OK, something of an exaggeration, but still pretty historic.
She opened a new email, quickly typed the information about the meeting and sent the message to Jane. With any luck, she was still in that Starbucks by the park.
Fifteen minutes of waiting for a reply did not produce one, however. Jane was either ignoring her emails or had left the coffee shop.
I don’t think she would intentionally ignore me, not when we’re just about to sign the deal.
But she knew her client had a prickly nature. Most of the analyses of the author over the years had identified her as a brilliant mind with a brilliant and oft times caustic wit, and she could be very kind and very unforgiving. Her association with her client had taught her the assessment was largely correct, although brilliant wit came nowhere near sufficient praise.
But Melody recalled the advice her mentor, and the woman whose agency she had inherited, gave her.
“Authors are barely human, Melody. Remember that and never trust them. They’ll stab you in the back or abandon you when you least expect it. Show them no mercy.”
Which she knew was sage advice she could safely ignore. She still maintained many of the clients that Janet Applebaum had suffered through thick and mostly thin, including the brilliant but reclusive writer who only wrote during leap years, and the one who continued to write ghost stories. Ghost stories were marketable when he first came to be represented by the Janet Applebaum Agency, but understandably out of fashion after the discovery of the afterlife.
She had yet another of his proposals on her desk where he argued that the time was right for people to read ghost stories again. Maybe he’s right in a nostalgia market sort of way, she thought.
She was already deep into the first chapter he had included when her email pinged to let her know she had new mail.
Jane was spending the day at the New York Historical Society Library at 76th and Central Park West, she learned, and could easily meet her at Random House at 3:30. Melody thanked her profusely and quickly put in a call to Jeremy to confirm.
After she hung up, she thought again, I am Jane Austen’s agent! She pulled the pen out of her desk and began tapping her teeth again, even faster this time.
...
Melody stood outside the Random House building, nervously looking at her watch although it was only 3:05. She also checked the portable terminal she wore on her right arm and saw yet again, “No user connected.” It was set to only recognize Jane and ignore the many hundreds or thousands of disembodied roaming the streets of Manhattan at that spot.
She walked back and forth in front of the building, stupidly worried that Jane could not see her in her bright yellow, Dick Tracy trench coat.
“Hello, Melody,” Jane said. Melody spun around as she often did after hearing Jane’s digitized voice in her earbud, and as always was not rewarded by seeing anyone resembling a dead Regency author.
“Hi, Jane. You’re early.”
“I suspected you might be nervous and would wish to confer before the meeting.”
“Nervous, why should I be nervous?” she tried to laugh lightly but she knew she failed. Luckily she knew the terminal couldn’t translate laughter, light or otherwise.
Jane watched her agent laugh and saw the terminal translate the sound as unintelligible. She could see Melody was very, very nervous. She wished she could lessen Melody’s concerns, but she also knew Melody performed best when nervous.
“Should we go inside?” Jane asked.
“Yes, that’s a good idea. We can sit and talk.”
Melody led the way and held the door open for Jane to enter. They found round couches in the lobby and after being told where Jane sat, Melody tried to hold an eye-to-eye conversation with her client. But as usual, Melody’s eyes flitted from spot to spot, trying to find something on which to focus.
“I just want you to know there’s no big deal about this meeting. The lawyers have been over everything; I got you a … you have a very large advance, future book deals wrapped up. It’s all … good. And I told them you were in no hurry to return to writing, and they said they’re prepared to wait until you’re ready.”
Melody was a little frustrated that she couldn’t throw in a few more colourful words to emphasize how brilliant a deal she had extracted for her client. Jane had never actually admonished Melody for swearing, but Melody always thought she detected disapproval.
“That is very generous of them,” Jane said.
“Ha, generous, I like that. No, I think it’s their idea to milk you as long as they can. They’re in no rush to bring another book to market. I’m sure they’ll want to re-release your books, with new forewords by you. Probably arrange tie-ins with the movie companies. Make you do the celebrity circuit. Then when the public, and I mean the larger public and not just the Janeites, are ready, they release your next book.”
“I was being droll, Melody.”
“Oh, sorry Jane. But you see their strategy and I think it means you can take your time writing, as long as the first book is The Watsons … or something like it.”
“In other words, it has to be ‘Jane Austen-y.’”
“Uh, yes. Which means Jane Austen can’t say things like ‘Jane Austen-y.’”
“My, we are certainly being pernickety. But you have my complete faith and trust, and I shall do my best to prove my bona fides.”
“Thanks. And that sounds more like the Jane Austen I know and love.”
If she could have, Jane would have made a face.
“But I shall want something from this ‘deal.’ I trust I can use modern vernacular if I surround it in quotes?”
“Uh, sure. What do you want? Although I think I can guess.”
“I want to be able to write something entirely new and be assured of it being published,” she said. “Something … something relevant today.”
“Jane, I think I could get you almost anything you want, as long as you were willing to … to …”
“Write a sequel to Pride and Prejudice? That I will not do. Lizzie and Darcy have had their day. But I will seriously consider The Watsons. Are we understood then?”
“Perfectly. OK, let’s go upstairs and …” She stopped suddenly and Jane saw a spasm of pain flicker across her friend’s face.
“Melody, are you all right? You look unwell.”
Melody brought a hand to her mouth and belched as politely as possible when standing beside a famous author.
“No, I’m fine, just a little indigestion. And you’re right, I am nervous. It just hit me again: I am Jane Austen’s agent. Enough to make anyone a little queasy.”
Ripples
The Austen world reacts
– CHICAGO –
Alice paused outside the door to the study room in which her graduate students awaited her. She could hear their raised voices quite easily and could see through the glass that they were all looking at Stephen’s iPad. Normally she’d be happy to see her students animated because young men and women embarking on a course of study of Jane Austen could be a little … well dull. They took it all so seriously and knew too much about the Corn Laws and Enclosure Movement and other capitalized nouns that sucked so much of the sheer fun out of Austen.
It didn’t, however, surprise her that Stephen would be the source of whatever amusing viral video or app he’d found. Stephen was the only one of her students who seemed to find fun in what he was doing and his enjoyment was infectious. There were times when Alice found herself teaching to him and ignoring the others. He was the only one who seemed to genuinely enjoy Austen as a storyteller, even if he wasn’t necessarily an enthusiastic supporter of her conjectures about the Regency author. And this despite the fact that his thesis was about Corn Laws and the Enclosure Movement.1
She opened the door and the noise guiltily stopped.
“Oh, hi Dr Davis,” Stephen said, as she walked to her chair and set her bag on the floor beside it. The other students scurried to their seats and resumed their serio
us looks, but Stephen kept a big stupid grin on his face.
“OK, what is it?” she asked. In response, he got up and handed her his tablet. She saw a New York Times article about the publication of a … she sat down.
The students resumed a low buzz of conversation at this remarkable display by their teacher.
“Pretty exciting news, isn’t it?” Stephen asked.
She looked up irritably at him, but the eager look on his face softened her response.
“It’s … interesting, but you all know my opinion about anointing anyone as the Jane Austen.” They were quick to nod except for Stephen, who paused several seconds before so doing.
“But legally she is Jane Austen, right?”
Alice was about to agree, but then stopped. “Actually, I don’t know how legal it is. Certainly most people seem to accept the AfterNet’s word that so-and-so is who they claim to be. That’s actually a good project for you Stephen, and you can report back to us what you find. Now if we can return to Ashleigh’s question about … what was your question from last time?”
“It was about Sir Thomas’ change of heart, but what I’d really like to know is if you’ve got an advance copy of Sanditon.”
Alice looked at Ashleigh in surprise. She was the most obsequious student she’d ever had and never ventured an opinion. Like it or not, she had to admit that this pretender to the mantle of Austen had her students excited.
“OK, OK, we’ll talk about it. I know we haven’t met since the announcement of … this woman’s identity. So Ashleigh, I assume you’re not asking whether I’ve received a review copy.”
Ashleigh shook her head and then realized her affirmation might be confusing. “Yes, I mean I’m not asking that. I wanted to know if you had the leaked copy?”
This comment started another buzz of questions so Alice intervened. “Why don’t you tell us what you know about the leaked copy? Actually, start at the beginning and its involvement in proving her identity. Assuming you know that part of it?”
Ashleigh nodded enthusiastically, eager to show her knowledge. “OK, Austen … this woman … had to convince the identity committee she is who she says. And as I understand it, you can go two routes: by either producing some proof or knowledge that only the person could know or by convincing the committee—sort of like defending your dissertation. It’s supposed to be all very secret and the AfterNet tries to hide who’s on the committee, but everyone suspects Deirdre Le Faye and Joan Ray were two of the five.”2
“I heard you were on it, Dr Davis,” said the unctuous Roy.
“I was not, Roy.”
“Yeah, but you’re supposed to deny it if you were,” Stephen added with a mischievous grin.
“I would never lie to my students. Now stop interrupting Ashleigh. Continue.”
“All right, the committee is also not supposed to divulge how they reached their decision, but I’ve read Austen … this woman … satisfied both criteria. She produced some proof and supposedly she was able to recite her continuation of Sanditon, while unconnected to the AfterNet. Apparently she’d had to memorize it while writing it; and the general consensus was that it’s amazing.” Ashleigh sat back in triumph at this, making it pretty evident she thought the claimant was the genuine Jane Austen.
“I didn’t think it was that great … I mean the part I read,” said Lucy, who’d been quiet up till now. Alice turned to her, the acid smile she normally reserved for Lucy—not her favourite student—frozen on her face. She hated that Lucy might share her opinion on the matter.
“To what are you referring, Lucy?”
“The excerpt that’s everywhere. I think I saw it on Jane Austen Today, but it …”
“Nobody thinks that’s genuine,” Roy argued. “I mean that wouldn’t have fooled someone like Dr Ray or …”
“And that’s not the only one out there, Lucy,” Stephen offered. “All the people working on Austen continuations are coming out of the woodwork. I’ve even seen someone stealing from Anna Austen Lefroy’s attempt3 and claiming it as her own.”
“But do you have the copy that was supposedly leaked out by one of the committee members, Dr Davis?” Ashleigh asked in an attempt to take charge of the conversation.
“No, I don’t, although Stephen will probably just claim I’m supposed to deny having it. And let’s face it, can you imagine any of the people who’ve been mentioned as being on this committee leaking it?” She gave them a stern look, hoping to end the conversation.
“Look, it’s all speculation on the Internet, which is fine and it’s kind of fun, but it’s not scholarship.”
“You don’t think she is Austen, do you?” Lucy asked.
“That’s a …”—she stopped herself from saying “stupid”—“that’s not the right question, Lucy. The right question would be whether I have doubts, to which I would answer that I really don’t know how anyone could ever be sure. The only thing I do know for sure is that I’ll end up buying a copy of her Sanditon and I assume all of you will as well. And I think that’s the last word on this subject. Now if we could return to Sir Thomas.”
Ashleigh’s speculations about Sir Thomas4 were interesting, Dr Davis had to admit, but she was distracted during the whole time with her students. She couldn’t put her finger on why she so disliked the idea of a Jane Austen made … well not flesh, but at least made identifiable. Despite all her critical analysis of Austen, she had to admit she’d somewhat deified Jane. The thought of encountering a real Jane—virtual warts and all—made her uncomfortable, and she had to admit no claimant could ever satisfy her.
Her hour with her students finally ended. As usual, Stephen remained behind but she tried her best to ignore him.
“You really don’t think she’s Austen, right?” he asked when he tired of being ignored.
She sighed. “Does it matter? I’m willing to admit I could be wrong. Maybe she is the creator of six novels and a smattering of juvenile writings that have defined most of my life and my academic career. And if I’m right and she’s not Jane, we’ll know it when we read her book.”
“Come on, doc, you’ve got to have a copy already. You and I know someone has the transcript of that committee and if Austen really was reciting Sanditon to them …”
“I really don’t, Stephen. And don’t think I haven’t tried to get a copy, but it’s not something you can directly ask, ‘Do you have an illegal copy of a book that’s about to be published?’ Not when you’re not even sure whom to ask. But …”
“But what?”
“I wasn’t joking earlier. Do you think you could look into the whole vetting process on your own? Maybe you can find some information I’ve missed. I really would like to know something, anything, about the proof she offered.”
Stephen promised he’d see what he could find out, a little happy to be asked; a little worried he’d find nothing. Alice left him and went back to her office and decided she could try sending another email to Deirdre and try to divine any meaning from her maddening noncommittal denials.
– AMES, IOWA –
Ajala dipped her laptop screen down at the discreet knock on her door and saw her assistant standing there. “Ajala, you said to remind you about your ‘meeting.’” Becky made air quotes around the word.
“What? Oh, I think I’ll have to skip it today.”
That caused Becky to enter the office and sit down next to Ajala’s desk. “Really, because you said you really didn’t want to miss it this time.” Then Becky noticed Ajala’s expression. “Hey, is something the matter? You look upset.”
Ajala looked at Becky and wondered what to say. She was both upset and unsettled. She had been unsettled since the announcement that Jane Austen had been recognized. It was similar to the feelings she had every time someone claimed to have found a portrait of Austen. She somehow didn’t like the idea of Jane being identified, especially if it conflicted with her own idealized conception of her.
But all that took a back seat to what was really
upsetting.
“Everything’s ruined! Oh my God, they’ll have to start from scratch.”
Becky was now truly alarmed. She’d never seen her boss like this. Ajala Johnsson was famously imperturbable. She managed her department with skill and grace and treated everyone fairly and kindly. Since she’d moved into the corner office, it was like living in a Golden Age, where all the peasants were happy and the dragons had been slain. She’d protected the department from cutbacks and reorganizations and …
“Not layoffs?” Becky gasped.
“What? Oh no, it’s nothing about work. It’s …” Ajala flipped her laptop screen up and swivelled it around to face Becky.
Becky looked at the news story about some author … some disembodied author …
“Oh, it’s your Jane Austen.” Becky looked around and saw her boss’s fetish displayed throughout the office as books and knickknacks and even a little Jane Austen action figure. She’d gotten used to the items, of course, but she couldn’t forget that Ajala was the president of a national Jane Austen organization. Ajala was scrupulous about not making Becky do any work related to … the coffee cup on her desk reminded her of the organization’s name … JASNA, but she still ended up taking messages and fielding phone calls for her boss.
“Isn’t this good news? You finally get to read another of her books, right?”
“No, you don’t understand,” Ajala said. “We have to invite her. We have to invite Jane Austen to the AGM! Everything’s going to be different!”
– ARLINGTON, TEXAS –
Cindy Wallace heard the other participants to the conference call hang up. The sound was like the slamming of a prison cell door.
“Two years planning down the drain,” she said. “Two years down the drain.”
Her husband chose this moment to walk into her office, having been curious why his wife had been on the phone the past two hours. He assumed it was something to do with the AGM;5 it was always about the AGM and as he often did these days he regretted his bright idea to urge his wife to become the North Texas regional coordinator. He’d been a long-time Austen fan—not quite a Janeite—and had introduced Cindy to Jane Austen shortly after their marriage. She didn’t embrace Jane as much as he’d hoped but after their children left home she had seemed to find a new relevance in Austen. Her enthusiasm grew and grew as did his and they joined JASNA. They became quite well known for their fondness of wearing costumes and their several trips to England and the various Austen shrines of Chawton, Bath and Winchester.6
Jane, Actually Page 3