My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

'Yes,' Nigel said. 'Suggest larger political issues—for God's sake, use Mrs. Norris's green baize to imply whatever you like, but keep it implicit.'

Magda interrupted to voice an objection but Claire rose from her desk to close the door, shooting me a glance.

*   *   *

At my first opportunity, I went to the attic.

'Hello, Willis,' I called up. No response. I called again.

Everything remained as we left it, except his laptop which he had taken with him. A stack of telephone messages accumulated beneath his collection of pens and the books waited unmoved. The room felt incredibly lonely and even spooky without him. I sat at the window while My Jane Austen read his phone messages. The loneliness grew so oppressive that I left her there, crossing the floor to the stairs in haste, tripping loudly as if she chased me down the stairs. I didn't stop until I found myself outside the second floor bathroom where John Owen continued to wrestle with our plumbing issues.

*   *   *

The next day Willis was still not there and I began to feel slightly desperate. After my third trip up the stairs to look for him, I decided to try the church. I sat in the back, allowing the powerful words entry, giving myself up to calm meditation and deep breathing. My Jane Austen paced an empty row behind me but I ignored her, focusing instead on summoning the necessary blend of reserve and aggression to deal with Willis. He couldn't see me and I felt like a spy, watching him listen to the homily from his seat in the sanctuary.

After the service, Willis stationed himself with the clergy in the entry, shaking hands, wishing everyone a good morning as they left. He saw me before I reached him so when we shook hands my presence was no longer a surprise. He smiled and said, 'Good morning,' but anyone watching could tell from our smiles that a secret joke existed between us. I struck the tiniest, nearly imperceptible flirtatious pose. Almost immediately, I felt the connection. I kept it light. 'Do you have time for coffee?' I asked.

He watched me. I didn't move. If he wanted more, he would have to join me.

'Yes,' he said.

*   *   *

Willis didn't want to sit by the window so we carried our coffee to the back of the small cafe Willis nodded to an empty table, placing his hand on the small of my back to guide me. I was what's-her-name to his Maxim de Winter, falling for each other in a quaint dining room. He rested his arms on the table and stared at me.

I whispered, 'Are you aware of the slavery issues in Mansfield Park?'

He sipped his coffee. 'No,' he said, 'tell me.'

Appropriating a breathy voice, I told him about the conversation I'd overheard in the office between Nigel and Magda, the explicit references to slavery I was aware of, and Omar's forced adaptation. Willis listened, sipping coffee, his back to the room. We drew attention, people curious about the woman confessing her sins to a priest in a coffee shop, which explained why Willis chose a secluded table.

'But I thought she restricted herself to writing about a few country families,' Willis said.

Two things about talking with Willis. With Martin, I could make it up as I went; no facts, no problem. Not Willis, he had a background in this stuff and he listened critically; he would be on to me in a heartbeat. The other thing: I might as well have been describing in minute detail how I planned to disrobe later that evening. He studied me as if every word were an intimate revelation, a window into my deep personal places. 'Some people, Magda for instance, believe the novels are charged with political meaning,' I said.

'What does your Jane Austen say?' he asked, his slow smile an invitation to deeper confidence.

But then I saw a familiar face ordering coffee at the counter. 'Oh, look,' I said, 'there's the woman who read her story at the pub the other night.' Willis didn't turn to look. I recognized others from Omar's writing workshop, and then Omar came in. I waved as he came to my table.

'This is my friend Omar who leads the writing workshop.'

Willis reluctantly turned to shake Omar's hand. I could barely focus on Omar's entertaining explanation of the writing group's field trip to the coffee shop because Willis had turned his back on Omar and was crumpling his napkin in his fist. He stood, taking his coffee cup with him, and looked at his watch.

'I've got to run,' he said. 'Pleasure meeting you,' he said to Omar as he abruptly departed.

I watched until he was gone.

'What's up with him?' Omar asked.

*   *   *

This would become our routine. Willis would listen carefully as I updated him on tea-theatre progress: water now flowed from the kitchen sink without flooding other parts of the house, but the stove was still dangerous. We had china, teapots, scones, and tablecloths, but no gas. Then he would express wonder as I shared the things I learned at Nigel's door every day. The term critical vocabulary opened a whole world, the mere word traduce expressed a big idea in only seven letters. I became addicted to the daily dose of attention from Willis; craved his deep and penetrating gaze. But he would not have lunch with me. Too much work.

I spoke of elegiac yearnings and whispered the terrible truth that Jane Austen's fans couldn't face—that in spite of their perpetual search for details, they would never really know Jane Austen. Willis appeared genuinely moved. But not enough to relocate to the pub for happy hour.

Collecting bits of wonder during my working hours, I saved them to tell Willis: how Jane Austen's sister, Cassandra, had censored hundreds of letters with her scissors, like shredding documents, consigning their secrets to eternity. I explained there were only two likenesses of Jane Austen, both sketches by Cassandra, from which all other images had sprung; artists adding feminine ruffles, curls, or cosmetics, depending on the time and context of the artist.

But when asked personal questions, he always steered the talk elsewhere. He declined invitations to lunch, dinner, readings, and lectures, unwilling to budge from his desk. He always seemed engaged in our conversations, but never enough to kiss me again. I couldn't figure him out and didn't know what to do.

*   *   *

One day when Nigel and Vera were gone to London and Claire was free to work on nonfestival matters, Claire asked me to introduce the speaker for 'Sexual Repression in Mansfield Park.' I forced Willis out of my head and marshaled every particle of concentration to craft a coherent introduction from the speaker's resume. If I didn't do a good job, she'd hear about it and never give me another chance. Nonetheless, as I sat listening to the lecture an idea took root. My idea grew while the speaker analyzed the scene where Edmund helps Mary Crawford dismount Fanny's horse, while Fanny watches. By the time Mary Crawford had made her apologies, I had a plan.

*   *   *

Willis sat at the window, staring listlessly into the darkness in a way that made me fear he might be bored. The impulse fueling my plan deflated and I considered that a sensible person might say good night and retreat to her room or attend the performance in the ballroom. Not me.

'Hello, Lily.' Willis patted the plank next to him.

'We could really use some cushions up here.' I joined him, removing my sweater and leaning in, pretending to look out the window where the glamorous moon lit the night stage presenting tree branches in silhouette, a quiet couple sitting in the herb garden. I wished I could open the window and smell the night air, forgetting it would be cool, not hot and dry like Texas.

'Do you know Mrs. Russell?' I asked.

'No.' Willis smiled and turned to me.

I sat up very straight. 'She's in charge of the volunteers,' I said, 'the women who pass out programs and sell tickets. And she's cochair of the tea-theatre.'

'She wears a costume,' he said.

'Period attire,' I corrected him. 'Anyway, she announced this afternoon that she wants to play Amelia in the skit. And Stephen Jervis will play Anhalt.'

Willis shifted his legs. 'Is that bad?'

'Well, yes. I'm sure that I am not going to play Agatha, her mother.