My Jane Austen Summer (19 page)

I
did something I knew I'd regret. While waiting in the Freezer for the tea-theatre to start, I clicked on Karen's e-mail. I'd blown it off for the past week as part of my plan to avoid all things negative. Since the meeting on the stair landing when Willis gave me up without a fight, I'd struggled to keep my promise to myself not to go to him, avoiding stairways and detouring around any place Willis might surface, throwing myself into the tea-theatre and avoiding potentially depressing activities such as bad news from Karen. Idle moments such as I experienced just before clicking on Karen's e-mail undid my resolve.

I clicked on the first attachment just as a volunteer popped her head in the door.

"Lily, where are the programs?" The downside of the tea-theatre's success was to be constantly running out of things. Everybody wanted to come see the husband who played the baron. He was so good at gently roasting our guests, and patrons clamored to be chosen for the skit. Omar revised the
script, adding roles he'd initially cut so that we could increase audience participation. But we had a job keeping up with the details.

"Top drawer of the ticket table," I said, willing her to go away.

"Are they folded?" she asked.

"No," I said. "See if Mrs. Russell and Stephen can fold them." They needed something to do with their hands.

The photograph dominated my entire screen, starting at the top and slowly working its way down, filling in hair before foreheads, noses before mouths, loading so slowly I feared it would not finish before I had to go. Finally, I recognized individuals. My father and Sue looked like themselves in an older version of the restaurant picture. But the person standing with them looked confusingly familiar. She looked like me. But I was an ocean away and the picture had been taken without me. It couldn't be me. And it wasn't me. But I saw my father in her face. I zoomed in to focus on the eyes, nose, and mouth, isolating the features as I had isolated my father's features in the rearview mirror when he drove me to school. I'd positioned my own face, without my hair, in the small mirror imagining I was my father. I looked just like him even then, with hair. And this person looked just like me, and just like him. At first, the discovery struck me as funny, an odd coincidence. I wanted to run and tell my mother and sister what I'd found, almost relieved, as if the doctors had finally, after a lifetime of tests and trials, isolated the mysterious cause of my ailment. "Miss Berry," they said gravely, "we have ruled out cancer, personality disorders, and missing organs. Your problem is a half sister." What relief!

I reread Karen's e-mail. She would be sleeping; still the middle of the night in Texas, with Greg to comfort her if the news of a half sister distressed her. I had to admit it was be
ginning to distress me and I felt the approach of an internal storm, thunder growing distinctly closer.

Mrs. Russell stepped in, waving folded programs. "Lily, we're waiting for you."

∗ ∗ ∗

"Amelia, you have a brother," the baron spoke the same line I'd heard many times, but today it resonated.

"I have just heard so, my lord," I said, thinking of all the years I'd felt something was wrong with me, when in fact my father had split his attention between two families, building half of his life with people I didn't know.

"What return can I make to you for the loss of half your fortune?" the baron asked.

"My brother's love will be ample recompense," I said. Sue could finally have the husband she'd been denied all those years.

The baron and Anhalt delivered their lines, after which the baron handed me over to Anhalt to be his wife. It felt good to lean on Sixby. "Oh my dear father," I said. "What blessings have you bestowed on me in one day." If this discovery was such a relief, why did I feel so sick? The wave that had brought a bounty of truth to my life began to recede, taking as much as it brought. As if in delivering a half sister, it demanded my own self in exchange.

When the skit ended I did not stay to autograph programs for the children in the audience. Temporarily willing to disregard the entire issue of Pippa, I ran to the attic, desperate to see Willis.

∗ ∗ ∗

"Hello," I called up the stairwell. All the years I'd spent pondering my affliction, searching for what was lacking in me, and it wasn't
me
at all. The half sister filled in so many blanks. Like the missing letter in a game of hangman, when finally
inserted, suggests words, and those words associate instantly, causing an entire phrase to fall effortlessly into place. The absent father, the wistful mother, and the proprietary appearance of the mysterious woman: I didn't have a zillion unrelated problems; I had one.

"Hello," I called up the stairs. But the attic was silent; no clicking of the keyboard. "Hello," I called again, running up the stairs to the landing where I'd first met Willis. His chair was gone and his table lay bare, pushed against some boxes. My green cushions sat in the window but they'd been turned on their sides as if someone had checked beneath them for stray belongings. The books were gone. Every last volume of theology as well as
1000 Places to Visit Before You Die
and all its lighthearted friends. Only my half-read copy of
Anna Karenina
remained.

Pushing the cushions back into place, I sat in the window seat, inhaling the musty attic air, feeling the damp chill. Willis hadn't been avoiding me. He'd moved out. My Jane Austen sat in a dark corner making a list of her heroines and I felt grateful for her company, although I'd never make it onto her list. There
was
something wrong with me. A freak of nature, destined to be alone forever because of something deep down wrong with me that made me unlovable. No man ever stayed in my life for long.

O
n the evening of the follies, workers adjusted the stand-up microphones arranged on the stage, "testing one, two," followed by a squawk. I entered the ballroom dressed as Fanny Price for the evening's follies, wearing period attire from Bets's closet, including Bets's unused elaborate undergarments handmade by a seamstress who reenacted Regency romances on weekends. If Father Kitt, the vampire priest in Willis's novel, could see me now, he would be unable to resist the pillows of flesh bulging just south of my jugular. Claire inspected the name tags I'd arranged in alphabetical order. She expected a big turnout this year based on her assessment of the fragile state of affairs. Vera said, "Nonsense. The Founder's Dinner is always highly anticipated. Everyone
always
comes."

Everyone except Willis.

"Oh, there you are," Claire said to me. "Would you make another name tag? Your handwriting is so much better than
mine." She handed me the nearly dead calligraphy marker I'd been chewing all week.

"What name?" I asked, pen poised over the white square.

Claire called to the sound person, "It's not centered on the stage." She gestured, scooting air to the left.

"Claire," I said, straightening. "Whose name?"

"Oh." She looked past me, blinking, struggling to recall. "Somerford. Willis Somerford."

We
would
meet again. The room shifted and the stage, tables, even the workers looked different, now that Willis was coming. I wrote the familiar letters of his name and placed the name tag between Sadonek and Stewart, my mind racing to organize the things I wanted to say to Willis. How to speak to him in a ballroom filled with people? How to be alone with his fiancee present?

Regulars began to arrive; several participants from Omar's writing workshop claimed a table. Magda held court. Her affair officially over, she'd announced plans to return to Michigan to hammer out the details of her seminar. Her announcement came the same day Archie let us know he would be staying close to home for the rest of the summer, offering gratitude for his child's survival. Although I disliked Magda, losing both Archie and Magda seemed a sorry blow for the festival. Like
Mansfield Park
losing Aunt Norris and Henry Crawford. The summer had been a riotous expansion. But now things around me were contracting, matters settling, people returning to their regular orbits. I'd soon be back in Texas.

Mrs. Russell followed Nigel around the room, wearing her Anne Elliot dress for mature heroines only. Vera kept signaling "go ahead" to Nigel from the head table where she sat next to the old woman who always brought her dog. But Mrs. Russell stalled, waiting until all the VIPs were present before
she officially welcomed festival alumni and guests, inviting all to proceed to the buffet. I fixed my eyes on the door Willis would use for his entrance; my pulse surged at the arrival of every tall man.

Philippa stood near the bar. She lifted a single cracker from the basket and broke it into tiny pieces, placing crumbs in her mouth one at a time. It might take her an hour to eat one cracker. No wonder she was so thin. And her skin was so white the veins were visible to the naked eye. Father Kitt could drain her so easily. She waved as Willis arrived, then touched a napkin to the corners of her mouth. I looked away so I wouldn't have to witness the kiss.

Mrs. Russell's microphone squawked and Pippa led Willis to their place at the head table. I walked from table to table, unaware of my actions, lighting candles in little glass jars, my hand shaking, wondering if Willis had seen me yet. The earth kept shifting under my feet, rearranging my world again before I could adjust to the last shift. I poured myself a large glass of wine.

"You look awful," Omar said. "You want to go outside?" He grabbed a wine bottle and I followed him.

In the herb garden, where light from the ballroom illuminated St. Francis, who was blatantly eavesdropping, I told Omar about Willis. Once I finished my story, we sat quietly, listening to the hum of the party. When Omar spoke, it wasn't about the things I'd said.

"You did a great job with the tea-theatre."

"Thank you," I said, clinking glasses with him.

"It was just the kick in the butt this festival needed."

"Thanks to the volunteers. But once they tire of baking, our profit margins will shrink."

"Have you ever acted before?" Omar asked.

"Small parts in high school. No one is more surprised at my acting than me." I shifted on the bench. "I don't want to talk about business," I said. "I want to obsess over Willis." I rested my hand on my forehead. "Do you think I'm needy?" I asked.

Omar choked on his wine and coughed. I handed him a napkin. "Lily"--he locked eyes with me and touched my hand--"if you have to ask..."

∗ ∗ ∗

I made sure to refill my wineglass and Omar brought me a plate of food before Nigel began his talk. Claire had led me to expect "Nigel's Last Words on Jane Austen." She made it sound as if Nigel would reveal the answer to the great mystery of Jane Austen's undying appeal--that aspect of Austen's work which provoked, not only Magda's activism, but Mrs. Russell's wardrobe expansion and my possessive friendship with someone dead two hundred years. Even though I refused to believe Nigel was retiring, I would listen to every word, just in case. But Nigel's talk was not long enough or serious enough to be his swan song. Not a funeral, just the Founder's Night talk that he gave every year and surely believed he would give next year. He reviewed the story "The Janeites," by Rudyard Kipling.
You take it from me, Brethren, there's no one to touch Jane when you're in a tight place.

When Nigel's talk ended, the follies began. I looked at the plate of food Omar had brought me while listening to a man read a screenplay of his
Northanger Abbey
adaptation that went on way too long. Even the little dog got restless and wandered the room. Feeling sick, I put my plate on the floor and the dog wandered over, first sniffing, then gently biting into the chunks of lamb. He ate while, at the podium, Henry Tilney reminded Catherine Morland of the similarities be
tween marriage and dancing. The dog licked the plate until it looked perfectly clean.

Next up for the follies, Sabrina played Jane Austen hosting a talk show, interviewing Patricia Rozema, director of a film adaptation of
Mansfield Park
. "What were you thinking, girlfriend?" Sabrina said; a joke that would never connect outside of this crowd.

Sixby arrived somewhere between the end of my second glass of wine and the middle of my third, wine establishing a military dictatorship in my head, dispatching directives to my extremities, my reason completely overthrown.

"Ready, Lily?" Sixby asked, my dearest, oldest friend. I wished to fall into his embrace and be carried far away, skip the performance, blow off my plan to address Willis.

"I love your dress, my dear," Sixby whispered, his eyes on the bodice of Bets's spotted muslin.

"Thank you," I said, kissing the air.

"I'm going to change now." He winked. "I'll meet you backstage in a tick." He adjusted the sleeve of my dress downward, revealing a bit more shoulder. I posed for him, naughtiness fueled by too much wine and outrage. As he left, touching my cheek affectionately, I caught Magda watching us; she never missed a thing. I bent low to retrieve my plate from the floor, hoping to escape, but Magda crooked her long finger, beckoning me to the dessert table.

As I drew near, she glanced sideways and whispered, "Have you read
Mansfield Park
?" Her question was the greatest insult anyone could inflict on a fellow at this place. She touched my arm. "Do the words
amateur theatricals
mean anything to you?" she asked. "Sixby is a professional actor. You need to be careful." She took the plate from my hand just as she took everything as her due, even a plate lacquered with
dog spit. She shook her head. "I'm warning you, as a sister."

"Magda," I said, as she moved closer to the fruit salad, "have
you
read
Mansfield Park
?" I'd drunk too much wine to bother with inhibitions.

She spooned a serving of fruit onto the plate. "What is your point?" she asked, the berry juices instantly reactivating dried dog saliva.

"I find your ideas about slavery
traduce
the text." I'd looked up the word Nigel used in conversation, meaning: to expose to shame or blame by means of misrepresentation. Still, I hoped my assertion was coherent, wished I'd had an opportunity to run it by Willis.

Magda frowned, exasperated, as she speared a pineapple chunk, slogging it through the juice. "Lily, you haven't been paying attention this summer."

Disarmed, I'd fired my only bullet.

She popped the dog spit fruit into her mouth and spoke while chewing. "The text skillfully reveals not only the complicity of Austen's society with the slave trade, but equates slavery with the status of genteel women: 'I cannot get out, as the starling said.'" Magda spoke in slow motion for the learning impaired.

"I don't think that's what Austen meant," I said, slurring.

Magda swept a melon slice through the juices, scraping the last stubborn dog germs. "She
meant
," Magda said, "to demonstrate that women were sold like mere chattel on the marriage market."

"When are you leaving?" I asked.

∗ ∗ ∗

I watched the famous-looking man with abundant gray hair play his ukulele through a crack in the door. He sang "Dear Jane," an original composition sung in sincere falsetto to great
amusement at Vera's end of the table. Another time I would have found him highly amusing but not this evening. Sixby appeared behind me as Nikki took the stage to begin our skit.

Willis and Pippa were seated front and center, eyes on Nikki. This performance might be my last opportunity to speak frankly to Willis; as a captive audience. Sixby squeezed my hand. I didn't want to be alone when this ended.

"The Fanny Wars have raged since 1814 when
Mansfield Park
was first published," Nikki said in her glorious stage voice. "After two hundred years of fighting over whether Fanny is insipid or merely dull, we offer a format whereby you, the readers, have an opportunity to end the battle. We present two Fanny Prices. Each Fanny will answer a series of questions. By your applause, you will choose which Fanny stays in the novel. First," she said, "please welcome Traditional Fanny, straight from the stacks, just the way she was written."

I entered the stage, smiling shyly, my character as loath to participate in the follies as to consider amateur theatricals in her uncle's absence. Willis sat directly in my sight, underlit by candlelight, free to stare if he so desired. He clapped and smiled as if he'd forgotten every wrong thing at the moment. Then Pippa reached over and took his hand, and envy plunged me deep into pain.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen"--Nikki spoke with greater enthusiasm--"the Fanny you've been craving these two hundred years. The Future Fanny of
Mansfield Park
, as Jane Austen really
meant
to write her, please welcome Forward Fanny." Applause and laughter exploded as the audience realized Forward Fanny was none other than Sixby in drag. Wigged and flat-chested, he air-kissed the audience, his arms and shoulders clearly straining the jumbo gown, a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Nikki cleared her throat but people were still laughing and
Sixby milked the moment. "For our first question," Nikki said, waiting for quiet.

Sixby and I turned to Nikki.

"We'll start with you, Traditional Fanny."

I stepped forward, taking care to balance myself.

Nikki read from a card. "Please tell the audience what you would say if Mary Crawford rode your horse--without asking. You have ten seconds to respond."

"I would say"--I cleared my throat--"I have been out very often lately, and would rather stay home." This was straight from the book. "I would not wish to appear rude or impatient or create suspicion of either emotion, but," and here I was improvising, "I would concede my horse, confident that Edmund would recognize the slight and privately offer me his reassurance." I stepped back and then added, "I would wait in my attic garret for such private reassurance." I did not dare look at Willis.

Nikki's eyebrows rose and the audience smiled. "Forward Fanny, same question. Take your time responding."

"I would say," Sixby said, jutting his lower jaw and bobbing his head like a tough girl, "Bitch. Off my horse." His delivery was perfect.

The audience laughed and then applauded.

"Thank you, Forward Fanny," Nikki said, smiling in spite of herself. As Nikki read the next question, I watched in horror as Philippa, charmed by the skit, gave Willis a little kiss on his cheek. I spoke my line and the skit moved on but it was all a blur as I struggled to recover basic faculties.

"Traditional Fanny," Nikki said, "is there any chance you would marry Henry Crawford?"

"No. How wretched and how unpardonable, how hopeless and how wicked it is to marry without affection," I said.
Take that, Willis
.

"Forward Fanny, would you marry Henry Crawford?"

"Interesting question," Sixby reflected. "I've been imprisoned in this manor house, living off the wages of sin for so long, I don't even know if I like men!"

Laughter and applause.

"Last question," Nikki said. "Are you in or out?" Nikki looked at me. "Traditional Fanny, you're first, two seconds."

"If you refer to my social status, I was presented at a ball given by my uncle to honor my brother William and me. Otherwise, I am
in
love with a would-be clergyman,
out
of my mind with jealousy of the competition,
in
creasingly lonely in my attic room, and
out
raged at the discovery of a new half sister in the colonies." Now he knew everything.

Nikki grimaced and the audience laughed politely, as if they got it.

"Forward Fanny?"

It was the way he said it. "I'm in
and
out." Sixby extended his arms, caressed the words, and the audience loved him. "I like Edmund
and
Mary. They hooted. "Even better"--Sixby played them along--"I can play Anhalt
and
Amelia. And back to your earlier question, there's room for both of us on that horse."