Jane.
Couldn’t turn up a thing on Martin Jasper of Sheffield, at least of our generation. Sorry. Clean living, mayiving, maybe? Did search on Henrybe? Did search on Henry Jenkins of Brighton. No priors, no dependents. Studied theater and history at Cambridge. I read through transcripts of his divorce proceedings from four years agoproceedings from four years ago——whoa, baby! Talk about melodrama. So, this Henry seems like a reamelodrama. So, this Henry seems like a reallll rock, didn’t lllletet himsehimsellllf get baited by the barrister, but the stuff he recounts——his wife slept with the neighbor, he forgave her, she sold his car to pay for an impetuous weekend in Monaco, he forgave her, but when she shish
Monaco, he forgave her, but when she shish-kebabbed his pet fish because hesaid he’d llllike to have ike to have chichilllldren, he finaldren, he finallllly cay calllled it quits. Said stuffed it quits. Said stuff llllike he stiike he still lllloved the woman he married and always would. Then her testimonyoved the woman he married and always would. Then her testimony——she’s the heartbroken, cast-off woman, but as soon as the other side starts in, she cracks, screaming llllikeike a banshee, and gets thrown out ofa banshee, and gets thrown out of court. Who is this guy that he stayed married to her for five years? You’ll have to give me the scoop.
I miss you. I think it’s great that you’re there, I think you’re very brave. Let’s hit the coast after you get back. I’’’’ll lose Phil and the twins for the weekend, girls only. And if you run into Mr. DDarcy, tell him I want my black nightie back.
arcy, tell him I want my black nightie back.
xxxo,
Mollllls. Jane was reading it for the fifth time when she heard voices on the other side of the bookcase. Her hands trembled as she turned off the phone, stashing it down her cle**age. When she calmed herself enough to listen, a man and woman’s conversation echoed dully off the books.
“Miss Charming, I . . . I . . . that is—“
“Yes, Colonel Andrews?”
“Miss Charming, forgive my impudence, but I must speak with you alone or go
mad. I have been wrestling with my feelings for some time and . . .”
Sounds of pacing.
“Yes, yes, go on.
“It is not easy, being the son of an earl. So much is expected of me, of the way I
behave. I am known in town as a rake, a rogue, a rascal. . .”
Jane shook her head. Austen, she was sure, would not have written such dialogue. “Is that so, Colonel Andrews?”
“Well, perhaps I was once, but I’ve grown tired of the act. I feel—deeply. I long
to have someone who knows the true me, who I can be alone with and share my thoughts. And I have come to feel, with no uncertainty of the heart, that you are that someone. That someone is you, Miss Charming.”
“Oh, Colonel Andrews!”
“My dear, dear Lizzy.”
Giggling, sounds of smooching and whispers.
“You must tell no one—please, Lizzy. I am sworn to another, an odious widowed countess, but there must be a way out of the arrangement. I will find a way. I must have you, Lizzy. You are enchanting.”
More giggling, some whispering, the sound of someone departing, and then Miss Charming’s voice singing to herself, “Ha ha-ha ha ha-ha,” before she wandered away.
Jane rested her forehead against the bookshelf and breathed out a very slow laugh.
Well, she thought, that proposal should be about as good a tonic to her fantasy as any.
Ah well. One gentleman down, two to go. The game was afoot.
Boyfriend #8
Bobby Winkle, AGE TWENTY - T H RE E
Theirs was a relationship that began as friends and slowly transformed, allure building like static electricity between their bodies. They dated for six months during that between-undergrad-and-grad-school, no-career-yet tricky time. Neither of their parents made any fuss (he was black, she was white), and they just got along so great, defying the hoot and holler of culture clash. He left for an internship in Guatemala, a step toward his future career in international affairs. They both cried at the airport.
He returned six months later and didn’t call. Last year, Jane heard that Bobby (‘Robert” now) was running for Congress. At a recent polling, he wasn’t doing so hot in the thirty-something jilted female demographic.
days 9----10
WHEN THE MEN ENTERED THE drawing room before dinner, Miss Charming, who had been quietly slumped in her chair, perked up and blushed, coy and self-conscious. Jane watched it play out—Miss Charming’s need for acknowledgment of what had happened in the library, Colonel Andrew’s stolen half smiles, Miss Heartwright’s unaware melancholy. Strangely, Mr. Nobley (was he Henry Jenkins?) seemed in good spirits. For him. At least, he came into the room with almost a smile and kept something of it around his mouth all evening.
Jane grinned for Lizzy Charming through dinner. It was clear that forgoing the car and Florence was paying off. Then sometime around dessert, Jane felt a tick bite of jealousy. She scratched it away. It flared again, though this time it morphed into self-pity; but of the low-key, ladylike variety. The problem was that nagging, life-long question— What was the matter with her? Was she that unattractive? She’d never been really in love without having her heart mashed. And now, because she wasn’t their typical client, would she be denied even fake love?
No. There were still two gentlemen left, and Miss Heartwright couldn’t have them both.
“No more whist, I beg you,” Aunt Saffronia said after dinner. “Let us have some music.
“Indeed,” said Captain East. “I believe, Miss Erstwhile, that you promised me a song.
Jane was quite certain that she had never promised any such thing, but it seemed a fitting remark to make, and so Jane rose and made her graceful way to the piano.
“If you insist, Colonel Andrews, but I must beg you forgive me at the same time. And you too, Mr. Nobley, as I know you are particular to music played well and no doubt a harsh critic when a piece is ill executed.”
“I believe,” said Mr. Nobley, “that I have never been witness to a young lady about to play without her excusing her skill beforehand, only to perform perfectly thereafter. The excuse is no doubt intended as a prelude that sets up the song for deeper enjoyment.”
“Then I pray I do not disappoint.”
She smiled expressly at Captain East, who sat forward, forearms resting on knees, eager. With professional suavity, Jane arranged her skirt, spread out the music, poised her fingers, and then with one hand played the black keys, singing along with the notes, ‘Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater, had a wife and couldn’t keep her, put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well.”