My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

Omar joined me in the library one week after the memorial service. We sat at the table we'd occupied two months ago. I lost myself in Bronte while Omar read books on Shaw, working on his dissertation. I spent all my time in the library now. As soon as I was free, I retreated to the east wing, traveling the same worn planks, passing Nigel at his desk discarding papers into a large metal waste bin, passing Vera calmly typing schedule revisions. Only cloistered in the library, reading from the endless supply of mind-altering smelly books, did I find peace. Any page of any book would do.

'Omar?' I asked.

He looked up, obviously straining to return to England and place me. 'Yes?' he said, turning a page.

'I owe you an apology,' I said.

He looked up again with less effort. 'For what?'

'For avoiding you after the follies.'

Omar waved a hand, dismissing the sentiment, although he had been cool and distant since that evening almost three weeks ago.

'I know you were trying to help,' I said, routing a cuticle on my left hand, 'and I appreciate your concern.'

Omar closed his book and removed his glasses. 'You're crushed, aren't you?'

'Yes.' I pressed my lips as tears filled my eyes.

'That was pretty brutal of him,' Omar said.

I couldn't speak.

'I don't know what his problem is.' Omar took my hand. 'Willis did not treat you well, Lily. If this were the olden days, you'd be a ruined woman.'

'I don't think he meant to mislead me,' I said.

'Right.' Omar smiled and shook his head.

We looked up as Vera opened our door and stuck her head in. 'Randolph's here,' she said. 'Come quickly.' She gestured with one hand, glancing behind her as if he were in the hallway. I scooted my chair out, noting Omar's disapproval. 'He's in the front,' she said, leading the way.

Randolph's silver Jaguar sat parked outside, just beyond the window where Vera and I watched through the swirly glass and pouring rain. Like Sheila, he'd crashed the gates, passing horse-drawn carriages to park outside our door. His door. 'Look at his car,' Vera whispered, her head suddenly next to mine.

'Hmm,' I said.

'Why isn't he getting out?'

'It's raining.' My breath fogged the window.

'Perhaps we should take him an umbrella.'

'That would be awkward,' I said, awkward being my new favorite word since Willis used it on me.

'Or maybe he's on the phone.' Vera grabbed my hand and we both gazed at the silver auto against the majestic landscape, dreamlike through the distorted glass. Lately, as things seemed more desperate, the adrenaline from her ideas had been going straight to her mouth. 'You could hold your wedding at Newton Priors,' Vera said. 'Your children could grow up playing on this lawn.'

I said, 'This is a business meeting.' She'd become so inflamed by her hope of saving the organization that the line between business and self-delusion blurred.

Vera whispered, 'You made an impression on him. And, as the book says, 'A young man in possession of a fortune...'' She looked at me earnestly. 'The world needs a new Lady Weston.'

'He probably has me mixed up with someone else he met in the hospital that day. He must meet many people. If his face falls when he meets me, we'll know it was a mix-up,' I whispered back.

'Nonsense.' She smiled insanely, confident I would save Literature Live, congratulating herself on having brought me to England in spite of the Lost Letters embarrassment.

Randolph's door opened.

He had arranged that, after a tour of the festival and a meeting with Nigel, we would discuss my ideas for Newton Priors. His visit provided the incentive necessary to force the business plan into existence. Pages had been finalized that morning in a panic as Vera flitted like a nervous moth, contributing helpful remarks such as, 'Randolph must produce an heir; they say the House of Lords will be extinct by the year 2047.'

Randolph stepped out of his car. There was no turning back. The unlikely social phenomenon—me mixing with an English lord—was about to happen, plausible or not. And Vera blanched as if it suddenly occurred to her that she might have been wrong. Maybe he did have me mixed up with someone else. 'An English lord, for God's sake. In a silver Jaguar,' she said, touching my hand.

He locked the car and then ran toward our door. 'He's taller than I remember,' I said. His hairline had receded since I last saw him and his shirt looked like something my father would wear bowling. Must be really expensive. My hand flew to my mouth as he ran through raindrops. Suddenly, I was in over my head.

'Go.' Vera pushed me.

Randolph approached, his gaze lowered and a faint smile graced his lips. He appeared far away in thought. Near the door, he looked up; his brow arched mildly, a peer of the realm coming for me. I grasped the doorknob as our eyes met through the window; his warm smile encouraged me, but the knob left its socket and fell out of my hand. I pointed to the floor. Randolph looked down. I knew then that Jane Austen would never eat me for lunch for the simple reason there would be nothing left to eat after I finished with myself; she'd starve to death if she were counting on me for a meal.

'Oh, the door.' Vera rushed over. 'Lord Weston, welcome,' she said through the glass. 'If you don't mind, just pushing on the frame will open the door from your side.'

Randolph pushed and the door cooperated.

'These old doors,' Vera explained.

'House is full of them.' Randolph's easy smile calmed me. 'Lily.' He reached for me and I gave him both hands, too late to bow or curtsy. I had been right in expecting strong aftershave; it seemed to go with first dates, even when they were business meetings with peers of the realm.

'Vera,' he said, extending both hands and kissing her cheeks.

Nigel joined us and quietly offered condolences while I studied Randolph's confident manner, his polished exterior, a man who knew life's secret rules. I slid my eyes sideways to enjoy Vera's reaction. Randolph's face had not fallen when he first saw me.

*   *   *

Vera guided Randolph on a tour of Newton Priors, his ancestral home, engaging the usual suspects, all of whom had been prepped. Although Randolph had grown up around Literature Live, it was his project now, and Vera wanted him to see it in a fresh light. Randolph leered at a volunteer wearing a flimsy, almost see-through gown. Vera dismissed his blatant behavior later, saying, 'Their clear understanding of the changing world in 1890 caused the Westons to divert investments to overseas equities and save the family from early extinction. Randolph descended from people who evaluated opportunities; of course he's going to leer at provocative volunteers.'

Vera served us to Sixby, who appeared to be leading a last-minute rehearsal of several cast members in the Freezer, something he'd never done. We watched Alex pretend not to know how to deliver his line, and Sixby coach him. 'Place the emphasis here,' Sixby said, pointing to the script. We watched, in the room where Magda and Archie's unquiet spirits felt especially strong to me, until Vera decided Randolph had seen enough 'behind the scenes.'

The ballroom appeared to be buzzing with patrons when I recognized people from the volunteer staff posing as tourists. Mrs. Russell had wisely joined her considerable resources with Vera's to save the house. Their partnership implied the obvious truth: no house, no ball. And the ball remained the ultimate goal, in spite of undead Jane Austen's admonitions to the contrary. The appearance of a new male volunteer, conspicuously uncomfortable in period attire, did not escape my notice. Mr. Russell had taken to working the ticket desk on Wednesdays.

Randolph touched my arm, leaning in to speak to me. He treated me gallantly and I grew to expect opening of doors and the pressure of his hand on my back as we entered a room. He couldn't possibly be interested in