My Jane Austen Summer (6 page)

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.

T
hose arriving at the orientation meeting were forced to squint as morning sun cast white rectangles of light on the wall above the massive stone fireplace. As they squinted, I took a good look at their name tags, bracing myself for the possible arrival of Miss Banks. Urns of coffee exhaled a cozy morning smell and green plastic yard chairs crowded around small tables facing the stage where, in a few days, actors would perform for the public. A staff person tested a microphone while someone placed water bottles at each place on the table behind her. So far, no Banks.

I'd been awake since 3:10
A.M
., impatient to begin my new life. I couldn't wait for costumes and scripts so I could start protagonizing in a British accent. My Texas life seemed so far away, and I wondered if the man from the church would be at the meeting. Vera waved to me from her table across the room where she sat with a group of seniors. A man with billowing gray hair and hiking boots, his collar turned up rak
ishly as if he might be famous in literary or academic circles, sat next to a woman in a flowery skirt, a dog at her sandaled feet. Perhaps these were the founding board members Vera had mentioned. They drank coffee and gazed fondly at the arriving participants. Surely each board member held a position on Fanny Price.

The noise grew as more people arrived consulting their orientation packets, fetching coffee, and settling at tables where one person talked and the others nodded or expressed amazement. A ponytailed guy with a clipboard approached and asked, "Are you Anne?" A flustered woman dropped a heavy book bag on the floor at the table next to me and told her companion, "I looked everywhere." Accumulated sound traveled up to the top of the high ceiling, and then down again. I wished people would settle so we could get started. Everyone had an orientation folder except me. Was it obvious I wasn't a real actress?

I scrunched a plastic chair into the circle around a table, having recognized Pork Chop from last night's improv at the pub. Her name tag said Nikki. My chair arms touched chairs on both sides of me as I listened to the conversation concerning the lease renewal, and how someone believed Philippa Lockwood, Lady Weston's granddaughter, held all the cards regarding the festival's future at Newton Priors. Nikki consulted her watch. "Wasn't this meeting set for half eight?" she asked the group.

"My schedule said eight-thirty," I said.

They all looked at me; no one blinked or smiled.

"Oh," I said, "right."

A group of excited children sat together, three girls and two boys, and none of their name tags said Banks. Proud mothers hovered over the child actors who surely played the young cousins in early scenes. Gary the Middle Eastern driver
brought more plastic chairs and Omar appeared in the doorway. I wished I could sit with him.

The people on the stage greeted each other and stalled. Sixby sat next to the tango dancer he'd kissed in the pub. Hard to believe he asked me to perform in the follies with him. Magda wore not just a scarf, but an entire full-length caftan and black robe. She and the staff person huddled over an enormous key ring like characters from Tolkien's Middle Earth.

"Why is Magda dressed like that?" I asked Nikki, who maneuvered her chair to face the stage. I could understand wearing it if you
had
to, but she'd been dressed in jeans last night.

Nikki frowned as if this was something I should have known. "She wears the abaya to be in solidarity with women who are forced to wear such attire in the Middle East and North Africa--and to raise
our
consciousness of that fact."

I nodded.

"Actually, her university is considering her proposal for a seminar on Islamic feminism." Nikki unscrewed her water bottle. "You've met Gary? Her brother," she said. "Real name's Gamal and he's seeking a visa extension"--Nikki smiled--"in case you didn't know."

The sound of metal against glass caught our attention and the buzz of conversation faded. My stomach jumped; the moment had arrived at last. This was it. I wanted to listen. I wanted to know everything all at once.

"Good morning, and welcome to the thirty-first season of Literature Live. For those of you I've not met, my name is Nigel Saintsbury, and I am the founder and executive director of Literature Live." So this was Vera's husband, a white-haired man in patched tweeds who looked as though he might don wellies and walk the moors with hunting dogs.
He winked at Vera--The Look. They were fond of each other. Why didn't they live together? "You are very welcome here," he told us. "We know your work: actors, writers, and teachers."

They must have some kind of atypical marriage. Vera visits Nigel in the summer.

"You are the cream of the crop. We had to turn away people we'd like to work with."

Nigel's gaze traveled to the back of the room and we all turned to see a balding but confident man walking in, making his way through the tables. The guy I'd seen in the dark church walked in with him. The one from the church hit his head like a comedian and the other smiled, but I had a feeling the dynamics between them were usually reversed. "Today, I have the pleasure of introducing our patron," Nigel said. "Although we deeply regret Lady Weston's illness, we are delighted that Randolph Lockwood, the Eleventh Baron of Weston, is present to bestow her annual welcome."

The Randolph Department. But which man was Randolph? The guy from the church or the one with the deeply receding hairline? Everyone applauded and I experienced great relief that it was the hairline guy. Casually dressed in jeans and blazer, his white T-shirt peeking over the V-neck of his sweater, he smiled, walking to the podium as if he did this sort of thing a lot and his premature lack of hair was our problem, not his. I'd met his type before. The fact that he was not handsome in the accepted sense didn't bother him in the least. His profound powers of attraction stemmed from enormous confidence and intelligence: his type rarely played the straight man and never found himself at a loss for words.

Randolph cleared his throat, summoning gravitas. "On behalf of my grandmother, whose health prevents her from being with you today"--he was the prince now--"I welcome
you to Newton Priors, my family's ancestral home, for another season of Literature Live." I imagined him mocking us in a bar later. "Her Ladyship is a person of many and varied interests," he said, "but none so capture Lady Weston's enthusiasm as the enactment of Jane Austen's novels. It has been her greatest pleasure to know you are here and to visit you each year at Newton Priors." I'd never seen an aristocrat. He was perhaps on the young side of thirty-five and spoke with a lovely accent. Probably a great dancer.

I glanced back at the guy from the church, curious to see his expression. His brow indeed furrowed attractively in concentration, a knowing smile on his lips betrayed familiarity with Randolph's remarks. I felt My Jane Austen in the background, taking notes, writing on her little squares of ivory fastened like a fan, the eighteenth-century word processor.

"Her Ladyship wishes to acknowledge deep appreciation for the financial support of the Banks Family Grant, as well as the dedication of time and talent on the part of so many staff members and volunteers who enable the festival's continued operation." I noticed he didn't thank the expensive actors. "And of course, the festival would not exist without the leadership and vision of Nigel Saintsbury, for whom we are most grateful." Everyone applauded, but it seemed Nigel had been added as an afterthought.

"To change course a bit"--he paused a moment while we adjusted our headings--"Vera will be taking a look at operations this summer, generating ideas to upgrade and maximize the utility of Newton Priors."

I sat up straight.

"And I invite all of you--Vera has mentioned that some of you have interesting ideas--to share your thoughts."

Had Vera told Lord Weston my ideas--about firing the expensive actors and selling lecture subscriptions?

"We mustn't rest on our laurels," he continued. "Even Jane Austen can stand a fresh approach every thirty years or so." This got a laugh. "Please know that we have the utmost respect for your talent and dedication," Randolph said. "And will carefully consider the ideas you bring to the table concerning the festival's future."

I sensed a threat of endangerment.

"And now," he said, raising his hands in princely benediction, "with all best wishes from Lady Weston; my sister, Philippa; and myself, let the season begin." Randolph shook hands with Nigel and a few others, darting looks to the left and right, aware that paparazzi lurk everywhere. The church guy waited in the back of the room, arms folded across his chest, and once Randolph reached him they departed the way they had come, taking some of the energy from the room when they left.

Nigel introduced Sixby, the lead actor and assistant creative director for Literature Live--my Hamlet from the pub and follies partner--who stood to open the meeting with a reading. In Texas, we'd be getting a prayer.

Sixby read from near the end of
Mansfield Park
. "'Timid, doubting, anxious as she was, it was still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of success.'"

I hung on the turn of Sixby's head, the way he said
hope
. He took my breath away; I wanted to get inside the words with him. Austen's prose never sounded so beautiful in my head. Where did he get the ideas for the inflection? Goose bumps prickled my arms and legs, and I wished he would go on, but he stopped, and everyone clapped thunderously. I made a mental note to get the book and read that part again--in his accent.

"Close as he could get to a love scene in
Mansfield Park
," Nikki snarked.

Nigel looked at the floor, showing us the thinning hair on his crown as we took a breath with him. When he looked up, he said solemnly, "We gather every summer--in this place--brought together by the work of the great artist Jane Austen." He paused after each phrase to allow his words to float down and settle on us like snowflakes. I felt certain My Jane Austen enjoyed this as much as I did. "When I explain to others what we do, I like to borrow the words of John Burroughs: 'Literature is an investment of genius which pays dividends to all subsequent times.'" He paused. "Jane Austen gave us her genius. We are simply the clerks whose job it is to pay out dividends to
our time
.

"We return to the text again and again," Nigel continued, "in order to penetrate the meanings with which Austen charged her books." I stopped breathing in order to concentrate on his point; did his returning to the text idea include Magda and her radical interpretation of the subtext? "The words are the medium through which Austen expresses her particular vision of what it means to be a human being in the world we share. Two. Hundred. Years. Later. We continue to return to her text."

I felt my heart swell, my mind raced on the adrenaline of Nigel's comments. I was with him. Someone chose that glorious moment to walk into the room and noisily pull back a chair. Heads turned to see the young woman sit next to Omar. How could anyone be late? How could anyone disrupt our communion with Jane Austen? And I feared it was
her.

Nigel introduced several other staff members, including Suzanne Forbes, the wardrobe director, who instructed all cast members to schedule fitting appointments after the meeting or suffer bleedings.

The latecomer sat too far away for me to read her name tag.

Archie Porter, the hip, middle-aged managing director in
torn jeans and a gray ponytail, took the stage, his forearms resting on the podium.

The latecomer didn't look like she belonged here.

His words struggled to keep up with his rapid neural connections. He spoke to the floor and then looked up at us. "You know"--he pointed--"it doesn't matter if you like your Austen straight or with a twist of politics, whether
Mansfield Park
is about society's limits on individual spirit or about slavery, incest, and lesbianism, it all comes down to..."

I sat on the edge of my seat wondering what
it all came down to
, thrilled that he might reveal a delicious new insight.

The latecomer wasn't paying attention.

But Magda rose from her seat and interrupted Archie, silently handing him a clipboard. Archie's next words sprang not from his brain but from Magda's clipboard. We looked at the sticker on the back: a cigarette in a red circle with a line through it. His other hand raked his hair, and when he resumed speaking, he stuck to the mundane details of our orientation, never sharing what
it all came down to
. Perhaps Magda didn't want us to know.

Archie said, "No one is ever to enter the gates in civilian clothing. Cast members must be in costume and staff must be dressed in black at all times."
I wanted to schedule my fittings
. "Rehearsal for all actors will begin immediately," he said, and "the schedule for the season is in your packet."
I wanted to rehearse.
Archie warned us, "Treat maids kindly; they are paid, but not much."
I wanted the latecomer to go away.

Then Archie made a goofy face, alerting us to an inside joke as he reminded us, in a falsetto voice, to prepare ourselves for the annual Founder's Night Follies, an evening of homemade entertainment commemorating Jane Austen's half birthday, sort of. "And
you
will be there," he threatened,
"or you will miss Magda's impersonation of Aunt Norris." Magda gave him a look and he shrugged.

Maybe the latecomer was one of Omar's writing students.

The staff woman, Claire, jumped up and reminded everyone "how thankful we must all be that the Banks Family Grant has agreed to finance this summer's budget shortfall." Banks family? Then Claire made it final by looking directly at the latecomer. My worst nightmare had arrived and taken a seat among us. Miss Banks ignored Claire, pulling the cellophane off a pack of cigarettes. Miss Banks, present and accounted for.

"And for those of you who may not know, Literature Live is an independent operation. I can't really think"--Claire, the staff woman, looked at the ceiling--"of any other festival or conference that operates without university or corporate affiliation." She pointed to herself. "I'm the accounting department. You're looking at the accounting department."