My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

his thigh and out of my view, assuming an innocent expression when our eyes met for the last time. 'Call me when you grow up,' I said. I walked out before he could punch the next girl's number in my presence. 9:06 P.M. Texas Girl Escapes London Hotel.

Twenty-Seven

Vera answered her door. 'Lily, you're back,' she said; a bright smile lit her face, the room behind her somber, perhaps kept dark for Nigel's benefit.

'Can I come in?' I asked. I'd had enough time alone in the station and on the train to be conflicted over everything that had seemed so neatly resolved when it happened. Now that I had to deliver the bad news to Vera, I considered returning to the scene of the crime and retrading the deal for her sake, offering my body for a lease agreement. Anything but inform her that Newton Priors—Literature Live for the past thirty years—was gone.

'You can't imagine how distracted I've been, thinking of you, wondering how it went with Randolph,' she said, searching my face for a sign.

'Not well, I'm afraid.' The dream had ended not only for Nigel, but for me. The train ride to Hedingham was my last trip 'home' to the festival. Next time, home would be Texas. My new self would return to my old self, even though my old environment no longer fit. Back to a job in a gray cubicle where people don't care what Jane Austen thinks. No lectures, no scenes, no endless stacks of books. My Jane Austen would melt in Texas.

Vera dimmed her tone. 'Is there a problem? Come in,' she said, arching her eyebrows as she opened the door enough for me to enter. Clearly, I had never been invited into Vera's rooms because a visitor had no place to go. Things cluttered all horizontal surfaces of the tiny apartment used by a dorm mother during the school year. Boxes of Nigel's worldly goods filled the room awaiting further instructions. Perhaps without Literature Live, Nigel would be homeless, like me. The bedroom door remained shut but pillows and blankets lay on the sofa, a good indication of where Vera had slept all summer. I moved a box to the floor, making room for myself on a chair.

Vera sat among blankets on the sofa, her lips pursed. 'So, we're all going home, are we?' she asked, not meeting my eyes, fidgeting with the hem of her blanket. Blinds closed, a cock-eyed lampshade directed light onto Vera's lap where a book would usually sit. A tablet of paper—Vera had been composing a list with Claire's name at the top—sat on the lamp table. Crumpled paper, distractingly similar to the trash I'd recently searched, littered the table. The suitcase she dragged through Heathrow waited near the wall.

'I am,' I said.

Inhaling deeply, she shaded her eyes, and I noticed a tremor in her little finger. 'What went wrong?' she asked.

Her question implied I'd messed up the drills she'd carefully taught me. Anger released a hit of adrenaline. 'It's not about anything going wrong,' I said, a bit too loud, noting the crux of the problem with Vera—always insisting dissimilar things fit together, her own brand of reckless creativity. 'It simply wasn't meant to be,' I said. 'Ever.' If I was not careful, I would break down. Not about Randolph, but the whole summer, about the lost possibility of connecting with an ideal life. I tried to remember how I had planned to tell her about the house but I lost my way and then the door opened and Nigel walked in.

Vera raised her hand. 'Lily's back.'

'Hullo, Lily.' I was sorry he was here; now I'd have to deliver the bad news to both of them.

'There's a message from John Owen on your bureau,' Vera said, sitting up straight, moving her blankets to make room for Nigel on the sofa. 'But come and sit now.' She patted the cushion next to her. Nigel opened the little refrigerator in the tiny kitchen casting light into the room. All those years of working to build an organization; who was I to tell him it had ended? Surely, someone could find another house.

'What, Lily? Tell us what happened.' Vera's arm braced the sofa. Nigel concentrated on the refrigerator's interior as I did whenever the nurse gave me a shot; don't look and it will soon be over.

'Randolph's accountant has advised him to sell Newton Priors; he has hired a broker.'

Vera struck herself in the heart. 'I can't believe it,' she said.

'Yes,' Nigel said, his face still turned away.

'We assumed'—Vera clutched her throat—'that Randolph would require changes, perhaps even major changes in funding and direction such as Magda had pushed, but I never really anticipated he'd sell the house from under us.'

'I did,' Nigel said, retreating to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Vera leaned forward. 'What happened with Randolph?' she asked, her eyes narrowed, seeking a place to lay the blame. 'He asked if restoring old houses was the sort of thing you wanted to do, only a few days ago.' She frowned. 'He seemed so interested.'

'Interested yes,' I said. 'In one thing.'

'But he invited you to dinner. What happened to make him change so quickly?'

I stared at her. 'He Googled me.'

'Really.'

'You told him I was an actress, remember? He discovered the truth.'

'So much has changed since I was your age,' she said, backing off now that her share in the crime lay exposed. 'I don't understand romance these days.'

'No, Vera,' I said. 'Things have not changed. They never change. Have you read Jane Austen?' I asked. 'Inheritance laws change but human nature never does. Even dead, Jane Austen understands that.' My voice grew too loud as desperation crept in. Why was Vera's recklessness only now clear to me? I deserved blame for not reading her more closely. 'You knew. But you fed me to him anyway, like a throw- away orphan, hoping he'd let you stay in the house a few more years.'

'Lily, what are you talking about?' Vera's face became ugly. 'I wanted this for you.' She spoke very slowly. 'I desired with all my heart that it would work out for you— somehow—this time.'

Tears came and I felt hopelessly tangled in my own losses.

'Lily,' Vera said, rising, coming to my side.

I held up my hand. 'Don't talk to me,' I said. She tried to put her arm around me but I stood.

'We're all upset,' Vera said as I walked out.

*   *   *

The next night I had dinner with Omar. Tomorrow, he would be gone, along with Archie, Magda, Bets, and Willis. And My Jane Austen. We met in the pub, Omar looking spiffier than usual in an oxford cloth shirt, his rough hair watered down and combed.

'I brought you something.' He handed a book across the table.

'Omar, how sweet,' I said, regretting I had not thought of a gift for him. I read the cover. English Manor Houses. 'It will remind me of our summer,' I said, aware it wasn't a straightforward gift; some irony existed that I was too anxious to grasp.

'Read the inscription.' Omar smiled so hard his cheeks pushed his eyes into little slits behind his glasses. He waited for the punch line to occur to me, optimistic that it would.

To Lily, Repeat often:

People live in houses, not novels.

People live in houses, not novels.

Omar

'Very funny,' I said, failing to match his mirth, turning the pages. I wouldn't be able to focus on the gift until much later, alone in Texas. We walked to Newton Priors and sat on the steps of the house in the twilight. 'I once assumed Jane Austen was mistress of a grand house like this,' I said. 'One of my early mistaken impressions.'

'Now you know,' Omar said, smiling.

'Wouldn't you love to see all the letters Cassandra destroyed?' I asked. 'Knowing what she really thought might solve your Jane Austen problem.'