My Jane Austen Summer (3 page)

O
nce my bags were checked and my boarding pass tucked into
The Mysteries of Udolpho
, nothing but a series of long corridors remained between me and my plane to England. Every step I took in my tailored pantsuit, looking more like a flight attendant than an actress, keeping pace with business travelers power-walking to their flights, took me one step farther from my father's wedding and closer to my rebirth in a Jane Austen novel. I wondered if my father even knew I was leaving the country. "Teach him," I muttered silently, hoping my lips hadn't moved. I avoided tripping over rolling carry-ons as I changed lanes, desperately seeking a bathroom to relieve myself of the coffee I'd been drinking all morning. What if we had no bathroom in our
Mansfield Park
house? I'd better go while I still could.

Ducking into a ladies' room, I took my place at the end
of the line, advancing to the rhythm of flushing toilets and banging Band-Aid-colored doors. I checked the mirror for the same blank look everyone else wore that morning. I did indeed look like a lost dog--or the plain women they get to play the secondary characters in the films of Jane Austen's books. Brown hair, blue eyes, medium height. When I looked happy, there was a certain spirit in my eyes. I gave up on the mirror, first in line now, alert for the next open door.

Perhaps men who actually liked secondary Jane Austen character types existed out there. Maybe the person who played the pompous Mr. Rushworth would like me. I tried to hurry, conscious of the impatient line, but once locked inside the stall I indulged self-pity as I remembered my new grief. In the chaos of the yard sale I held to finance the purchase of my airline ticket, I lost the box of books my mother had collected for me. But not just books; I'd lost my mother's voice. And I'd lost her voice through my own carelessness.

Outside my stall, the persistent tapping of heels on tile floor and the starting of hand dryers pushed me forward. I washed my hands, hoping my appearance had transformed, unsurprised to find the secondary character still in possession of my mirror. The traffic in the corridor pushed me toward my destiny once again, people walking while talking on phones, listening to iPods, pushing strollers, and pulling backpacks. I wished Martin could see me now.

"You should let it go," Karen had said in the wake of my breakup. Married with two kids and her own neighborhood association, she'd forgotten about lonely Saturday nights.

"I am letting it go," I said to no one as I stepped out of the path of a golf cart transporting people to their gate. I was letting
everything
go.

∗ ∗ ∗

Vera waited at the gate for the flight, her wrinkles and liver spots more apparent in the airport light. I'd camped out in Vera's office several times to pose pointed questions designed to understand Literature Live, but each time Vera would disclose a beginner detail, like, productions are staged in Newton Priors, an English manor house restored to the period, and Monday and Tuesday are the days off. Then she would dart off on a tangent about how whales were getting whacked out by the navy's sonar. I liked Vera immensely, but she distracted easily. I removed the ridiculously heavy bag of books she used to save my seat. "A little light reading." I groaned, pulling a random sample out of the bag:
Real Estate for Dummies
. "What's this for?"

Vera focused through the bottom half of her glasses. "Oh, that's so I can figure out how to do the extension."

"What extension?" I asked. Extension implied
expiration
. Did they
not
have a lease? Did I dare board a plane to fly into a novel that might have no setting? With one foot in Dallas, the other on a departing plane, I would do the big-time splits or splash into the Atlantic. And be eaten by sharks. "Do you
not
have a lease on your venue?" I asked, my voice pitched higher than normal.

In a gesture of nonchalance meant to downplay any potential drama implied by my tone, Vera shrugged. "We
have
an agreement," she said, uncrossing and recrossing her legs away from me.

"When does it expire?" I sounded like the parent.

"Sometime in May." Vera cringed as if expiration dates were distasteful.

"The
May
that comes before June? The May that already happened?"

Vera rolled her eyes. "I'm sure I told you we need an ex
tension of our agreement to use Newton Priors, the country house where we have held our festival for the past thirty years."

I paused to reconsider the security of an empty apartment in Dallas. "How long before we're thrown into the street?"

"Don't be silly, Lily." She smiled at her rhyme and then straightened and faced me. Her hair pulled back, she resembled a ballet master. "You know neither Lady Weston, our patroness, nor the history of this organization. Don't fret about matters you don't understand."

"I took a real estate class, so I understand more than you think."

"Well then, you can help me figure it all out." Vera opened her novel. "An actress with a real estate degree, interesting."

A fat couple holding hands watched CNN, Starbucks balanced on their armrests. A businessman with a heavy briefcase took the last seat opposite me. "Does the Randolph Department have anything to do with this lease renewal?"

"Yes. And it's not exactly a lease. It's an agreement."

I pictured terms of the festival's use penciled on a paper napkin. The businessman across from me spoke on his cell phone, his grown-up manner reminding me of Karen's husband. "FYI, Vera, I took one class, not a degree." She'd blown things up--for the second time. Which brought me to my newest worry: Did Vera
believe
I was a professional actress? I had misled her about my acting background, but she had distorted what I said beyond recognition. I asked her. "You know I'm not a professional actress."

Her eyes went to my necklace. "Nice cross," she said.

I repeated myself. "You know I'm not a professional actress."

"Nice cross," she said again.

"Thank you." I pulled the newly repaired chain out of my scarf. "The last gift my mother gave me."

"Oh." Vera looked closer.

"Before she died, she had her wedding band and some other jewelry melted down to make two crosses, one for me and one for my sister."

"How lovely," Vera said.

My mother began letting go of me the day she gave me the box with the necklace inside. She had been home under the care of a hospice nurse for about a month. I visited every day after work and we spent my visits reading aloud, taking calls from Karen, and making jokes about my dad's cooking. Regular obligations went into suspense, allowing us cozy oblivion while the illness retreated to the background, as if it might leave altogether. But everything changed the day Karen drove up from Houston; my mother must have decided the time had come to say the things she needed to say to us. I wasn't prepared. Her calm acceptance of death frightened me; my throat hurt from the effort to restrain emotion. Karen and I fastened the chains around our necks, listening as she told each of us in turn how much she loved us. The days we were born were the two happiest days of her life. Karen sat close to me and our knees touched Mother's bed as she addressed each of us separately. She reached first for Karen, her hand strangely bare without her wedding rings. "Take care of Lily," she whispered. When she took my hand, I was unable to stop the tears, unable to articulate what I wanted her to know. "My good girl," she said to me. "Everything a mother could want in a daughter." Karen held a tissue to her face; my hot tears flowed as I caressed my mother's hand. When I could speak, I said, "Don't go."

Without the books, the necklace assumed the full burden
of my memories as well as the connection with my mother; I could not let myself lose it. I centered the cross on my neck as they announced our group ready for boarding.

∗ ∗ ∗

I stowed my carry-on, and rested with
The Mysteries of Udolpho
in my lap, watching passengers wrestle overhead bins. Vera opened her book, turning pages as the plane taxied down the runway. Sun blazed in the window as the aircraft turned, permitting one last look at Dallas. I looked at my open book, reading the same sentence in an endless loop, wondering what sort of person Lady Weston might be, imagining a top-heavy matron smuggling Corgis into restaurants. "How do you know Lady Weston?" I asked.

Vera placed a fingertip on the word she'd just read. "She's a patron of Nigel's from back in the old days. She knew him when he waited tables, dreaming of creating a literary festival. She offered to partner with him. Her contribution is the use of her manor house." After a slight pause, as if she'd debated further disclosure, "At least, it used to be her house. Well, that is, her husband's house."

"What happened?"

"Her husband died a year ago."

"So?"

"Her grandson inherited the house and the title."

Randolph?
"Did Randolph inherit the Jane Austen festival as well?" I asked.

"No." Vera looked into the aisle. "But Lady Weston is a Janeite," she whispered. Noting my blank expression she added, "An enthusiastic admirer of Jane Austen's works."

"Is that bad?" I whispered back.

"Only for Nigel, when he has to reconcile Lady Weston's conservationist approach to Austen with the progressive theories of the academics involved with the festival."

I learn something new every day.

Vera leaned in confidentially. "My poor husband, caught between Fanny Wars and a costume ball."

"Fanny Wars?" I asked.

Vera looked at me. "Did you read the essays I gave you?" she asked.

"There was nothing about Fanny Wars in those essays," I said. "That's the sort of thing I'd remember." Vera frowned as air forced its way through circulators, smelling like cheap perfume, blowing wisps of hair into Vera's face. "You're afraid they'll meet at the lease signing and start a Fanny Fight in spite of your husband's best efforts," I said.

Vera returned to her book.

As we climbed into the sky, I imagined Lady Weston duking it out with Professor Plum over the meaning of Fanny's opposition to theatricals in
Mansfield Park
. I spent at least fifteen minutes staring at page 127, wondering how this had happened to me; and then wondered if Professor Plum was married. "So," I said. "The new lease will have to be negotiated with the so-called Randolph Department, and Randolph is not a Janeite. Therefore you are afraid of losing the house for good."

"I am not afraid of any such thing," Vera said, turning off her reading light and closing her eyes.

Staring uncomprehendingly at the pages of my book, I imagined myself as Fanny Price, the poor cousin, brought as a child to live in the home of her rich uncle. I have always loved Fanny Price. Of course, I knew I wouldn't play the lead, but I kept imagining myself in the part. Whenever I read, I always assumed the protagonist's part. This assumption held the mere date of my birth responsible for my present mediocrity. Had I been born in an earlier century, when people appreciated special qualities like mine, I would be beautiful
and confident, and travel in higher circles. Edmund would have fallen for me.

The moment to test this idea was fast approaching. A clean slate and the opportunity to reinvent myself lay before me. Nobody here knew the old me. Even with the lease problem, a new world lay ahead where I would finally fit. Surely I'd done the right thing.

O
n 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.