My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

'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