by Cindy Jones
"What about your stuff?" I asked.
"You can have it. Or give it to the poor—some starving actor."
I imagined myself distributing Bets's possessions to the long line of actors who'd waited at my door since dawn: her popcorn popper, her torn black shirt, her thongs, her TV, and the carton of cigarettes. "But how will I get home?" I asked.
"Don't cry; there's a lovely train that will take you to the heart of lovely Hedingham, darling," Bets said, in character, the best acting she'd done all season. She pulled train fare from her wallet. "A parting gift." Bets kissed me dramatically on each cheek and I felt not only the end of something, but a tiny blossom of freedom in my own breast. Tommy walked in, followed by grungy band members lighting cigarettes, and his new chick.
"Bets." Tommy extended his hand—optimistically, I thought—but instead of shaking, Bets gave him the folded paper, like serving a subpoena.
"This is where you drop the car—unless you have it with you now." She picked up her purse and beer, preparing to leave. "Nick can help me take it," Bets said, businesslike, not screaming profanity at Tommy or having a hair-pulling cat-fight with the new chick. Tommy's face fell. Maybe he hadn't realized Bets would take the car. He had counted on losing the operating budget and her brilliant companionship but—the car? Perhaps he should reconsider.
The new chick dug into her bag, furiously displacing lip gloss and credit cards, the car keys falling on the floor. Bending over to retrieve the keys, gravity acted on her blouse, not only exposing her wonderwear-induced cleavage, but freeing a gold chain that had been tucked beneath—my gold chain. I froze for a split second while my brain released a heady shot of adrenaline.
"Here's the keys," she said, bypassing Tommy and handing them directly to Bets.
The room's dim light reflected off the cross and I stepped closer to where it hung on her neck. My arms and legs moved in slow motion as if fighting the huge resistance of an invisible underwater current. One more step and I could touch the cross, although I couldn't afford to linger over a reunion with my property or risk a claim dispute—only action would do. I sensed My Jane Austen behind me, gathering her skirts to prepare for our getaway, urgent for me to take my necklace and run.
The clasp had worked its way to the side, halfway between the back of her neck and her front. I distracted her by exclaiming, "What a beautiful necklace." While she responded, I grabbed the cross in my fist and held it while I worked the clasp. Knowing the clasp intimately helped because she balked, raising her hands to fend off my arms. I had one instant to pull it from her neck and run. "This is mine; you can't have it," I said, bolting for the door.
I ran out the backstage room, through the maze of tiny tables and bus station chairs, past the bar and the popcorn aquarium, and into the street. Choosing the path of most resistance, I burrowed into the crowd, losing myself in the throngs of people who were walking, pointing, getting in and out of cars, crossing and recrossing my path, until, exhausted and breathless, I emerged far away.
My Jane Austen and I walked the ancient streets of London searching for a train station and I felt akin to protagonists who had lived their stories on these same streets, haunting the air I breathed, folding me into their rich, deeply layered existence. I felt Willis's presence just as surely as I felt my mother's cross in my fist; my memories of both belonged to me completely.
Not until the train left the station did I open my hand and allow myself to experience the reunion with the cross I thought gone forever. I fastened the chain around my neck in a brief personal ceremony during which I vowed not to remove it again. Settling into my seat and closing my eyes, I recited from memory every line of Maria Bertram I could remember.
Twenty-Three
Noise increased as the audience accumulated in the ballroom awaiting the debut of my one-woman show, The Lost Letters of Jane Austen. Patrons crossed legs and chattered, fanning themselves with programs, making plans for later while I hovered in the butler's pantry. Breathing slowly and deeply to calm my nerves, I struggled to recall what impulse had compelled me to produce a one-woman show. I blamed Vera, encouraging my ideas, glad for the money from extra events, and, from the success of the tea-theatre, convinced that I could pull this off. But taking the stage alone to deliver my homemade script from memory seemed half-baked and lonely at the moment.
Sabrina passed me on her way out. I smiled at her; we were buddies now. The departures of Magda and Bets removed all obstacles between me and the role of Maria Bertram, which I performed now, in addition to my own productions. Sabrina jerked her head, indicating my bonnet. In my nervous state, I'd forgotten to remove it. I untied the bow under my chin and removed the hat, stuffing the ribbons inside the crown, placing it on the countertop.
When the time came I entered the ballroom and took my place, front and center, in the chair with the spindly gothic arches, the sort of chair that might moonlight in a prison, hired for especially high-profile electrical executions. Claire sat near the front, waiting, perhaps she suspected me of harboring clues in the Case of the Missing Letters, a mystery originating in her mind. Stephen Jervis operated the spotlight I'd rented.
I bowed my head and took a deep breath, noting, in my downward gaze, the tiny drawstring bag hanging from my wrist. Too late to do anything about that now, a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on me, actively waiting. I raised my face, looked straight into the audience, and exercising the full power of my diaphragm as taught by Sixby, said, "My Dear Cassandra."
The familiar salutation incited such a reaction from the audience of Jane Austen fans that I might have been mistaken for a rock star launching into a greatest hit. In the commotion, My Jane Austen appeared downstage, one eyebrow raised. I hoped she'd brought her sense of humor. Repeating the words, "My Dear Cassandra," I continued, "I'm writing to you from Oblivion where I've been detained nearly two hundred years by the public's persistent interest in a certain number of my letters which are now said to be lost." The audience responded to my lead as if I were the driver and they the car, savoring every lingering consonant and nuance of expression, holding their laughter for my pauses. "Thank you, Cassandra, for your diligent attention in censoring and burning so many of my letters. Imagine the consequences had you not made such good use of scissors and fireplace. But back to me.
"Perhaps," I said, "if the public knew the content of the Lost Letters, I might be released from their curious grip and allowed, finally, to proceed to my eternal rest. To that end, I will now work very hard to recall their content. It is my hope that in so doing, we may all move on." I glanced at Claire before closing my eyes.
"My Dear Mark Twain," I said, squinting with the effort of remembering. The audience seemed to understand where I was going. My Jane Austen stepped closer, cautiously amused. "If you so much as touch my shinbone, I'll use it to beat sense into your head. If you don't like Pride and Prejudice, stop reading it!"
The audience waited for more. My Jane Austen scribbled on her ivories as if she might add her own remarks.
"My Dear Tom Lefroy," I said. "It wasn't good for me, either. P.S. I meant what I said about your morning coat."
I lifted the water glass I'd placed near my chair, feeling the audience with me even as I sipped.
"My Dear Charlotte Bronte," I said. "Passions unknown to moi?" I placed my hand near my heart, confidence surging, the audience eating from my hand. Maybe I could take this show on the road. "Have you seen Colin Firth in the wet-shirt version of Pride and Prejudice?" Pause. "I didn't think so. Pity." I wished Willis were here to witness this. But I could not think about Willis while on stage. Whenever the deacon peeked around the corner of my subconscious, I tended to leave my body and climb stairs to the third floor where I entertained him with witty observations, causing Willis to be immediately overcome, etc. When I detected Willis creeping into my head I had to look the other way and focus on something scary like my half sister. "My Dear Kingsley Amis," I continued. "Sorry to miss dinner at your house but I have to wash my
hair that night."
While addressing My Dear Andrew Davies, demanding information leading to the apprehension of the party or parties authorizing the Harlequinization of my novels, I felt My Jane Austen more intensely than ever. I corresponded briefly with My Dear Lionel Trilling to recommend counseling with an emphasis on sensitivity training. Taking big curves now, audience laughter cushioned the turns. As I roasted My Dear Seth Grahame-Smith, warning him not to travel alone in dark alleys, or for that matter, anyplace it might eventually get dark, like his personal bedroom, I felt as if I had become Jane Austen. She hovered so close to me, and I so close to her, that a sideways glance would not scare her away. I experienced such fusion with My Jane Austen, sensing the words she scribbled on her ivories as if she wrote in my mind. If I let go, her words would come out of my mouth. "My Dear To Whom It May Concern," I said. "Regarding the issue of failing to include slavery and war in my novels, what part of writing about the doings of a few country families do you not understand?" And then it happened; her words came from my mouth. I felt slightly buzzed, as if a dentist's anesthesia had numbed body and soul for my own protection since the words felt different, sharper.
"You are very kind to offer advice as to the sort of composition which I might have undertaken," I said. "I am fully sensible that a historic account of the Napoleonic Wars or Evils of Slavery might have been much more to the purpose of profit or popularity than pictures of domestic life in country villages as I deal in. But I could not sit down to write a serious history under any motive other than to save my life. And if it were indispensable for me to keep it up and never relax into laughing at myself and other people, I am sure I should be hung before finishing the first chapter." The audience sensed the change in the language, condescending. I wished to go back to my own script but I couldn't get there, speeding too fast to change direction without crashing, and I sensed more dangerous terrain ahead.
"My Dear Faculty of Literature Live," she spoke through me. The audience stopped breathing and raised their collective eyebrows. Some looked over at Nigel. "I must thank you dear teachers, for the very high praise you bestow on my novels. I think I may boast myself to be, with all possible vanity, the most unlearned and uninformed female who ever dared to be an authoress. While I am too vain to wish to convince you that you have praised my novels beyond their merit, I must warn that your intellectual endeavors on my behalf have been extolled so highly that future generations shall have the pleasure of being disappointed." Some audience members laughed but they weren't laughing with me anymore; we were out of sync. I'd been abducted, forced to perform. My Jane Austen was showing her true self. Prickly, she suffered no fools and wasn't cutting us any slack now. Her words felt mean, born in pain and subtly intended to inflict the same. I once imagined feeling the sharp end of her pen; now I felt it.
"My Dear Janeites," I said, knowing this was going to be bad, unable to stop because Jane Austen was driving, recklessly. "Why do you insist on another stupid party?" Several people gasped and I sensed a low rumble, unrest in the audience. Would someone please call the police and have me arrested? "Can you conceive that it may be possible to do without dancing entirely? Instances have been known of women passing many, many months successively, without being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue either to body or mind. But when a beginning is made—when the felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly felt—it must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more. Obsession working on a weak head produces every sort of mischief."
No one laughed. I kept my mouth shut to make sure no further damage occurred. I conveyed harsh thoughts to My Jane Austen: How could you use me like this? We were best friends but you've gone too far. Return to my rear periphery and either stay there or go away. If you can't respect boundaries, you need to get help. Nigel's face bore frail amazement. Vera looked stricken. Omar's fist supported his nose, obscuring his expression. Just as I thought things couldn't get much worse, the muffled electronic wail of a cell phone interrupted the horror, the sound originating from the tiny fringed bag on my wrist. The unmistakable ringtone played the first line of Tommy's new song, "I'll Find You," as a rush of panic crashed against my chest. I answered the phone, why not? Perhaps Lionel Trilling was calling to get the last word. "Hullo?" I said. The audience waited, stifling black laughter as I listened to the halting voice.
"Oh, Lord Weston," I said, "I'm so sorry."
The audience hushed, watching intently.
"She's here with me, actually," I said, looking up at Vera. I listened. "Yes, I'll let her know." I nodded and closed my eyes. "I'm so sorry." I powered off the phone and looked at Vera. She sat stiff, prepared for the worst as I spoke the last line of my last one-woman show. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm terribly sorry to be the bearer of bad news," I said. "Lady Weston died early this morning."
Twenty-Four
The memorial service looked more like Masterpiece Theatre than a funeral. Mrs. Russell and the entire corps of volunteers filled our church with their Regency best, thankfully distracted from the insults of my one-woman show. Volunteers who had served tea, sold tickets, and passed out programs over the years, now gathered to celebrate Lady Weston's life. Even the sun presented a robust rendition of its English version—nothing you could fry an egg on—but the cobalt and emerald in the church windows sparkled like tumblers inside a kaleidoscope.
Surrounded by a multitude of glorious hats, I would see nothing unless I stood on the pew. I would miss the first glimpse of Willis when the clergy processed down the aisle. The organ thundered a prelude and my heart beat faster at the immediate prospect of existing in the same room with him. Only here, at the memorial service for a dead woman, would the world come alive for me. Breathing deeply to calm myself, holding his jacket to return to him, I failed to suppress the dangerous hope that he was sorting Philippa out of his life. My anticipation grew and I desperately needed a sign from him to sustain me.
The woman next to me fanned herself with the bulletin as the small assortment of gray-haired Weston relatives filed into reserved seats in the front. The actual funeral had been held elsewhere, making family attendance here optional. Philippa wore black except for the gold purse chain slung over her shoulder; her dark glasses, worn inside the church, compelled her to lean on her brother to avoid running into things. Randolph, in a somber suit, looked like the polished bankers or lawyers that rode the elevators to the upper floors in my old office building.
With a great rustling of fabric, the congregation stood for the opening hymn. I leaned forward for a view of the verger leading the procession, followed by an earnest young acolyte hefting an ornate brass cross, flanked by two torch bearers. Behind them, the small choir followed, and finally the clergy. A star zapped me when Willis entered, the center of the lovely universe; the only one who mattered. I saw the world through him, saw myself through him, and knew I wanted to get in there with him forever.
Music stopped and the priest said, "I am the resurrection and the life." The mighty words resonated. I heard them for the first time. Fear took note and fled the premises, snagging my personal tangle of dread and beating a hasty departure. Once freed, my spirit surged and I met myself in clarity, suddenly unafraid of being alone. I wiped tear-filled eyes with my bare hands until the woman next to me offered a tissue. I turned the pages of the prayer book feeling new and strong. What was so hard about this and why was I only now feeling this lightness? Fresh confidence sustained me all the way through the Great Thanksgiving.
When the time came, I approached the rail for communion, eyes downcast and hands folded, passing the family, including Philippa, without looking at them. Aware that Willis could see me, I knelt at the rail, head bent. If my mother's spirit were here, as Willis had assured me it was, there must be so many others, a great swirling mass of ethereal beings hovering above us like spirits in an Italian Renaissance painting. In their parallel plane of existence, they welcomed the new arrival—Lady Weston—and supported me a
s I knelt. Outwardly, I projected calm, but beneath my composed exterior I harbored the entire heavenly company, their voices joining with angels and archangels in a chorus of eternal forgiveness. I could be free.
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.