After the supper waltz ended, C.J. and Matthew bowed to each other and braved the crowd in the kitchen, chatting away over the junk food and fruit punch. This was the time when the dancers exchanged information on other events: concerts, weekend English country dance conferences in New England, and other bits of information and gossip. Flushed from the waltz, C.J. squeezed past a knot of dancers to get to the lemonade, downing three Dixie cups’ worth in rapid succession. She sidled past a cluster of women gathered in front of the week’s notices and flyers and immediately lit upon a rose-colored leaflet announcing auditions for a Broadway production of a new play called By a Lady. C.J. had already clipped the casting notice out of the current edition of Back Stage, the professional actors’ most popular trade paper. By a Lady, a two-character drama set in 1801, depicted the ill-starred romance between the young Jane Austen and a distant relation of hers, Thomas Lefroy. They had hoped to marry, but Tom lacked the funds to support a wife, in addition to which, Jane was considered a poor relation. Tom’s protective aunt, Anne Lefroy, was adamantly opposed to the match, so Tom returned alone to his family’s village of Athy, in Ireland, where he read law and eventually became the country’s chief justice. Jane never wed, of course.
“You should go to that tomorrow,” a voice crunched in her ear.
“No kidding! I can’t miss it! Between the Back Stage ad, this flyer, and your encouragement, the rule of three is now fully in effect. I can’t not go, now. And . . . Matt . . . ? You’re dropping Oreo crumbs down my neck!”
Matthew brushed off the offending bits of chocolate cookie. “Nice necklace, by the way.”
“Matthew Bramwell, I thought you of all people would recognize it,” C.J. teased, “since you’re as big an Austen buff as I am. One of her naval officer brothers—Charles, I think—brought back topaz crosses and gold chains as souvenirs for both Jane and Cassandra from his tour of duty in the east during the Napoleonic Wars. Jane fictionalized the event in Mansfield Park, when William brings back an amber cross from Sicily for Fanny Price, and she has nothing but a ribbon to thread through it.”
“So it’s a keepsake for a reasonable Price.” Matthew winked.
The musicians struck up a lively tune, heralding the recommencement of the evening’s exertions. “Well, my friend,” Matthew said, “if you promise not to do so out on the dance floor . . . break a leg!”
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, C.J. found herself standing in a colorful, densely populated audition line that snaked its way through the winding streets of Greenwich Village.
By the time there were only twenty-three people ahead of her, C.J. felt in her heart that the role of Jane Austen had to be hers. It was more than the visceral connection she felt to the time period. Getting a leading role on Broadway was the holy grail of any stage actress. She fiddled with her amber cross. Somehow, the simple act of touching the antique talisman, of memorizing its rutted topography, centered her in a way no form of meditation ever could.
“Hey there, folks, we’re moving right along now. Okay, if I could have the next three men and the next three women step inside the hallway, please. And please have your pictures and résumés ready.” The announcement came from a bearish-looking man with a kindly face set off by wire-rimmed glasses. He ushered in the next group of performers with the air of a jovial train conductor. “Have a seat in one of these chairs in the order in which you were standing in line. I’ll take your headshots now.”
“Who are you?” asked one of the actresses.
“Me? I’m Ralph Merino, the assistant set designer.” He patted his belly. “We have a stage manager, but I need the exercise. On behalf of the By a Lady staff, thanks to all of you for coming.” He handed each actor a photocopied set of “sides,” the pages from the script with which they were expected to audition.
“Okay, listen up, folks. If you don’t know anything about this show, here’s the scoop,” Ralph said. “This is a two-character play—a hypothetical love story set in 1801 that focuses on Jane Austen the woman, rather than Jane Austen the novelist. The playwright, Humphrey Porter, is exploring what made The Woman become The Writer. Beth Peters, the director, is an Englishwoman. She’s a bit of a wunderkind over there, but she’s never directed in New York, and, therefore, yes, she is seriously interested in seeing everyone. I won’t lie to you: famous names might be important to the producers, but Beth genuinely wants to see new talent. A U.S. national tour and a West End run are not out of the question after the Broadway run closes. Yes, Miramax is a coproducer of the Broadway production, which means that they own film rights to the show, should that become a viable option. Nothing is set in stone at this point, including the casting, so you are not wasting your time by showing up this afternoon.” His presentation completed, Ralph made a little theatrical bow and his rapt audience applauded. “Back in a few to pair you up.”
“C.J. Welles?” C.J. looked up when she saw Ralph come out of the auditorium a minute or two later. “C.J., you’ll be paired with Bernie Allen. Bernie?” An Archie Bunker type, who was not exactly C.J.’s idea of an English hunk, looked up from his script. “So, Bernie? C.J.? We’re ready for you.”
C.J. rose from her folding chair and took a deep breath. Bernie squeezed her hand and whispered in her ear, “Let’s do it, kiddo.” He
