Page 40 of The Austen Escape
“Is it? I’d think sexual indiscretions far more damaging than silly talk,” Sylvia shot back.
“I suppose it depends on how much silly talk is foisted upon one,” Aaron added on a dry note that made me smile.
“Who is this Miss Mopflop and why are we talking of her?” Herman punctuated his inquiry with a few fist taps on the tabletop. He looked as anxious as Isabel.
Helene smiled and reached for his hand. “It’s pretend, dear. We are making up names.”
“But aren’t we already making up names? Why do we need more of them? It’s too much.”
She shifted to him more fully. “You are right. You are playing Sir Walter. Remember, we talked about him this morning.”
We caught the hint and Aaron steered the conversation back to Austen. Helene took it a step further and gently focused our comments on Sir Walter and his friends and family fromPersuasion. Herman soon looked more comfortable and so did Isabel.
Lunch wound down and we broke apart for quieter activities. The Muellers excused themselves to rest. Clara, with a yawn of her own, expressed an interest in returning to her room as well—“One show, Mama?” Sylvia acquiesced and joined her. Only Aaron was not to be “idle.” Grant had promised him shooting.
I walked to the end of the table and looped my arm through Isabel’s. I led her from the room and toward the stairs. I didn’t want to talk to her in front of the others.
When we reached the Green Room, she curled against her headboard and hugged her knees tight.
I sat next to her. “Was lunch confusing?”
“How do you know everyone so well? Miss Mopflop? Miss Thistlebum? I had no idea what to say.”
“I could tell that bothered you. Jane Bennet was just being playful. Sir Walter didn’t understand either.”
“So they weren’t real?”
“No. You’ll have to dismiss a lot of what people say here. They are having fun, playing roles at a party. There might be a lot you won’t understand.”
I wasn’t sure if this was the right thing to do, but this wasn’t as contained an atmosphere as fifteen years ago. That week we never left the house. My parents controlled all the variables. Here I was alone and lost. I peeked at my phone. No message from my dad or Dr. Milton.
“Oh... There’s that noise again. I heard it this morning.” Isabel swept her hand around the room.
“It’s your phone.” I slid it from the bedside table and held it out to her. She shied away and crawled off the bed, then crossed to my side of the room and opened my wardrobe. “After we change, what shall we do this afternoon?”
“Everyone is resting.” I tossed her now silent phone onto her bed. “Except Mr. Bingley. He’s off shooting with Grant.”
That piqued her interest. “Could we walk out with them?”
“I suppose... But I don’t think they are walking the fields. There’s a clay shooting range beyond the stable.” I pushed off the bed and stood beside her. “How’s this? We’ll spend some time here doing whatever ladies are supposed to do in the afternoon, then we’ll join the bowls game Mrs. Jennings plans to set up on the south lawn.” I couldn’t stop my smile—how often did one get to say that sentence? “Mr. Bingley, and maybe Grant, plans to meet everyone there.”
“May we change first? I’m covered in dirt, and you have mud on your hem. Try this one.” She pulled out a dark-green dress,then crossed the room to her own wardrobe. “It really is embarrassing to be so disheveled. I once knew a girl who walked three miles in the mud. It covered her dress six inches deep. She wasn’t fit to be seen...”
As we dressed, Isabel told story after story of awkward situations and happenings. Most I recognized as from Austen. The ones fromEmmashe told in the first person. They were more definite, like real memories. The game of “blunder” with Mr. Churchill seemed to have actually happened to her and caused her real embarrassment. There were also a few stories I did not recognize, and I concluded they must have come from the movies, for they all involved the same sets of names.
The stories slowed as Isabel became increasingly agitated over my hairdressing skills. She had already fixed mine. It had fallen out during our ride, so I’d fashioned a ponytail and fastened it with my own electrical wire. She had taken the ponytail, twisted it high, and looped it around itself. Once again, I was amazed and secretly in awe of the transformation.
“Sit still or I won’t get it to stay.” I pulled a bobby pin from my lips and anchored it into her curls.
“Ouch,” Isabel yelped as a section flopped over her eyes.
“It’s too heavy. How do you have so much hair? I don’t know how you get it all piled up.” I needed a new approach. My approach. I reached across the dressing table.
“What are you doing?”
“Securing it with something that will work.” I grabbed an eight-inch length of black electrical wire, wrapped it around the bun, tucked in a few loose strands, wrapped again, and stepped back. “There. See? We could have accomplished that an hour ago—and the wire matches your hair color so you can’t even see it.”
“What is this stuff?”
