My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

limestone buildings situated parallel to the river. Double-decker buses tottered up the hill, and tourists, my future audiences, wandered among faded pastel shop doors. An unfamiliar chill sparked the air, and clouds clogged the sky. The pub, a whitewashed two-story stucco building with multiple chimneys and abundant creeper, stood between the main street and the river. A charming shingle on the street announced: 'The Grey Hare.' Flaming carriage lanterns, smaller than those on Texas McMansions, flanked the door illuminating a hand-lettered sign proclaiming, 'Literature Live Staff Night.' That would be me, I thought proudly. Inside, a horseshoe-shaped bar dominated the room, its pewter countertop patched and polished. Behind, a sign on the mirror proclaimed 'Bloody Mary Bar Every Sunday' with a price I couldn't yet convert in my head.

Searching among the bare boards, wooden panels, and high-backed settles, I sought a familiar face, all the while scanning name tags for the dreaded Miss Banks. A stuffed rabbit collection crowded a shelf behind the bar, illustrating the pub's name: the Grey Hare. On the wall next to me hung a familiar portrait of an old man in a powdered wig, labeled 'Dr. Johnson.' Below, someone had handwritten, 'The Grey Hair.' Several other gray-hair portraits hung around the bar. I ordered a glass of ale, proud to be there, surprised that no one was in costume. How silly to think of finding a Janeite in a pub.

Some guys next to me at the bar spoke to each other in erudite phrases like 'the origins of informality.' One struck me as a grad student, having mentioned his thesis; the other couldn't have been over nineteen. Their conversation flowed around me until I cleared my throat rather conspicuously and asked what they were talking about. They said, 'incorporeal hereditament' as if I should have understood from context. When I asked what that was, they said, 'intangible rights that are inheritable.'

'Oh, that.' I sipped my ale thoughtfully and imagined myself in an improv exercise. During a break in their dialogue, I mentioned Lockley's interesting theory on the roots of incorporeal hereditament in The Approach of Modernity, title and author invented by me. I made sure to turn away before they could ask to borrow my copy. But as I turned, I found myself looking into the eyes of a short, dark man in wire-rim glasses. His name tag said Omar.

'Are you new here?' he asked, obviously Arabic like Gary, dark hair, dark skin, no trace of the Middle East in his accent, but maybe a hint of New Jersey. I felt drawn to his open face, his diminutive size, and his generous regard. 'I overheard you talking with those friendly guys,' he said. I warmed to the sarcasm in his voice. 'What are you doing here?' he asked. He raised his glass, pausing midway to his mouth waiting for my response.

'I'm an actress,' I said. 'And you?'

'I'm an English teacher,' Omar said. 'I help prepare the scripts and teach a writing workshop.'

'The scripts?' I asked. Maybe he knew what part I would play.

'I adapt Austen's novels for Literature Live,' Omar said, emitting a titter of insider animation.

'Which novel is your favorite?' I asked.

Omar sipped from his mug. 'Personally, I don't have one,' he said, his jaws locked, making his remark sound especially snooty. Surely, he was gay.

'Really?' I said.

'I'm with Mark Twain, I'd like to dig Jane Austen up and hit her over the head with her own shinbone.' Omar stole a sideways glance, then turned to me and whispered, 'Austen's work doesn't adapt well or easily.'

'Why?'

'Well, because'—Omar assumed a serious expression, a teacher explaining to a student—'when you adapt Austen's novels for stage, you lose the interiority, the sparkling narrative if you will, which, in my opinion, leaves us with nothing but a dreadful romance. Think of the films.' Omar leaned toward me again. 'Shaw's my field of study.'

I nodded.

Omar invited me to join him at a table in the back where the noise level and general animation increased. Unfortunately, no one in the large group wore a name tag. Omar raised his voice to seize the group's attention. 'I would like to introduce a fellow actress'—he put his hand on my arm and read my name tag—'Lily Berry.'

They all looked at me expecting something, so—I waved. Then a man with a beautiful smile stepped forward and extended his hand.

'Damn glad to meet you,' he said. 'Name's Hamlet.' Hair randomly bleached, buttons on his plaid shirt misaligned, his smile so contagious I wanted to laugh at whatever he was saying whether I could hear it over the din or not. Hamlet's eyes locked with mine even as his arm rose in a professional flourish, indicating the man on his right, 'Allow me to present Veal Cutlet.' Hamlet's other arm extended like a conductor calling on the brass, toward the couple at the end of the table. 'Country Ribs, there.' A tall, lanky man nodded at me gravely. 'And his little Pork Chop.' The woman turned to her partner, selected a finger, and began gnawing.

I enjoyed the joke and his lovely British accent until Hamlet's mischievous eyes met mine, expecting me to reciprocate in kind. 'And you are?' he said, and I knew I was supposed to be some sort of meat. No time to unwind the jet-lag gauze straitjacketing my brain, I smiled. 'I'm still Lily Berry,' I said, adding, like a beauty contestant with a Southern drawl, 'From the great state of Texas,' applying specific gusto to the word great. I couldn't read the expression on Hamlet's face. Fearing he might expose me for a fraud, the suspense was unbearable. I looked to Omar for a cue but he had started a conversation with someone else. Hamlet raised his arm again and I flinched like a needy dog expecting to be hit. To my utter astonishment he opened his mouth and began singing to me. Conversations halted and heads turned as his rich baritone filled the pub; even the people in the front looked to see what was happening.

'Oh I wish I wa-as in the land of cotton,' he sang, pausing to savor the full effect of the longing he expressed. Some began singing harmony. 'Old times there are not forgotten.' He took my hands in his as if this were a love song. 'Look away, look away, look away Dixie land.' He immediately segued into 'The Yellow Rose of Texas,' but mixed it up with 'Yankee Doodle.' Omar winked, as if Hamlet serenading me were normal behavior. The bartenders looked mildly pleased, as if this sort of thing happened when you associated with actors. But I felt myself on fire because, as an actress, I would be expected to improvise something original, soon.

'The Yellow Rose of Texas is the only gal for me,' Hamlet continued, swinging me around in a little colonial do-si-do. Others joined the act, humming the accompaniment. Country Ribs and his little Pork Chop performed backup vocals; another actor played his air guitar, closing his eyes for the more challenging riffs. Veal Cutlet on percussion used spoons to beat the table as one of his mates played the air trombone. Others provided vocal accompaniment and stomping feet; the whole front of the room improvised to Hamlet's crazy medley while I scrambled for an idea. Unless I thought of something quick, it would be very obvious who was not an actress in the room.

Hamlet went down on one knee and seated me on the other. I managed to smile and raise my arms in a little shimmy, my butt bones digging into his thigh, ideas racing. Although I never played a lead, I memorized all the solos and sang them to my bathroom mirror. I stood and launched into 'People Will Say We're in Love,' as if I'd come straight from Broadway, the breath released from my diaphragm, flowing over my vocal cords exactly the way my voice teacher had taught me years ago. I felt like a pro and Hamlet crooned his part, making up words as he sang. We held hands as if we really were Curly and Laurey.

Then I heard the words of Oklahoma! coming from the sidelines, gaining momentum, the beat growing stronger, wind sweeping the plains, hawks flying in circles. My heart swelled and I wanted to laugh and cry as I joined in, singing the harmony when I could find the note. We sang and danced, arms in the air, feet stomping; I felt such a sense of belonging in this moment with these people, right up to the final okay!

Hamlet cradled me so far backward I had no sense of balance and no ability to right myself. Then he planted a real kiss on my mouth. He tasted bitter, like ale. Huge applause erupted, encouraging my inner protagonist. When Hamlet prepared to stand, I pulled him back and wrapped my arms around his neck for another kiss. And kicked a leg in the air. The room loved it.

'Well done, Lily,' Hamlet whispered. We bowed and then Hamlet took my hands in his. 'I think I'm in love.' He snapped his fingers. 'Let's improvise. Omar, get a pen, this will be good.'

A new group of people entered our section of the room and chatter resumed.

'Lily,' Hamlet said, slightly breathless, 'I have an idea. Let's work up an act. You and me.'

I smiled; no idea what he was talking about but I liked the way he said 'you and me.'