“Yes,” Fred said. “It’s . . . she’s dead.”
“Oh yes,” said George. “Austen died long ago.” He tapped the cover. “Give this one a go. This is the real Jane.”
Fred flipped through the pages. “What’s the book about?” he asked.
“It’s about regret,” George replied. He offered him a sad smile.
Fred nodded. “I’ll take it.”
“Good,” said George. He led Fred to the register. “If you’re an Austen fan, perhaps join our mailing list. We often have Jane Austen nights, book clubs.”
Fred smirked. “Sure.”
“Splendid. What is your name, sir?”
“Wentworth,” Fred said.
George typed the name on a dusty keyboard. “And your first name?”
“Fred.”
George stopped typing and stared at Fred. “Your name is Frederick Wentworth?”
“Is there a problem?” Fred said.
George smiled and handed Fred the book. “No. Enjoy your book, sir.”
FRED RODE THE three P.M. train back to Bath. At first, he stood among crowds of schoolchildren and tourists, but by Maidenhead they’d alighted and the train car grew empty. He found a place by the window and sat. He pulled out Persuasion from his bag and turned to the first page.
Afternoon light streamed in from the window. The countryside whirred past outside.
Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage . . .
Fred winced. It was a slow, old-fashioned novel, a tome from the canon they forced you to read at school. The students always rolled their eyes when he assigned a text like this. He stumbled over the archaic words and long sentences. He googled baronetage. He read a few more paragraphs and found his mind wandering over the drawn-out passages, taking nothing in. He put the book down and stared out the window. The fields whizzed past him in a blur of emerald green.
He picked the book back up again and forced himself to persist. Read ten pages. He read through the next page with gritted teeth and breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the final word. He exhaled and nodded; he could do this. He was determined to get through it, for Jane. He arrived at the top of the next page. The first sentence was easier to get through now he knew what to expect with the semicolons and clauses. Her sentences were passive, with the meaning end-loaded. She waited until the final moment to reveal her intention. It was a frowned-upon technique these days. Every guru taught to put the point up front, for all to see. But as Fred’s comfort grew with the style, the point emerged. Each sentence came with a punch line. He read on about Sir Walter Elliot.
He smiled. A handsome arrangement of words, clever and droll, showed themselves at last. She set up a character in a few lines. Fred had never met Sir Walter, yet he had met someone like him a hundred times before. He read the second chapter in half the time. By the third chapter, a transformation had occurred: reaching ten pages was forgotten; instead of forcing himself to plow through Jane’s work, which he endured only because he loved her, he now forgot Jane had authored the book at all and read simply to discover what happened next. Fred smiled. Damn. Something he’d long suspected was now confirmed. He had stood in the presence of greatness. How he must have bored her.
He felt a pair of eyes on him and looked up. A familiar woman about his age sat in the opposite seat. She held up her book. She was reading Persuasion also.
“Simone, right?” he said. “St. Margaret’s. Goal attack.”
“That’s me,” she said. He shook her hand. “Do you like it?” she asked. She pointed to the book.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Fred said. “Witty.”
“She’s the master,” Simone said. She smiled.
The train pulled up to Reading station.
“Enjoy,” Simone said. “This is my stop.” She alighted the train and waved at Fred as it pulled away from the station. He waved back.
The train continued its way to Bath and Fred read on.
The next part contained a description of the middle daughter, Anne Elliot. She was an intelligent and dutiful spinster, at the financial mercy of an extravagant father. Further chapters revealed her to be a devoted aunt and a good listener. She had rejected a young man in her youth who loved her and now, older, she regretted it. Fred reached the end of the chapter and looked out the window. A sea of green fields rushed by. This was a sad book.
Fred turned the page. A new character was introduced, a naval captain. His gaze drifted out the window and he thought of Jane’s love for her seafaring brothers. His eyes darted back to the page and locked onto two words.
The book hit the floor with a crack, which echoed through the carriage and startled awake a laborer who dozed in the vestibule. Fred apologized with a nod. He picked up the book once more and double-checked.
The naval captain’s name was Frederick Wentworth.
Fred exhaled. He raced through the page, then turned it over. The next page contained no text. Instead, a line drawing illustrated Captain Wentworth. He wore a uniform of King George’s navy, and a ribbon held back shoulder-length tresses. He wore no beard but sideburns. Beneath the Georgian epaulets and long hair, Fred’s own face stared back at him.
Fred wiped his eye. The picture’s likeness to his own features startled him. He saw how it would have been achieved. The woman with the photographic memory would have related every curve of his skin and bump of his nose to a beloved sister, and Cassandra would have nodded and sketched each detail faithfully, with a steady hand. Beyond the accuracy of the features, though, something else lurked to disarm him. In the picture, Fred smiled. A huge grin with bared teeth did not describe the expression; instead, his mouth remained closed, his lips touching, and the smile came more from his eyes, which shone
