Lost in La La Land(13)

It only lasted a moment and then a light hit so bright it blinded me.

I winced, covering my face, shielding myself from the intensity of it, but it didn't help. The light was so powerful it flashed through my eyelids.

Blinking, struggling to see, I wondered how no one had given me feedback on this. How had they forgotten to tell me about the terrible first two minutes of the ride?

But when the light faded and the world took form, I forgot what I had been thinking about.

I forgot my name.

All I knew was the house—no, estate—in front of me was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. It was out of a movie.

Standing in the terraced garden, I was stunned by the cobbled walks and layered fountains. The spray made the whole lush garden sparkle like diamonds floated in the misty air.

The house, a handsome estate based on Haddon Hall in Derbyshire, was stone and brick with old Tudor windows that gave the impression one was barred into the home.

The arched doors were solid, made of heavy lumber with sturdy and weathered handles.

Brightly colored vines grew up the sides of the great building, smattering pink blooms to complement the green and gray stone.

Mossy gardens with perfectly shaped bushes lined the pathways. One went to the house and another led farther into the garden, giving me the impression there was a maze made of hedges.

The sky was blue and white and the wind was warm as it brushed against me, carrying with it the scent of the garden and fields.

On the other side of the sculpted hedges, opposite the house and maze, I could see clear across the rolling hills dotted with perfect little outcrops of trees or bushes. Everything appeared as a painting, which it was. Digitally painted to appear this way.

My mind brought the painting to life.

Taking a step, I winced at the feel of my shoe pinching my toes. When I glanced down at my foot, I paused for half a second, unsure of the dress. It was a pale green Regency day dress with a straight skirt, simple hem, and gathered bodice to create a slightly ampler chest. It was exactly the sort of thing a lady would wear midday.

Even my brain was different, allowing for English vernacular to become part of my inner dialogue. We never used Austen’s language and strayed from using too heavy of a British baseline but instead tried to refine the American English so the majority of our clients weren’t left behind. A true Austen aficionado would have been a little disappointed.

I wanted to tilt my head back and let my arms float so I might let the entirety of it sink in.

I made this.

It was mine.

My creation based on the words and works of others, but still mine.

Jane Austen and I had created something magical, together. We were partners. Sort of. Jane had made up the story and I created the script, having my digital design team shape the scent of trees and flowers and the pinch of old-fashioned shoes. It made the dreamer live it all.

A tear streamed my cheek as I took another step, my plain brown shoes no longer pinching, as if my feet had become accustomed to the rigidity of them.

The soft, damp grass smelled strongly of fresh rain and I sank in when I walked.

The cobblestone pathway to the side of the house was perfect. It was aged, exactly as it would have been if this were truly an estate home built hundreds of years earlier with only minor renovations or improvements. Additions and refurnishing were much more commonplace back then.

As if on a secret or spy mission, I crept up the cobblestone and peeked in the windows. They were hazy and small with lead bars, done in the Tudor style.

The parlor was decorated in a shabby chic style.

This was where the young ladies took tea in the afternoon and did their artistries—crocheting, needlepoint, reading, or painting.

Biting my lip and feeling as if I were new to the world, a young girl again and not a woman in her late-thirties, I snuck to the door, taking the heavy cold handle firmly in my hand and turning it so I could enter silently.

Everything was right.

Every part of this world was right.

Scents of fresh-baked bread and musty furniture hit me as the indoor air made its escape, rushing past me.

Piano music softly played from somewhere in the house. Maybe one of the servants was practicing.

I knew Anne Elliot had two sisters: Mary, the complainer, and Elizabeth, the wretched snob.

Mary would be at Uppercross with her family and Elizabeth wouldn't be practicing the piano, not unless she was on show for some wealthy prospect. It could have been Anne, but she was busy no doubt, undertaking the family’s misfortune. For that was where the story started, in the midst of the Elliot financial ruin.

When I closed the door, I sighed, contented in a way I hadn’t been in years. The reason I hadn’t been peaceful didn't cross my mind.

Nothing more than exploring and seeing everyone interact crossed my mind.

“Anne!” a shrill voice shouted into the silence.

Footsteps, not thumping ones but hurried nonetheless, sounded above my head.

“Anne! Lady Russell has come!” The pitch and disrespect in the tone suggested it was Elizabeth shouting. When I left the parlor, I paused, seeing Lady Russell at the base of the stairs with a servant and an elderly woman in a fine riding dress.

Lady Russell was exactly as she should have been. In her late forties or early fifties, with perfectly coifed hair and a sharp look to her eyes. She was dressed just so and forcing a soft smile on her lips.

Elizabeth was also what I had expected to find. She had a pretty face but a disdainful smirk on her lips and an apathetic temperament. As if nothing pleased her. Her hair was styled suggesting she might attend a ball later, but in truth she wouldn't be leaving the estate. Her dress was fancy for an afternoon of lying about, seemingly her attire did the boasting of their fortune for her.