On the first page of my new life, I met my first Janeite. She stood inside the entry to the residence hall, a dormitory on loan to the festival where I would reside for the summer. She checked participants off her list and passed out brown envelopes and keys. Like a Greek statue, classical in her beautiful white Regency dress trimmed with red, her ensemble included a sleeveless overgarment that buttoned once just below her bodice. Her hair peeked from beneath a plumed military-style hat, perfect spit curls coiled on her brow. Gloved to her elbows in pure white, she reached out to straighten the hand-lettered sign on her table, "Welcome to Mansfield Park," as the two people in front of me approached her. In spite of slight pressure behind my eyes and a haze of fatigue, the remote possibility that Elizabeth Banks might show up kept me on my toes. I read every name tag that passed, looking for Miss Banks, waiting my turn, leaning against the wall for support. The temperature disoriented me; the bracing chill from open windows rather than air-conditioning led me to believe that in crossing the ocean we'd traveled over a seasonal divide, from summer into fall.
Gary, a twentyish Middle Eastern student who had fetched us from the airport, offered to find me a chair, but he'd done enough already, lugging my bags up the front steps, holding a sign for us in the terminal, and driving us in his itty-bitty car on the wrong side. He kept his window open through the endless repetition of London's fringes and beyond, but closed it on the motorway, a charming turnpike where only flat-faced trucks and undersized cars participated in traffic. Driving between villages, I'd seen spires and hedgerows through my mental fog and imagined people foxhunting. No billboards anywhere.
Vera touched my arm and nodded for me to move forward. She looked a bit nervous, but when I stepped up to the check-in table, the Janeite looked past me at Vera. "Vera," she said, "I didn't see you come in!" She extended her gracious gloved arms, a tiny fringed bag dangled from her wrist. And then I put it together. In order to proceed, we had to get past this woman who held the official list in her possession.
Vera cleared her throat. "What a beautiful dress," Vera said.
The Janeite stepped back and held her skirt for us to admire. "Oh, this is my Emma dress," she said. "But I had the pelisse made"—she indicated the overrobe—"the year we did Persuasion. Do you remember? My Anne Elliot pelisse." She smiled, unbuttoning the single button of the pelisse for a better view of the dress. "Oh, Vera, you know how I love this festival and dressing for Dear Jane. From the minute I leave London, all the way on the train, and till the moment I'm home again, every stitch of clothing on my body is Regency." The Janeite glanced at me, still dressed in my flight attendant pantsuit.
"For 'Dear Jane'?" I asked.
Vera said, "Mrs. Russell, I'd like to present Lily Berry." And then to me, "Lily, Mrs. Russell is a very important member of our volunteer staff."
Mrs. Russell bent to raise her skirt, revealing a scrolling design just above the ankle that would have been a tattoo except it was woven into the thick white stocking that covered her legs like something surgery patients wear.
"Lovely," Vera said.
Mrs. Russell straightened, reaching for her heavy hat whose thick ribbons might choke her if the hat were allowed to fall. "Wait till you see my ball gown." And then her face grew serious. She took Vera's hand, moved closer, and whispered, "Magda says we're not to plan a ball. She says the ballroom is booked every evening of the season and we're not to disrupt the schedule."
Vera stood silent, frowning, while people behind us rolled suitcases across the floor.
"You know what this means to us," she said, tilting her head so plaintively I couldn't help but sympathize. "Nigel promised a ball this year but we can't seem to find Nigel anywhere and Magda won't budge."
I wanted to help the Janeites win their ball; there was nothing I wanted more than to dance in a white gown and gloves. But I could understand Nigel's reluctance. A costume ball would be a big distraction. Dresses or discussion?
"I'm so sorry," Vera said as a suitcase thumped up the stairs.
Mrs. Russell whispered, reaching again for the hat with a life of its own, "And as you know, if we don't have the ball this year we may never dance in Newton Priors. Ever." Vera patted Mrs. Russell's gloved hand and I felt a twinge of jealousy over this Janeite's relationship with Jane Austen. Like sibling rivalry.
"Why don't you start small?" I asked. "Have a tea. Then work up to a ball."
Mrs. Russell turned her gaze on me and her expression warmed. "A tea? That's a wonderful idea."
"Well," Vera said slowly. "I'll see if I can't find Nigel and sort things out." Then she added meaningfully, "But first things first." She looked at me. "Let's get Lily into her room. Is Lily Berry on your list?"
"Oh, let's have a look." Her pen traveled up and down the column of names as my uneasiness grew and I knew my name would not be found. A zealous reader of The Six, I'd never considered dressing in costume for "Dear Jane." In fact, I knew nothing about Regency gowns and less about scrolled stockings. But "Dear Jane's" real fans were apparently far more devoted to their passion. As for me, I'd fallen behind in my duty, shown up for the first day completely underdressed and not on the list.
"Hmm, your name doesn't seem to be here."
"Is Elizabeth Banks on your list?" Vera snapped.
Mrs. Russell looked up. "Magda doesn't like us to mix things up."
"Is Miss Banks on the list?" Vera repeated.
I held my cross, twisting the chain around my finger.
Disinclined to entertain the question, she looked again. "Yes, here it is." The pen made a tiny blue dot next to "Banks, Elizabeth." I would have thought she'd use a quill.
"That will be Lily's room," Vera said. "The Banks girl won't be here."
Mrs. Russell hesitated as if considering the angle to her advantage. Magda or Vera? Ball or no ball?
Vera looked at her watch. "Nigel is expecting me," she said, with meaning.
And then Mrs. Russell cautiously handed me the key, clearly on the promise of Vera's proximity to Nigel.
"What about the packet?" I asked, having seen the arrivals ahead of me leave with a brown envelope.
"Oh dear, you can't have her packet." Mrs. Russell smiled, as unyielding as the marble statue she resembled.
"Why not?" I asked, a mere newbie wearing pants.
"Well"—she smiled—"it contains personal compensation paperwork for Miss Banks."
Vera assumed her ballet master pose. "Could you have them prepare a packet for Miss Berry? By tomorrow," Vera suggested as we turned to go.
"Don't forget the tea." Mrs. Russell nodded at me.
If the Janeites considered themselves an exclusive sorority, the guardians of the Jane Austen grail, perhaps I could pledge. Like siblings clamoring for attention, I didn't particularly want to share My Jane Austen with them but I most certainly felt they should share theirs with me. All the same, I wished for a white gown. And gloves.
Climbing the stairs, I noted cream-colored molding painted so many times the crisp edges were gone. The building was probably older than anything in Texas. And Jane Austen's presence felt so much stronger here. She hovered in my periphery now, a gauzy, ethereal being. If I attempted a direct look, she darted to the other side like the floaters I sometimes get in my eyes. Her fragile dress of faded lavender might have come from a dream or a 1950s prom rather than the Regency. Her dark hair fell in loose curls and she favored red lipstick, the color my mother wore when I was very young. When I read her books, Jane Austen spoke to me from the place between the lines of her fiction and I recognized my best friend, as if we'd shared a porch swing on summer evenings and traded confidences in another realm of time and space. She agreed that Martin would change if I was patient. She agreed that my boss was a total jerk and I deserved better. She never looked away to see if someone more interesting had just walked into the room. Through all the long days I spent staring at the walls after Martin abandoned me, she waited patiently, never ditched me out of boredom. Whereas in Texas she'd been confined to remote reaches of my imagination, here in her homeland she grew stronger, commanding a nearer presence in the periphery of my thoughts. Not quite a ghost, more like an imaginary friend.
Gary and I dragged my bags up two flights of stairs, through cavernous halls, over creaking wood floors smelling so musty they diminished the power of Gary's very strong aftershave. Transom windows flared open above doors, and damp air gave me a chill. My simple square room offered two beds with bare mattresses, two closets, a large bureau, and a very old sink with rust stains. Gary set my bags on the floor and hesitated, expecting a tip or a good night kiss. Did he sympathize with the women in period dress or the academics?
"Bye," I said, opening the door, calculating the cost of a custom pelisse. Gary left and I hoisted my large suitcase onto my bed and unloaded the contents. Did everyone here own a pair of snowy white gloves? My hanging clothes took only five inches of the closet bar and my folded clothes filled less than two of the eight dresser drawers. Tiptoeing around, checking out the table, opening a window and a bureau drawer, everything seemed so new to me, bordering on mysterious, hardly related to the books I'd read and the novel I expected to live in. There was even something odd about the light switches and door handles I couldn't resolve.
A knock rattled my door and I jumped out of my skin.
"It's me, Gary," the voice of my driver who'd left me less than ten minutes ago called through the open transom. Only it sounded more like, "Ees me, Gahr-ree."
I opened the door a tiny crack and peeked. Gary offered me a small white bakery bag.
"Arabic cookies. For you. Ees very goot."
"Oh, thank you." I reached out and accepted the bag. "That's sweet of you." I gave him the unencouraging smile for door-to-door magazine salesmen.
"I make dem," he said, planting his large brown foreign student sandals closer to my threshold.
"You made the cookies?" I peeked into the bag.
He nodded. "Middle Eastern Bakery in Hedingham. My job." He said something in Arabic, and then translated for himself, smiling, his white teeth contrasting with his swarthy skin. He could be a young Omar Sharif except for the accent. "You going to the pub?" he asked.
"Not yet." I backed away. "I'll see you later," I said as his face fell. "Good-bye." I waved, closing the door, listening as the muffled creak of his footsteps faded.
When I was sure he was gone, I walked over to the pub alone.
From the steps of my residence hall I enjoyed a perfect view of the town below: a double row of antique limestone buildings situated parallel to the river. Double-decker buses tottered up the hill, and tourists, my future audiences, wandered among faded pastel shop doors. An unfamiliar chill sparked the air, and clouds clogged the sky. The pub, a whitewashed two-story stucco building with multiple chimneys and abundant creeper, stood between the main street and the river. A charming shingle on the street announced: "The Grey Hare." Flaming carriage lanterns, smaller than those on Texas McMansions, flanked the door illuminating a hand-lettered sign proclaiming, "Literature Live Staff Night." That would be me, I thought proudly. Inside, a horseshoe-shaped bar dominated the room, its pewter countertop patched and polished. Behind, a sign on the mirror proclaimed "Bloody Mary Bar Every Sunday" with a price I couldn't yet convert in my head.
Searching among the bare boards, wooden panels, and high-backed settles, I sought a familiar face, all the while scanning name tags for the dreaded Miss Banks. A stuffed rabbit collection crowded a shelf behind the bar, illustrating the pub's name: the Grey Hare. On the wall next to me hung a familiar portrait of an old man in a powdered wig, labeled "Dr. Johnson." Below, someone had handwritten, "The Grey Hair." Several other gray-hair portraits hung around the bar. I ordered a glass of ale, proud to be there, surprised that no one was in costume. How silly to think of finding a Janeite in a pub.
Some guys next to me at the bar spoke to each other in erudite phrases like "the origins of informality." One struck me as a grad student, having mentioned his thesis; the other couldn't have been over nineteen. Their conversation flowed around me until I cleared my throat rather conspicuously and asked what they were talking about. They said, "incorporeal hereditament" as if I should have understood from context. When I asked what that was, they said, "intangible rights that are inheritable."
"Oh, that." I sipped my ale thoughtfully and imagined myself in an improv exercise. During a break in their dialogue, I mentioned Lockley's interesting theory on the roots of incorporeal hereditament in The Approach of Modernity, title and author invented by me. I made sure to turn away before they could ask to borrow my copy. But as I turned, I found myself looking into the eyes of a short, dark man in wire-rim glasses. His name tag said Omar.
"Are you new here?" he asked, obviously Arabic like Gary, dark hair, dark skin, no trace of the Middle East in his accent, but maybe a hint of New Jersey. I felt drawn to his open face, his diminutive size, and his generous regard. "I overheard you talking with those friendly guys," he said. I warmed to the sarcasm in his voice. "What are you doing here?" he asked. He raised his glass, pausing midway to his mouth waiting for my response.
"I'm an actress," I said. "And you?"
"I'm an English teacher," Omar said. "I help prepare the scripts and teach a writing workshop."
"The scripts?" I asked. Maybe he knew what part I would play.
"I adapt Austen's novels for Literature Live," Omar said, emitting a titter of insider animation.
"Which novel is your favorite?" I asked.
Omar sipped from his mug. "Personally, I don't have one," he said, his jaws locked, making his remark sound especially snooty. Surely, he was gay.
"Really?" I said.
"I'm with Mark Twain, I'd like to dig Jane Austen up and hit her over the head with her own shinbone." Omar stole a sideways glance, then turned to me and whispered, "Austen's work doesn't adapt well or easily."
"Why?"
"Well, because"—Omar assumed a serious expression, a teacher explaining to a student—"when you adapt Austen's novels for stage, you lose the interiority, the sparkling narrative if you will, which, in my opinion, leaves us with nothing but a dreadful romance. Think of the films." Omar leaned toward me again. "Shaw's my field of study."
I nodded.
Omar invited me to join him at a table in the back where the noise level and general animation increased. Unfortunately, no one in the large group wore a name tag. Omar raised his voice to seize the group's attention. "I would like to introduce a fellow actress"—he put his hand on my arm and read my name tag—"Lily Berry."
They all looked at me expecting something, so—I waved. Then a man with a beautiful smile stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Damn glad to meet you," he said. "Name's Hamlet." Hair randomly bleached, buttons on his plaid shirt misaligned, his smile so contagious I wanted to laugh at whatever he was saying whether I could hear it over the din or not. Hamlet's eyes locked with mine even as his arm rose in a professional flourish, indicating the man on his right, "Allow me to present Veal Cutlet." Hamlet's other arm extended like a conductor calling on the brass, toward the couple at the end of the table. "Country Ribs, there." A tall, lanky man nodded at me gravely. "And his little Pork Chop." The woman turned to her partner, selected a finger, and began gnawing.
I enjoyed the joke and his lovely British accent until Hamlet's mischievous eyes met mine, expecting me to reciprocate in kind. "And you are?" he said, and I knew I was supposed to be some sort of meat. No time to unwind the jet-lag gauze straitjacketing my brain, I smiled. "I'm still Lily Berry," I said, adding, like a beauty contestant with a Southern drawl, "From the great state of Texas," applying specific gusto to the word great. I couldn't read the expression on Hamlet's face. Fearing he might expose me for a fraud, the suspense was unbearable. I looked to Omar for a cue but he had started a conversation with someone else. Hamlet raised his arm again and I flinched like a needy dog expecting to be hit. To my utter astonishment he opened his mouth and began singing to me. Conversations halted and heads turned as his rich baritone filled the pub; even the people in the front looked to see what was happening.
"Oh I wish I wa-as in the land of cotton," he sang, pausing to savor the full effect of the longing he expressed. Some began singing harmony. "Old times there are not forgotten." He took my hands in his as if this were a love song. "Look away, look away, look away Dixie land." He immediately segued into "The Yellow Rose of Texas," but mixed it up with "Yankee Doodle." Omar winked, as if Hamlet serenading me were normal behavior. The bartenders looked mildly pleased, as if this sort of thing happened when you associated with actors. But I felt myself on fire because, as an actress, I would be expected to improvise something original, soon.
"The Yellow Rose of Texas is the only gal for me," Hamlet continued, swinging me around in a little colonial do-si-do. Others joined the act, humming the accompaniment. Country Ribs and his little Pork Chop performed backup vocals; another actor played his air guitar, closing his eyes for the more challenging riffs. Veal Cutlet on percussion used spoons to beat the table as one of his mates played the air trombone. Others provided vocal accompaniment and stomping feet; the whole front of the room improvised to Hamlet's crazy medley while I scrambled for an idea. Unless I thought of something quick, it would be very obvious who was not an actress in the room.
Hamlet went down on one knee and seated me on the other. I managed to smile and raise my arms in a little shimmy, my butt bones digging into his thigh, ideas racing. Although I never played a lead, I memorized all the solos and sang them to my bathroom mirror. I stood and launched into "People Will Say We're in Love," as if I'd come straight from Broadway, the breath released from my diaphragm, flowing over my vocal cords exactly the way my voice teacher had taught me years ago. I felt like a pro and Hamlet crooned his part, making up words as he sang. We held hands as if we really were Curly and Laurey.
Then I heard the words of Oklahoma! coming from the sidelines, gaining momentum, the beat growing stronger, wind sweeping the plains, hawks flying in circles. My heart swelled and I wanted to laugh and cry as I joined in, singing the harmony when I could find the note. We sang and danced, arms in the air, feet stomping; I felt such a sense of belonging in this moment with these people, right up to the final okay!
Hamlet cradled me so far backward I had no sense of balance and no ability to right myself. Then he planted a real kiss on my mouth. He tasted bitter, like ale. Huge applause erupted, encouraging my inner protagonist. When Hamlet prepared to stand, I pulled him back and wrapped my arms around his neck for another kiss. And kicked a leg in the air. The room loved it.
"Well done, Lily," Hamlet whispered. We bowed and then Hamlet took my hands in his. "I think I'm in love." He snapped his fingers. "Let's improvise. Omar, get a pen, this will be good."
A new group of people entered our section of the room and chatter resumed.
"Lily," Hamlet said, slightly breathless, "I have an idea. Let's work up an act. You and me."
I smiled; no idea what he was talking about but I liked the way he said "you and me."
"Shall we have a go at the follies?"
"Yes," I said. The arrival of the new people interrupted the flow. Hamlet let go of me as a striking woman approached him lips first. He held her in a tango dip and I watched their bodies move, so precise and fluid it seemed they must have practiced earlier. I hoped she already had a partner for the follies. After that, people moved around and old friends greeted each other.
I asked Omar, "Is Newton Priors far from here?"
"About a mile."
"Can I go there?"
"What for?" He made a face.
I felt very comfortable with Omar. "I want to see it before we're evicted."
"What are the follies?" I asked, approaching Newton Priors in the mounting gloom of half light via a narrow path lined with tall shrubs on both sides.
"The follies," Omar said, "is an evening in late July when alumni visit and we present a talent show among ourselves."
"Like playing the piano or singing a song?"
"Not exactly," Omar said. "It derives from the impulse of Jane Austen's family skit nights. Most acts have something to do with her." Omar told me that Hamlet's real name was Sixby Godwin, a professional actor who studied at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, currently auditioning with the RSC, the Royal Shakespeare Company.
"He's auditioning? What about Literature Live?" I asked, locking my jaws to stifle a jet-lag yawn.
"When he gets on with the RSC, he'll be out of here. And he will get on, you can depend on it. He's very talented."
I knew that. "But why leave?"
Omar smiled patronizingly. "Darling," he said, "surely you don't expect him to go down with the ship." Omar extended an arm. "Prepare to feast your eyes," he said.
Trees and plump shrubs on either side of the path still obscured the view. Only a hint of red brick peeked through the leaves. A sign appeared on our right announcing Newton Priors, open to the public the first Sunday of the month. "Open to the public?" I asked.
"They get a tax break for sharing," Omar said, and stopped walking.
There before us, the grand house rose from the earth in majesty.
"Queen Anne in the English Baroque style." Omar gestured.
"It's lovely." The main door centered between two wings curved gracefully at the ends, constructed of deep red stone, face full of tall windows and lovely bays rendering the house more vulnerable than the Palladian boxes with their perfectly square corners. The central tower climbed three stories, crowned by a filigreed stone balustrade filtering the sky. But mostly I got a sense of serenity, very still and very quiet. Soft green grass surrounded the house, reaching out to the place where the lovely gardens began. Soft and fine like the grass on a putting green or a carpet. "Look, bats." I pointed at winged specks flying from the roof. A steeple rose not far from the house. "Does the church belong with the estate?"
"Yes, St. James's Church. The tower dates from the early sixteenth century and the bells from 1350. The Weston family rebuilt the rest of it in the late 1800s."
So wonderful to have my own personal church so close, like having a bit of my mother at Literature Live with me. The problem: how to give Omar the slip and indulge a solitary church visit. I felt my neck for the cross but it wasn't there. Sheer panic seized me before I remembered I'd placed it in my jewelry pouch for safekeeping.
Omar said, "Conservationists are toiling around the clock to get ready for opening day. Just don't expect them to fix anything." Omar's remarks came with a side of sarcasm.
"Who is Magda anyway?" I asked.
"More like what is she." He laughed. "We're sure she's not human. We think she drinks Janeite blood. We know she can smell fear. And Archie loves her."
"Who's Archie?"
"Her immediate supervisor."
"Oh."
"Here's some good advice: Avoid eye contact with Magda."
"Is she from the Middle East?" I asked.
"Lebanese." Omar held a gate open, admitting me onto the immediate grounds. "She was once a student of Archie's but she currently resides in Ann Arbor, where she intimidates freshman English students."
"You know her from there?"
"Yes, we're in the same department. Archie worships her."
I waited.
"When he's not at home with his wife and children in London," he added, offering his arm as we reached the steps.
"Oh," I said.
We climbed the oversized sloping stone steps, worn from age and moisture, to the formal double-door entrance.
"And don't let her catch you smoking," he said. "Her friend died of lung cancer—a nonsmoker—last year, and she takes smoking as a personal affront. If you see Archie smoking, look the other way quick." Omar held the door for me. "After you."
"I don't smoke."
Inside, the wide planks creaked and sloped. A marble placed on the floor would roll into a corner. The door handles weren't where I expected them to be, and paint on the ceiling medallion peeled and flaked onto the floor. This wasn't a stately mansion where you pay $16.50 for a tour of immaculate rooms decorated in Smithsonian perfection. But I could feel My Jane Austen in this place. Omar became my tour guide, occasionally abandoning sarcasm to teach me something.
"Please note the whimsical fault lines over the doorway to the ballroom. Repairs were last attempted in 1920." My eyes ascended the fourteen-foot ceilings, taking note of the cracking plaster, the first thing to greet patrons upon arrival. The walls needed paint. Omar showed me a bald spot in the hallway where, in the 1960s, an official of the Historical Society had gouged a sample of the plaster to test for composition.
Omar gestured to dark, somber portraits in gilt frames, suspended by wire from a line of molding. "Ancestors, mostly," he said. On the opposite wall, floor-to-ceiling lace curtains dressed the windows like spinsters left over from the Depression. I sensed an attitude of flexibility in our production, a handmade flavor to the house.
Omar noticed my glance at the floor. "The rugs have been taken out for a beating." We entered a small room off the front hall. "This is the Freezer," he said. "Your greenroom where you will escape the scrutiny of patrons while you spend quality time with fellow actors cramming for the next scene. Or checking your e-mail."
The Freezer reminded me of an oversized coat-check room furnished with mismatched contemporary sofas better suited for a fraternity house, a lime green area rug, and faux Danish modern end tables; it was the only room lacking a fireplace. A noble mahogany library table and sideboard waited here, slumming while a better placement was scouted.
"That's Magda's desk," Omar said, pointing to a surface buried in papers and books. "And that's everyone else's." He indicated a table, bare except for a previous-generation computer and monitor. I could imagine actors lounging with scripts in this room, memorizing Jane Austen's prose. Or checking their e-mail.
"How long has it been since anyone really lived here?" I asked, following Omar back to the entry and turning left at the archway.
"Nineteen forty-five," he said. "And this is the ballroom."
"Wow." I gazed into the cavernous hall. A couple in deep discussion sat at a folding table erected just inside the door.
"Hello." Omar waved. The middle-aged man waved in our direction without looking up. Omar whispered to me, "The scenes are presented in here, some of the lectures, and all of the big meetings. The ballroom is one of the few rooms in the house wired for electricity." I imagined actors performing against the backdrop of the raised-panel wall, patrons seated in rows of folding chairs.
"No electricity?" That explained the orange electric cords snaking along the floor, taped over thresholds; powering the rest of the house. Surely the cords would be less obvious by opening day.
"That's Archie," he said, waving to the man with the gray comb-over ponytail and facial hair. "And Magda," a woman who looked young, twenty-nine or thirty, did not wave but kept talking to Archie, her hand on a stack of paper, obviously the same Magda who was giving the women in period attire so much grief over their ball. Magda wore a scarf covering her hair but the rest of her clothing was typical college garb: black jeans and T-shirt. She was strikingly beautiful, even partially hidden by the scarf. Her lack of visible hair called attention to her clear brown skin and perfect white teeth. At the moment she looked rather agitated, thumping the pages in front of her, speaking with a pronounced Arabic accent.
Omar whispered, "Magda and Archie run the enactments."
"Is that the script?" I whispered back.
Magda hit the stack of paper with the flat of her hand. "I don't get it." Magda leaned away from Archie as if to see him better. "Are you backing off?" She waited. "You said I'd have complete freedom to interpret in accordance with my reading." Her words came out clear and distinct, as though the accent was the proper pronunciation, obviously a teacher.
Archie closed his eyes, reminiscent of Martin. "The radical approach doesn't bother me," Archie said calmly.
"Then what is it?" Magda asked, her mouth open.
"It's the blatant lack of consideration for over half our constituency."
Magda jumped in, "I don't give a rat's ass for the Janeites."
"You should," he said. "They're paying the piper."
Magda reared her head back. "I said I'd babysit Miss Banks for the summer, but I won't compromise." Magda sighed. "Next you'll tell me you love Fanny Price."
"I love Fanny Price," I said this to Omar, but they all heard me and turned to see who had spoken so precipitously. Magda's gaze expressed absolute wonder.
"What did she say?" Archie smiled, not sure he heard correctly.
"Never mind." Magda raised a hand.
"She likes Fanny Price?" Archie turned to focus on me but Magda snapped her fingers at him.
"Brave woman," he said, and I smiled back. At the time, I was oblivious to the passion inspired by Mansfield Park's protagonist. But any hope of aligning myself with these two was now dashed; I might be killed in a Fanny War.
"Would you excuse us?" Magda asked, glaring at me.
"No problem," I said, flashing the indulgent smile I reserved for childish adults.
Omar was already in the hall.
"Miss Banks isn't coming, is she?" I asked, fearing the worst. "Vera told me she wasn't."
"I've no idea," Omar said, steering through a dark room. "Lady Weston locked these doors in 1945, after the war, and moved to modern digs in Kent. She kept up visits in the summers, hoping her son would eventually restore Newton Priors as his residence, but that didn't work out."
"Why not?"
"He got himself and his wife killed while driving in the Cotswolds."
"Driving in the countryside?"
"Have you seen how they drive on country roads? Nope," he said, as we walked, "they died young, leaving two darling orphans for Grandma to raise." Omar paused by the door. "No one has had the time to redecorate or change anything. No central heat or air."
I stopped walking and asked, "So Randolph Lockwood is one of the children Lady Weston raised?"
"Yes; and his sister, Philippa. I'm sure you'll have an opportunity to meet them soon. This is the music room," Omar said, indicating a parlor, another tall boxy room with a fireplace where a ratty sofa kept company with an antique piano. A small bust of Mozart sat on a bookshelf. "You will find drawers and shelves in this house still full of household detritus from 1900 and earlier." Suddenly, I was Catherine Morland snooping through drawers to discover the dead mother's last letter to Randolph.
"Nothing interesting, I've looked." Omar pointed upward where curling shreds of yellowed paper dangled in the dim upper reaches. "Please note the original wallpaper," he said.
I looked up and felt a burst of excitement, ready to begin my new life among musty drawers and peeling wallpaper.
"Oh, and Alex brought his old record player." Omar pointed out the antique stereo plugged into an orange cord, a stack of records nearby, "so you can listen to vinyl LPs in your spare time." Bach topped the pile of albums.
"I'll remember to do that." I followed Omar through a narrow hallway leading to a room where dusty books crammed the shelves. "Why don't they replace the wallpaper?"
Omar laughed, then without answering he stopped and stared at me. "What are you looking for, Lily?"
His question surprised me, and for a moment, I wondered if he wasn't gay. "What do you mean?"
He adjusted his glasses. "What do you expect to get out of this summer? Expand your repertoire? Develop an accent?"
"Oh." I had to think. "Yes. Expand my repertoire, exactly."
Omar waited.
"Actually"—I gestured with both arms—"I'm interested in working among actors who also read books; who understand the meaning of only connect." This was important to me.
Omar winced.
"You know, E. M. Forster, Howard's End," I said, holding my breath.
Omar folded his arms in concentration. "As in, 'connect the beast and the monk; the prose and the passion'?"
Now it was my turn to be confused. I'd read the book long ago, actually seen the movie more recently. Perhaps I should brush up before holding forth to English teachers. "Yes," I said, vowing to find the book at my earliest opportunity. Maybe there was a copy of Howard's End in here somewhere.
Omar walked; I followed. Shells, rocks, stuffed birds, and a statue of a shepherd boy kept company with the books on the shelves, all collected by someone long gone, the house a living relic, a repository of the Weston family, their spirit lingering like dust on the books.
"From a photo taken in the 1920s, it is clear that nothing, down to the peacock feathers in that urn over there"—Omar pointed to the corner—"has been changed in nearly a century."
I had a strong feeling right then that My Jane Austen walked the rooms with us and that rather than old and dusty, the place was green and growing, full of hope and possibilities of fulfillment. Another passage led us to what appeared to be a kitchen, tacked onto the end of the house.
"This room was added at the turn of the century." Omar pointed to a pair of odd faucets, connected to metal pipes snaking over the wall's surface. "The sink hasn't been used since 1945." My eyes found a patch of light where settling had caused a gap in the wall large enough for a hand to reach through. I thought of Fanny Price exiled to her shabby home in Portsmouth. The room had no counters, just dark bare wood, shelves holding pale china, and racks for towels. Baskets gathered dust and a rack of old teacups hung on the wall. Mrs. Russell and her volunteers would have a hard time making tea in here. No wonder Lady Weston's daughter fled. Again, My Jane Austen flitted through my peripheral vision, looking pale in her lavender dress.
"What do you understand only connect to mean?" Omar asked. "I'm not sure I follow."
"Oh." I cleared my throat, wondering if he could sense Jane Austen in the room or if it was just me. "It's like really connecting," I said. "Connecting in an emotional, rather than worldly, sense." Sounded plausible to me. "The way readers connect with books, actually; on the higher plane of ideas. I hope to find people here with whom I can connect, on that level."
"Oh." He pushed his glasses up and folded his arms. "That's not what I understood it to mean."
"Oh?" I braced myself.
"No, I understood Forster advocating that people connect what they profess to believe with their actions." Omar looked up at me. "This requires self-knowledge."
"Oh."
"Which is why I was confused you would come here to meet people who understand." He walked out of the kitchen back into the hallway. "Actors? Literature Live is the Grand Central Terminal of disconnected personalities," he said. "And this place is Fantasy Island for Janeites."
I thought of Mrs. Russell wearing her costume on the train.
"You've got your work cut out." Omar chuckled, which seemed better than lingering on my misunderstanding. Omar led us back into the ballroom, where we found a man jumping on the stairs.
"Hey, John." Omar waved. Omar introduced me to John Owen, the project's conservationist. "A friend of Nigel's."
"Don't mind me," John Owen said. "I'm only testing the stairs."
Omar put his hands in his pockets and we watched the man bounce on one step, and then move down to the next. I noticed he was wearing an odd combination of clothing: pants from an old office suit, a dingy soccer shirt, and sneakers with Velcro fasteners. "What do you expect to find?" Omar asked.
We strained to hear him whisper, slightly breathless, "A noticeable bounce may mean structural problems."
"Is it bouncing?" Omar asked.
He stared past us in concentration. "Not sure." He went back up to a previous step. "There may be something here." He examined the steps, going from one to the other, jumping and trying again.
We took the stairs to the second floor while Omar explained that John Owen had been part of the original deal with Lady Weston. "He putters around all summer with his crew of grad students who think they're having a symposium, fixing things, making sure the place isn't falling into irretrievable disrepair, in return for Literature Live's use of the property."
I smiled. "The students think they're having a symposium?"
"And they pay for the privilege." Omar gestured to a lot of closed doors in the second floor hallway. "None of this is open to the public. Some of these bedrooms serve as private offices for Archie and Magda and the lead actors, and since I'm not sure which are which, I just stay downstairs unless summoned." As we walked down the hallway, Omar grinned, nudging me with his elbow. "I don't think John Owen grasps the meaning of only connect, do you?"
"I think you're making fun of me," I said, "and we've only known each other since six."
Omar touched the handle of another narrow door and explained about the third floor. "Off-limits," he said, "just a lot of dead furniture up there, not interesting."
I sensed My Jane Austen touching the handle from the other side of the door.
"Do you think we'll get a lease extension?" I asked, imagining the first real lines in my novel life interrupted by a real estate broker with a sign and a hammer, wondering if Omar had felt anything because he was holding his own hand.
"Depends. The taxes are exorbitant, and the new lord needs the cash to finance his bar bills." Omar started down the stairs. "The offices are over here in the east wing." Omar led us down a curving hall and opened a door but we didn't go in. "Nigel's office, the conference room, and library. Not interesting, just the admin heart of the festival." Omar turned and bumped into me. "Let's go, it's dark," he said.
"But we must have seen less than half."
"Tomorrow is another day, Scarlett. You can't see anything in the dark anyway."
The great wooden door, not locked as feared, responded to my push, admitting me into the chilly stone nave of St. James's Church. I'd gently disengaged Omar by professing a need for more exercise, although he likely sensed I was up to something. Pulling the door shut, I waited for my eyes to adjust, dim evening light filtering through the ruby and cobalt of stained glass, delighted to sense that My Jane Austen was still with me.
Tiptoeing carefully over uneven stone to a dark wooden pew, I sat, breathing the musty air deeply through my nose, exhaling through my mouth, a visitor in a quiet tomb. A narrow shelf built into the pew before me held the diminutive Book of Common Prayer, the English version, smaller than those back home. The regular size hymnal hung over the shelf's edge, too big to fit. A needlepoint cushion hung from a hook below. Near the front of the church, stone effigies, perhaps the First Baron of Weston and his wife, slept in a bed of marble, their hands clasped in prayer these many years. I tried to be quiet but the pew creaked with every movement. Another entombed body lay prone in the far corner, all alone, facing the wall with the great window. Lifting the needlepoint cushion from its hook, I knelt and whispered the words from the funeral liturgy: "All we go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song. Alleluia. Alleluia." I repeated the phrase over and over, with a special heartfelt emphasis on "yet even at the grave." Usually the repetition would begin to soothe me and I would become lost in the words, but it wasn't working for me now. I kept thinking about the ancient sleepers and the universal smell of mustiness and how it smelled old but still alive. Still present among the living, but separate. At times like this, the utter permanence of death came home to me like a thick iron wall that closed forever between my mother and me. I could never tell her about Sue or ask her advice about my father or anything else. Death did not negotiate.
No longer whispering, I tried speaking quietly, "All we go down to the dust." Unable to focus on the prayer, I surrendered to the excitement growing in my spirit: the feeling of being in deep communion with a great mind. Even if the volunteers were a sorority of secret stockings like those of Mrs. Russell, and even if the academics were mostly incoherent to me, this festival was all about the book, Mansfield Park. I thought I knew everything there was to know about Jane Austen and her book. But here was a whole new rich, promising world opening up for me, something I hadn't been aware of two days ago. The novel was alive. This was what I had meant about living in a novel. We were all alive in Mansfield Park. This could never have happened in Texas.
And from this great distance, I could see clearly that Martin didn't get me. He'd never read Forster; he thought only connect was a dot game. Being married to Martin would mean sharing him for weekends of hunting and paintball. His ideal vacation would be scuba diving with the guys in some oversubscribed Central American destination. Perhaps I generalized, but it seemed Martin, as well as all the men in my social circle, relied on the same slim catalogue when choosing interests and vocations. We met in a bookstore, yes. But he wasn't buying books. He was checking out the chicks who bought books. I kept squeezing myself into underwhelming romances with men like Martin because I wanted one so badly. But they never had enough gravitas to survive on their own merits. In these relationships, we parked in each other's lives until something like holiday travel interrupted the flow, and when we got back into town, we couldn't remember where we'd left our cars.
Something creaked. I held my breath, and waited for a repeat of the sound I'd heard. Something besides me had moved. Although I thought I was alone in the dark, I couldn't really be sure. It sounded like something alive in another pew but I saw no one. The creak happened again. I sat up straight. My scalp tingled and fear gripped me. What if the tombs opened up? Too late to hide. From the front of the room, a dim figure rose from a pew, Heathcliff hiding in the dark. I scooted closer to the wall, bumping an overhanging hymnal on the shelf in front of me, sending it to the floor with a mighty resounding thud. He looked over at the disturbance and our eyes met. Young and serious, thirty by my guess, wearing jeans and T-shirt, probably frightened by my chanting and afraid to be in the same dark church with me. He had been lying on the pew. Now he stepped over the dead interred in the stone floor, in a church where protagonists had brooded for centuries, their rich stories lingering in the damp fertile air, encouraging all forms of yearning and despair, perhaps in my very pew.
I'd arrived at a place in the cosmos where I could connect, at last.