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properly enjoy “the Experience,” Jane was to understand, even the underwear must be Regency. A lot, apparently, must be sacrificed to fully benefit from the Experience, except makeup. The Rules of Pembrook Park, Jane was realizing, were not overly concerned with creating a true historical setting.
The proprietress opened a wardrobe and revealed that Jane’s measurements had been transformed into four day dresses, three evening dresses, a ball gown in white and lace, two short “spencer” jackets, a brown fitted overcoat called a “pelisse,” two bonnets, a bright red shawl, and a pile of chemises, drawers, stockings, boots, and slippers.
“Wow. I mean, wow,” was all Jane could say for a few moments. She wiggled her fingers like an evil miser at a horde of riches. “They’re all for me?”
“For your use , yes, though not to keep, mind. Your great-aunt’s payment did not cover wardrobe souvenirs.” Mrs. Wattlesbrook extracted a dress from Jane’s eager fingers and packed it tenderly into her trunk. “This is an evening dress. You should wear a day dress now, the pink one there.”
The pink one was hideous. Jane took the blue one off its hook, ignoring Mrs. Wattlesbrook’s offended sniff.
In a few minutes, the dressing-of-Jane was complete: blue print day dress trimmed in dark blue ribbon with elbow-length sleeves, stockings fastened to thighs with garters, black ankle boots, and there she was. She stood sideways, looked in the mir_ror, and experienced a silly, naughty feeling, like she hadn’t had since the sinful pleasure of playing Barbie dolls with her younger cousin when she was twelve and should’ve been too old. Here she was, a grown woman playing dress-up, but it felt so good.
“And there she is,” Jane whispered.
“I must have any electronic thingies now, my dear.”
Jane turned over her MP3 player.
“And?” Mrs. Wattlesbrook tipped her head up to look at Jane through the spectacles resting on her nose. “Nothing else?” She paused as though waiting for Jane to confess, which she did not. Mrs. Wattlesbrook sighed and removed the player from the room, carrying it between finger and thumb like something dead to be flushed down the toilet. While she was out, Jane hid her cell phone in the bottom of the trunk. She’d already gone to the trouble to set up international service with her provider because it would be unbearable to be without e-mail for three weeks. Besides, it gave her a little glee to sneak something illegal across the border. She wasn’t the usual type of client, was she? Then she certainly wouldn’t try to act like it.
Jane dined that night with Mrs. Wattlesbrook and practiced manners during the longest two-hour meal she had lived through since attending the eighth annual Researchers for a Better Paper Pulp (RBPP) banquet with boyfriend #9 (keynote address: “The Climax and the Downfall of the Wood Chip”).
“When eating fish, use your fork in your right hand and a piece of bread in your left. Just so. No knives with fish or fruit, because the knives are silver and the acids in those foods tarnish. Remember, you must never talk to the servants during dinner. Don’t even mention them, don’t make eye contact. Think of it as demeaning to them, if you must, but find a way to obey this society’s rules, Miss Erstwhile. It is the only way to truly appreciate the Experience. I need not warn you again about behavior with regard to the opposite sex. You are a young, single woman and should never be unchaperoned with a gentleman indoors and only out-of-doors so long as you are in motion—riding, walking, or in a carriage, that is. No touching, besides the necessary social graces, such as taking a man’s hand as he helps you down from a carriage or his arm as he escorts you into dinner. No familiar talk, no intimate questions. I am to understand from past clients that when romance blooms under the tension of these restrictions, it is all the more passionate.”
After dinner,