Jane, Actually

by Jennifer Petkus

  1 Proofreader Maryann O’Brien has thought of two Austen characters who got what they deserved. Aunt Norris resolves to quit Mansfield Park with Mrs Rushworth (Maria Bertram who was), following that woman’s disgrace—“…where, shut up together with little society, on one side no affection, on the other no judgment, it may be reasonably supposed that their tempers became their mutual punishment.”

  2 In a letter to her sister, regarding some lapses in attribution she had found in the proof of Pride and Prejudice, Austen wrote: “There are a few typical [typographic] errors; and a ‘said he,’ or a ‘said she,’ would sometimes make the dialogue more immediately clear; but ‘I do not write for such dull elves, as have not a great deal of ingenuity themselves.’” “Dull elves” is probably an allusion to a line from Sir Walter Scott’s epic poem Marmion: “I do not rhyme to that dull elf/ Who cannot image to himself/”

  UK book launch

  May I introduce Mr Colin Firth?

  “Hey Miss Austen,” Tony her driver said. “Now I know who you are! You’re famous!” He was waiting for her with the limo door open and a copy of The Daily Mail with its story of the book launch. Mary looked at it in amazement while he took her garment bag from her.

  The story included their new portrait of Jane and also a photo of herself as Jane at the New York book signing last week.

  And so Mary now saw herself publicly identified as Jane Austen for the first time. Naturally she had mixed emotions. It was irritating to be considered famous for being someone else. At least an actress would be credited for her work, but she must toil away in obscurity. She’d been warned of that when she had applied for the job, but she never imagined she’d be someone famous on two continents.

  She sighed, just a little sigh that she hoped Jane wouldn’t notice, and thanked Tony.

  “Could you please sign it for me? I bought one of your books but I forgot to bring it with me.”

  “Sure Tony,” Mary said, lapsing into American, and then catching herself and adding, “it would be a pleasure.”

  He opened the car door for her and waited an extra few seconds for Jane to enter, although she had preceded Mary. She’d been caught in car doors often enough that she’d learned to enter first. Tony finally closed the door, put the garment bag in the boot and ran around to the driver’s door. Mary took the opportunity to get a pen from her bag and waited for inspiration to strike.

  “Make it, ‘To Tony,’” her inspiration said, “‘whose peerless skills behind the wheel have made me feel safe amid the hustle’ … no, make that ‘tumult of London traffic. Jane Austen.’ Oh, better remind him, Mary.”

  “Tony, don’t forget we’re to collect Miss Kramer,” Mary said as she handed him the signed newspaper.

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten, Miss Austen. Oh, and I already started reading your book.”

  “I am impressed. Did you stand in line for Sanditon?”

  “No, not that one, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Cracking good story.”

  Mary smiled weakly at him in the rear-view mirror.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” she said with a nod. He smiled back at her and then put his attention to getting underway.

  “Do you really think he understands who we are?” Jane asked.

  Mary flicked her eyes toward the rear-view mirror. Tony seemed intent on his driving so she softly asked, “What do you mean?”

  “That we are a dead novelist, or do you think he simply thinks we are a person whose picture is in the newspaper.”

  “I don’t know, Jane,” Mary answered, intrigued by Jane’s use of “we,” which she had never done before. “He seems like a smart enough young man but like so many of the young today gets his information more from the Internet than from newspapers.”

  “Ha! I have infected you. He is your age, Mary. You begin to complain as I would.”

  That took Mary aback. My God she’s right. I’m losing myself in the part so much my opinions are becoming that of Jane. Soon I’ll start kvetching about baggy jeans and backward baseball caps.

  “Just immersing myself in the role. Oh, look at the time,” Mary said, a none too subtle remark about Jane’s late return that morning. Fortunately Mary had been spared fretting about Jane’s late return because she had slept right through her alarm. A knock at her door had finally awakened her.

  She’d jumped out of bed after a quick look at the bedside clock and ran to the door, wearing just her Yankees1 T-shirt. She opened the door a crack and saw a young woman wearing the same jacket as the hotel staff.

  “Good morning, Miss Crawford. I believe I have a guest with me who needs to return to her room.”

  Mary, confused, looked for someone with the young woman, but the woman noticed Mary’s inquisitive eye.

  “It’s your roommate,” she said. “She needs to get back inside.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  Mary opened the door wide enough to permit Jane to enter.

  “You’re very welcome,” the young lady said, betraying no amusement at the sight of the dishevelled American.

  Fortunately for Jane, Mary was so busy with her morning ablutions that she had little time to berate her employer for her late return. All Mary learned was that Jane had so enjoyed herself that she had lost track of time.

  As a consequence, they were fully twenty minutes behind schedule as Tony pulled up to the house where Melody was staying, the home of one of Tamara’s relatives who was working in London. Melody was already waiting on the street, her body posture revealing her irritation. Tony stopped the limo, got out, took her garment bag, helped her inside and put the bag in the boot.

  “You’re late,” she complained as she got in.

  “By a whole fifteen minutes,” Mary said.

  “It is my fault; I was chatting,” Jane said, to both Melody and Mary through their terminals. Mary was glad Jane said nothing about her walkabout.

  “Driver, take us to the Savoy,” Melody said imperiously once Tony was behind the wheel again. Tony, instantly comprehending who was in charge, acknowledged Melody’s command.

  “He already knows that, Melody,” Mary said.

  “I know; I just wanted to say it.”

  Her confession made them laugh and for a moment all the worry faded as the three of them simply enjoyed the moment.

  “Can you believe we’re going to the Savoy Hotel for a book launch? In my wildest dreams, I could never have thought this would happen,” Melody said.

  “Does this mean you lied to me when you promised me success?” Jane asked of her agent.

  Melody was about to reply but was saved by her ringing phone.

  “Hi Rebecca, what’s up? Uh huh. Yes, we’re on our way to the Savoy right now, running just a little late. Who? Oh, that’s great. Wow, OK, thanks.”

  Melody hung up and was silent, which was unusual enough to get their attention.

  “What was that?” Jane finally asked.

  “We had another confirmation,” Melody said. “Elton John will be there. Sir Elton John. I’m going to meet Elton John.”

  “Who?” Jane asked. “Oh, the musician. But I am more excited to meet Andrew Davies.2 I have a mind to take him to task for a few liberties, but mostly to thank him. I have seen him talk several times, but was never able to ask my questions.”

  “Elton John will be there? Really? Who else, the queen?” Mary joked, ignoring Jane’s comment.

  “No, she can’t make it,” Melody said, “but we might get Charles and Camilla. Doesn’t really matter. I’m going to meet Elton John.”

  . . .

  They spent the day at the Savoy, met there by Mr Pembroke’s counterparts at the London Random House office. Melody went through the latest guest list and saw names from the mayor of London to Oscar winning actors to the prime minister. She made some last minute suggestions to move up people from the Jane Austen Society of the UK to the head of the receiving line.

  She also learned of the extensive efforts to make the event
accessible to the disembodied. The hotel had already installed AfterNet hotspots in the lobby and most of the ballrooms and conference areas in a recent renovation. She made sure that Jane was already registered to join all the chat rooms, an oversight that embarrassed the hotel and Mr Laurence from Random House.

  Mary and Jane were taken on a tour of the hotel and acquainted with where they would stand. Afterward, Mary was taken to the hotel spa, much to the amusement of Jane. She found Mary’s male masseuse quite shocking. Mary found his ministrations very soothing. About 4 pm, a hairstylist and makeup artist took Mary away to provide her with a mountain of curls and the appearance of not wearing makeup. By half past six, Mary was ready.

  . . .

  Mary almost staggered at the crescendo of camera flashes. She briefly felt Melody’s hand behind her back as they watched the next guest approach. Mary thought she heard Melody whisper “Darcy!”

  Mary, at twenty-five, thought he looked very handsome but older than she’d expected. Mary stepped forward to greet him. Just behind him stood a beautiful woman she knew to be his wife.

  Mr Laurence confirmed this in his introduction, “Miss Austen, may I introduce you to Mr Colin Firth and his wife, Livia Giuggioli.” Then Mr Laurence stepped back, leaving Firth, his wife and Mary alone.

  His expression seemed unusually grim, like a man annoyed that people were laughing and he couldn’t understand the joke, and then she realized that he was briefly in character.

  She curtseyed and extended her hand, which he took and bowed over, his head almost coming close enough to kiss her hand. The camera flashes lit the room like daylight.

  As he straightened, he smiled and in that smile, Mary was momentarily lost. She’d only been vaguely aware of him as a movie star before becoming Jane’s avatar, but since then, just as everyone had, she’d accepted him as Darcy. She felt herself falling under his spell.

  “It is a very great honour to finally meet you, Miss Austen. I have you to thank for making my career,” he said.

  “On the contrary Mr Firth, I believe I owe you even more,” she replied with a regal nod. “I am sure I had only a middling sort of popularity before your efforts.”

  He chuckled at her joke and she thought, Wow, this is fun. We’re both hamming it up.

  “May I introduce my wife, Livia,” he said, his voice almost lost in the buzz of the crowd and the whir of the cameras. Firth put his hand behind his wife’s back and brought her forward and together Mary and she curtseyed, again to an explosion of light.

  “You do know you’re the only woman I share him with. He stayed up late with you last night,” she told Mary.

  “That is very generous of you. May I sign those?”

  Mary pointed to the two copies of Sanditon Mrs Firth held. As Mrs Firth presented them, someone, doubtless one of the many Random House employees, took them from her. He handed one copy to Mary with a pen.

  “Write: To Colin Firth, whose good opinion I hope never to lose. A devoted fan, Jane Austen.” Mary did as she was bid and guessed that Jane had prepared that in advance.

  She handed the copy back to Mrs Firth, who looked at the inscription and gave it to her husband, who smiled all the more broadly after reading it. Mary was given the next copy to sign.

  “Write: To Livia Giuggioli, whose generosity of spirit is matched only by her beauty and charm. Forever envious, Jane Austen.”

  Mary returned that copy as well and then could no longer ignore the many throat clearings of her friend.

  “Mr and Mrs Firth, may I introduce you to my best friend, my manager and agent, Melody Kramer?”

  Melody almost leapt from behind and Firth honoured her with the same low bow he gave Mary. Melody actually tittered with delight.

  Afterward, various pictures were taken including one with a space for Jane to stand. Hands were shaken and air kisses exchanged and finally, every photographic opportunity exhausted they left, and Mary suddenly felt tired.

  “Oh my,” Jane said. “I believe Hugh Grant is next in line.”

  1 The New York Yankees professional baseball team

  2 Andrew Davies wrote the script for several Austen adaptations, including the 1995 BBC production of Pride and Prejudice

  Chicago

  Eighties hair

  Mary yawned. She was still recovering from the excitement of the New York launch the week before. It had been a repeat of the London book launch with different celebrities but the same receiving line, balls and endless photographs.

  This week, however, Mary and Jane were in Chicago without an entourage, driving to a mega Barnes & Noble store in the suburbs. Mary kept looking nervously at the empty seat beside her where sat, hopefully, Jane.

  “I’m still here, Mary. I simply haven’t said anything since the last time you asked if I was all right.”

  “Yeah, sorry, just a little nervous. And I don’t drive much.”

  “And it shows.”

  Mary turned to look at Jane, stung by her rebuke.

  “Keep your eyes on the road, Mary. I am sorry, but you handed me a straight line.”

  “A straight line? Is that proper Regency?”

  “No, I learned of the term from television. I do watch television, you know; I did even before the discovery, although it wasn’t until subtitles became common that I could enjoy it properly. I was quite addicted to murder mysteries, especially Inspector Morse. Oh, and American soap operas like Dallas and Dynasty were delightfully silly things. They reminded me of the theatricals of my youth with everyone declaiming.”

  Mary was surprised to hear the doyenne of English literature confessing her fondness for American trash TV, but it also suddenly gave her a connection to Jane.

  “I used to watch Dynasty on DVDs with my mom. It was pretty awful but she loved it. I mean the hair.”

  “And the clothes,” Jane concurred. “Those shoulder pads.”

  Almost in unison they said, “And the catfights!”

  “See, you are more relaxed now,” Jane said.

  Her words caught Mary by surprise. “What, all that was just to get me to relax?”

  “And it worked.”

  “You don’t really like Dynasty?”

  “My dear, I am Jane Austen whose works have never been out of print since, well since some year that I’m sure some Janeite can recall, but I am sure it has been a very long time. Do you seriously suppose that I sat around after death watching Krystle and Alexis pull each other’s hair?”

  “No, no I suppose not. Well thanks, like I said, I was nervous.”

  “Might I ask why? I thought we had established a rapport.”

  “Oh sure, only now, you know, I’m responsible for you,” Mary said as she merged into traffic. Melody had not accompanied them on this trip, and now Mary was nervous about her charge. Jane had a habit of wandering off, which made navigating Midway Airport a nightmare. She could just imagine having to call Melody in a panic and saying, “I’ve lost Jane!” Being in the car with her was actually the calmest Mary had been in some time.

  “You were responsible for me in London. Were you not nervous then?”

  “Yes … but I was a lot more nervous about being you in front of movie stars and politicians and actual royalty. I’m just getting over that so now I have more time to worry about you.”

  “Excuse me, am I an invalid that you should be so concerned for me?”

  Mary turned her head to make sure there was no one in her lane and accelerated.

  “It’s like those parenting exercises in high school,” she said, not having paid adequate attention to Jane’s response.

  “Then I am a child for which you are responsible.”

  “What? No, oh God no.” Despite her worry that she had offended Jane she had to smile at the thought that Jane’s words recalled.

  “You look nothing like an egg,” she said after a moment.

  “An egg? You confuse me.”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t help thinking of those exercises. They give you an egg
that you’re supposed to take care of for a week. It’s supposed to give you an idea of what it’s like to take care of a baby.”

  “That’s absurd. The proper way to learn what it is to care for an infant is to have four brothers who among them have more children than a foundling hospital.1 How many cousins and nieces and nephews have you?”

  “Uh, none. My parents were only children, even Dad’s first wife was an only child, and my brother and sister don’t have kids yet. I’m sure I have second cousins or whatever, but we didn’t keep track.”

  “Oh!” Jane was taken aback. Of course she knew that modern families were small, especially in America. She didn’t know whether to feel pity for or envy of Mary.

  “I was sort of an only child as well because my brother and sister are a lot older than me and they’re only half relations. And because my father was in the military, we travelled a lot so I never really had many close friends.”

  “Then I am sorry for you, Mary. My family was my comfort. And a trial at times, certainly, but … your egg, how did it fare?”

  “I sat on it about thirty minutes after I got it.”

  “Then you failed in your parenting exercise?”

  “Oh no, the teacher just gave me another one.”

  “Well in that respect I should prove more durable than your egg for you cannot sit on me. No, I lie, you can sit on me but it will do me no harm.”

  Mary suddenly worried. “I haven’t ever sat on you, have I?”

  “No, either your good manners or I presume your training at the agency have resulted in the utmost concern for my person. And I believe you should have taken a right turn here. But no matter, you may turn right at the next street. No pardon me, the street after that. I must make allowance for one-way streets.”

  “Huh? Oh, thanks. You’re better than a voice navigation system. I’d be lost without you.”

  “Nonsense, despite my previous unkindness, I have to judge you are an excellent driver. I am quite envious.”