My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

Stephen. I covered my nose.

'What's that smell?' I turned to find Magda bearing down on me. 'We can't have this horrid smell. The next scene starts in thirty minutes.'

'We have everything under control,' I said calmly, glancing about to make sure all the windows were open. 'Don't worry.'

'Are you responsible for the water coming out of the second floor bathroom?' Magda asked me. 'I don't want it raining in here.'

'Not a problem,' I said. When Magda was out of earshot I asked Mrs. Russell, 'Do you know how to turn off the water?'

*   *   *

I didn't have enough information to complete the lease. Nor did I have enough ideas to start a business plan. What university would give me funding for the festival? And in spite of my compelling concern for Nigel and his festival, I kept one eye on the clock, my adrenal glands dumping on several false alarms when tall people in dark shirts walked by. By the time we got the water and gas turned off again, Mrs. Russell had recruited Stephen Jervis to join our theatre. I decided that a short attic break would send me back to my projects with renewed energy.

*   *   *

'What happened to you last night?' I asked. Willis sat at his desk. The laptop closed, he'd been reading Living Abroad in Belize.

'Nice to see you, too.' He smiled.

I walked to the window and sat on the plank bench, feeling my bones on the hard surface. 'You vanished.'

Willis turned his chair to face me and I felt his eyes, studying me. 'Life is too short for bad writing,' he said.

He'd listened to the workshop story. While I was oblivious, thanks to him, he'd had the presence of mind to comprehend what she read. Now he focused that same level of inspection on me. I didn't want to come up lacking. I didn't want to end up ditched as bad writing or bad flirting or bad anything. Nervous, I launched into mindless chatter of the sort that would surely have me thrown out for bad conversation. My Jane Austen closed her eyes and slashed her throat as I chattered about the water and the gas leaks, Magda's takeover, and Nigel's illness, willing my pulse to settle as I described my urgency to get something signed by Lady Weston before the kitchen exploded. 'Vera wants me to accompany her to the hospital and ask Lady Weston to help us get a lease extension signed,' I said. 'Soon.'

His expression gradually changed from happy interest to mild censure as he stood to fetch a book from the stack behind his table. 'I don't think that's a good idea.'

I slumped against the window. 'Neither does My Jane Austen.' No sooner were the words out of my mouth than My Jane Austen stopped breathing and stared at me. I froze, touching my fingers to my lips. Did I feel the vibration of a kitchen explosion two floors below or was that my stricken heart? Had he heard what I said?

'What do you mean your Jane Austen?' Willis asked.

I inhaled. 'Sit down,' I said.

'I'm sitting.' He smiled, joining me on the window seat.

'Everyone who reads The Six...' I went slowly to make sure he was with me.

'Six Jane Austen novels.' He nodded.

'Yes. Believes they know Jane Austen personally. In our secret heart of hearts, each of us believes that she speaks to us personally in her writings. My Jane Austen just happens to follow me around most of the time,' I said very slowly.

'I see.' Willis bit his lip.

'She's here now.'

'Where?' He glanced into the room.

'In the corner.' I nodded toward the murky fringes of the room without looking directly. Willis looked directly. 'She's like a floater you get in your eye. If you look at her she'll dart off to another periphery.'

'Inconvenient,' Willis said.

'She's not real.' I reached for Willis's arm as if he might be the one with the mental problem.

'Okay.' He looked at the hand touching his arm.

'This is all make-believe, Willis. You'll have to stretch the imagination here a bit.'

'No, I'm with you. Go on.'

In an expansive rush, I told Willis what I'd never told anyone—couldn't even imagine telling anyone. 'She's not beautiful. In my mind, she looks like the sketch Cassandra made of her, perpetually irritated, a bit of a bully. She died young so she's eternally forty-one years old, and gray runs through her dark brown hair. Her face is pale with a hint of blue. Sometimes she reminds me of a vampire in a Romantic sense, sucking the experiences out of people to fill her pages.'

Willis leaned toward me as I continued.

'But her strongest representation for me is Patron Saint of Thoughtful Women.' I paused, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes. 'She believes that women whose inner lives dominate their personalities, reserved women who take a backseat to the witty, charming Mary Crawfords of the world, should marry for love.' I glanced at him. 'Secondary types, like me and Fanny Price, are the protagonists in her stories.'

Willis looked at me in a way that made me stop talking.

'What?' I said.

He didn't answer, but took my chin in his hand, raised my face to his, and kissed me.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I was overcome by all that.'

Eleven

A tea-theatre conflicts directly with our productions and the poor quality will reflect badly on this festival.' Magda stood near my desk addressing Nigel while Omar stared at the floor. 'Amateur hour is not what we need at this moment when we are trying to take the festival to the next level.' Magda raised her hands. 'Who will seriously consider funding something so unprofessional?'

They all glanced at me walking in. Then Nigel ushered Magda and Omar into his office and shut the door. I strained to hear but could distinguish only the occasional rising of Magda's voice, no actual words. As if I needed more distractions. After my last session with Willis I could barely think; the limits of my resources became clear as I struggled to gain traction with Business Plan for Dummies. I finally gave up and stared blissfully into the space over my open book recalling the Kiss, during which Willis slowly bent his neck, touching his lips to mine, his hand gently lifting my chin, as if he were the Prince and I the Fair Maiden. I was about to relive it from the beginning, when Vera arrived. She paused in front of Nigel's closed door and glanced at me.

'Omar and Magda,' I whispered.

'Oh yes.' Vera frowned, remembering. Then she let herself in, not bothering to shut the door behind her.

'A cover-up?' Nigel said patiently, although I heard exasperation in his voice. 'It is quite possible that the trip to Antigua is no more than a literary device to get the father out of the house and further the courtship plot. Put yourself in 1814, Magda.'

'I have,' she shot back. 'And in 1811, the Slave Trade Felony Act was introduced. Austen knew this; her readers knew this. Fanny Price was an abolitionist.'

'Really?' Vera said.

My tea-theatre was not the subject of discussion.

Nigel sounded weary. 'I simply ask that you not tamper with what is explicit. Don't alter the prose.'

Omar spoke for the first time. 'So,' he said in a careful monotone, 'are you saying to cut those lines where Sir Thomas provides details of his slave ownership to Fanny?'

I still felt a little shock, thinking of Sir Thomas owning slaves.