Cindy Jones
My Jane Austen Summer:
by Jane Austen
Young Fanny Price is sent to live at Mansfield Park, the manor home of her wealthy Aunt and Uncle Bertram, where she grows up neglected and abused, and secretly in love with her cousin Edmund. But Fanny is the obvious dark horse in any competition for Edmund's affection, especially after the arrival of Mary Crawford, a witty and engaging husband hunter.
Edmund is so charmed by Mary Crawford that he abandons caution and agrees to act in amateur theatricals while his father is away—mischief! As expected, the relaxed decorum of the stage inspires Mary's brother, Henry Crawford, to flirt with both of Edmund's sisters, one of whom is engaged to be married. When Uncle Bertram arrives home unexpectedly, the stage is shut down, but the scene is already set for disaster.
Without theatrics for amusement, the players are left to their own devices. Edmund's sister marries her rich buffoon, and Henry Crawford blazes uncharted territory: he will make Fanny Price fall in love with him. Henry convinces everyone, perhaps even himself, of his reformation. But Fanny has seen Henry in action and she steadfastly refuses his marriage proposal, even though it makes everyone mad at her. Uncle Bertram hopes an extended visit with her birth family in gritty Portsmouth will allow sufficient leisure to rethink her impertinence.
Henry pursues Fanny to Portsmouth, where he maintains his good behavior, ingratiating himself by overlooking her mother's slovenly housekeeping and her father's coarse manners. At the moment when even the reader thinks perhaps Henry
In the end, Fanny's tenacity in the face of competition and steadfast resistance to artful guile win her the love and happiness generally reserved for witty and charming heroines.
One
My spirits always lifted the instant my car started. Abandoning the grocery store pretense, I backed out of the driveway and headed in the familiar direction of my ex-boyfriend's house, driving the same direction I'd driven the previous three, eight, or perhaps thirty-eight nights. Passing through familiar neighborhoods: ferocious Highland Park, sleepy SMU, earnest M Streets, stopping for lights, I played the protagonist careening toward destiny, Anna Karenina rushing to Vronsky, or Marianne seeking Willoughby. One soulful connecting glance and Martin would confess he'd missed me. We would share his blue denim sofa like the old days, Martin watching ESPN, me reading a novel. But Martin didn't expect me anymore; I was no longer a part of his life.
At the red light a mile from his house I opened the book on my passenger seat: Jane Austen's
The light turned green and my stomach lurched. This drive-by spying thing wouldn't be happening if Jane Austen hadn't died so young. I'd started reading
Or stalk my ex-boyfriend.
At first, I drove by his house late at night and saw the blue light flickering in the front room, Martin operating the remote from his sofa. Once, on a Saturday evening in early spring, I drove down his street of stately trees and found him outside, his back to me, relaxing with a beer in his hand, talking to a neighbor. As much as I loved seeing his familiar male legs and broad shoulders, the close call scared me into staying home the next two nights. But great windows of free time opened up after my termination, allowing me to drive by earlier and more often, lured by the notion that discovering Martin's secrets would reveal my own missing pieces.
Lately, he'd been up to something. Last Wednesday evening Martin had not been home. His car gone, windows completely dark, the dog didn't even come to the fence. Thursday I drove by a little later and he was gone again. But the dog was home. On Friday, stopping just beyond his driveway, lurking in my dark car as if
At home, I tidied up my kitchen and went to bed with Henry James, unable to engage
Turning off Mockingbird Lane, my pulse quickened, driving through the neighborhood where I'd long imagined Martin and I would eventually reside: mannerly Tudors with yard signs announcing births, advertising remodeling projects, or proclaiming enrollment in elementary schools, private or public. The closer his house, the more nervous I felt, but nervous was so much better than the desperate loneliness of sitting at home wondering whose bicycle had moved in.
My mother had said Martin wasn't my type and I should let go, but she just didn't like him because of his commitment problem and his habit of sometimes closing his eyes when he talked to you. I reminded her Martin was the first guy who would ever agree to a date in the bookstore on Saturday night. I missed the way I could always find him in the magazine department reading
Martin contemplated his cargo pockets and then fixed his gaze on the air just over my head, waiting. The woman holding his hand turned and stopped speaking when she saw me. The dog, straining on his leash, stopped