dress. 'Oh, Vera, you know how I love this festival and dressing for Dear Jane. From the minute I leave London, all the way on the train, and till the moment I'm home again, every stitch of clothing on my body is Regency.' The Janeite glanced at me, still dressed in my flight attendant pantsuit.
'For 'Dear Jane'?' I asked.
Vera said, 'Mrs. Russell, I'd like to present Lily Berry.' And then to me, 'Lily, Mrs. Russell is a very important member of our volunteer staff.'
Mrs. Russell bent to raise her skirt, revealing a scrolling design just above the ankle that would have been a tattoo except it was woven into the thick white stocking that covered her legs like something surgery patients wear.
'Lovely,' Vera said.
Mrs. Russell straightened, reaching for her heavy hat whose thick ribbons might choke her if the hat were allowed to fall. 'Wait till you see my ball gown.' And then her face grew serious. She took Vera's hand, moved closer, and whispered, 'Magda says we're not to plan a ball. She says the ballroom is booked every evening of the season and we're not to disrupt the schedule.'
Vera stood silent, frowning, while people behind us rolled suitcases across the floor.
'You know what this means to us,' she said, tilting her head so plaintively I couldn't help but sympathize. 'Nigel promised a ball this year but we can't seem to find Nigel anywhere and Magda won't budge.'
I wanted to help the Janeites win their ball; there was nothing I wanted more than to dance in a white gown and gloves. But I could understand Nigel's reluctance. A costume ball would be a big distraction. Dresses or discussion?
'I'm so sorry,' Vera said as a suitcase thumped up the stairs.
Mrs. Russell whispered, reaching again for the hat with a life of its own, 'And as you know, if we don't have the ball this year we may never dance in Newton Priors. Ever.' Vera patted Mrs. Russell's gloved hand and I felt a twinge of jealousy over this Janeite's relationship with Jane Austen. Like sibling rivalry.
'Why don't you start small?' I asked. 'Have a tea. Then work up to a ball.'
Mrs. Russell turned her gaze on me and her expression warmed. 'A tea? That's a wonderful idea.'
'Well,' Vera said slowly. 'I'll see if I can't find Nigel and sort things out.' Then she added meaningfully, 'But first things first.' She looked at me. 'Let's get Lily into her room. Is Lily Berry on your list?'
'Oh, let's have a look.' Her pen traveled up and down the column of names as my uneasiness grew and I knew my name would not be found. A zealous reader of The Six, I'd never considered dressing in costume for 'Dear Jane.' In fact, I knew nothing about Regency gowns and less about scrolled stockings. But 'Dear Jane's' real fans were apparently far more devoted to their passion. As for me, I'd fallen behind in my duty, shown up for the first day completely underdressed and not on the list.
'Hmm, your name doesn't seem to be here.'
'Is Elizabeth Banks on your list?' Vera snapped.
Mrs. Russell looked up. 'Magda doesn't like us to mix things up.'
'Is Miss Banks on the list?' Vera repeated.
I held my cross, twisting the chain around my finger.
Disinclined to entertain the question, she looked again. 'Yes, here it is.' The pen made a tiny blue dot next to 'Banks, Elizabeth.' I would have thought she'd use a quill.
'That will be Lily's room,' Vera said. 'The Banks girl won't be here.'
Mrs. Russell hesitated as if considering the angle to her advantage. Magda or Vera? Ball or no ball?
Vera looked at her watch. 'Nigel is expecting me,' she said, with meaning.
And then Mrs. Russell cautiously handed me the key, clearly on the promise of Vera's proximity to Nigel.
'What about the packet?' I asked, having seen the arrivals ahead of me leave with a brown envelope.
'Oh dear, you can't have her packet.' Mrs. Russell smiled, as unyielding as the marble statue she resembled.
'Why not?' I asked, a mere newbie wearing pants.
'Well'—she smiled—'it contains personal compensation paperwork for Miss Banks.'
Vera assumed her ballet master pose. 'Could you have them prepare a packet for Miss Berry? By tomorrow,' Vera suggested as we turned to go.
'Don't forget the tea.' Mrs. Russell nodded at me.
If the Janeites considered themselves an exclusive sorority, the guardians of the Jane Austen grail, perhaps I could pledge. Like siblings clamoring for attention, I didn't particularly want to share My Jane Austen with them but I most certainly felt they should share theirs with me. All the same, I wished for a white gown. And gloves.
Climbing the stairs, I noted cream-colored molding painted so many times the crisp edges were gone. The building was probably older than anything in Texas. And Jane Austen's presence felt so much stronger here. She hovered in my periphery now, a gauzy, ethereal being. If I attempted a direct look, she darted to the other side like the floaters I sometimes get in my eyes. Her fragile dress of faded lavender might have come from a dream or a 1950s prom rather than the Regency. Her dark hair fell in loose curls and she favored red lipstick, the color my mother wore when I was very young. When I read her books, Jane Austen spoke to me from the place between the lines of her fiction and I recognized my best friend, as if we'd shared a porch swing on summer evenings and traded confidences in another realm of time and space. She agreed that Martin would change if I was patient. She agreed that my boss was a total jerk and I deserved better. She never looked away to see if someone more interesting had just walked into the room. Through all the long days I spent staring at the walls after Martin abandoned me, she waited patiently, never ditched me out of boredom. Whereas in Texas she'd been confined to remote reaches of my imagination, here in her homeland she grew stronger, commanding a nearer presence in the periphery of my thoughts. Not quite a ghost, more like an imaginary friend.
Gary and I dragged my bags up two flights of stairs, through cavernous halls, over creaking wood floors smelling so musty they diminished the power of Gary's very strong aftershave. Transom windows flared open above doors, and damp air gave me a chill. My simple square room offered two beds with bare mattresses, two closets, a large bureau, and a very old sink with rust stains. Gary set my bags on the floor and hesitated, expecting a tip or a good night kiss. Did he sympathize with the women in period dress or the academics?
'Bye,' I said, opening the door, calculating the cost of a custom pelisse. Gary left and I hoisted my large suitcase onto my bed and unloaded the contents. Did everyone here own a pair of snowy white gloves? My hanging clothes took only five inches of the closet bar and my folded clothes filled less than two of the eight dresser drawers. Tiptoeing around, checking out the table, opening a window and a bureau drawer, everything seemed so new to me, bordering on mysterious, hardly related to the books I'd read and the novel I expected to live in. There was even something odd about the light switches and door handles I couldn't resolve.
A knock rattled my door and I jumped out of my skin.
'It's me, Gary,' the voice of my driver who'd left me less than ten minutes ago called through the open transom. Only it sounded more like, 'Ees me, Gahr-ree.'
I opened the door a tiny crack and peeked. Gary offered me a small white bakery bag.
'Arabic cookies. For you. Ees very goot.'
'Oh, thank you.' I reached out and accepted the bag. 'That's sweet of you.' I gave him the unencouraging smile for door-to-door magazine salesmen.
'I make dem,' he said, planting his large brown foreign student sandals closer to my threshold.
'You made the cookies?' I peeked into the bag.
He nodded. 'Middle Eastern Bakery in Hedingham. My job.' He said something in Arabic, and then translated for himself, smiling, his white teeth contrasting with his swarthy skin. He could be a young Omar Sharif except for the accent. 'You going to the pub?' he asked.
'Not yet.' I backed away. 'I'll see you later,' I said as his face fell. 'Good-bye.' I waved, closing the door, listening as the muffled creak of his footsteps faded.
When I was sure he was gone, I walked over to the pub alone.
From the steps of my residence hall I enjoyed a perfect view of the town below: a double row of antique
