percentages of both her time and her income.
With the new online gallery in operation, customers could now view her whimsical creations on their own computers and order their favorite prints, stationery or original paintings directly from her, via a secured credit card shopping cart. And whenever Eliza sold one of her original paintings—and she had just sold two the previous week—new pictures were uploaded into the gallery to replace them, which was what was happening now.
In the kitchen she attended to Wickham’s perpetually empty food bowl, then made herself a couple of pieces of whole wheat toast and brewed fresh coffee. She intended to breakfast while she checked the gallery web site, to be sure the replacement paintings had uploaded without a problem, and then to check her e-mail and shopping cart for any new orders or customer queries.
She was just walking back into the living room, balancing a small tray in her hand, when the computer chimed, indicating that the upload cycle was complete.
Before Eliza had reached her desk the computer chimed again and an electronic rendition of the 1950s pop hit “Please Mr. Postman” blasted from the speakers, signaling that her overnight e-mail was waiting to be read. Anxious to be done with the task so she could get started researching the old letters, she settled herself before the computer, buttered a wedge of toast and took a bite, then opened the e-mail folder.
Although she had not forgotten about her message board posting of late the night before, Eliza was anticipating only the usual list of morning mail and Internet updates. So the sender’s address on the first piece of e-mail on the overnight list caused her to catch her breath. She stared at it for several seconds before clicking her mouse.
The e-mail popped instantly onto her screen.
Dear SMARTIST,
A very strange question, “Was Darcy from
Eliza read the strange note with growing consternation. She had genuinely hoped to find someone on the Austenticity site who would take seriously her question about Darcy, thus perhaps providing some indication of the genuineness of her letters, or at least a direction in which she might pursue her planned research.
Now, she reflected, as she raised the cup of scalding coffee to her lips, posting the message had obviously been a big mistake. And she was convinced that she had unwittingly tapped into some previously unsuspected lunatic fringe of Jane Austen fandom.
Wickham suddenly jumped up into her lap, nearly upsetting her coffee and further aggravating her ill- tempered view of the ludicrous message. “Look, Wickham!” she said, grabbing the unruly feline by the scruff of his fat neck and directing his attention to the screen. “It’s a cute little e-mail from Darcy himself, at Pemberley, no less.”
Wickham meowed and struggled to free himself, but Eliza held him firmly in her grip.
“Pemberley was the name of the fictional Darcy’s fabulous estate in
Dear “Darcy,”
I posted my question for a reason, not to indulge your fantasy. Please keep your crackpot opinions to yourself.
Grinning with satisfaction at having properly told the idiot off, Eliza stabbed the key to send the e-mail. Then she shut down the computer and leaned back to finish her toast and coffee in peace.
Wickham had found his way up onto the drawing board while she had been typing and was sprawled out enjoying the morning sunlight. Together they watched a rusting Japanese container ship navigating past the window.
“I can’t get over that weirdo on the Internet,” she said, exchanging waves with half a dozen grinning crewmen perched on the ship’s bridge railings. “But then I guess the world is full of weirdos.” She reached out to stroke Wickham’s fur and smiled as she shook her head.
“Darcy at Pemberley!” she sighed. “I’ll bet he wanders around with a walking stick and a top hat.”
Getting to her feet, Eliza cleared the breakfast tray and carried it back into the kitchen. “All I can say, Wickham,” she called back into the other room, “is that it’s a good thing you insisted I keep looking last night until I found a place where I could do some
Chapter 5
When Eliza was twelve, her seventh-grade English teacher had brought her whole class into the city from their distant Long Island suburb to visit the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.
She had not been back inside the wonderful old building since that day.
Now she alighted from a taxi and looked up at the famous stone lions guarding the main entrance. Above the huge doors a blue silk banner edged in gold fluttered gaily in the breeze. Across it, in elegant script letters a foot tall, was emblazoned the title: THE WORLD OF JANE AUSTEN, A WOMAN OF TWO CENTURIES.
Eliza smiled. For on the Web the night before she had accidentally discovered a notice for the special exhibit. And though she was not entirely certain that a display of the famed English author’s books would be all that helpful in her research, she had reasoned that the library exhibit would at least provide her with a good starting point.
So, clutching her shoulder bag to her side, she climbed the broad steps and entered the library, not exactly certain what she would find within.
From the echoing lobby she followed a series of neatly labeled blue-and-gold placards past the cathedral- like vault of the main reading room and down an echoing, marble-floored corridor that had not been on the seventh-grade tour.
To her great surprise, as she neared the far end of the corridor Eliza heard the sounds of lively music coming from the large, high-ceilinged exhibit room that turned out to be her destination. Her surprise was compounded as she peered into the huge space and saw that it was crowded with visitors.
In the fashion of latter-day museum extravaganzas, the library exhibit room had been converted into a multimedia entertainment setup that surrounded the Jane Austen books and other artifacts on display with moving kaleidoscopes of light, color and sound.
Stepping into the large, airy room, Eliza found herself nodding in artistic approval of a mood-setting wall- sized projection. The video appeared to have been filmed from a carriage rolling along a leafy drive toward the great English manor house the author had employed as the setting for her novel
Turning away from the thematic eye candy, Eliza saw that the room was alive with video, each display of rare or notable editions of Jane Austen novels accompanied by superb, digital-quality monitors playing scenes from film or television adaptations of the works.
Elsewhere, a few personal articles thought to have belonged to the famed author were enhanced by other video presentations that featured running commentaries by distinguished British authors and actors.
“I am all astonishment!” Eliza smilingly murmured to no one in particular.
She worked her way slowly through the exhibit hall, looking at everything, but noting with growing
