“On the contrary, dear. If this conversation is anything to go by, it’s likely a hit. Will you come and do acting now?”
Courtney shook her head. “Everyone will laugh at me. I’ll be the difficult actress.”
Sofia turned to her. “You are a difficult actress. This is a difficult job. They can’t do what we do. So tell them all to bugger off.”
With a deep breath and one final tissue, Courtney gathered her things and they headed to set. It was a big scene between Catherine Morland and Mrs. Allen—a bigger scene for Courtney’s character, but Sofia’s character stood next to her for the duration. Sofia spent no energy tripping up Courtney, she did not add in extra lines or ad lib, she did not roll her eyes. She fed Courtney the lines and played the straight man. It was a cracking scene. The older foil and the young heroine made a fabulous duo. When Jack called cut, a strange thing happened: the crew applauded. Courtney took a bow, looking thrilled. Sofia rolled her eyes, but then she bowed, too.
It was all Jane’s fault. She had turned Sofia into a nice person.
AS THE DAY drew to a close, Courtney had another scene to rehearse. Sofia ducked out of Courtney’s eyeline and headed for the makeup truck.
“No, it’s okay. Please stay,” Courtney called to her.
Sofia shrugged and stayed.
Afterward, the rehearsal ended. The crew packed up. The camera and lighting trucks drove away; everyone went back to London. They would return in a few weeks for the first day of shooting. Sofia did not expect to join them—one truce with Courtney did not mean she’d be sticking around—but then a runner found her and gave Sofia her call time for day one.
She thanked him and agreed to see him then. She stared at the piece of paper in shock. It was a call time, all right. She would be playing Mrs. Allen after all. Not only that, but she knew how to play her now, and she had a great costar, a hilarious costume, and a half-decent director leading the show. This film might not actually be the bomb she had earlier predicted.
Almost as soon as she entertained these thoughts, she realized, with a small horror dawning, that this posed something of a concern for other things.
She had encouraged her brother to make some sort of grand declaration to Jane, to profess his feelings for her to make her stay. This was what Sofia wanted, and what Jane and Fred deserved, but if Jane were to stay with Fred, the novels that had been disappearing one by one from the liquor cabinet would continue on their present course and disappear entirely.
If Jane’s novels ceased to exist, then Northanger Abbey, Sofia’s film, would disappear, too.
That little gem of a movie she had started to see potential in would vanish. She stiffened at the predicament. She kicked herself for all the sanctimonious demands she had made on Jane: commanding her to remain inside the house, warning her that if she did not return to her own time she would never write her books. Now Sofia had ordered Fred to manifest the situation she had cautioned against.
She shuddered at her own stupidity. Not only might she have single-handedly halted the writing career of the most celebrated, pioneering, bad-ass female writer in history, she might have destroyed her own career, too.
She tried not to panic. Maybe Fred would make no declaration. Maybe Jane would refuse him. Sofia knew a day might come when Jane would ask her advice on that subject. She hoped rather than knew that she would have the strength to say the right thing.
Chapter Forty-Eight
After a week in the hospital, Fred was allowed to go home. A lunch of soup went down into his stomach, then came back up again. Jane cleaned it from the floor.
“I’m sorry, I’m embarrassed,” he said.
“Do not feel so, sir. You are human, and you are ill. Let us get you to the privy and we can worry for the rest later.”
He needed help with everything. Sofia’s work had held her captive, so Jane cared for Fred. He was correct in his assertion that he might need help. A trip to the privy required three handkerchiefs to mop the sweat from his brow. The smallest move required the largest effort. Jane walked back and forth from the sofa. She brought him tea. She helped him eat and wash his hands and face. He had stood tall and strong before. Now his spine protruded under the skin of his back, and his shoulders sloped forward.
Six days passed, and he did not say a word on the event in the hospital. Jane wondered if he thought about it. She thought of it constantly. Barely a thought had ever occupied more space in her brain. His own neglect of the topic was understandable, having recently suffered a near-fatal accident and requiring machines to breathe for him, but this did not stop Jane from feeling aware of the topic herself, and his seeming total amnesia on the score terrorized her. She tormented herself with speculations on the reasons for his silence. Perhaps her performance was so terrible and amateurish he was trying to forget it. Yes, probably. He made no signal of regard beyond appreciation for Jane as nurse and seemed to have resigned her to the role of perfunctory helper, not even friend; rather, someone who administered meals and attended to bodily functions.
“I’ve a confession to make,” he said with a grave face one morning.
“Do you need the privy?” she said. She stood up.
“No, thank you. I need to tell you: I’ve never read any of your books.”
Jane sat down once more. She stared at him and took a moment to realize what he meant. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve never read a Jane Austen novel?” she said.
He nodded. “Correct,” he said. “I’m a
