Raising his binoculars, John Owen gazed upward beyond the second and third story windows toward the roof. Perhaps there was a quiet place up there to learn lines. Passing binoculars to the student on his left, he pointed to the roof, and our collective gaze traveled up. 'A sound roof is the first line of defense against the number one enemy of an old house, which is'—and several of his students moved their lips as he whispered —'water.'
'Did water cause the damage around the chimney base?' one of the disciples asked.
John Owen grabbed the binoculars. 'Rot can be arrested,' he said, looking carefully upward. 'Let's go.' The group followed John Owen up the fire escape—a symposium field trip. As they climbed, I noticed an orange electric cord hanging outside the building, emerging from a second floor window and entering a window on the third floor, the attic.
Once the posse left, their bodies no longer blocked my view through the wavy glass and I could see the cast rehearsing in the ballroom. They appeared to be on break—or stuck. Magda yelled about rats' asses again. Upon closer inspection, my roommate appeared to be the cause of the fuss.
Bets was still here. She hadn't gone to London.
I wouldn't be able to take her part at the opening.
I would never get my necklace back.
And as I stood there, gazing in the window, Magda approached from the interior side, a furious bunch of nerves, her long finger curling, beckoning me to enter. Why would she invite me in? I walked around to the front, daring to suppose someone had quit and they might offer me the vacated role.
My Jane Austen and I passed each other in the entry; she walked out in a huff as I walked in. The cast slumped on the stage furniture; Nikki lifted her Regency skirt to catch a breeze from the window, all of them waiting for Bets to get something right. Magda pointed to a chair in the audience and I sat. Bets finally got it and they moved on.
Fanny Price:
I watched the entire rehearsal. And then watched it again. The other actors were so good they didn't need to be coached, but Magda fed lines to Bets over and over. Whenever Magda interrupted, 'Hey!' to stop the action, the actors sagged, the tension immediately drained from their bodies. Starting up again, their bodies sprang into action. They reminded me of professional outfielders between plays in baseball. By the time they finished, I knew everyone's lines.
When Magda finally indicated the reason for my attendance at the rehearsal, darkness had descended outdoors. 'Don't let her out of your sight.' She handed me another script. 'Work on these lines until she has them down cold, all night if necessary.'
'What about sleeping?'
'You don't want to know what I think about sleeping. Have her here at eight-thirty, in costume, ready to perform.'
'Me?'
'You are here to help with the festival, no?' Magda stared back. 'You are her roommate. The festival needs your help.'
'The
Later, in our room, Bets watched a British reality TV show where women in bikinis ate maggots.
'I thought you went to London this morning,' I said.
'I never got away.' Bets stuffed potato crisps into her mouth. 'Magda caught me and made me sit in the Freezer all afternoon, repeating lines.' She offered me some crisps.
'No thanks,' I said. 'Let's work on your lines.'
'No thanks,' she said.
'For your own good,' I said, removing my shoes and setting them inside my closet, where her clothes lay on the floor. 'Did you wear this?' I asked, holding up a pink and white striped T-shirt, thinking it clean, not meant for the dirty clothes hamper.
'Put it back on the floor,' she said. 'You're not my mother.' She increased the TV volume, adding, 'I want to go home.'
When I returned from the bathroom, the prisoner remained on the premises; a wadded tissue lay on the floor near her bed. 'Are you okay?' I asked.
'No,' she said, her eyes red and her nose stuffy the way it gets from crying. 'I'm allergic to literary festivals.'
'Would you like to study lines now?' I asked. Perhaps I should offer her more understanding; even punked- out kleptomaniacs have feelings.
'No.' She blew her nose.
She watched her TV and I read her script, working on the lines myself, although it hardly seemed worthwhile given the heightened security. The prisoner remained on the premises and I studied her lines until I fell asleep in the blue haze of the TV.
When I woke the next morning, it was still dark. I slowly surfaced, remembering where I was, placing myself in the day—opening day. And then it all came back to me: Bets. My prisoner. I looked over. Her bed was made. She wasn't in it. Cautiously hopeful she hadn't just gone to the bathroom, I walked down the hall. Not there, either. With great swelling hope and trepidation, I looked out the window. Her car was gone.
Yes.
Seven
Quickly, I opened the closet and counted Bets's gowns. All seven costumes hung there. All six Regency shoes waited on the floor. How much time did I have? I pulled the script out of my purse but threw it down; the first objective was to get permission from someone other than Magda. Vera. I must find Vera. My hands shook pulling my door shut behind me.
I ran down the still hallway, descended the stairs, and entered the common area of the dorm, strangely quiet after having been so highly charged with energy the last few days. The first scene of the season would begin in less than one hour and Vera sat at a little table talking with Claire, the staff person. I didn't have time for Claire, who was squinting with the effort of persuading Vera, emphasizing her words by chopping the side of her hand on the table.
'Yes, I see your point.' Vera shook her head gently, then smiled at me. 'But I'm not convinced of the strength of the connection. In experience and temperament they were quite unalike. Jane Austen was a satiric novelist; Mary Wollstonecraft was not.' My Jane Austen listened thoughtfully.
'But,' Claire said, 'to get back to my original point, perhaps losing the lease on Newton Priors would be a good thing. With a new sponsor, Nigel would be freed from Lady Weston's brain-dead shackles and Literature Live could make a real go of things.'
'Vera, could I speak with you?' I said.
'Just a minute, Lily.' Vera faced Claire, speaking quietly. 'Nigel must have complete control of the organization if we are to preserve the relationship with Lady Weston.' Claire began to speak but Vera cut her off. 'Save political interpretations for your next job. Nigel will run Literature Live without readings from Mary Wollstonecraft. If you want to help, be quiet and let Nigel work. Lady Weston's happiness is extremely important to
