My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

Austen. She looked as though she'd lost sleep on account of the highlighted words. 'Why are these letters being held?' she asked. 'Is someone keeping a secret from the world?'

Nigel sighed. 'What do you hope to discover, correspondence concerning Jane Austen's secret marriage?'

'Of course not,' Claire said. 'I just wondered if you knew of any attempts to force those letters into the public domain,' she asked. 'Don't we have a right to read them?'

'The letters are not being kept secret; they are simply private property of people who don't wish to share. They will become public someday,' Nigel added, straightening a sheaf of papers. 'The owners will die and the heirs will cash in.'

Claire pressed her lips together and looked at her book. 'But what if those letters explain what she meant when she wrote the novels.'

Nigel paused and I hoped he might suggest she check her twenty-first-century filters at the door, or launch into Jane Austen's opinion of women whose imaginations overcome their reason. But he said, 'Jane Austen reveals us to ourselves in many ways in her novels, revelations that require neither act of law nor detective to access.'

All the same, I couldn't wait to tell Mrs. Russell about the missing letters, fairly certain Literature Live owned another copy of Le Faye's book. Claire gave up and I didn't shadow her further because I spent the rest of the morning planning my tea-theatre.

*   *   *

Omar explained Claire's squirrelly behavior over lunch. 'Magda is plotting a coup,' he said.

'What?' The pub was noisy.

'And Claire is helping her.' He swallowed. 'Magda's seeking permanent funding for Literature Live and promoting a year-round format, and she's dumping the typing and copying on Claire.'

I remembered Randolph's request at the orientation meeting for ideas but never considered someone else —particularly Magda—would hear that call and beat me to the business plan. A year-round operation would be great if you could pay for it. 'How will she do it?' I asked.

'She's soliciting her Michigan contacts, seeking university affiliation for the festival.'

Why hadn't I thought of that? A year-round format would solve a lot of problems, including my employment status. But who was I kidding? There would be no place for me in Magda's plan for the future. 'Do you think the Westons would allow Americans to fund their British project? Wouldn't that pose a problem?'

'The problem is Magda would be in charge.' Omar pointed his spoon. 'The problem is Magda is a bitch.'

I agreed.

'Fifteen minutes of Magda, and Lady Weston would throw us out of her house, the actors would quit, and the tourists would go home,' he said, running his spoon across his plate and licking. 'Who wants to be bossed around on their vacation?'

Magda would surely sneer at me when she learned of the tea-theatre. I told Omar about the plan. 'Will you write a script? I was thinking we might perform a condensed version of Lovers' Vows,' I said, the same play the Mansfield Park Bertrams produce in their father's absence. 'And we'll cast it with all amateur actors. Amateur tea-theatre.'

Omar looked over his shoulder into the room.

'Will you take a part?' I asked.

'No. I can't act,' Omar said.

'Oh please. I'll teach you.'

'No.'

'Will you write the script?'

'Only on the understanding that I will not act in it.'

'Deal,' I said, crossing my fingers under the table.

'I wonder if I could get any more of this applesauce.'

As Omar approached the bar for more applesauce, I looked at my watch. It had been fifty hours. 'Do you know Willis Somerford?' I asked when Omar returned with a small bowl.

'No,' he said. 'Why?'

'Just wondering.' I folded my napkin, resting it on the table, pleased to have exceeded the forty-eight hours I'd calculated as the maximum effective attic abstention period.

*   *   *

Standing outside the door to the attic, I checked the hall to make sure no one watched me disappear myself into the attic stairwell. What if he wasn't up there? What if he was up there?

'Hello, Willis,' I called. 'It's me, Lily.' I hoped my name would ring a bell. I clutched the copy of Shakespeare's comedies, as if the gift were a casual afterthought, as if I hadn't agonized all morning over which edition of the many falling off our shelf he'd like best, nor nursed a mild obsession since our last moment together, waking up in a world that held him, looking for him in every room, most thoughts related to resuming our conversation under his sensual gaze.

'Lily,' he called back. 'Come up.'

The musty, damp smell, the choking dust, the table, and the orange cord all welcomed me back.

'You've brought your book,' he said, closing his laptop. 'Shall we have our own literary festival?'

'Actually,' I said, handing him the book, 'I brought this for you.'

'Thank you.' As he took the book, his face fell ever so slightly and it seemed he flipped the pages to avoid looking at me.

'There's a reading at the pub tonight,' I said to cover my embarrassment.

'Oh?' He looked up.

'Students from the writing workshop.' Omar said they need a gentle audience. 'I thought you might like to come.'

He scratched his head. 'I'd love to but'—he gestured to his desk—'I've got so much work to do.'

We both looked at the closed laptop. Among the many books on his table only one lay open, a large photo essay titled, America's National Parks. 'Maybe another time,' I said. Perhaps I'd read too much into our first meeting.

But he was still watching me.

'Yes,' he said. 'Another time.'

I gave him something to watch. I pivoted the way I'd been taught in my department store charm school, arms floating gracefully at my sides, gently gliding into steps all the way to the window where I sat and slowly looked up at him. 'You know'—I took a breath—'I've been thinking of all the fictional people who live in this house.'

'Such as?' Willis asked, hooked.

'The Bertrams, the Crawfords, all the regulars.'

'Ah.' Willis nodded.

'They'll still be here, long after we're gone'—I shrugged—'moving the same plot forward century after century. If they wrote Christmas cards, they would never have anything new to report. Fanny would always win Edmund's love and Mary Crawford would always be hunting a husband.'

'Literary afterlife.'

'But what if'—I pointed—'I could take Maria Bertram back to Texas where she could start over with a clean slate in a place where no one knew her?'

'You'd have to guard your husband.'

I smiled. After a pause, I said, 'I'm planning a tea-theatre.'

'A what?' he asked, leaning forward.

'A tea party where volunteers in period dress serve refreshments and Lily performs on a stage.' I stood. 'Will you take a part? You can have the lead.'

He laughed. 'Thank you for thinking of me.' He shook his head. 'I'm not an actor.'

'I knew you'd say that.' I took a deep breath. Who was left to play a male role, Gary? 'Pity you can't make it to the reading,' I said breezily, 'or the tea.' I walked past him toward the stairs.