Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph 1
Epigraph 2
Book the First
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Book the Second
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Book the Third
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Book the Fourth
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Reader’s Group Guide
Available in parperback July 2006...
Copyright Page
In Memory of Howard Fast
In late 1996, I had the great good fortune to be cast in the role of Jane Austen in Mr. Fast’s two-character romantic drama, The Novelist. It was a “what if” story, opening with the premise that as Miss Austen began to write Persuasion, a dashing sea captain fairly barged his way into her life, sweeping her off her feet and insisting that she marry him. Mr. Fast was one of the twentieth century’s most prolific novelists himself, but he cherished his lovely little stage play like a favorite child, and I was honored beyond all measure when the author attended, and then complimented, my performance. My experiences working on The Novelist were the best I’ve enjoyed thus far during my theatrical career, unparalleled in their professionalism as well as their reward. By a Lady—and in fact my own career as a novelist—was born of those experiences, and for that I remain forever grateful to the two fellow travelers who so greatly changed my life: Miss Jane Austen and Mr. Howard Fast.
I could not sit down to write a serious romance under any other motive than to save my life; and if it were indispensable for me to keep it up and never relax into laughing at myself or other people, I am sure I should be hung before I finished the first chapter. No, I must keep to my own style and go on in my own way; and though I may never succeed again in that, I am convinced that I should totally fail in any other.
JANE AUSTEN
Letter to the Prince of Wales’s Librarian
The novels which I approve are such as display human nature with grandeur—such as show her in the sublimities of intense feeling—such as exhibit the progress of strong passion from the first germ of incipient susceptibility to the utmost energies of reason half-dethroned—where we see the strong spark of women’s captivations elicit such fire in the soul of man as leads him . . . to hazard all, dare all, achieve all, to obtain her. Such are the works I peruse with delight, and I hope I may say, with amelioration. They hold forth the most splendid portraitures of high conceptions, unbounded views, illimitable ardor, indomitable decision—and even when the event is mainly anti-prosperous to the high-toned machinations of the prime character, the potent, pervading hero of the story, it leaves us full of generous emotions for him; our hearts are paralyzed.
JANE AUSTEN, Sanditon
Book the First
Prologue
IT’S BEAUTIFUL,” C.J. murmured, examining the curiously pockmarked amber cross. She held up her hand to shield her eyes from the glaring sunlight, then ducked under the vendor’s makeshift white canopy, which protected his merchandise from the exigencies of the elements but blocked his enjoyment of a cloudless postcard-blue Long Island sky.
“It’s very old,” the vendor advised, in a lilting Indian accent. He handed the young woman his business card.
“Aki Singh,” C.J. read. “Exactly how old is ‘old’?”
The edges of the cross were worn away, having lost some of their definition over the decades. “Was this ever set in silver, or something?” C.J. asked, noting the uneven honeycomb pattern that covered the bottom half of the cross. She could not imagine that it had always looked so rough. It owned a homemade quality, most certainly crafted by hand.
“It is very difficult to say,” the vendor replied, adjusting his turban. “Erosion is natural. Amber is a fossil, essentially a living thing.”
“I always thought fossils were dead things,” C.J. muttered under her breath.
Mr. Singh continued. “Over time, the edges have probably worn away so that they are as you see them now. Once, there may have been a setting, and you are right; it probably would have been silver. But it is very hard to tell.”
C.J. was prepared to buy the cross anyway, as long as the price was reasonable. After all, this was a local crafts fair with the odd antique thrown in; how expensive could it be?
Mr. Singh shrugged his shoulders. “I tell you what: I give you a very good price. I will sell it to you for thirty-five dollars. If you desire a chain, I will make it forty.” He displayed an array of generic-looking metal chains.
“Thank you, but I’m sure I have a chain at home. Do you take credit cards?” C.J. fumbled through her voluminous purse for her wallet. As a frequently unemployed actress, she was perennially strapped for cash.
“Cash or checks.” The vendor rummaged behind his stall for a little cardboard jewelry box, into which he nestled the amber cross.
“Oh boy,” C.J. sighed. She counted the bills in her wallet. Twenty-three dollars, and she still had to take the train back to Manhattan from Bridgehampton. “A check it is.” She made out a draft for thirty-five dollars payable to Aki Singh, Estate Jewelry.
The vendor noted the antique gold paper and the writer’s name and address printed in formal script at the top of the draft. “Thank you,” he said, reading the name on the check, which he then placed inside a slightly dented green strongbox.
“Thank you very much, Miss Cassandra Jane Welles.”
Chapter One
Wherein our heroine expresses an affinity for an earlier era, and a series of events irrevocably alter her destiny.
WILL YOU JOIN ME for the first set?” C.J.’s friend Matthew asked as she perched
