The woman stared at Jane and appeared to ponder the offer. She crossed her arms and nodded. “Yes. Deal.”
Jane straightened at the unexpected about-face. What had she said to change the woman’s mind? “You will help me?”
“I will help you,” she replied. “If you will help me, that is.”
“Of course,” Jane said. She felt certain she could offer little in the way of help, but it was her best chance of escaping capture, so she would worry about that later. “What is your name?”
The woman squinted. “Seriously? You don’t know who I am?” She removed her black eyeglasses and struck a pose like Venus in, well, The Birth of Venus. “How about now?”
“I do not recognize you,” Jane said.
“For goodness’ sake,” snapped the woman, seeming annoyed. “I’m Sofia Wentworth.” She held out her hand and Jane shook it.
“I’m Jane Austen,” Jane said.
Chapter Thirteen
For Sofia Wentworth, the situation now came into focus, just like it did when you mounted a prime lens on a 35 mm film camera. When the woman had materialized in the theater curtains the night before, Sofia justified the sight as being a simple hallucination from her own brain, which was deprived of oxygen at that point from inhaling too many times from the paper bag. On closer reflection, however, it was clear that the woman appearing in the mountain of black velvet had been conjured not from the hypoxia of her brain but from the mischief of a film producer, keen to secure their big break with that most clichéd of tropes, the hidden-camera practical joke. It was all so obvious now.
She cringed at the tearful call she’d made to her agent. He must have been in on the joke. She had suggested a Jane Austen behind-the-scenes tie-in once, something for the DVD extras. The production had said no, apparently, but she saw now even that constituted part of the ruse, to keep her in the dark so she gave a more natural performance. Of course they had gone for it. Now they were hoping to maximize the extra footage by catching Sofia screaming on camera, and to achieve this aim, they had hired a Jane Austen impersonator to jump out of a pile of curtains and scare her. As she had made no screams when this ghost of Jane Austen appeared, they had come for her again this morning to get the footage they needed.
Sofia had been minding her own business, reacquainting herself with the town of her birth, when the actress ran toward her down Stall Street. Sofia reflected that the actress chosen to play the author overplayed certain things. This annoyed Sofia. If they could not get even a half-decent actress to play the foil in this farce, they were insulting Sofia once more and confirming a general lack of respect in the business for her own talents. She wasn’t asking for much—someone who had completed a summer course at the Actors Centre would suffice—but this woman had likely nothing but failed auditions for shampoo commercials on her résumé, so little was her grasp of nuance. How dare they.
Sofia decided to have some fun. If the producers showed her such little respect, she’d pay it back in kind. Aware of the production costs and crew required to film this extended practical joke, she’d string it along so she could get them to waste as much of their money as possible on hidden-camera operators, costumes, extras, and storyliners. She wouldn’t flinch first. She’d call their bluff and play along, treating the woman in front of her as though she were the long-dead darling of English prose. The producers would scratch their heads, all the while filming endless scenes of useless footage. Even better, if the footage was any good, her husband might like it.
“So, you’re Jane Austen then,” Sofia said.
“That is correct,” replied the Jane Austen impersonator. Her eyes darted about to the surrounding buildings, roads, and people who walked past on the street.
“And you agreed to help me, right?” Sofia asked. She refused to let the woman wriggle from the earlier deal.
“Of course,” the woman replied in a shaky tone. “How may I be of assistance?”
“Make me look good,” Sofia whispered, out of ear- and eyeshot of whatever hidden cameras might be lurking. “Follow my lead. If I walk into bad lighting, steer me toward a more attractive mise-en-scène. It’s okay, I’ve worked with semiamateurs before. I can salvage this disaster of a production. But you need to throw yourself into this part. You need to play this like you believe you are Jane Austen.”
“I am Jane Austen,” the woman said.
“Perfect! Play it with conviction. The main point is, I need to look attractive, beautiful, sensual. Come now, we can do this.” Sofia gave the woman playing Jane an encouraging pat.
“I hope so,” the woman said.
“Good. Okay,” Sofia resumed in a louder voice. “What now, Jane Austen?” she asked.
“My clothes,” Jane said. She pointed to her empire-line dress. “For some reason, they are a beacon for attention.”
“Good idea,” Sofia said. “Wait here. Sofia to the rescue.” She left the passage and walked back up the hill.
Jane stood in the street and called after her, “Do you intend to return?”
SOFIA DID RETURN, with a bag of clothes. “Put these on,” she said. She had hoped to dress her new protégée in a chic ensemble from Harvey Nichols, something Hepburnesque, but the only establishment open was the Samaritans thrift store on Stall Street. The boxy sales associate had sold Sofia a brown paisley suit in a safari cut.
“I trust these are the fashions of this place, that I will blend in if I wear them?” Jane said of the clothes. A look of concern danced across her face.
“You’ll look fabulous,” Sofia declared. Jane would look ridiculous, but
