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Authors: Shannon Hale

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BOOK: Austenland
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And Mr. Nobley watched her. He had always watched her, of course. That was part of his character. But did she fancy that he did so even more now? And that in his side glances and half-smiles gleamed a touch of slipped-character, a break, a sliver of the man himself?

Jane’s thoughts: Oh, stop it.

Jane’s other thoughts: But then again, movie actors fall in love with each other on the set all the time. Is it so outlandish to suppose it might happen to me?
Jane answered Jane’s other thoughts: Yes, it is. Stay focused. Have fun.
And, miraculously, she did! She bantered and laughed and smiled coyly over one shoulder. Her mornings painting imbued her with a fresh energy that made her feel pretty, and in the afternoons and evenings with Mr. Nobley, she felt relaxed. In the past, Jane would be so beset by stumbling doubts she’d lose the capacity to enjoy his eyes on her. But now, she looked at him right back. Here there was no anxiety, no what-ifs. Just good clean flirting.
One night as she snuggled into her sheets, giggling at herself and remembering all the delicious moments from that day, she decided that she was able to go for broke because she wasn’t really Jane here—not obsessive, crazy Jane. Fairy-tale land was a safe place to roll around in, get into trouble, figure yourself out, and come out unscathed. The night of the theatrical, Jane and Mr. Nobley secreted themselves behind the house for the final brush-up. The mood of late had let a bit of Bohemia into Regency England, the usual strict social observances bending, the rehearsals allowing the couples to slip away alone and enjoy the exhilarating intimacy of the unobserved.
Mr. Nobley sat on the gravel path, leaning back on his elbow in a reluctant recline. “Oh, to die here, alone and unloved . . .”
“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.
“This theatrical hasn’t been as bad as you expected,” Jane said.
“Not so bad. No worse than idle novel reading or croquet.
“You make any entertainment sound like taking cod liver oil.”
“Maybe I am growing weary of this place.” He hesitated, as though he’d said too much, which made Jane wonder if the real man had spoken. He cleared his throat. “Of the country I mean. I will return to London soon for the season, and the renovations on my estate will be completed by summer. It will be good to be home, to feel something permanent. I tire of the guests who come and go in the country, their only goal to find some kind of amusement, their sentiments shallow. It wears on a person.” He met her eyes. “I may not return to Pembrook Park. Will you?”
“No, I’m pretty sure I won ~
Another ending. Jane’s chest tightened, and she surprised herself to identify the feeling as panic. It was already the night of the play. The ball was two days away. Her departure came in three. Not so soon! Clearly she was swimming much deeper in Austenland waters than she’d anticipated. And loving it. She was growing used to slippers and empire waists, she felt naked outside without a bonnet, during drawing room evenings her mouth felt natural exploring the kinds of words that Austen might’ve written. And when this man entered the room, she had more fun than she had in four years of college combined. It was all feeling . . . perfect.
“This is ridiculous,” she said, then changed her mind. The last time she had confessed her real feelings to this man, it hadn’t gone well. “Our lines, I mean, in this play. But I hope you will choose to enjoy it a little.”
“Of course. It would be uncivil to say I will not enjoy making love to you tonight.”
Jane’s mouth was dry. “Wh-what?”
“Tonight as we perform the play,” he said, completely composed. “My character professes love to your character, and to say that such a task is odious would be an insult to you.
“Ah,” she said with a little laugh. “All right then.” She had forgotten for a moment that “making love” did not mean to Austen what it meant today. Of course, Mr. Nobley the twenty-first- century actor knew that, and she squinted at him to see if he had been playing with her. He stopped walking, seeing something in the distance. She followed his gaze.
Captain East and Amelia were silhouetted by starlight. They stood in front of a bench, and he was holding both her hands.
“Are they acting?” asked Jane. “I mean, rehearsing for the theatrical?”
“They do not appear to be speaking at the moment.”
He was right. They were completely occupied with staring into each other’s eyes. Jane noted that Amelia seemed fluster-free for the first time since Captain East had arrived. If they were acting, they were doing a mighty fine job.
“You think it’s real . . .“ said Jane.
“It is not right to watch.”
“If we don’t watch, who will? Seems a shame to waste the moment with no audience to witness it.”
Their lips moved now Rehearsing lines? Or . . . Captain East leaned forward, Amelia tilted her head back. Her hand trembled on his chest. His lips met hers, briefly, gently. It clearly wasn’t enough, and he seized her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and their faces merged beyond distinction in the darkness. It looked pretty serious, the kind of affection those two might reserve for a sealing-of-the-engagement moment.
Suddenly, it wasn’t like watching a movie—their passion seemed real and watching it started to feel like voyeurism. Jane wondered, Did Amelia the woman really love George East the man? The actor? Could she? What would happen to her heart when she left Pembrook Park?
“I’m in agreement with you now about the not-watching part,” she said.
Jane and Mr. Nobley walked back to the house in silence, the air around them thick, dragging with awkwardness. Witnessing confessions of love and first kisses can be enchanting when you’re with someone comfortable, someone you’ve already had that kiss with, and can laugh about it and feel cozy and remember your own first moment. Seeing it with Mr. Nobley was like having a naked-in-public dream.
“It’s only natural to confuse truth and fantasy as they play parts in a theatrical,” said Jane. “They start to feel as their characters would.”
“True. Which is one reason why I was hesitant to engage in this frivolity. I do not think pretending something can make it real.”
“I find it a little alarming that we agree on something. But do you think, in their case anyway, do you think those feelings could run deeper?”
Mr. Nobley stopped. He looked at her. “I wondered the same.
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“It’s more than possible. They reside in compatible stations in life, they have like minds, their sentiments seem suited to each other.”
“You sound like a textbook on matrimony. I’m talking about love, Mr. Nobley. Despite falling in love over a script, do you think they have a chance?”
Mr. Nobley frowned and rubbed his sideburns briskly with the back of his fingers. “I. . . I knew Captain East in the past when he loved another woman. Her changes, her cruelty broke him. He was a shell for some time. If you had asked me last month if another woman’s attentions could make him a whole man again, I would have said that no man can recover from such a wound, that he will never be able to trust a woman again, that romantic love is not air or water and one can live without it. But now . . .“ He breathed out. He had not looked away from her. “Now I do not know. Now I almost begin to think, yes. Yes.”
“Yes,” she repeated. The moon hung in the sky just over his shoulder, peering as though listening in, breathless for what was next.
“Miss Erstwhile.”
“Yes?”
He looked at the sky, he took several breaths as if trying to locate the right words, he briefly shut his eyes. “Miss Erstwhile, do you—
Captain East and Miss Heartwright passed by, walking close without touching. Mr. Nobley watched them, his frown deepening, then he looked back over his shoulder at nothing.
What? What?! Jane wanted to yell.
“Shall we go inside?”
He offered his arm. She felt dumped-on-her-rear disappointment, but she took his arm and pretended she was just fine. Soon the warm safety of roof and walls cut off the luscious strangeness of night in the garden. Servants scurried, candles blazed, the preparations for the play were lively and unconcerned with a moment in the park.
Without another word, Mr. Nobley left her alone, his jacket still around her shoulders. It smelled like gardens.

* * * TWO HOURS LATER, THE DRAWING room converted, the costumes wrapped, the electric-kerosene lamps flickering in a semicircle at their feet, the performers enacted the thirty-minute ode to love and the Mediterranean,
Home by the Sea
.

Miss Charming kept a ferocious grip on her script and gave oily air kisses to Colonel Andrews. Amelia was calm and sweet, melting into her dialogue with Captain East as though into his arms. Jane knelt beside Mr. Nobley, the wounded war captain, as he nearly died, and did her best to sound earnest. Old Jane would’ve run away or laughed self-consciously throughout. New Jane decided to feel as enchanting as Miss Charming and performed each line with relish and passion. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t a very good actress. Mr. Nobley’s character miraculously recovered all the same, leading to the part where he stood and took her hands. They were still cold. He paused, as though trying to remember what came next.

He looked. Looked at her. At her and into her. Into her eyes as though he couldn’t bear to look away. And there was a delicious curl in his smile.
“I love you,” he said.
Zing
, thought Jane.
It was his line, more or less, though simplified. Stripped of similes and farms and rain and moon and all, it pierced her. She opened her mouth to say her own line but couldn’t remember a single word. And she didn’t want to.
He leaned. She leaned.
Then Aunt Saffronia, who’d been laughing encouragingly during the parts that were supposed to be sad and clapping gleefully whenever a new character came onstage, now cleared her throat as though intensely uncomfortable. Mr. Nobley hesitated, then kissed Jane’s cheek. His lips were warm, his cheek slightly scratchy. She smiled and breathed him in.
At length, the six actors stood side by side, pretending the bright yellow wall of the drawing room opened to a view of the Mediterranean Sea, and said their closing lines.
Jane:
Trying to sound actress-y
. “At last, we are all truly happy.”
Miss Charming: Pause.
Crinkling of paper
.
Frantic searching for line
. “Indeed.”
Amelia:
With a shy smile for the tall man beside her
. “Our travels are ended.”
Captain East:
With a manly smile for his lady
. “We can rest peacefully in each other’s arms.
Colonel Andrews:
As always, with panache
! “And no matter where we may roam.. .”
Mr. Nobley:
A sigh
. “This will always be our home.”
His voice unhappy with the line
. “By the sea.”
And, silence as the audience waited for who knows what—a better ending line? A better play? Colonel Andrews cleared his throat, and Jane inclined her head in a hurried curtsy.
“Oh,” Aunt Saffronia said and started the applause.
The audience clapped enthusiastically and arhythmically, and the cast bowed, Miss Charming giggling.
Jane squinted past the lamps to get her first good look at the audience, now that the play was over and stage fright couldn’t prickle her. Aunt Saffronia, beaming. Mrs. Wattlesbrook, looking for all the world like a proud schoolmarm. Matilda, bored, and a few other servants, equally bored.
And Martin. He was in the back, and the room was dark, but no one else was that tall. Imagining the spectacle from his eyes, she saw anew how ridiculous that little play had been, and how all of Pembrook Park must seem so to him—the false lines, the feigned exclamations of love. Artifice. Pretense. Lies. Schoolgirl daydreams.
Jane leaned away from Mr. Nobley.
“Well, my dears, what a show. Quite professional!” Aunt Saffronia said, rushing their little stage. Mrs. Wattlesbrook was right behind her. A barrage of compliments engulfed the cast, and Jane smiled and nodded and smiled. She was conscious of Martin moving up, standing behind Mrs. Wattlesbrook, gesturing to Jane. Such a tall man was difficult to ignore. She ignored him.
“Uh, Miss Erstwhile?” he said quietly. He was shy. He was embarrassed. He sounded a little desperate.
Aunt Saffronia was plunging the profound intricacies of the script. Mrs. Wattlesbrook half-turned to glare at Martin.
“Miss Erstwhile?” he said again, sounding a little braver.
Jane met his gaze dead on. Martin blinked, smiled hopefully, and opened his mouth to speak again. What did he have to do with her? She was trying—for Carolyn, for herself, for her darling Mr. Darcy, she was trying to live this, and Martin’s presence had the effect of shining a light on how shallow it all was, besides reminding her of every guy who had tossed her aside. She was having a grand time and his judgment was souring the punch. She turned her shoulder to him and addressed Mr. Nobley.
“Thank you, sir. Thus far the highlight of my stay has been making love to you.”
Mr. Nobley bowed in acknowledgment. The conversation completely quieted. Jane thought she detected Martin sort of slump his shoulders.
“Well, good night, all,” Jane said, and made a quick getaway to her room...
…where she lay on her bed, stared at her canopy, and wished that encounter didn’t stick to her still, that she could just scrape it off her shoe. What would Martin have said if she’d let him speak? No, never mind, these things never end well.
Wait, there had been something good, coiling on the edge of her memory... ah yes, Mr. Nobley had been about to kiss her. She closed her eyes and held to that moment as she would to the tatters of a really great dream in the waking gray of dawn.

BOOK: Austenland
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