Austenland (Austenland 1)

She walked around the park in angry circles. Her fingers were cold, and her thoughts wandered to memories of spending so much time in the bath as a kid that her fingertips crinkled like raisin skin. Wrinkly skin reminded her of Great-Aunt Carolyn, with her extravagantly soft fingers and conspiratorial eyes.

She bought me this gift, Jane thought. Use it well, you floppy-brained, hopeless idiot, and stop trying to fall in love with gardeners. With anyone.

The night drew back, large and empty, no longer lying against her skin. She felt really alone now. But here’s the thing— suddenly, she felt as though she belonged inside the aloneness, and that feeling made her whisper aloud, “I never have before. I’ve never felt at home with myself.”

She looked at the servants’ quarters and had Realization #2: She truly didn’t want to go to Martin’s. She hadn’t earlier. It was just habit. In the past she was always ready to limp back after being rejected, hopeful to be scooped up again. But now, here, she lost the desire utterly.

“Ha!” she said to the night.

With a shift in the wind and a swish of her quiet skirt, she felt her mission at Austenland begin to change. This was no last hurrah before accepting spinsterhood—oh no. (And what a relief!) This was going to be immersion therapy. Martin had helped her see one thing, at least—she still liked men, a whole lot, in fact, and ain’t nothing gonna change that. She just needed to screw her head on straight so that she could properly enjoy being young and female and as beautiful as she wanted to be.

She turned her back to the servants’ quarters and faced the house as she used to look at the goal on her high school basketball court. Her new objective was to drown herself in the ridiculousness of her fantasy, a task like eating nothing but chocolate until she couldn’t bear the thought of eating something sweet again. Get it out of her system. See for certain that this wouldn’t really make her happy. Then she’d be her own woman again. Only two weeks left to make it happen. But she had to plunge in headfirst, she had to really try, or sure as her houseplants were at that moment gasping their last breath, one day she would look back at the experience and unsettle herself with wondering, What if? And, What if?

When night was definite and all housemates surely abed, Jane creaked open the front door, welcomed by the homey scent of floor wax. A light in the drawing room startled her, and she wondered if the group was playing some Olympian round of cards. But the room was deserted. Two lamps burned away the darkness.

On the table lay the book Mr. Nobley had been reading, and she leafed through its pages, wondering what sort of irritating story would fascinate that man’s mind. A piece of paper slipped out, floating to the carpet. It was a pay stub made out to a Henry Jenkins with an address in Brighton. Was this Mr. Nobley? She stuck the paper back and laid it beside the nearly empty crystal decanter that was Sir John Templeton’s dearest friend. Out of curiosity, Jane lifted the cap and sniffed, expecting a sugary punch smell to satisfy her suspicions. Nope, definitely alcohol. She was surprised—how could the actor keep up the virtual drinking and not get literally toasted?

As in answer to her thought, the man himself loomed in the doorway. She startled and dropped the decanter cap on the carpet.

“Well, good evening, Miss Ersssstwhile,” Sir John said, dragging out the snake sound of her name. “Are you still a Miss or were you a Miss erstwhile, hm?”

“Yes, that’s clever. Um, you startled me, Sir John.”

“Up late, are you? Where did you go tonight? Up to some mischief, I hope.”

“I just needed some air. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Hmm.” He leaned against the doorjamb and seemed to doze for a moment. Jane replaced the cap, clicked off the fake-kerosene lamps, and tried to slip past Sir John without rousing him. But just a few steps down the dark hallway, she felt a hot breath against her neck.

“Stay a moment.”

Jane turned around with some apprehension, but she did stay. She had decided to play this game out, and with her personal story at Pembrook Park waning, she didn’t want to pass up any plot twist he might be offering.

“What is it, Sir John?”

“I just thought we might spend a moment alone together, perhaps engage in our own private game of,” he leaned closer to her face, “whissst.”

She coughed once. “That’s a four-person game.”

“If you like. But I thought we could be partners. A little wink-wink, a little nudge-nudge under the table, you understand me?”

She sorted through the Austen plots searching for a scenario when a married man solicits a young lady. There was the doomed tryst in Mansfield Park with married lady and bachelor, but Sir John was no—what was his name?—no suave young Henry Crawford.

“I think I should go to bed,” she said, unsure of how he was expecting her to proceed but not enjoying the game.

“Precisely my poi

nt,” he said.

He began to advance again. She stepped back until she hit the wall.

“Hold on, now,” she said, stopping him with a hand on his chest.

Sir John took her hand and held it in both of his own. His skin was hot and scratchy.

“You are so, so lovely.” His breath hit her again, and she gagged at the stench of food and fermentation. He was clearly much drunker than she’d suspected.

“Sir John, you’re married.”