My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

Until one Sunday, as Newton Priors buzzed with festival activities, everyone seemed mildly peeved. Patrons lining up for tickets stomped away mad when they learned the tea-theatre had sold out a week in advance. Nigel expressed irritation that someone had put Mrs. Russell onto the mystery of 'several letters still in private hands.' Claire said a thief was helping herself to water bottles, and Bets complained of nasty perfume on her favorite black blouse. I didn't tell Bets that the nasty perfume came from her own cosmetics bin. Finally, Mrs. Russell barged into the office complaining that the lines in the scene had been changed and someone needed to do something about it—Fanny Price and Sir Thomas were explicitly discussing slavery. I escaped to the attic.

Opening the door triggered the conversion from one world to the next. Once past the door, I inhaled the musty damp brick-and wood-scented air. I heard the tick-tack of his keyboard—confirming Willis's presence—as I ran up the steps, each stair creaking under my footfall.

'Did Father Kitt bite her yet?' I asked routinely.

'No.' He put a hand out to touch me as I passed, the casual gesture I'd come to love and anticipate. I could pretend nonchalance at the contact of our fingers, but goose bumps on my bare arms gave me away. I sank into my window seat, opened my copy of The Monk, and read while Willis bent over his keyboard. I'd had no idea when Omar gave me The Monk, saying I couldn't possibly understand Ann Radcliffe's novels without reading it, that it would be so racy—an abbot seduced by a woman disguised as a monk. Taking care to hold my book so My Jane Austen couldn't read over my shoulder:

The woman reigns in my bosom, and I am become prey to the wildest of passions. Away with friendship! 'tis a cold unfeeling word. My bosom burns with love, with unutterable love, and love must be its return.

Willis spoke and I jumped, caught reading a racy novel. 'Do you think Luna is a convincing female?' he asked. He turned in his chair to face me and I put The Monk facedown on my bosom, my heart pounding, while I focused on his question.

'Luna?' I took a deep breath and stretched my arms languorously, the way that had always distracted Martin from ESPN. 'You might make her a bit more affected by Father Kitt.'

Willis nodded, encouraging me to elaborate. 'What do you mean?'

'Luna's passion is not convincing because it's all intellectual; she's not engaged enough.' I paused, hoping I wouldn't have to spell it out for him.

'I'm not getting it.'

'Physically.'

'A cheesy love scene?' Willis looked at me. 'You don't want them to have sex in my book, do you?'

'Well,' I said slowly, 'why don't you let him hold her hand and see where it goes from there.'

He looked back at his screen and I resumed reading. I hadn't finished another page when Willis turned to me again, 'Don't you think there's a metaphor in there for marriage? Doesn't everyone have to make a decision to take the bite? Plunge into the unknown abyss with one person, or be lonely forever?'

'Willis.' I laughed. 'That's such a pessimistic view for a priest.'

He smiled. 'I suppose you prefer happy endings.' Willis turned back to his computer.

I closed The Monk and sat up to look out the window. Three stories below, all was quiet. Far down the lawn a young couple posed for a photo, the abyss of the pond in their background, swans slinking in and out of the picture. Willis hadn't noticed I'd stopped reading, so I sighed aloud.

'Everything okay over there?' he asked without turning.

'No,' I said, wanting more than anything to drag him to my window seat and replay the black blouse incident once more with feeling.

Willis stopped typing and turned to face me. 'Something the matter?'

'Are you sure you want to be a priest?' I asked.

His face changed and he smiled to himself as if I'd stumbled on an inside joke. 'You don't waste time on small talk, do you?'

I shrugged. 'I'm just curious.' I was intensely aware of the texture of the foam cushion under my fingers, the sensation of my feet touching the dirty floor. My stomach clutched in nervous anticipation.

'Just curious,' he repeated playfully, rising from his desk, taking the four steps to join me on my cushion, my stomach fluttering with each step. 'Just probing a man's deepest thoughts and fears is all.'

'You've dropped a few clues.' I faced him, my head tilted back, presenting an extended view of my neck and cleavage.

'Such as,' he said, stretching.

'Well, there is the vampire novel for one.' He was so close I could smell him, soap mingled with perspiration.

'Yes.' He smiled.

'And the consideration of impending doom and the business of the abyss.'

'You've got me there.'

'So, I just thought perhaps there's some discontent generating these ideas.' I struck the pose that always made Martin kiss me, but Willis looked out the window. Inching closer, I looked out the window with him so that our faces were perfectly positioned to touch when we turned back. But he moved away so it didn't happen.

I left early that day.

*   *   *

On Monday, I thought about not going to the attic. I dressed slowly and took my time reading a story written by one of Omar's workshop participants. The festival was closed that day, Newton Priors deserted when I arrived in the attic much later than usual. Willis met me at the stairs as if he'd been waiting.

'Did he bite her yet?' I asked.

Willis almost took my hand. 'No,' he said. 'But he's giving it serious consideration.'

'That's progress.' I touched his arm as he moved away.

'I want to show you something.' Willis led me between boxes to a place halfway down the room where he pulled a rope hanging from the ceiling.

'Are we going to escape from this attic?' I sighed.

He smiled as a wooden ladder unfolded, not unlike my attic stairs at home. 'They forgot to lock it the other day.' Climbing, he lifted the heavy trap door in the ceiling, exposing us to the wan light of the outdoors, and then reached down for my hand.

'How wonderful,' I said, climbing the rickety steps behind him. 'No one's ever shown me a rooftop before.' Emerging, I sat on the roof and swung my legs up. Willis held on to me as I steadied myself; but once standing, he let go. All around me were the tops of trees, leaves rustling in the chilly breeze. Holding the hair out of my face, I walked across the flat roof, tar mixed with rough bits of stone. The wind felt much stronger at this altitude. The entire perimeter, crowned by a stone balustrade, itself broken in places, patched with concrete where the blocks joined, lay covered with dusty gray lichen. Dry leaves accumulated at the balustrade's base. Three stories high, we had a good view of St. James's roof and the stained glass window; two people walking on the lawn looked like little dolls playing in an architect's model, and the herb garden revealed its careful blend of textures and patterns.

'I thought you would like it,' he said, gazing toward the pond where the grass appeared weed-free and the trees spaced themselves precisely. My Jane Austen paced the perimeter nervously. 'Being up here reminds me of you,' Willis said.

I couldn't have predicted that remark. 'I remind you of a roof? What does that mean?' I asked. My Jane Austen stopped pacing and held her breath.

He turned to face me, not joking at all. 'You offer me a new perspective.'

I waited.

He looked out to the view and then back at me. 'Would you mind terribly if I wasn't a priest?' he asked.

'No,' I answered too eagerly, thrilled he had asked for my opinion on a matter of such importance to his future and what this meant about us.

He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets as he turned away from me. After a silence, as if reconsidering, he spoke to the sky. 'You'll be gone soon.' The wind rustled the leaves warning me to hush, and My Jane Austen stopped breathing again.