“Thanks. Guess I should leave you to your lady stuff.” He picked up his t
ools and walked away.
Jane stared after him, certain he was a bit loony, if handsomely so. Then again, perhaps many wealthy and elderly twenty-year-old women had ratted on forward servants in the past. He likely had the right to be paranoid. She just wished he’d known that she was different. Speaking to a real person had been like drinking a cold glass of water after too much sugary punch.
Jane was hurrying back toward the house and the hopes of a bath before the promised call from Pembrook Cottage that afternoon. She turned a bend and knocked right into Mr. Nobley and Colonel Andrews coming from the other direction.
“Excuse me!” she said, backing away. She was afraid she smelled like sweat after her surreptitious speed walk, but perhaps the exercise had also reddened her cheeks and brightened her eyes. One can hope.
“Pardon indeed,” said the colonel. “I was just telling Nobley here, I think that divine Miss Erstwhile sneaked off into the grounds alone. Let’s see if we cannot find her out.”
“Oh.” Jane felt herself sway. That encounter with a real person had roused her up inside more than she’d realized. Her dress hung on her shoulders like a potato sack, her bonnet felt like a vise, the sunlight scratched at her skin.
“I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered, too low for anyone to hear.
“I say, Miss Erstwhile, you are tongue-tied today,” Colonel Andrews said. “What secrets is your mouth trying to hold back? I must know!”
“Stop it, Andrews,” Mr. Nobley said, coming up beside her to take her arm. “Can’t you see that she is unwell? Go fetch some water.”
The colonel’s face was suddenly serious. “Apologies, Miss Erstwhile. Do sit down. I will return swiftly.” He set off at once toward the house.
Mr. Nobley put an arm behind her back, guiding her to a nearby boulder, helping her to sit as though she would break if breathed upon. No matter how she protested, he would not let her go.
“If you permit me,” he said, crouching beside her, “I will carry you inside.”
She laughed. “Wow, that sounds like fun, but really I’m fine. I don’t feel sick, I just feel like a schmuck, and that’s not a malady you can throw water at.”
“You are homesick?”
Jane sighed, wishing for Molly, but all she had was this strange, sideburned man who was generally as boring as gray and dull as oatmeal. But at least he was listening. She leaned forward, whispering, in case Mrs. Wattlesbrook installed microphones in the shrubbery. “I don’t know if I can do this.” She shook the skirt of her dress. “I don’t know if I can pretend.”
He stared at her, unblinking, for long enough to make Jane uncomfortable.
“You are being serious,” he said at last. “Miss Erstwhile, why are you here?”
“You’d laugh at me if I told you,” she whispered. “No, wait, you wouldn’t, it’s not in your character.”
He blinked as though she’d flicked water at his face.
“Did that sound rude? I didn’t mean to. Ugh, I feel so tired. I just want to lie down and sleep until I’m myself again, but I’ve only been half myself lately, and I thought coming here would let me work this part out of me so I could be me again. I just said ‘me’ a lot, didn’t I?”
He smiled briefly. She noticed that his eyes were dark, a warm brown, and noticing made him a fraction more real to her, not so much set dressing but a person she could actually know.
“Tell me, Mr. Nobley, or whoever you are, how do you do it? How do you pretend?”
Her question seemed to stagger him so profoundly, he held his breath. It surprised Jane that she would notice his breath at all, then she realized how close their faces were, how far she had leaned in to whisper.
“Miss Erstwhile,” he said flatly, not moving, “play your little charade, but do not try to trap me. I will not sing for you.”
He stood up, glaring, until he turned his back to her and took three steps away.
She sat still on the rock, her insides buzzing like a beehive shaken and tossed away. She almost apologized, but then stopped herself.
Apologize for what? she thought. He’s a mean, unpleasant, loathsome man.There’s no Darcy in him. And I don’t need him to get me through this. I can do this; I want to do this.
She prickled with anger at that jacketed back, and the fury helped her burn away her flimsiness. She looked down and breathed.
Be the dress, she told herself. Be the bonnet, Jane. Stage fright, that’s all this is. I’m just afraid of looking like a fool. So stop it. Admit that you are a fool already and do this so you can let it go.