“Well . . .” C.J. hesitated.
“Please don’t fuck me over, here,” Beth pleaded, “and I mean that in the nicest possible way.”
As her thought process became clearer, C.J. felt as though her entire life was hanging in the balance. On both sides of the scale, actually. On one side—the third-millennium side—she was being offered the role of a lifetime and the chance to finally enjoy the career of her dreams. On the nineteenth-century side of the balance, she was already playing the role of a lifetime in many ways. More urgently, on the other side of the void there was a dying woman who had been her benefactress and for whom she had developed an immensely strong affection. Perhaps only modern pharmaceuticals could save her, and for that C.J. had to risk sacrificing her twenty-first-century existence to bring the remedies with her across time—if the journey was even possible to achieve. Also on the other side was the blossoming friendship with the real Jane Austen, the woman she had idolized all her life. And then there was Lord Darlington and the powerful mutual attraction between them. She had willingly given her body to him and acknowledged that she had parted with her heart as well. Why was everything happening at once?! And in both of her worlds, time played the leading role.
“You look as if you’ve been through the mill and back,” Humphrey observed. He grabbed a handful of the yellow muslin dress. “It looks like you slept in this.”
C.J. looked down at her gown. “I must have done,” she replied. “I suppose I’ll have some explaining to do to Milena. And the hat and the shawl too. I don’t know what happened.”
“You’ve been gone for two and a half days,” Beth informed her. “And you’re also speaking with an English accent.”
Jesus! She’d been using a foreign accent for so long she’d forgotten to switch back to her own. How embarrassing. “Well, you know me,” she joked feebly, finding her own American voice. “C.J. Welles, method actress. Oh, and yes, by the way. In case I didn’t tell you,” she added, grasping the director’s arm, “of course I want to play Jane. I would love to do the part.”
Beth looked heavenward, at the proscenium arch. “Oh, thank God. Thank God.” She shook C.J.’s hand vigorously, gave her a little hug, and tossed her cell phone to a personal assistant. “Call Harvey back,” she said, “and tell him to messenger the contracts over here right away.” Physically seating her new leading lady, Beth told her, “You’re not moving from this chair, Miss Welles, until you’ve signed your contract.” She tugged at a lock of her flaxen hair. “See this? Gray. I’ve gone gray while you’ve gone missing!”
Two hours, two cups of coffee, and one tuna salad sandwich later, C.J. Welles signed her first Broadway contract. It should have been one of the most thrilling moments of her life, but she was thinking about the fate of Lady Dalrymple. The production staff congratulated her, and C.J. weakly accepted her plaudits. “I’m sorry . . . I know I should act more ecstatic,” C.J. said, “and believe me, I am indeed as high as a kite over all this,” she hastened to assure them. After all, Beth in particular had really gone out on a limb for her. “But I suppose . . . at the moment . . . I’m too exhausted to seem appropriately elated.”
Milena was called down to the theatre to take any further measurements, if necessary, in order to get the ball rolling on the costume construction. She shook her head, somewhat dismayed, when she saw the state of the yellow muslin, the now-ratty and shrunken coquelicot shawl, and the straw hat that looked like it had been a horse’s lunch. C.J. apologized profusely. “If you need me to pay you for the damage to the garments, I will,” she said, heading back to the dressing room to change into her contemporary street clothes.
“Don’t worry about reimbursement,” Milena assured her, “but before you get dressed, I want you to try this for me.” She pulled a light blue dress the color of a Wedgwood vase from a rolling rack of garments and surveyed it. “This doesn’t have a zipper, so it’s easier to adjust. If it fits you, I have the pattern back in my studio, and I can work from that for your day dresses.” The costumer laced C.J. into the sarcenet gown and made a few minor adjustments.
“This itches a bit,” C.J. complained, tugging at the small white ruff at her throat.
Milena looked at the collar and fussed with it a bit. “This is called a Betsie,” she told the actress. “Very fashionable in 1801.”
“Very ugly,” C.J. mused, disappointed and thinking that the blue sarcenet gown that the fashion-forward Madame Delacroix had made for her was ever so much nicer, and only the nerdy girls in 1801 wore Betsie collars. If her destiny was to remain in present-day America, she wanted to look a bit, well, sexy onstage, if it was at all possible with these period dresses that resembled granny nightgowns more than anything else.
“I’m afraid that Jane Austen wasn’t much of a fashion plate,” Milena sighed.
More than you think, C.J. almost said aloud. Instead she said, “Do you mind if I wear this during rehearsals? I’m one of those actresses who finds it easier to work on her character when she’s got a reasonable facsimile of the costume. Particularly with a show like this where my entire body language is dictated
