My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

'Shall we have a go at the follies?'

'Yes,' I said. The arrival of the new people interrupted the flow. Hamlet let go of me as a striking woman approached him lips first. He held her in a tango dip and I watched their bodies move, so precise and fluid it seemed they must have practiced earlier. I hoped she already had a partner for the follies. After that, people moved around and old friends greeted each other.

I asked Omar, 'Is Newton Priors far from here?'

'About a mile.'

'Can I go there?'

'What for?' He made a face.

I felt very comfortable with Omar. 'I want to see it before we're evicted.'

*   *   *

'What are the follies?' I asked, approaching Newton Priors in the mounting gloom of half light via a narrow path lined with tall shrubs on both sides.

'The follies,' Omar said, 'is an evening in late July when alumni visit and we present a talent show among ourselves.'

'Like playing the piano or singing a song?'

'Not exactly,' Omar said. 'It derives from the impulse of Jane Austen's family skit nights. Most acts have something to do with her.' Omar told me that Hamlet's real name was Sixby Godwin, a professional actor who studied at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, currently auditioning with the RSC, the Royal Shakespeare Company.

'He's auditioning? What about Literature Live?' I asked, locking my jaws to stifle a jet-lag yawn.

'When he gets on with the RSC, he'll be out of here. And he will get on, you can depend on it. He's very talented.'

I knew that. 'But why leave?'

Omar smiled patronizingly. 'Darling,' he said, 'surely you don't expect him to go down with the ship.' Omar extended an arm. 'Prepare to feast your eyes,' he said.

Trees and plump shrubs on either side of the path still obscured the view. Only a hint of red brick peeked through the leaves. A sign appeared on our right announcing Newton Priors, open to the public the first Sunday of the month. 'Open to the public?' I asked.

'They get a tax break for sharing,' Omar said, and stopped walking.

There before us, the grand house rose from the earth in majesty.

'Queen Anne in the English Baroque style.' Omar gestured.

'It's lovely.' The main door centered between two wings curved gracefully at the ends, constructed of deep red stone, face full of tall windows and lovely bays rendering the house more vulnerable than the Palladian boxes with their perfectly square corners. The central tower climbed three stories, crowned by a filigreed stone balustrade filtering the sky. But mostly I got a sense of serenity, very still and very quiet. Soft green grass surrounded the house, reaching out to the place where the lovely gardens began. Soft and fine like the grass on a putting green or a carpet. 'Look, bats.' I pointed at winged specks flying from the roof. A steeple rose not far from the house. 'Does the church belong with the estate?'

'Yes, St. James's Church. The tower dates from the early sixteenth century and the bells from 1350. The Weston family rebuilt the rest of it in the late 1800s.'

So wonderful to have my own personal church so close, like having a bit of my mother at Literature Live with me. The problem: how to give Omar the slip and indulge a solitary church visit. I felt my neck for the cross but it wasn't there. Sheer panic seized me before I remembered I'd placed it in my jewelry pouch for safekeeping.

Omar said, 'Conservationists are toiling around the clock to get ready for opening day. Just don't expect them to fix anything.' Omar's remarks came with a side of sarcasm.

'Who is Magda anyway?' I asked.

'More like what is she.' He laughed. 'We're sure she's not human. We think she drinks Janeite blood. We know she can smell fear. And Archie loves her.'

'Who's Archie?'

'Her immediate supervisor.'

'Oh.'

'Here's some good advice: Avoid eye contact with Magda.'

'Is she from the Middle East?' I asked.

'Lebanese.' Omar held a gate open, admitting me onto the immediate grounds. 'She was once a student of Archie's but she currently resides in Ann Arbor, where she intimidates freshman English students.'

'You know her from there?'

'Yes, we're in the same department. Archie worships her.'

I waited.

'When he's not at home with his wife and children in London,' he added, offering his arm as we reached the steps.

'Oh,' I said.

We climbed the oversized sloping stone steps, worn from age and moisture, to the formal double-door entrance.

'And don't let her catch you smoking,' he said. 'Her friend died of lung cancer—a nonsmoker—last year, and she takes smoking as a personal affront. If you see Archie smoking, look the other way quick.' Omar held the door for me. 'After you.'

'I don't smoke.'

Inside, the wide planks creaked and sloped. A marble placed on the floor would roll into a corner. The door handles weren't where I expected them to be, and paint on the ceiling medallion peeled and flaked onto the floor. This wasn't a stately mansion where you pay $16.50 for a tour of immaculate rooms decorated in Smithsonian perfection. But I could feel My Jane Austen in this place. Omar became my tour guide, occasionally abandoning sarcasm to teach me something.

'Please note the whimsical fault lines over the doorway to the ballroom. Repairs were last attempted in 1920.' My eyes ascended the fourteen-foot ceilings, taking note of the cracking plaster, the first thing to greet patrons upon arrival. The walls needed paint. Omar showed me a bald spot in the hallway where, in the 1960s, an official of the Historical Society had gouged a sample of the plaster to test for composition.

Omar gestured to dark, somber portraits in gilt frames, suspended by wire from a line of molding. 'Ancestors, mostly,' he said. On the opposite wall, floor-to-ceiling lace curtains dressed the windows like spinsters left over from the Depression. I sensed an attitude of flexibility in our production, a handmade flavor to the house.

Omar noticed my glance at the floor. 'The rugs have been taken out for a beating.' We entered a small room off the front hall. 'This is the Freezer,' he said. 'Your greenroom where you will escape the scrutiny of patrons while you spend quality time with fellow actors cramming for the next scene. Or checking your e- mail.'

The Freezer reminded me of an oversized coat-check room furnished with mismatched contemporary sofas better suited for a fraternity house, a lime green area rug, and faux Danish modern end tables; it was the only room lacking a fireplace. A noble mahogany library table and sideboard waited here, slumming while a better placement was scouted.

'That's Magda's desk,' Omar said, pointing to a surface buried in papers and books. 'And that's everyone else's.' He indicated a table, bare except for a previous-generation computer and monitor. I could imagine actors lounging with scripts in this room, memorizing Jane Austen's prose. Or checking their e-mail.

'How long has it been since anyone really lived here?' I asked, following Omar back to the entry and turning left at the archway.

'Nineteen forty-five,' he said. 'And this is the ballroom.'

'Wow.' I gazed into the cavernous hall. A couple in deep discussion sat at a folding table erected just inside the door.