SOFIA RETURNED TO Fred’s house with Dave.
“You must be Dave,” Jane said to him. She held out her hand for him to shake.
“It’s you,” Dave replied with a gasp. “It’s her,” he said to Sofia.
“Dave. Meet Jane Austen.”
He shook Jane’s hand. “I need to sit down.” Sofia fetched him a chair before he fainted. “Extraordinary,” he said when he finally regained the power of speech. “You are the spitting image of her.”
“Yes,” Jane said. She smiled. “Can you assist me to return home, Dave?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Are you a detective?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. He puffed out his chest. “I’m a librarian.”
“Do you have questions to ask me?”
He nodded. “Absolutely. What do you love most about writing?”
Jane smiled.
“She meant about time travel, Dave,” Sofia barked.
“It’s quite all right, Sofia,” Jane said. She smiled again at Dave. “What do I love most about writing? It takes a chair and gives it a soul. It tells the truth with a lie. It adds one’s voice to the dream of the world.”
He smiled back at her and looked like he might slip down to the floor, then touched her hand.
Jane’s eyes filled with tears. “Can you help me return, sir?”
“I wish I could say yes.”
“Wherein lies the issue?”
“Your books are gone. Jane Austen, the writer, is gone. Public record of you is gone. Our one hope was the letter Mrs. Sinclair wrote to you. No more.”
Jane frowned. “This is less than ideal news.”
“Can we not simply find Mrs. Sinclair’s letter somewhere else?” Sofia asked.
“We can’t,” said Dave. “Jane Austen no longer exists as a famous person, so the letter is lost to history.”
“She still wrote it, though? Mrs. Sinclair still contacted Jane.”
Dave paused. “I suppose so.” He shrugged.
“Might anyone else have kept the letter?” Sofia asked.
“If there was even the slightest chance the letter survived, there’s only one way.” He gave a grim laugh. “It happens in such an unlikely set of circumstances you will laugh when I say it.”
“Try us,” Sofia said.
“Jane Austen the writer has disappeared, yes. But Jane Austen the parson’s daughter hasn’t. People used to write each other letters. Loads of them. Certain families used to keep these letters as heirlooms. Someone might have kept Jane’s letters as part of a family collection. But even if by some miracle they did so, to find the letter, you must track down every Austen in the country—many won’t even carry the surname Austen. One of those families might have preserved their letters. As the Austen name is no longer famous, those families will have no idea why you’re calling on them. It’s a one-in-a-million shot, needle-in-a-haystack stuff. Where are we going?” he said to Sofia, who had stood while he talked and now dragged him to the front door.
“Stay here, Jane,” she said on her way out the door. Jane nodded.
“Where are we going?” Dave asked again as she pulled him toward his car.
“To London.”
“What’s there?”
“A one-in-a-million shot.”
DAVE TURNED OUT of the street onto the A36 in his Volkswagen Beetle.
“You’re a terrible driver,” Sofia said.
“Sorry. Too fast?” said Dave.
“Too slow.” A man in a station wagon hurled abuse out the window as he overtook them. They moved onto the M4 and drove in silence for a while. Sofia turned her face to the window and willed the ancient car to go faster. Two hours and twenty-seven minutes later they arrived in Notting Hill. Dave pulled up to a white Georgian town house.
“That looks expensive,” said Dave, pointing to the grand facade.
“It is,” Sofia said, realizing she might be about to lose it. She rolled her eyes.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“I’d better go by myself,” Sofia said. “Back in a few.” She exited the car and knocked on the front door.
“WHAT DO YOU want?” Jack Travers, in a designer tracksuit, stood in the doorway of the house bought with Sofia’s earnings.
“I will sign your divorce papers,” Sofia said, “on two conditions.”
Jack rolled his shoulders back, the way he always did when trying to listen. “Name them.”
“One. If there is ever a role you think I’d be great in, offer it to me.”
“Done,” said Jack. “You’re a talented actress, Sofe.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Two?” said Jack.
“There is a box of letters in the attic. I want them.”
Jack squinted. “Why?”
“Do you still have them, or not?”
“That bunch of dusty old letters in the shoebox? I still have them.”
“The ones your mother left you,” Sofia pressed.
Jack nodded, irritated. “I know them. What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Sofia said.
“You’re giving me half your money, plus alimony, for some letters? This is a trick. They must be worth something.” He scratched his head.
“They’re worthless.”
“Why do you want them, then?”
Sofia scowled and searched for an answer. “I always liked them,” she said. “They reminded me of us. Old love letters . . . who knows what’s inside? It’s romantic. It will make the separation from you easier.” She tried not to gag.
Jack sighed and looked at her with wistful eyes. “Fine.” They shook hands.
“Can I have them?” Sofia said.
Jack’s eyes widened. “You want them now?”
“Why not?”
Jack shrugged. “Be my guest.”
Sofia darted upstairs to the attic. She found the shoebox, kissed it, and returned downstairs.
Jack waited in the doorway. “Find them? Good. Did we do okay, Sofe? By each other, I mean?” He shifted his feet.
Sofia smiled. “We did okay,” she said.
Jack nodded. “We had some good times,” he said.
“That time with the fruit,” Sofia said.
He laughed. “Or the time we were three days down on Batman and that Turkish gymnast walked off set.”
“I strapped a wig on, and we got the cutaway.”
“You saved the film.”
“We saved it,” she said.
He flashed her a smile. “God, you look good. Stay for a drink? We can reminisce.”
“Another time,” she said.
“I guess this is goodbye, then,” he said.
“Take care, Jack. See you around.” She touched his arm, took one deep, indulgent breath, and left.
Chapter Fifty-Four
She joined Dave in the car. “Everything okay?” he asked in a nervous voice.
“Great,” Sofia said. She handed him the shoebox. “I hope it’s in
