To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.
~Jane Austen
In every single Jane Austen novel she’d read, in every film adaptation she’d watched, Holly could point to specific scenes as her absolute favorites. And they usually involved dancing. And drama. Whether with Marianne in Sense and Sensibility, heartbroken at catching Willoughby on the arm of another woman, or with Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, rudely refused a dance by the cold and misunderstood Mr. Darcy. But Holly hoped her own evening would be entirely free of heart-wrenching drama, filled only with music and elegance and candlelight.
Tonight, it wasn’t the satiny pale-peach dress she wore, or the elbow-length gloves she slipped on, or the pampering by makeup artists to change her into a Regency goddess. It wasn’t even the rush of knowing she might get a half second’s time onscreen that made Holly glad she took Fletcher’s advice to become an extra at the fancy ball.
No, it was entering the Manor’s ballroom and seeing how real it was. Or, rather, how surreal—walking into a space that had been utterly transformed from the modern hotel conference room to what it originally had been, once upon a time. A glamorous ballroom with candlelit chandeliers and stiff-backed furniture. Of course, the presence of cameras and lighting equipment and crew people dressed in modern clothes tapping on their phones created a bizarre then-and-now sensation. But tonight, nothing could separate Holly from her fantasy. She was a luminous Jane Austen character in a luscious dance scene.
Walking through the grand doorway, she noticed other costumed villagers standing about, proper and sophisticated, enjoying the fantasy, too. In one huddle, chattering away, she saw Mrs. Pickering, Mrs. Cartwright, and Lizzie, all nearly unrecognizable in their fancy dresses and their fancy hair. It all felt like a third dimension, a Twilight Zone containing a pseudo-version of everyone Holly knew.
Far off to her left, Holly saw the twins and Abbey. She wished her mother could see them now, so grown-up. The hair and makeup aged Abbey by three years, at least. And the twins looked stunning in their beaded gowns.
Holly noticed a familiar lanky frame fidgeting beside Bridget—Riley, her study partner, readjusting his stiff collar. He stared at Bridget, opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind. Bridget was otherwise occupied, craning her neck over the top of the crowd, most likely to try and find Colin. Poor Riley. He had no idea what a lost cause his was.
Inching forward, careful not to step on her own dress or anyone else’s, Holly recognized another familiar frame in a faraway corner, seated and leaning on her cane. Gertrude—sans Leopold—garbed in a lovely beige gown with something sparkly in her hair. Still, somehow, she looked as ill-mannered as ever, with that blasted scowl on her face, ruining everything.
If she would only smile, Holly thought. It would make all the difference.
“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” someone said behind her.
Holly turned around to see Fletcher, cutting a dashing figure in his overcoat and tails. His hair slicked back, starched collar grazing the curve of his clean-shaven jaw, he was the perfect Jane Austen leading man.
“Wow,” she said, squelching the desire to whistle. She was a lady, after all. “You clean up nice, cowboy.”
He bowed and took her gloved hand, lifting it to his lips in a courteous kiss. Then he looked straight into her eyes. “And you’re stunning, I’d say.”
Her pulse beat faster as their hands lingered for a moment before drawing apart. Even if they were only playing roles, pretending, the magic of the night was infectious.
“Thank you, kind sir.” She attempted a curtsey, trying not to jiggle too much. The costume was lower cut than she’d anticipated.
“Quite the shindig.” He looked at the growing crowd. “Is that… Gertrude?”
“It is. I did a double take when I saw her. Except for the scowl, she’s actually quite beautiful tonight. But from the looks of it, I think she’d rather be having a root canal.”
“Let’s go say hello.” He grabbed Holly’s hand.
“Oh, no, let’s not,” she protested, hanging back.
“It’ll be fun,” he insisted and pulled her along until she gave in.
Seeing them coming, Gertrude’s scowl eased into a frown.
“Ma’am.” Fletcher gave a courteous bow. “You look lovely this evening.”
“This maddening dress is too tight around the waist,” she replied. “It’s cutting off the circulation. I told that blasted woman it was too tight. Did she listen? No. She was too busy chewing her gum and yapping to her friend about someone called Daniel Beckham.”
“I think it’s David Beckham,” Holly offered. “But Fletcher’s right. You look lovely. Did Mildred bring you along?”
“Yes. She insisted on it. Wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Holly saw Mildred across the room, getting some drinks. She hadn’t seen Mildred since her father had broken the news about their relationship, hadn’t considered what to say to her, what she should say to her.
Gertrude broke into her thoughts. “Don’t you two make quite the pair.” She eyed Fletcher’s hand still grasping Holly’s.
Before Holly could think of a response, some man in the far corner shouted, “Places, please!” through his squawky megaphone.
Gertrude winced and covered her left ear. “Oh. Dreadful racket. I should be in bed.”
Spot on, Holly thought, knowing Gertrude wouldn’t last much longer. No more than two takes, she’d wager.
As they called out a quick goodbye to Gertrude, Fletcher put his hand gently on Holly’s back, leading her to their spot. Earlier, the extras had each been given specific instructions to stand in certain places around the edges of the ballroom, to watch the actors dance in the center. The extras were urged to turn occasionally and speak with the person beside them, as they might do in natural conversation at a party.
Holly felt her nerves rise as she and Fletcher hit their marks. Though they didn’t have any lines or close-ups, this whole process was so unpredictable and new. What if she was caught on-screen during the split-second of a shot, yawning, or fidgeting, or making an unflattering face?
After more shouting and squawking, the director settled everyone down and explained through his megaphone the logistics of the scene. There would be some general chatter from the extras as Emma and Churchill—Colin—delivered their dialogue, then the dance music would begin.
This scene was one of Holly’s favorite parts in the book—when the dashing Mr. Knightley asks the plain Miss Smith to dance after she’s been cruelly and publicly snubbed by Mr. Elton. Knightley proudly takes her to the floor and shows her off, rescues her. So gentlemanly. So noble. Were there any Knightleys still left in the world?
In the silence before the cameras rolled, Holly saw Colin cross to where Bridget stood—nudging Riley out of the way—whisper something into her ear then disappear to meet his mark. Bridget bit her lip, suppressing a smile.
“Quiet, everyone!”
Holly froze then realized a real partygoer wouldn’t resemble a mannequin in a shop. She resolved to be as natural as she could under the circumstances. To enter her fantasy again. Having Fletcher by her side certainly helped. His hand squeezed her elbow, instantly comforting.
The first take was exhilarating. Holly couldn’t clearly hear the dialogue from where she stood, but when the music started, she became swept away. The quintet played, and the dancers hopped their choreographed line dance while Holly imagined herself in that era—being asked to a ball, spending half the day dressing for it, then arriving on the arm of a handsome escort.
After the director yelled “Cut!” Holly expected some tedious down time between scenes—fidgeting with dresses and accessories, making small talk, waiting anxiously for the next take—but the director explained through his megaphone that he wanted to maintain the level of “joy” in the scene. And so, he piped in music between takes and asked the extras to enjoy themselves, do some dancing, if they wanted.
The ballroom quickly became a sea of jubilant couples, bobbing up and down to the light piano staccatos while the director pulled the main actors aside to give them notes. Holly wasn’t sure if the music was authentically Regency, but it was close enough—airy and buoyant and exuberant.
Fletcher swept Holly up in his arms, pressed her close, and danced. There wasn’t room for big, sweeping movements, so they remained in a tight radius close to their marks, swirling and twirling and laughing along with everyone else. When the director cut off the music to start another take, Holly was out of breath and smiling ear-to-ear. Precisely what the director wanted—to place everyone in the proper mood, so that when the cameras rolled, their smiles would be authentic. The fantasy would remain.
An hour into the shoot, take after take, dance after dance, the director finally called for a lengthy break so the extras could get rehydrated.
“May I fetch you some refreshment, m’lady?” Fletcher offered.
“Thank you, good sir.” She could get used to all this pampering and attentiveness.
When he left to retrieve the bottled water, Holly glanced at Gertrude’s chair to find that she had abandoned it, probably long ago.
“Don’t you look beautiful?” a voice said behind her.
Holly spun to see Noelle with Adam, clasping his arms around his wife’s waist. Holly noticed a very specific glow around Noelle that had nothing to do with the dancing.
“Thank you! So do you!”
Fletcher arrived at Holly’s side and offered a bottled water, opening the top before handing it to her.
“Fletcher, do you know Noelle and Adam?”
He extended his hand to Adam. “We’ve met. At the pub. But I haven’t met Noelle yet.” He shifted his attention to her. “I don’t know much about art, but your aunt’s paintings are incredible. Holly’s shown me.”
“You’re American!” Noelle beamed. “Whereabouts?”
Holly and Adam shared a shrug as their partners chattered on about their shared American experiences. Holly sipped her water and listened to Fletcher talk about Texas, watched him gesture and nod and ask Noelle questions about San Diego. Holly admired how naturally conversations came to Fletcher—with strangers, with everyone. And as Adam involved Holly in conversation too, asking about the gallery, she felt the unique inclusion of standing in a circle of four, part of a “couple” again. Even if it was only a fantasy couple on a fantasy night.
The director nudged everyone back to their marks to film a new dance scene, which meant another two hours of dancing in between takes. Holly had very little dance experience in her life, but Fletcher was an excellent lead. He’d obviously done this before.
“Two-stepping,” he confessed during their sixth dance. “And a little country waltzing. It’s all the rage in Texas.”
By the time the director offered another extended break, Holly was light-headed. She hadn’t eaten much for lunch, and the costume was restrictive in certain places.
“What’s the matter?” Fletcher crinkled his eyebrows and offered her another water bottle. “You look uncomfortable.”
“I think I’m just tired.”
“I have an idea.” He offered his arm, and she laced her free hand through it. “Let’s go get some air.”
She followed him discreetly out the ballroom doors.
Fletcher led her outside to a columned marble porch that overlooked the entire garden. Holly felt immediately better, breathing in the cool night air, leaning against the stone railing to view the garden.
In all the dozens of times she’d seen this view, she’d never experienced it at night—the faraway fountain accented with soft light, the manicured hedges creating angular shadows on the manicured lawn. She could stay here for hours. She watched a firefly light up in the distance then disappear into nothingness.
Slipping off her shoes to relieve her throbbing feet, she felt the cold, refreshing stone beneath.
“You really do look beautiful, you know,” Fletcher said, leaning his back against the railing beside her. “Or should I say, ‘fetching’?”
“You’re making me blush.” She peeled off her elbow-length silk gloves and placed them into a crumpled pile on the ledge.
The faint chords of the quintet warming up inside drifted through.
“Should we…?” Holly pointed at the door.
“I’d rather stay here, outside. With you.”
Nothing sounded better.
“We could still dance, if you want.” He offered a hand. “We have a whole dance floor to ourselves now.”
She started to accept but paused. “I’m barefoot.”
“I’ll be careful,” he promised. “Better yet, step up on my shoes.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You weigh about as much as a feather. It’ll be fine.”
She took his right hand while he slid his other hand around her waist, guiding her on top of his fancy leather shoes. His grip was firmer, stronger, than their earlier dances. This particular technique forced their bodies together.
Jane Austen’s characters never danced like this, she thought. She held on for dear life as they took their first steps, then let out a small, throaty shriek.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered.
After a moment, she believed him and relaxed into his arms.
She had only ever seen people dance this way in films, usually when one partner was giving the other a dance lesson. The actors always made it look so easy. But it took a great deal of balance. And trust.
She leaned into him, set her cheek against his shoulder, and they danced. Enchanting music floating up from inside the Manor, crickets outside chirping along, the scent of honeysuckle nearby—it was everything a Jane Austen fantasy should be.
Holly lifted out a still-warm towel, freshly tumbled from the dryer, the heat emanating on her face as she folded laundry at the kitchen table. Pandora played a classic U2 song, and she hummed along. “With or without you…”
She thought about Mildred, about how much she knew, regarding the family drama over the past several days. Surely, Holly’s father had told Mildred something. Or, maybe he’d kept her in the dark, too. He seemed to be pretty good at that.
Rascal’s piercing yap startled her. She saw a dark figure at the window and recognized the shape. Mac.
Before he could tap at the French doors, Holly reached to open them.
“Morning, lass.”
“Come in for a coffee,” she insisted. “It’s time for that rain check.”
Rascal growled ferociously but stopped when Mac reached down. After sniffing Mac’s hand, the puppy gave a hesitant lick, decided this stranger was harmless, then wagged his black-tipped tail at its usual frantic pace, circling Mac’s feet for more attention.
Holly clicked off the music and poured Mac a cup. “Here, sit.” She handed him the mug.
“Thank ye. Can’t stay long,” he warned, sitting and removing his cap. “Came to see if we’ll be planting anything new for mid-summer. There’s still time. I can get that order in today.”
“Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought. Can I decide tomorrow?” She joined him at the table.
“Aye.”
“I can’t believe it’s nearly July. The girls are already talking about their summer break coming up. Things are about to get crazy.”
Mac smirked and took a sip.
She thickened her accent with fake snobbery. “And then last night, we had that fancy dress ball.”
“Did ya, now?”
“It was fun, I admit. I wasn’t keen on the idea at first, but seeing all the costumes and that grand ballroom.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I got a little swept away.”
She visualized her ethereal dance with Fletcher and then Abbey interrupting them before Holly was ready to go home. Holly didn’t know Abbey had been standing at the window, watching them for half a dance, but the applause at the end gave her away. Distracted, Holly slipped off Fletcher’s feet, and he caught her right before she would’ve tumbled to the hard floor.
“I didn’t see you there,” Holly teased Mac now. “At the fancy ball.”
“Nay.”
Holly pictured Mac in a jacket and tails, clean-shaven and attempting to look happy about it. He could’ve been Gertrude’s companion.
“I hear you’ve got a star in the family,” Mac said.
“Yes! Rosalee. I watched her film a scene a few days ago. Amazing, how natural she was. She’s even trying out for another role in August—the director wants her to read for his next film.”
“Aye, Mrs. Pickering told me this morning.”
“How on earth did she know? We just found out two days ago.”
“She has her ways.”
“True. Sometimes I think she’s got spies around the village.”
“Aye.” Mac bent down to pat Rascal on the head, appease the whimpering. “Is your father about?”
“He was, but he had to go to London for the afternoon. Business. Can I give him a message?”
“I needed to ask him about the trellis, if he prefers metal or wooden.”
“Trellis?”
“’Twas what he’d asked about yesterday,” Mac shrugged.
Something for the garden, Holly thought. “Okay, I’ll tell him.”
Taking his last sip, he grabbed his cap and scooted the chair back to stand. “I best be going. Thank ye for the coffee, lass.”
“You’re welcome. I enjoyed the chat.”
Holly held Rascal back as he tried to chase Mac through the door. When he’d gone, she clicked on the music again, returning to her busy Saturday.