On the evening of the follies, workers adjusted the stand-up microphones arranged on the stage, "testing one, two," followed by a squawk. I entered the ballroom dressed as Fanny Price for the evening's follies, wearing period attire from Bets's closet, including Bets's unused elaborate undergarments handmade by a seamstress who reenacted Regency romances on weekends. If Father Kitt, the vampire priest in Willis's novel, could see me now, he would be unable to resist the pillows of flesh bulging just south of my jugular. Claire inspected the name tags I'd arranged in alphabetical order. She expected a big turnout this year based on her assessment of the fragile state of affairs. Vera said, "Nonsense. The Founder's Dinner is always highly anticipated. Everyone always comes."
Everyone except Willis.
"Oh, there you are," Claire said to me. "Would you make another name tag? Your handwriting is so much better than mine." She handed me the nearly dead calligraphy marker I'd been chewing all week.
"What name?" I asked, pen poised over the white square.
Claire called to the sound person, "It's not centered on the stage." She gestured, scooting air to the left.
"Claire," I said, straightening. "Whose name?"
"Oh." She looked past me, blinking, struggling to recall. "Somerford. Willis Somerford."
We would meet again. The room shifted and the stage, tables, even the workers looked different, now that Willis was coming. I wrote the familiar letters of his name and placed the name tag between Sadonek and Stewart, my mind racing to organize the things I wanted to say to Willis. How to speak to him in a ballroom filled with people? How to be alone with his fiancee present?
Regulars began to arrive; several participants from Omar's writing workshop claimed a table. Magda held court. Her affair officially over, she'd announced plans to return to Michigan to hammer out the details of her seminar. Her announcement came the same day Archie let us know he would be staying close to home for the rest of the summer, offering gratitude for his child's survival. Although I disliked Magda, losing both Archie and Magda seemed a sorry blow for the festival. Like Mansfield Park losing Aunt Norris and Henry Crawford. The summer had been a riotous expansion. But now things around me were contracting, matters settling, people returning to their regular orbits. I'd soon be back in Texas.
Mrs. Russell followed Nigel around the room, wearing her Anne Elliot dress for mature heroines only. Vera kept signaling "go ahead" to Nigel from the head table where she sat next to the old woman who always brought her dog. But Mrs. Russell stalled, waiting until all the VIPs were present before she officially welcomed festival alumni and guests, inviting all to proceed to the buffet. I fixed my eyes on the door Willis would use for his entrance; my pulse surged at the arrival of every tall man.
Philippa stood near the bar. She lifted a single cracker from the basket and broke it into tiny pieces, placing crumbs in her mouth one at a time. It might take her an hour to eat one cracker. No wonder she was so thin. And her skin was so white the veins were visible to the naked eye. Father Kitt could drain her so easily. She waved as Willis arrived, then touched a napkin to the corners of her mouth. I looked away so I wouldn't have to witness the kiss.
Mrs. Russell's microphone squawked and Pippa led Willis to their place at the head table. I walked from table to table, unaware of my actions, lighting candles in little glass jars, my hand shaking, wondering if Willis had seen me yet. The earth kept shifting under my feet, rearranging my world again before I could adjust to the last shift. I poured myself a large glass of wine.
"You look awful," Omar said. "You want to go outside?" He grabbed a wine bottle and I followed him.
In the herb garden, where light from the ballroom illuminated St. Francis, who was blatantly eavesdropping, I told Omar about Willis. Once I finished my story, we sat quietly, listening to the hum of the party. When Omar spoke, it wasn't about the things I'd said.
"You did a great job with the tea-theatre."
"Thank you," I said, clinking glasses with him.
"It was just the kick in the butt this festival needed."
"Thanks to the volunteers. But once they tire of baking, our profit margins will shrink."
"Have you ever acted before?" Omar asked.
"Small parts in high school. No one is more surprised at my acting than me." I shifted on the bench. "I don't want to talk about business," I said. "I want to obsess over Willis." I rested my hand on my forehead. "Do you think I'm needy?" I asked.
Omar choked on his wine and coughed. I handed him a napkin. "Lily"—he locked eyes with me and touched my hand—"if you have to ask..."
I made sure to refill my wineglass and Omar brought me a plate of food before Nigel began his talk. Claire had led me to expect "Nigel's Last Words on Jane Austen." She made it sound as if Nigel would reveal the answer to the great mystery of Jane Austen's undying appeal—that aspect of Austen's work which provoked, not only Magda's activism, but Mrs. Russell's wardrobe expansion and my possessive friendship with someone dead two hundred years. Even though I refused to believe Nigel was retiring, I would listen to every word, just in case. But Nigel's talk was not long enough or serious enough to be his swan song. Not a funeral, just the Founder's Night talk that he gave every year and surely believed he would give next year. He reviewed the story "The Janeites," by Rudyard Kipling. You take it from me, Brethren, there's no one to touch Jane when you're in a tight place.
When Nigel's talk ended, the follies began. I looked at the plate of food Omar had brought me while listening to a man read a screenplay of his Northanger Abbey adaptation that went on way too long. Even the little dog got restless and wandered the room. Feeling sick, I put my plate on the floor and the dog wandered over, first sniffing, then gently biting into the chunks of lamb. He ate while, at the podium, Henry Tilney reminded Catherine Morland of the similarities between marriage and dancing. The dog licked the plate until it looked perfectly clean.
Next up for the follies, Sabrina played Jane Austen hosting a talk show, interviewing Patricia Rozema, director of a film adaptation of Mansfield Park. "What were you thinking, girlfriend?" Sabrina said; a joke that would never connect outside of this crowd.
Sixby arrived somewhere between the end of my second glass of wine and the middle of my third, wine establishing a military dictatorship in my head, dispatching directives to my extremities, my reason completely overthrown.
"Ready, Lily?" Sixby asked, my dearest, oldest friend. I wished to fall into his embrace and be carried far away, skip the performance, blow off my plan to address Willis.
"I love your dress, my dear," Sixby whispered, his eyes on the bodice of Bets's spotted muslin.
"Thank you," I said, kissing the air.
"I'm going to change now." He winked. "I'll meet you backstage in a tick." He adjusted the sleeve of my dress downward, revealing a bit more shoulder. I posed for him, naughtiness fueled by too much wine and outrage. As he left, touching my cheek affectionately, I caught Magda watching us; she never missed a thing. I bent low to retrieve my plate from the floor, hoping to escape, but Magda crooked her long finger, beckoning me to the dessert table.
As I drew near, she glanced sideways and whispered, "Have you read Mansfield Park?" Her question was the greatest insult anyone could inflict on a fellow at this place. She touched my arm. "Do the words amateur theatricals mean anything to you?" she asked. "Sixby is a professional actor. You need to be careful." She took the plate from my hand just as she took everything as her due, even a plate lacquered with dog spit. She shook her head. "I'm warning you, as a sister."
"Magda," I said, as she moved closer to the fruit salad, "have you read Mansfield Park?" I'd drunk too much wine to bother with inhibitions.
She spooned a serving of fruit onto the plate. "What is your point?" she asked, the berry juices instantly reactivating dried dog saliva.
"I find your ideas about slavery traduce the text." I'd looked up the word Nigel used in conversation, meaning: to expose to shame or blame by means of misrepresentation. Still, I hoped my assertion was coherent, wished I'd had an opportunity to run it by Willis.
Magda frowned, exasperated, as she speared a pineapple chunk, slogging it through the juice. "Lily, you haven't been paying attention this summer."
Disarmed, I'd fired my only bullet.
She popped the dog spit fruit into her mouth and spoke while chewing. "The text skillfully reveals not only the complicity of Austen's society with the slave trade, but equates slavery with the status of genteel women: 'I cannot get out, as the starling said.'" Magda spoke in slow motion for the learning impaired.
"I don't think that's what Austen meant," I said, slurring.
Magda swept a melon slice through the juices, scraping the last stubborn dog germs. "She meant," Magda said, "to demonstrate that women were sold like mere chattel on the marriage market."
"When are you leaving?" I asked.
I watched the famous-looking man with abundant gray hair play his ukulele through a crack in the door. He sang "Dear Jane," an original composition sung in sincere falsetto to great amusement at Vera's end of the table. Another time I would have found him highly amusing but not this evening. Sixby appeared behind me as Nikki took the stage to begin our skit.
Willis and Pippa were seated front and center, eyes on Nikki. This performance might be my last opportunity to speak frankly to Willis; as a captive audience. Sixby squeezed my hand. I didn't want to be alone when this ended.
"The Fanny Wars have raged since 1814 when Mansfield Park was first published," Nikki said in her glorious stage voice. "After two hundred years of fighting over whether Fanny is insipid or merely dull, we offer a format whereby you, the readers, have an opportunity to end the battle. We present two Fanny Prices. Each Fanny will answer a series of questions. By your applause, you will choose which Fanny stays in the novel. First," she said, "please welcome Traditional Fanny, straight from the stacks, just the way she was written."
I entered the stage, smiling shyly, my character as loath to participate in the follies as to consider amateur theatricals in her uncle's absence. Willis sat directly in my sight, underlit by candlelight, free to stare if he so desired. He clapped and smiled as if he'd forgotten every wrong thing at the moment. Then Pippa reached over and took his hand, and envy plunged me deep into pain.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen"—Nikki spoke with greater enthusiasm—"the Fanny you've been craving these two hundred years. The Future Fanny of Mansfield Park, as Jane Austen really meant to write her, please welcome Forward Fanny." Applause and laughter exploded as the audience realized Forward Fanny was none other than Sixby in drag. Wigged and flat-chested, he air-kissed the audience, his arms and shoulders clearly straining the jumbo gown, a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Nikki cleared her throat but people were still laughing and Sixby milked the moment. "For our first question," Nikki said, waiting for quiet.
Sixby and I turned to Nikki.
"We'll start with you, Traditional Fanny."
I stepped forward, taking care to balance myself.
Nikki read from a card. "Please tell the audience what you would say if Mary Crawford rode your horse—without asking. You have ten seconds to respond."
"I would say"—I cleared my throat—"I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay home." This was straight from the book. "I would not wish to appear rude or impatient or create suspicion of either emotion, but," and here I was improvising, "I would concede my horse, confident that Edmund would recognize the slight and privately offer me his reassurance." I stepped back and then added, "I would wait in my attic garret for such private reassurance." I did not dare look at Willis.
Nikki's eyebrows rose and the audience smiled. "Forward Fanny, same question. Take your time responding."
"I would say," Sixby said, jutting his lower jaw and bobbing his head like a tough girl, "Bitch. Off my horse." His delivery was perfect.
The audience laughed and then applauded.
"Thank you, Forward Fanny," Nikki said, smiling in spite of herself. As Nikki read the next question, I watched in horror as Philippa, charmed by the skit, gave Willis a little kiss on his cheek. I spoke my line and the skit moved on but it was all a blur as I struggled to recover basic faculties.
"Traditional Fanny," Nikki said, "is there any chance you would marry Henry Crawford?"
"No. How wretched and how unpardonable, how hopeless and how wicked it is to marry without affection," I said. Take that, Willis.
"Forward Fanny, would you marry Henry Crawford?"
"Interesting question," Sixby reflected. "I've been imprisoned in this manor house, living off the wages of sin for so long, I don't even know if I like men!"
Laughter and applause.
"Last question," Nikki said. "Are you in or out?" Nikki looked at me. "Traditional Fanny, you're first, two seconds."
"If you refer to my social status, I was presented at a ball given by my uncle to honor my brother William and me. Otherwise, I am in love with a would-be clergyman, out of my mind with jealousy of the competition, increasingly lonely in my attic room, and outraged at the discovery of a new half sister in the colonies." Now he knew everything.
Nikki grimaced and the audience laughed politely, as if they got it.
"Forward Fanny?"
It was the way he said it. "I'm in and out." Sixby extended his arms, caressed the words, and the audience loved him. "I like Edmund and Mary. They hooted. "Even better"—Sixby played them along—"I can play Anhalt and Amelia. And back to your earlier question, there's room for both of us on that horse."
Under cover of Sixby's performance, I dared peek at Willis. He was smiling.
"And now"—Nikki's voice projected above the crowd—"each of the Fannys will present their closing remarks. By toss of the coin"—we paused while Nikki threw a coin over her shoulder, announcing, "Traditional Fanny goes first. Keep it short."
I took a deep cleansing breath and launched myself. "I am Fanny Price," I said, "no more and no less than the character Jane Austen lovingly drew to play the protagonist in Mansfield Park. I will never change. Adaptation and reinterpretation are futile protests against prose consigned to posterity. Long after you have sung your last alleluias, I will be cutting roses in the hot afternoon and walking to the parsonage in the rain. And even though I am shy and Mary Crawford is witty, Edmund will choose to love me for as long as readers engage the text. The novel is mine. I win. I stay."
The audience applauded. I dreaded the end of the skit. They would leave together and I would be alone in a way I hadn't been since meeting Willis.
Nikki sighed. "Closing remarks, Forward Fanny?"
Sixby drew closer to me, his male sweat and his stubble dead giveaways if anyone had doubts. "I concede," he said, taking my hand. "I concede Mansfield Park to this Fanny Price." As he raised my hand in victory, I saw a way not to be alone, a way out of my pain. "And I think I'm in love," he added. Sixby lifted me off the ground and kissed me; the unrehearsed spectacle of the two Fannys embracing created a fitting end of hostilities for the Fanny Wars. The audience hooted and whistled; there was more laughter and applause. Sixby and I left the stage together, holding hands as if we both knew what came next. I could lose myself in him, numb the pain at least for a while.
We passed through the butler pantry and into the main hallway where My Jane Austen waited, pacing nervously. People lingered, stepping outside to smoke. But as Sixby ducked into the Freezer to drop off his dress, Willis approached from the ballroom door, walking straight to me.
"Are you all right, Lily?" he asked, very serious.
I shivered. I wanted him alone in the music room, not here in the crowded hallway with Pippa on her way. I had two seconds to decide what to say. Continue playing Fanny Price and say yes, absolve Willis, and suffer in silence awaiting a miracle? I played myself. "No," I said and stared him down. When he left, it would be over. Once he was gone, I wouldn't be able to breathe.
"There you are," Pippa said, walking up, pushing her arms into her sweater. She handed Willis her purse while she arranged herself. I shivered again. "You were just delightful," Pippa said to me. "Weren't they, Willis?"
"Yes," Willis said without conviction.
"Are you cold?" Pippa asked. She heard my teeth chattering. "Willis, give her your jacket, she's freezing."
I wasn't cold, just nerves hyper tensing.
"We don't want anyone freezing to death." She removed the jacket from Willis's back herself. "We'd never sell this old house with the frozen ghost of Fanny Price wandering the halls." She smiled.
I slipped into Willis's still-warm jacket, the armpits damp from perspiration, folded papers in the pockets. Surely he'd do something to spare me the grief of watching him walk out with her. But he just looked at me, waiting, as if I were at fault. I thought I might speak my mind in front of everyone, right there in the hallway, but Sixby rejoined us and Omar appeared from the ballroom as applause signaled the end of the follies.
"That was fun." Pippa stifled a yawn, touching Willis's arm. "But it's getting late," she said. Willis stood watching as Sixby stood behind me, both hands on my waist.
"Nice jacket," Sixby said, lifting me slightly as if I were a ballerina.
I spoke recklessly over my shoulder to Sixby, certain that Willis could hear me. "I feel like improvising some more."
"You've got my attention," Sixby said.
Willis turned away and the agony began. He touched Pippa's shoulder and she nodded, stepping away from us, a thick curtain drawing around their casual intimacy, separating them as a couple.
"Let's go," a no-nonsense Omar said to me as people distracted Sixby to autograph their programs, but I swatted his hand, watching Pippa wave to us as Willis ushered her out the door. Once Willis was outside, I ran. My Jane Austen followed close behind. I disappeared into the darkness beyond the gathering, moving through halls by memory, hiding behind a door until I could be sure Omar wasn't looking for me.