by Cindy Jones
Willis came closer every moment. His shoes entered my downcast vision, only two people away as the priest put the wafer in my hand saying, "The body of Christ; the bread of heaven." Willis stood before me and I looked up at him. "Lily," he said, putting the cup to my lips. Then, providing the sign I craved, he touched my hand supporting the base of the cup. "The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation." He lingered a beat longer in front of me than with any other communicant. I made the sign of the cross over my chest while the wine blazed a warm path to my heart.
∗ ∗ ∗
As I left the church, scattering birds, it occurred to me I'd left without reciting the funeral liturgy for my mother. I could still go back and say the words for her, but it seemed unnecessary. My mother had moved beyond the need for a funeral. Perhaps I should recite the liturgy for my father next time. I sat on a bench outside the church with My Jane Austen and some birds. Our relationship had been cool since the Lost Letters debacle. Now we all waited; his folded jacket in my arms, birds pecking nervously in the pebbles. Willis would be shaking hands with the congregation as they filed out to join the reception at Newton Priors. He would remove his vestments in the sacristy. My Jane Austen stood and paced once birds began landing where her lap would be, and I focused on shedding any artifice I might have recently accumulated.
It seemed Willis and I shared The Look at communion but I couldn't be sure. He should be here by now. Sun and breeze conspired, causing leaves to flicker in my peripheral vision. Perhaps he had departed by another exit and missed me altogether. But then I saw him in the door, shading his eyes, looking toward Newton Priors. At that instant, the clock started. Time sped recklessly and I resented the passing of every precious second.
"Willis." I ran to meet him, slipping on the pea gravel.
"Lily." He came down the steps and held out a hand.
"You left this again," I said, surrendering the jacket.
"Yes, another abrupt ending, I apologize." I denied his expression and ignored the word ending.
"Look what I found." I held up my necklace. "Can you believe it?"
"No." He held the cross; examining the piece he'd heard so much about. "Where was it?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"Around a neck in a London pub."
"Naturally," he said. And then, "How is your Jane Austen?"
"The same," I said, "timeless and sparkling, swirling in my subconscious, folded into my existence."
Willis smiled and reached for a lock of my hair blowing across my eyes.
"Although she did get me in big trouble," I told him, birds eavesdropping under cover of pecking nearby, the breeze blowing my skirt.
"How?"
I tried to communicate how she'd spoken through me at my one-woman show but Willis wasn't listening. Talking to him felt like running in a dream without making forward progress. The connection failed on his end and I heard desperation propping up my voice.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
How to answer that? I would be all right if he'd give me a sign. I could bear anything as long as the promise of Willis secured my future. But I wasn't all right. I was terribly not all right, on the brink of suffering emotional torment as ferocious and debilitating as an abscessed tooth because Willis wasn't listening to me and he hadn't been looking for me when he stepped out the church door just now.
I asked him quietly, "How's the sorting going?"
His expression reminded me of Martin when he said he didn't want a scene.
"This has been terribly awkward for you." Willis shook his head.
"Yes," I said. My Jane Austen stood behind me, revisiting her hero list with a cloth for erasing in one hand. I looked hard at Willis, memorizing his features for future recall. Even as he asked about my well-being, sincere and penitent, he would leave me as soon as I answered. He'd gotten the distance he needed to carry on with his original plans. He'd done his sorting and I was out. Only he wouldn't tell me. He'd join Philippa at the reception and beyond, suppressing all the fear he'd entertained in the attic, and I would start the waiting again, far less certain than I'd been before the service, the black abyss seeping into my future. Waiting forever.
"Willis," a voice called.
"Over here," he said, without turning.
Philippa stood in the church door looking down at us. In the moment our eyes met, I understood two things: Although Philippa had perhaps sensed that something in her relationship was not right, she had not known what, and now she knew. Willis had told her nothing. What she knew, she inferred from the tension around my eyes and the stress in my jaw. "I lost track of you," she said, smiling, scattering birds with the snap of her heels on the stone steps.
"Pippa," Willis said, eyes still on me, "you remember Lily."
"Of course," she said, both hands busy adjusting her purse strap.
"I'm so sorry about your grandmother," I said.
"Thank you." Even behind her dark glasses, I could read her fearless expression. She whispered to Willis, "I'll go on. The costume drama awaits us," patting his arm to fortify him for what he must do to me. A clergy wife braces herself for these things, all in the line of duty.
Willis looked at me, tilting his head in silent question, but this was not as complicated as I would like it to be. Quite simple really, Willis would soon walk away and I would be alone. I moved my mouth, speaking very quietly, watching Philippa in case she should turn around and catch me. "I can see where this is headed." I touched my heart and shook my head. "I'm not going to wait for you."
His eyes widened and his smile faded. He understood.
"Good-bye, Willis," I said, releasing him.
Willis rubbed his nose, looked at the ground in a helpless way I couldn't bear, and then whispered, "I understand." Time came to a screeching halt. Birds froze, the breeze ended, the sun dipped behind a cloud, and all color drained as Willis turned away from me and followed Philippa down the path to Newton Priors.
Twenty-five
Omar joined me in the library one week after the memorial service. We sat at the table we'd occupied two months ago. I lost myself in Bronte while Omar read books on Shaw, working on his dissertation. I spent all my time in the library now. As soon as I was free, I retreated to the east wing, traveling the same worn planks, passing Nigel at his desk discarding papers into a large metal waste bin, passing Vera calmly typing schedule revisions. Only cloistered in the library, reading from the endless supply of mind-altering smelly books, did I find peace. Any page of any book would do.
"Omar?" I asked.
He looked up, obviously straining to return to England and place me. "Yes?" he said, turning a page.
"I owe you an apology," I said.
He looked up again with less effort. "For what?"
"For avoiding you after the follies."
Omar waved a hand, dismissing the sentiment, although he had been cool and distant since that evening almost three weeks ago.
"I know you were trying to help," I said, routing a cuticle on my left hand, "and I appreciate your concern."
Omar closed his book and removed his glasses. "You're crushed, aren't you?"
"Yes." I pressed my lips as tears filled my eyes.
"That was pretty brutal of him," Omar said.
I couldn't speak.
"I don't know what his problem is." Omar took my hand. "Willis did not treat you well, Lily. If this were the olden days, you'd be a ruined woman."
"I don't think he meant to mislead me," I said.
"Right." Omar smiled and shook his head.
We looked up as Vera opened our door and stuck her head in. "Randolph's here," she said. "Come quickly." She gestured with one hand, glancing behind her as if he were in the hallway. I scooted my chair out, noting Omar's disapproval. "He's in the front," she said, leading the way.
Randolph's silver Jaguar sat parked outside, just beyond the window where Vera and I watched through the swirly glass and pouring rain. Like Sheila, he'd crashed the gates, passing hors
e-drawn carriages to park outside our door. His door. "Look at his car," Vera whispered, her head suddenly next to mine.
"Hmm," I said.
"Why isn't he getting out?"
"It's raining." My breath fogged the window.
"Perhaps we should take him an umbrella."
"That would be awkward," I said, awkward being my new favorite word since Willis used it on me.
"Or maybe he's on the phone." Vera grabbed my hand and we both gazed at the silver auto against the majestic landscape, dreamlike through the distorted glass. Lately, as things seemed more desperate, the adrenaline from her ideas had been going straight to her mouth. "You could hold your wedding at Newton Priors," Vera said. "Your children could grow up playing on this lawn."
I said, "This is a business meeting." She'd become so inflamed by her hope of saving the organization that the line between business and self-delusion blurred.
Vera whispered, "You made an impression on him. And, as the book says, 'A young man in possession of a fortune...'" She looked at me earnestly. "The world needs a new Lady Weston."
"He probably has me mixed up with someone else he met in the hospital that day. He must meet many people. If his face falls when he meets me, we'll know it was a mix-up," I whispered back.
"Nonsense." She smiled insanely, confident I would save Literature Live, congratulating herself on having brought me to England in spite of the Lost Letters embarrassment.
Randolph's door opened.
He had arranged that, after a tour of the festival and a meeting with Nigel, we would discuss my ideas for Newton Priors. His visit provided the incentive necessary to force the business plan into existence. Pages had been finalized that morning in a panic as Vera flitted like a nervous moth, contributing helpful remarks such as, "Randolph must produce an heir; they say the House of Lords will be extinct by the year 2047."
Randolph stepped out of his car. There was no turning back. The unlikely social phenomenon--me mixing with an English lord--was about to happen, plausible or not. And Vera blanched as if it suddenly occurred to her that she might have been wrong. Maybe he did have me mixed up with someone else. "An English lord, for God's sake. In a silver Jaguar," she said, touching my hand.
He locked the car and then ran toward our door. "He's taller than I remember," I said. His hairline had receded since I last saw him and his shirt looked like something my father would wear bowling. Must be really expensive. My hand flew to my mouth as he ran through raindrops. Suddenly, I was in over my head.
"Go." Vera pushed me.
Randolph approached, his gaze lowered and a faint smile graced his lips. He appeared far away in thought. Near the door, he looked up; his brow arched mildly, a peer of the realm coming for me. I grasped the doorknob as our eyes met through the window; his warm smile encouraged me, but the knob left its socket and fell out of my hand. I pointed to the floor. Randolph looked down. I knew then that Jane Austen would never eat me for lunch for the simple reason there would be nothing left to eat after I finished with myself; she'd starve to death if she were counting on me for a meal.
"Oh, the door." Vera rushed over. "Lord Weston, welcome," she said through the glass. "If you don't mind, just pushing on the frame will open the door from your side."
Randolph pushed and the door cooperated.
"These old doors," Vera explained.
"House is full of them." Randolph's easy smile calmed me. "Lily." He reached for me and I gave him both hands, too late to bow or curtsy. I had been right in expecting strong aftershave; it seemed to go with first dates, even when they were business meetings with peers of the realm.
"Vera," he said, extending both hands and kissing her cheeks.
Nigel joined us and quietly offered condolences while I studied Randolph's confident manner, his polished exterior, a man who knew life's secret rules. I slid my eyes sideways to enjoy Vera's reaction. Randolph's face had not fallen when he first saw me.
∗ ∗ ∗
Vera guided Randolph on a tour of Newton Priors, his ancestral home, engaging the usual suspects, all of whom had been prepped. Although Randolph had grown up around Literature Live, it was his project now, and Vera wanted him to see it in a fresh light. Randolph leered at a volunteer wearing a flimsy, almost see-through gown. Vera dismissed his blatant behavior later, saying, "Their clear understanding of the changing world in 1890 caused the Westons to divert investments to overseas equities and save the family from early extinction. Randolph descended from people who evaluated opportunities; of course he's going to leer at provocative volunteers."
Vera served us to Sixby, who appeared to be leading a last-minute rehearsal of several cast members in the Freezer, something he'd never done. We watched Alex pretend not to know how to deliver his line, and Sixby coach him. "Place the emphasis here," Sixby said, pointing to the script. We watched, in the room where Magda and Archie's unquiet spirits felt especially strong to me, until Vera decided Randolph had seen enough "behind the scenes."
The ballroom appeared to be buzzing with patrons when I recognized people from the volunteer staff posing as tourists. Mrs. Russell had wisely joined her considerable resources with Vera's to save the house. Their partnership implied the obvious truth: no house, no ball. And the ball remained the ultimate goal, in spite of undead Jane Austen's admonitions to the contrary. The appearance of a new male volunteer, conspicuously uncomfortable in period attire, did not escape my notice. Mr. Russell had taken to working the ticket desk on Wednesdays.
Randolph touched my arm, leaning in to speak to me. He treated me gallantly and I grew to expect opening of doors and the pressure of his hand on my back as we entered a room. He couldn't possibly be interested in me--a girl totally lacking in artifice chaperoned by her prickly Jane Austen--but pretending he was made me feel better, even temporarily. "You're not on stage today?" he asked.
I couldn't remember if we had decided on a response to that question when we scripted the afternoon, but Vera, hovering nearby, said, "We recast the scene today to free Lily for meetings." Then she added, "But you'll see her perform Amelia in the tea-theatre."
Randolph winked at me and I began to see a way out of missing Willis. But when the actors took the familiar stage and spoke the familiar lines, I couldn't concentrate because, for one thing, I sat next to the owner of Newton Priors, and for another thing, he was not paying attention. Almost immediately, he began jiggling his knee. He stopped jiggling to shift position, but he started again and completely missed the line when Henry Crawford says: "I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham any more than on the north; I will be master of my own property."
∗ ∗ ∗
Two full hours past the time we'd set to discuss my business plan, Vera summoned me to Nigel's conference room where Randolph and Nigel were sharing a bottle of wine. They had not attended the tea-theatre.
"I was hopeful the numbers would look better," Randolph said as he swirled his wine.
I accepted the glass Nigel poured for me and took the chair next to Randolph. While they met, I'd rehearsed the basic premise of my business plan: the idea was tourists living in a Jane Austen novel. I ignored my gnawing anxiety he'd not been interested in the festival. Now, Randolph looked at his watch and shoved papers into his portfolio. "I'm afraid we've gone a bit long. And now something's come up in London." He looked at me.
Something had changed while he met with Nigel; the ground had shifted.
"Could I persuade you to join me for dinner another night this week to go over your plan?" he asked.
"That would be fine." I smiled, knowing it would never happen, ripping off a cuticle.
∗ ∗ ∗
"I expect you're rather busy now," I said as we walked to his car in the gathering dusk, warm and humid after the rain. I couldn't imagine how he spent his days. Vera said people like Randolph sat in the House of Lords, observing august traditions far older than anything in Texas.
"Yes, quite busy."
"Will you t
ake up politics?" I asked, imagining Randolph inheriting a robe, the pesky hairline problem concealed beneath a wig.
"Can't," he said, folding his arms.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Tony Blair. House of Lords Act, 1999." He smiled.
I would have to look it up.
"But I can reserve an excellent table at just about any restaurant." He looked at me as if he noticed my presence for the first time that evening, causing me to wonder where he stood on girls without artifice. "Right now I'd like to take up acting."
"Did you have a chance to look at my plan?" I asked.
"Not yet." He patted his portfolio. "But I will, before we meet again."
Just then, a tourist snapped our photo: Aristocrat and Texas Girl Outside English Manor House with Jaguar.
"Good," I said, "because I have some marketing ideas that might be lucrative for Newton Priors."
"I'm glad to hear that, because I'm quite torn actually," he said as he threw his portfolio on the seat. He looked past me into the evening air where I imagined pieces of torn Randolph floating out of order. "Quite simply, I find I'm the steward of a burdensome asset in which I have no real interest."
My Jane Austen smiled knowingly as I sighed over the unwelcome piece of information. "But it's such a magnificent house," I said.
"So I'm told." Randolph leaned against his car as if we had all the time in the world.
"Do you ever think about living in Newton Priors?" I asked, wondering what the house looked like to someone who'd known it from birth.
"Not a chance," he said, frowning, as if I should have known better. "Nobody lives in these houses."
"Your grandmother was quite fond of it," I said.
"Oh yes, sentimental really. In her backward thinking, the economics would reverse, and all of England would return to an agrarian economy, with servants."