Jane Austen Made Me Do It

by Laurel Ann Nattress

  Nicola watched: What’s the matter with him? Oh, brother! But she chipped in, “Charlie’s worn pocket squares since he was eighteen. But I’ve been collecting vintage squares for him for a few years now, and they’ve really become fun.” The word “fun” sounded hollow, and anything but fun, as it came through her lips.

  Anne Elliott turned slowly and reluctantly away from Charles, and looked at Nicola.

  “How sweet,” she said. “Aren’t you just so—creative?”

  “Charlie,” Nicola started, “we wanted to say something to Anne about the book—”

  Charlie said, “We don’t want to talk about that now. Let’s enjoy ourselves! You girls have had a hard day.”

  Nicola bridled but hid it: You girls. He better not say that again.

  “Yes, let’s enjoy ourselves. And each other,” said the actress.

  The sommelier hovered like a hummingbird. Charles inspected the bottle.

  “Now, here’s some true fun,” he said. Nicola rolled her eyes.

  A waiter began to set out a little forest of glasses. At which precise moment, as though called by a bell, Uncle Julius arrived at the table and pulled up a chair. Charles looked less than charmed, but Nicola thought of Pavlov’s dogs and began to laugh. He heard the damn cork pop. Five blocks away, he heard it. Perfect, Uncle Julius.

  Anne Elliott wore a pavé diamond airplane pendant suspended above her cleavage, toward which Uncle Julius thrust his finger, pointing none too subtly.

  “From Marty,” she said, a polished hand to her throat, nearly appearing to blush. “He tried to get me for the Ava Gardner part in The Aviator. He sent this as a lure. I didn’t take the part, but I did keep the plane.”

  Uncle Julius said, “I like the landing field.”

  “This,” said Charles, in a voice as dull as dust, “is Uncle Julius. He helps us.”

  To which Nicola, delighted to have the distraction, added, “Uncle Julius is our most indispensable person.”

  The food came and, unexpected by all, the actress chose a robust selection—crab cakes, followed by short ribs Roquefort; Uncle Julius had the same, and some calamari. Nicola ordered a salad, and Charles chose nothing.

  “Oh, Mr. Scott! Won’t you be so very hungry?”

  At which Nicola thought: He might, my dear, but not for you.

  Charles replied, “Really, call me Charles.… I’m sort of ‘on,’ if you know what I mean.”

  On? Excuse me? He’s here every night. The voice in Nicola’s head was so loud she feared it might be heard at the table.

  Throughout the meal, when no one could speak for long to either the patron or his new admirer, Charles kept up a stream of whispers to the maître d’, who brought tasting after tasting to the table, offering them first to Anne.

  He’s feeding her the way he feeds Nora, Nicola thought, but said out loud, “Anne, how on earth do you keep your figure? Every woman here tonight will want to know.” To herself she remarked, They’ve already read about the bulimia.

  “Sweet of you, Nikki.”

  Nikki? Euuuwww. Nicola thought that she saw Charles wrestle back a smile. When the chef appeared with his signature key lime sundae, the actress squealed in delight.

  “How did you know?”

  Charles smiled his Cheshire-cat, all-powerful smile. Nicola kicked Uncle Julius, now cutting a road through a second bottle of wine.

  “Do something,” she hissed.

  Quick as a starter’s pistol, Uncle Julius said, “Tell us about the book.”

  “I’m in love,” said the actress, who turned to Charles as she answered Uncle Julius, and said, “It’s all about timing, isn’t it?”

  Julius asked, “Was your dealer in New York?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I used to deal in antique books,” and Charles Scott was far too much of a gentleman to add, “Yes, you and my father once tried to fence a Kelmscott Chaucer lifted from the Morgan.”

  “Boston,” said Anne Elliott with huge eyes. “But—shhhh. I’m not supposed to tell where it’s from. The war and all that?”

  Uncle Julius nodded and murmured, “Nazi loot. Gotcha.”

  “Exactly,” said the actress. “Tim, my new best boyfriend—it’s for his mother. Restore the family library,” and she put a finger to her lips. “Dignity. Their great name. I am so glad to help. He’s just so wonderful.”

  “I used to deal in Boston,” said Uncle Julius (not caring to add that he went to jail there too). “Who exackly d’ja work with there?” but Anne Elliott gracefully sidestepped his questions and, minutes later, made her exit, pleading early morning hair and makeup for a television appearance on Today. She nodded to those diners who stood in light applause, kissed Charles on both cheeks at the doorstep, and again as he handed her into her limo—and she was gone.

  When he came back to the table, Nicola said, “We have news for you, don’t we, Uncle Julius?”

  “Manny Walsh,” crowed Uncle Julius. “He’s in Boston!”

  Minutes later, a young man, tall as a tree, walked into ASTA, dropped his long leather duffel bag at the desk, and the maître d’ led him to their table. Dark, immaculate, and lithe as a dancer, he looked like central casting’s idea of the Handsome Prince. His hair was long and romantic; his clothes were graceful and romantic; his eyes were heavy-lidded, black-fringed, and definitely romantic. He wore his shirt open a few buttons deep, his collar up, with a long lavender scarf looped around his neck a few times. On his left hand he wore a large gold signet ring.

  “Charles Scott?” He held out his hand. “Tim Pemberley. A friend of Anne Elliott.”

  Charles stood, and even at six foot two, was inches shorter than his guest.

  “You’ve just missed her.”

  “Damn.”

  “I believe she’s gone straight home. She has an early television call.”

  “Then she’s also gone straight to bed and I shan’t disturb her.”

  “Sit down,” Nicola insisted, patting the place on the banquette next to her, and nurturing already. “Have you eaten?”

  Uncle Julius decided to eat again, pasta this time, a pesto tagliatelle, and a second dessert. Charles glared at Nicola’s encouraging: “You should both try the pot de crème. Shouldn’t they, Charlie?”

  “Where did you go to school?” asked Charles, the irony in his voice acknowledging the English discovery route.

  “We’re Bedfordshire. Did I read that you were Cambridge or something?”

  “Balliol,” said Charles.

  Uncle Julius interrupted. “Whassa lord do, anyway?”

  “I hear that Anne’s found quite a surprise for your mother,” said Nicola, testing the waters.

  “Oh, the damned book,” said the young dream, who ate as though he’d been fasting a week.

  “Didn’t you want it?” Nicola shifted to get his eyeline.

  Charles watched: Is she going to drool from her mouth over this guy?—but he asked, “Where are you staying?”

  “I’m here for the Sotheby’s bash tomorrow. Do either of you go for antique porcelain?”

  Uncle Julius apparently disapproved. “Breakage,” was all he said. “Hard to shift.”

  “You’ve just landed, have you?” said Nicola, moving a bit closer.

  Charles eyed his wife. Yes, that’s drooling, that’s definitely drooling, that isn’t eye contact, that’s invasion.

  “Second time in a week,” Lord P. said. “My jet lag has jet lag.”

  “Why don’t you stay with us tonight?” said Nicola. “We have plenty of room”—which is how they came to be sitting in the kitchen at the townhouse until half past two in the morning, with Charles now trying to get the full story.

  Good port thawed Tim Pemberley.

  “I met Anne in Goa. They all go there, these days. Their authorities discourage the tabloids. She latched on to me, I suppose. Then I came home to London, after stopping in Delft and Antwerp, and there she was, sitting in our living room with my mamm-aah”—that famous English upper-class dr
awl, dragging out the word. “A little surprising, to say the least.”

  “Oh my,” said Nicola, visibly reconsidering the story of Anne falling in love. “Do we have to save you from her?”

  “Tell us about the book,” said Uncle Julius, and Tim Pemberley flinched in discomfort.

  “The book thing. Yes.” He faced Julius. “I like nothing about this whole thing.”

  “You mean the Nazi connection and all that?” asked Nicola.

  Lord Tim looked perplexed. “No,” he said. “I mean, it’s so awkward.”

  “No kidding,” said Charles. Nicola looked at Charles with an expression that pleaded for candor, but Charles did not bite.

  “So,” said Uncle Julius, “did your mom like her?”

  “Mamm-aah’s iffy, you know how it is. The class thing. But Anne, she’s an amazing woman. Let’s face it.”

  Nicola was not sure that Tim meant “amazing” in a good way, but Charles—at last—was hooked. He dove into the ocean of controversy and asked directly, “Who bought the book? Where did it come from? Who actually paid for it?”

  Lord Pemberley shrugged. “I did. In a way. That’s what I mean by it being awkward”—and saying no more, he went to bed.

  The next afternoon, Nicola dropped in to ASTA’s.

  “Look what I have. She’s so proud of it, Charlie, it’s heartbreaking. I asked her to let me show you.”

  Charles took the book and turned it every which way in his large hands.

  “Well, it certainly is somebody’s idea of her signature.” He opened the cover with practiced delicacy and peeled back the first few left-hand pages. “It’s probably a first edition, that’s the ironic thing. See—1813. And now it’s been defaced.” Charles handed it back. “What do you think all this is about, kid?”

  “I saw her this morning. We had to review the contact sheets and we have to cover one more setup.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No. Day after.”

  “Is he staying with us again tonight?”

  “Sadly, no,” said Nicola. “The little lord was gone at seven. Didn’t you hear him?”

  “You make him sound like Jesus,” Charles said.

  “I wasn’t thinking of sanctity.” Nicola dreamed for a moment and then said, “Stop scowling, Charlie. You look harassed.” She straightened his tie.

  He opened the door into the restaurant to a sound dense and mellow—one of New York’s favorite melodies, a full dining room. The crowd looked dressed to kill, pushing their top-dollar food from one side of their plates to the other. People waited in the foyer to get near the bar. It was after two o’clock and the place still hummed.

  “A Page Six blind item claimed that André Talley had his own table at ASTA’s. So the whole would-be fashion crowd is in again. Phones started ringing at eight.”

  “I didn’t know that André was a regular, Charlie.”

  “He’s not,” admitted Charles. “It’s chum, darling. Brings all the fishies. Keeps us in caviar.”

  “There’s a pitchman lurking in you, Charlie.”

  “Go to Sotheby’s, kid. Cast your own net and pull in some facts.”

  She saw him in an instant, leaning against a wall, speaking to two other men dressed in the English uniform of striped suit and striped shirt. He saw her too, but seemed embarrassed and looked away. Nicola stood at the rear of the auction room and waited. Tiles and murals came, urns and figurines went; gavels pounded, adrenaline surged, and money flowed.

  Let’s see what he’ll do. But the young Lord Pemberley did nothing—until she waved her hand. He has to respond, she thought. It could be anything, a bid I want to make. She judged it well; as they loaded some new sale items, he nodded toward the door and moved to meet her.

  “Nicola, what a nice surprise. Can I bid on something for you?”

  “We have to know about the book, Tim,” she said. “We can’t allow Anne to think it’s real. She’ll feel humiliated.”

  “I couldn’t let it happen. God’s sake, I’m on a Sotheby’s salary. I’ve borrowed against everything.”

  “Tim, what’s going on?”

  He stopped. “What did Anne tell you?”

  “That she’d fallen in love with you. That she bought a book. That your mother had sold her beloved Jane Austen first editions when your father died. Not much more than that.”

  He hesitated. “You should talk to her.”

  “I’m talking to you.” She leveled her gaze. Nicola’s talent lay in getting everyone on a set to sign on to her vision. She’d built a career on that skill.

  Tim Pemberley led her out of the auction room, into the polished beige foyer of Sotheby’s, down the staircase and out onto York Avenue. In sunlight bright and startling, he told his story without temperament or guise.

  When he’d finished, Nicola advised, “Say nothing to Anne. Give us a couple of days.”

  That night, Charles and Julius listened to Nicola as Charles worked a garlic scampi. According to Tim, the “rare books dealer” from Boston had arranged to meet Anne at the Pierpont Morgan Library, where, to prove his book’s authenticity, they looked at a facsimile of Austen’s writing in the manuscript Lady Susan.

  When Tim first arrived from England, Anne couldn’t contain her excitement, sure that this would cheer his mother, left so low by her husband’s death. Tim made some excuse about checking provenance, and said that he’d want to ask the dealer a few more questions before the checks were exchanged—but he raised no alarm. When, instead of Anne, he went to the Morgan for the closing of the deal, he threatened to tell the police. The “dealer” said that Anne Elliott would buy the book for a million dollars, authentic or not. Nonnegotiable, he said. Anne had been a very ambitious girl. She’d done whatever it took to get out of Oklahoma and into orbit as a star. He had proof. Pictures and videos.

  Tim couldn’t countenance Anne’s money being used on such a swindle, especially—as he saw it—one connected to a gesture of kindness intended for his own family. He went back to London to raise his own cash. And he’d paid it just before he’d gotten into the restaurant the day before. It was gone. Paid and gone.

  “So he was the mark all along?” asked Julius.

  Nicola raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

  “The passerby,” said Julius.

  “The what?” Nicola looked bewildered. “Don’t give Nora shrimp, Charlie—she gets hives from shrimp.”

  Charles rushed to change the subject. “They also call them spectators.”

  “Your father—he called ’em ticket holders,” Uncle Julius explained, ignoring Charlie’s frown. “The innocent third party,” he said slowly, letting Nicola take in the concept.

  “So—what do you mean? Now you think that Anne is up to something?” Charles, in an obvious about-face, simply didn’t want to believe it.

  Uncle Julius amassed a second helping of scampi.

  “Dunno. She got out awful fast from dinner when I axed my question.”

  “It’s ‘asked,’ Uncle Julius,” said Nicola, whose eyes were distant with thought. Charles held Nora in his lap. She begged and squirmed and put her stubby little legs near his plate as he let her lick his fingers.

  Nicola’s eyes returned from her reflections. “I see you, Charlie Scott,” she warned.

  Uncle Julius rolled his own eyes.

  “Dog’s life,” he said. “You know where we’re goin’ tomorrow, buddy?”

  Charles shook his head.

  With the waters of Long Island Sound flashing outside the train’s windows, Uncle Julius said to Charles, “I’ll do the talking. Manny’s touchy.”

  “Julius, listen. How often do I have to tell you? Don’t talk about my father in front of Nicola. Or anyone.”

  “Heard from him?”

  “No, thank God.”

  “I had a card. He’s in Moscow. So he says. I couldn’t read the postmark.”

  “Sent to our house? Goddammit!” Charles pushed away his Amtrak cheese and crackers, whi
ch Uncle Julius grabbed.

  “Anyway. Manny’s tricky. Jewish mother, Irish father. He could be schizoid. But he’s the best trader there is.”

  “You mean ‘fence,’ don’t you?” Charles said dismissively. And when the driver pulled up in front of Manny’s house, Charles Scott looked at the portico and its columns and said, “Jesus wept.”

  “Yeah, he makes a few shekels,” said Uncle Julius.

  A red-haired, large-breasted maid answered the doorbell. “He’s in the library,” she said, nodding toward the door at the right and toddling off on heels high as a footstool.

  The room was deep with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Charles could tell that few of the books had been opened—this was “library as movie set”—carved pilasters and pediments of inlaid, quality veneers. Manny saw Charles eye the marquetry.

  “To be posh, you gotta look posh.” He opened his arms in welcome. “How are you, Julie, my friend?”

  Uncle Julius waved a hand to take in the entire property. “The Picassos?” he asked.

  “You got it,” said Manny, and laughed again.

  “They go to Switzerland?”

  “Where else?”

  “And it’s books now, is it?” Uncle Julius fingered the leather on Manny’s pristine desk.

  “Follow the money.” Manny turned to Charles. “How’s your dad? Now, there’s a gentleman.”

  Charles shrugged ambiguously. Uncle Julius sat down.

  “So, Manny, tell us,” Julius said gravely, “about Jean Austen.”

  “Jane,” corrected Charles.

  Manny laughed, but seemed immediately uncomfortable.

  Charles picked up the discomfort and went for the jugular. “Give it back.”

  “Was it Prickles?” asked Julius, ignoring Charles.

  “Yeah.” Manny, keen to recover, couldn’t hide his admiration. “And a great binder. Out west. Does mostly family Bibles and stuff. He used two-hundred-year-old glue. That’s talent. Two hundred years.”

  “You mean the whole book is fake?”

  “Please. I hate that word,” said Manny, as hurt as a maiden aunt.

  Charles pressed. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”

  Manny said, “It’s only business.”