Page 31 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

“Welcome to Pride and Prejudice Park,” Agatha says upon entering, her deep voice echoing throughout the entrance.

It’s everything I could have imagined. Gleaming black-and-white-checkered marble floors stretch out before us, reflecting the light from the crystal chandeliers above. In the corner is a gold-plated fireplace with an intricately carved mantel. Beautiful paintings adorn every wall, and the grand staircase, with its polished wooden banister and sweeping curve, looks like something straight out of a period drama.

“Gather round, everyone,” Agatha says as she walks toward the fireplace.

I look around at the other guests, easy to spot in their modern attire, as we do as our hostess instructs. Zane and I stop and stand near a couple—a beautiful woman with gorgeous dark hair, wearing a form-fitting jumpsuit and blazer, and a man standing next to her in a tweed jacket and jeans. He doesn’t look American, nor does he look like he wants to be here.

“Greetings, honored guests,” Agatha says, commanding our attention. “We look forward to making all yourPride and Prejudicedreams come true. To that end, from here on out, we invite you to leave the world behind and immerse yourself in this glorious experience. We have done our best here to recreate Jane Austen’s world, save a few modern conveniences like bathrooms and electricity. We had an unfortunate candle event several years ago, and too many complaints from guests and staff about the chamber pots and bourdaloues.”

“What’s a bourdaloue?” Zane whispers in my ear, sending little pinpricks of sensation down my spine.

“Be quiet,” I say.

“With that said, there will be no use of other technology except for the fifteen minutes you’re allowed for leisurelypursuits each night.” She overemphasizes the phrase “leisurely pursuits,” her voice rising and falling theatrically as she says it. “Except for you, Your Grace. Of course, you are free to do as you please,” she says, with a very poignant look at the man in the tweed jacket.

Your Grace? Are we among royalty? I peer around the woman I’m standing next to, trying to get a better look at the man Agatha is speaking to. He doesn’t look pleased by the attention. I turn to Zane with questioning eyes. He looks equally curious but only gives me a shrug.

“For those of you who don’t know, His Grace the Duke of Blackthorne, Alastair Fitzroy, is joining us this week. Please, show him the proper respect he is due,” Agatha says.

“Any clue who that is?” Zane asks, whispering in my ear again. I wish he’d stop. It’s doing funny things to my stomach.

“No idea,” I say, but feel a tiny surge of excitement. We’re spending the week with a duke?

“I wish to be treated like any other guest,” the Duke of Blackthorne says. “I will tolerate nothing else.” His voice is smooth and his accent refined. It’s clear by his tone that he doesn’t enjoy being singled out.

Uncomfortable whispers and movement spread across the room. I’m glad I’m not the only one.

“Awkward,” Zane says, for only me to hear, obviously feeling the same vibe, though I doubt there’s a person in this room that didn’t catch that.

“Well, we will respect your wishes,” says Agatha, clearly taken down a notch by his words. She clears her throat, her wig bobbing around like it might fall. “As part of the experience from this moment forward, you will go by your character’s name, and you will speak in proper English accents. You should all have memorized your scripts and studied your character’s traits anddemeanor.” She looks squarely at the woman next to me before saying, “Be sure you behave accordingly.”

Interesting. I’ve often thought I’m good at reading a room, and I feel like there’s some drama here that I’m not privy to. Which is disappointing. I love other people’s drama. My own? Not so much.

“So,” Agatha continues, her voice moving through the hall. “Let us introduce all our players this week. We will start with Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet.”

I let out a tiny squeal, feeling like I used to when I was about to go onstage. This is really happening. I’m about to be announced as Elizabeth.

“His Grace, I mean, you know ... um ... him.” She points to the duke. “He will play Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

Wait. What? I look at Zane, whose furrowed brow says he’s just as confused as I am.

“And Monroe Wilde”—she gestures with a limp hand toward the woman standing next to me—“will play Elizabeth Bennet.”

“Macey, what’s going on?” Zane asks me, leaning in close.

“I don’t know,” I say back to him, feeling frantic and confused. “The paperwork said I’m cast as Elizabeth. Maybe it’s a mistake?”

Monroe/Elizabeth looks at me with concerned eyes before turning to the duke and speaking in hushed tones.

“Are you going to say something?” Zane asks.

“Well . . . I . . .”

“Next we have Jane Bennet, played by Macey Bennet.”

Oh no. I feel the color drain from my face. I can’t play Jane. She rides a horse! Not to mention, I’ve only been working on Lizzy lines. Should I say something right now and cause a stir? I’ve never caused a stir before; I don’t even think I know how.

“Say something,” Zane prods.

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