My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

wanted society parties.

'Could you come to London?' he asked again.

'Yes,' I said. Although I wasn't stupid; this dinner party didn't just come up.

'Excellent.'

Color came back and the clock ticked once more.

*   *   *

Two hours later, my knees secretly weak, I entered a chic London apartment where people stood in small groups holding wineglasses. No one met us at the door. Randolph winked at me and we walked in, his hand guiding from the small of my back. I searched every face, seeking one person, afraid of finding him. Randolph steered me into the kitchen where we discovered his sister leaning against a granite counter, her wit animating the faces of three enchanted listeners. I felt Randolph's eyes on me, like a protective shield in this foreign place. A caterer shuffled large plates of leftovers into storage containers and a dark-skinned woman in a maid's uniform rinsed plates. Judging from the direction the food was headed and the stack of dirty dishes, we'd missed dinner.

Pippa stopped speaking when she saw me. She looked from me to Randolph and back. 'Well, hullo.' Her mouth spoke to Randolph but her eyes stuck on me. Her enchanted listeners broke Pippa's gravitational pull to shake Randolph's hand. Then all three peered at me as if I were an alien invader from dark space. I looked to see if I'd remembered to change out of my Regency gown. I had.

'She's agreed to run away with me,' Randolph announced to the little group.

'Where are you running away to?' asked a man.

'Old novels,' Randolph told him. 'We'd like to live in one. Preferably Jane Austen.'

'Ah,' the person said. 'Clever. No one would think of looking for you there.'

'Although I'd prefer a racy French novel,' he whispered to me as Pippa's moons resumed their orbits. 'Austen's so tame,' he said, 'might get boring for a guy.'

I faux frowned. 'Well, maybe Forster,' I said, lifting a warm glass of champagne off a parked tray, feeling surreal. Randolph's friends made the trek to the kitchen to say hullo, most of whom observed me suspiciously after Randolph tried to pass me off as his evil twin, recently convicted of misshelving books in a Texas library. He told a persistent guest that I wasn't 'out' (in society) yet, keeping one hand on my back as I disregarded his conversations to search faces. The open kitchen allowed a view of the room beyond but Willis was not present in the room beyond. How many rooms were there and where was the guest of honor?

'How did he propose?' a woman behind us asked Pippa as Randolph turned to shake another hand.

'You mean the first time?' Pippa asked. 'We were sixteen and he chased me into the girls' bathroom at our school.' Pippa sighed. 'It was so long ago, but I do remember reading some gothic novel at the time, or maybe it was The Thorn Birds, and agreeing to marry him if he would swear to be a priest when he grew up.'

I disengaged Rand's hand and ventured into the next room. A window wall turned out to be a sliding glass door revealing guests on a balcony. A woman stepping into the room from the balcony tossed a remark to the people behind her and I saw Willis, big as life, his head rearing back to laugh at whatever she'd said. How odd to see Willis so exuberant. My Willis brooded over his laptop in melancholy confinement on the third floor. As I approached the sliding glass door, the panorama opened up, glamorous London at night. Willis saw me. I stepped onto the balcony, closing the door behind, and my time began elapsing. 'Still seeking rooftop perspectives?' I asked.

'What a surprise,' he said. 'Lily.' He extended a hand and I prayed he wouldn't squander our private seconds sorting out my presence at the party.

'No small talk,' I said quickly, touching the cross around my neck.

'Never, with you,' he said, his face still lit from the last round of levity. My Attic Willis was make-believe; this Society Willis was real.

'How are you?' I asked, meaning the big picture.

He reached for a more serious expression, unable finally to engage either a smile or a frown. 'Well, since you asked, I'll tell you.' He lifted his glass from the low table, avoiding my eyes. 'I've decided to leave my degree program.'

'What does that mean?'

'I'm not seeking the priesthood.' He sipped his wine, relieved, as if he'd finished the thesis and won an award, rather than abandoned his life plan.

'Congratulations,' I said. 'You've struggled with this. And how is your fiancée taking the decision?'

'It's still new to her.' He watched a blinking light make its way across the dark sky.

'So what will you do?' I asked.

'That'—he laughed—'is a more difficult question.' He opened his mouth to speak. Certainly his lips formed the word you but the unbidden grind of the door, sliding open along its metal track, admitted party chatter onto the balcony and ended our privacy. We'd been a fairy tale with a beginning, middle, and end, and we'd reached the last page sometime in July. Tonight felt more like an epilogue.

'They're looking for you,' Randolph said to Willis. 'Time for the toasts,' he added, offering me a champagne glass, extending a hand to Willis.

'Ah, duty calls,' Willis said. 'Excuse me.' And passing me, he left without a good-bye.

I started to follow Willis back into the noisy room, not sure I could bear to hear tributes to the lovely couple, when Randolph gently tugged my hand. 'Let's stay out here,' he whispered, nodding at the sparkling skyline, taking my glass and setting it on the rail. Willis had forgotten to take the stars and the moon when he left. Rand's arm found my waist and I gratefully leaned my head on his shoulder.

'So, it's Forster for us,' he said.

*   *   *

Four days later in my library, I reached up to touch the spines of the old books on the shelves, a light touch, the way Randolph touched my back or my hand. I thought about decoding the shapes of ink, the alphabet blooming into people and places in my mind, regardless of book or page number. But mildewed pages were out of character for an aristocrat's dinner date. Rather, I should brush up on foxhunting and afternoon tea. While staring at the shelves, halfheartedly seeking a book on peerage laws, my cell phone went off, igniting my pulse. But it was Vera again.

'Has he called?' she asked.

'No,' I reported once again as I pulled an old encyclopedia off the shelf. 'The Eleventh Baron of Weston has priorities and we have to wait.' I'd fed Vera's frenzy, sharing Randolph's comments about my interest in making a country house pay its way and the talk about running away in Forster. 'Do you think he's really interested?' I asked, purposely imprecise, allowing her to address either question: his interest in keeping Literature Live in his house or his interest in Lily. I faced the bookshelf so my voice wouldn't carry into the room, deceiving myself that My Jane Austen wouldn't hear the question. I knew which way Vera would go, which made me think she also understood, at least subconsciously, that Literature Live was doomed.

'Of course he's interested. He's always been especially fond of American actresses,' Vera said. Her response triggered a memory of something I couldn't place.

*   *   *

Omar joined me, throwing books and papers on the table. 'What are you reading?' he asked.

'I'm looking up the 1999 House of Lords Act,' I said. 'Do you know anything about it?'

Omar sat. 'It restricted the number of hereditary peers allowed to govern; no more than ninety-two can sit in Lords. The rest are appointees with life terms.' He guessed why I asked. 'Randolph is not entitled to a seat.'

'I see.' Like learning that nobody lived in country manors nowadays or had servants. 'Speaking of,' he said, 'how's Lord Randy?'

'I haven't heard from him. I'm a bit worried for Literature Live's future, really.'

'You should be.' Omar pulled a newspaper from his pile of stuff. Rifling through the pages, he found the section he looked for and tossed it to me. 'Have a look.'

'What's this?' I scanned photographs of people in evening attire, society types posing for the camera. 'What