Which was the point, she supposed. Austen ladies didn’t have itchy ankles or desires to lounge. Austen ladies were grandly pretty—like marble statues.
She kind of hoped she was pretty. She’d forgotten to check for that in the mirror.
Mrs. Wattlesbrook opened her folder and reviewed etiquette rules and the schedules for each day and, with the help of two silent maids, taught her to play the card game whist.
