Austenland (Austenland 1)

She nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Jane.”

Jane wasn’t sure if Aunt Saffronia was speaking to Jane the niece or Jane the client. For the first time it didn’t matter; both Janes felt exactly the same. She acknowledged the apology with a nod, went to her room, and locked the door behind her. She thought she was angry but instead she plopped herself down on her bed, put her face in her pillow, and laughed.

“What a joke,” she said, sounding to herself like the movie incarnation of Lydia Bennet. “I come for Mr. Darcy, fall for the gardener, and get propositioned by the drunk husband.”

Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow she would play for real. She was going to drive full force into the game, have a staggering good time, and kick the nasty Darcy habit for good. She fell asleep with the ticklish thought of Mr. Nobley’s smile.

Boyfriend #6

Josh Lake, AGE TWENTY

They met when two large groups of friends bumped and merged at the college carnival fundraiser, “Fifty Acres ofFun!”Somehow Jane got strapped together with perfect-stranger Josh and semiacquaintance Britney in the “Drop ’n’ Swing,” only the “drop” function malfunctioned, and the three of them hung facedown, harnessed to the tip of the twelve-story steel tower for fifteen minutes. Britney went nuts, cussing at the scrambling carnival workers, red faced, spit falling 150 feet. When Jane told her to take it easy, Britney’s angry fear knew no bounds. She unleashed her longshoreman vocabulary on Jane and Josh, which made them laugh so hard that when the sudden, stomach-prying drop finally occurred, they had no breath to scream.

So potent was the bond formed at 150 feet, it took Jane three months of inept kisses and conversations poking at subjects of minimal philosophical depth (“But really, Jane, think about it—iflibraries close at nine p.m., how will the nocturnal underprivileged ever advance? I mean, think about it!”) to finally say,

“We should probably just break up.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, okay.”

Way to put up a fight, Josh.

day 8

JANE TOOK THE MORNING SLOWLY, as all Regency and recently scorned women must. She lay on her stomach in bed, sticking her feet in the air with pointed toes, taking comfort in feeling girly, and played with her cell phone. With that device in her hand, she felt an uncanny thrill of power, a time traveler gifted with secret future technology. It was a weapon, and she had questions to attack. Still, phoning Molly felt too scandalous, too rule-breaking, and she was determined to dive into Austenland headfirst. But a brief e-mail to her journalist friend felt just fine:

Hey chica, Need bckgrnd chk. Martin Jasper, Bristol/Sheffield. Also Henry Jenkins, Brighton. Miss you. This place bizarre and fun. Wll hv stories to tell. J.

A peek at her in-box reminded her how piteously dull the real world can be, so Jane began to play Bubble Master, an addicting strategy game for long subway rides. She had not been at it fifteen minutes (with a record high score of 582 points!) when her maid came barging in for their daily round of strapping-Jane-into-her-corset. Jane thrust the phone under her pillow.

The gentlemen were not present to break their fast. With just three ladies clinking the flatware and chewing honey cakes and current cakes, the breakfast room was tense.

“Sir John was not feeling himself last night,” said Aunt Saffronia, her eyes flicking from plate to Jane and back to plate, “so Mr. Nobley offered to accompany him to see an apothecary in town, and Colonel Andrews went as well, having some business to attend to there. They are so attentive, such honest, caring lads. I shall feel their loss when they leave.”

“I feel it today.” Miss Charming pursed her lips. “Eating breakfast with no gentlemen and that Heartwright girl poaching on my men—this isn’t what I was promised.” She looked at Aunt Saffronia with the eye of a haggler.

Aunt Saffronia placed her hands in her lap, a calming gesture. “I know, my dear, but they will be back, and in the meantime . . .”

“I didn’t come here

for the meantime. I came for the men.”

Poor Aunt Saffronia! Jane felt for her. She put a hand on Miss Charming’s arm. “Lizzy, maybe you and I could go visit the stables and go for a ride or—”

“Not today, Jane. My feelings are hurt.” A tear formed in one eye. “I was promised certain things about this place and I can tell you one thing—so far, no one’s made me feel enchanting.”

“Oh, my,” Aunt Saffronia said, “I can’t have unhappiness at my table. Spoils the digestion. Miss Charming, what say we call on Mrs. Wattlesbrook? I believe she would be very concerned to hear of any dissatisfaction during your visit.”

Miss Charming looked at Aunt Saffronia with her dry eye, like a goose considering biting, then nodded her head and said, “Done.”

Jane thought, Mrs. Wattlesbrook will have Mr. Nobley tamed into Charming’s personal pet by sundown.

He’d been Miss Charming’s choice from the beginning, though he’d quickly proved too much work to keep the woman’s interest. He was the most eye-catching, no question, and he gave the appearance of having some real depth, if he’d just relax a bit. Jane was curious to see how he changed once Wattlesbrook ordered him to charm Miss Charming. And that would be fine by Jane. So what that he’d come (needlessly) running to her rescue in his shirttails? The way he’d said, “Don’t be a fool, Miss Erstwhile,” made her want to poke him in the eye. He was supposed to be Darcy-adorable, not teeth-grindingly maddening.

After the ladies left, Jane read in the library, then in the morning room, then in the false summer of the conservatory, the dry tips of leaves whispering to her neck, tickling her to irritation. She did not want to stroll the park yet again, thank you. So, bored to desperate measures, she called on Pembrook Cottage.

It was a brisk five-minute walk down a gravel path, her parasol draping her in a perfect circle of shade. The November morning was chilly and damp and filled the air with ideas of harvest and pumpkins and trick-or-treating in a scratchy ballerina costume completely engulfed by a ski parka. It made Jane wistful.

Pembrook Cottage was built of the same yellow bricks as the main house, though much smaller with only a ground floor and four facing windows. The garden around it was idyllic, low-hanging apple trees bearing a few late-season offerings, a few clumps of blue asters still poking through the tangles of grass. It was the kind of house you dreamed about renting for a summer, a place you’d run to, sit down in a comfortable chair, and let out a sigh of relief.