A red-cheeked maid led her into the sitting room to a chair by the fire and pleasantries were exchanged.

“Oh, thank you for calling, Miss Erstwhile!” Miss Heartwright said many times. And somehow that wasn’t irritating. The lovely lady was positively glowing.

“Why do you... ?“ Jane had been about to ask why Miss Heartwright put up with this drab little existence. Surely with the money she was paying and the status of Ideal Client, she could be a guest in the main house—but Jane knew such questions were forbidden. Likely Mrs. Heartwright was only faking the snore and listened keenly for any illegal tidbits to pass on to the proprietress. But, man, that snore sure sounded real. Then again, maybe she was some poor, senile old lady from a nearby village who had no idea what was going on. It would be like Mrs. Wattlesbrook to fool the lady’s family into paying for her stay in an authentic nineteenth-century nursing home.

Jane cleared her throat. “That is to say, how do you fare today, Miss Heartwright?”

They chitchatted—weather (breezy and damp), the gentlemen’s hunting (pheasants), news (Sir Templeton at the apothecary’s, the topic of gravest concern). Jane thought she understood why Austen often left these conversations up to the narrator and spared the reader the grotesquerie of having to follow it word by word.

After a lapse, Jane hemmed for something else to say.

“So, would you like to come up to the main house? We could wait for the gentlemen’s return and inquire after the state of Sir Templeton at the earliest possible—”

“Yes!” Miss Heartwright hopped up.

Jane was pretty sure Miss Heartwright’s enthusiasm lay not in concern for the drunken husband but in the chance to hobnob with Mr. Nobley.

Ick, thought Jane, as she realized she was turning out to be poor Fanny Price in Mansfield Park—the plain girl, the lower- class girl, the one with no one to take her arm. Just now she wouldn’t turn down that naughty nugget, Henry Crawford.

They strolled up to the main house, gravel crunching beneath their boots, wind teasing their bonnet strings.

“I’m sure my aunt will ask you to stay to dinner,” Jane said.

“I hope so. Mama will be fine alone with Hillary, and I enjoy the company of everyone at Pembrook Park so well. Particularly you, Miss Jane.” She took her arm. “I hope we are good friends.”

If Miss Heartwright were any less perfect, that would have sounded laughable. But since she was flawless, it was merely exasperating. In an endearing way, of course.

A carriage coming up the drive spared Jane a reply. “That must be Aunt Saffronia and Miss Charming. Make haste,” Jane added, just because she’d always wanted to say that.

Amazing how the sight of any moving object was exciting when one lived in such a stifled existence. They hurried (in a reserved, proper manner) to greet the carriage as it stopped before the house, then they were stopped in turn by the sight of a stranger emerging from the door of the carriage.

Miss Heartwright dropped Jane’s arm and took a step back. Apparently, he wasn’t a stranger to her.

The man was six-foot-two or taller, broad, deliciously manly, and dark-haired. He had a pleasant farm boy appeal to him, though he also seemed at ease in his gold-trimmed blue uniform. What a perfect way to start her true Austenland immersion! Jane hoped that he was single—that the character he played was single—whatever.

He stood there, waiting, looking at the horizon. If Miss Heartwright knew him, society rules said he couldn’t speak to her unless she acknowledged him first, and then it would be up to her to introduce him to Jane.

Miss Heartwright was examining the gravel.

Jane nudged her. “Are you two acquaintances?”

“Oh, yes, forgive me. Miss Erstwhile, may I present Mr. George East? Mr. East, this is Miss Jane Erstwhile, niece to Sir and Lady Templeton.”

Mr. East bowed. He did it very well.

“How do you do, Miss Erstwhile. I am Captain East.”

“Captain?” Miss Heartwright’s voice squeaked.

Their eyes met, then they both looked away. My, it was awkward.

“Oh,” Jane said, remembering how Aunt Saffronia had spoken of a jilted man in Miss Heartwright’s past. And here he was, and captained now, apparently. “Oh, I mean, I shouldn’t keep you standing in the drive after your journey. My aunt is away, but please come in and sit with us.”

Was that right? Could two unmarried ladies be alone with a single man? Jane couldn’t remember for sure, but neither protested, so they sat in the sitting room, since that’s what it was for. Jane asked a maid to bring in tea (and felt pretty cool being the lady of the house for the moment) and very soon she and Captain East were having a lively conversation while Miss Heartwright, ally quiet, sat still and straight in a chair.

“So there we were,” said the captain, “one lone British ship surrounded by four French war crafts, no help in sight. The captain dead on the deck, the crew terrified. ‘Surrender!’ came the shout in that grating French accent. ‘Never!’ said I. I will admit to you, Miss Erstwhile, I was very much tempted, but I had to hearten my men. ‘Never!’ said I.”

“But why wouldn’t you?” asked Jane, trying her hand at being the eager woman hearing of the wide world from an adventuresome man. “There could be no dishonor in that, with the dead and your men so outnumbered.”

Captain East paused, looked at his hands, the remembrance of fake battles struggling beautifully across his actor’s brow. “I had watched my courageous captain in a similar circumstance. He said, ‘When my British heart tells me what I must do, I do not fear to follow it through.”’

“Excuse me.” Miss Heartwright stood, a book tumbling from her lap. “I must go see how Mama is doing.” And she left in a hurry.

Captain East stood as well, as the Rules were pretty clear that he and Jane should not be together unchaperoned.

“I’ll call Matilda to show you to your room, Captain.”

“Thank you.” He smiled, taking in her face. “It is, Miss Erstwhile, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

When Matilda led him away, Jane announced to the empty room, “If you’re listening, Big Brother, I refuse to be Fanny Price.”

Guy between boyfriends #6 and #7

Paul Diaz, TWENTY-SOMETHING

He was in her watercolor class, so cute and the sweet kind of shy. They obviously clicked, the attraction thrilling between them, inspiring her to relish the infatuation freshman-style and write his name in her notebook in curvy, flowery script. She gave him openings but guessed he was too timid to ask her out. The day after finals, she ran into him at the deli on campus and thought she had nothing to lose.