She immediately returned his smile and again Courtney knew he was in luck.
“Yes sir, may I help you? I hope Ariel …”—she made a little face as she pronounced the name—”… has been helpful.”
“Ariel has been a delight,” he said, and shot a smile at Ariel, who hovered behind Doris. He still didn’t get a smile back so he returned his attention to Doris.
“I was hoping, however, that I might ask something out of the ordinary. I’m a writer and I’m doing a book about Jane Austen …”
Bingo! he thought. Doris’s smile at the mention of the author’s name reassured him.
“Our most famous resident,” Doris said, “although she really didn’t like Bath.”
He nodded, wondering why everyone in Bath was always so quick to point that out. It almost seemed a point of pride.
“So I’ve been informed,” he said. “Well, I believe one of the names in this ledger belongs to a friend of Miss Austen’s and I’d like to get a copy of the birth …”
“Well Ariel can help you with that. We can have a copy made for you …”
“So she said, but I’m leaving Bath tomorrow and besides, I’d like something a little more impressive than just a form on letterhead. I was wondering if you’d agree to be photographed holding the ledger open to the appropriate page, and possibly pointing to the entry.”
The request flustered her. “Oh, but that’s very unusual. This is for a book, about Jane Austen?”
“Yes, I think this name here …”—he pointed to the entry—”… I think this person became a good friend of Miss Austen during her time in Bath. And it will be such a surprise when she learns I’ve found a record …”
“You know Miss Austen? You’ve talked with her?” Doris asked, her eyes behind the half-moon progressive lenses now very bright.
“Yes I have,” he lied. “And Robert Gorrell is an important part of my book. So I thought if you could hold the ledger while I take my photo …”
“Oh, but I must look a fright!”
“Doris, you look lovely,” he said, looking directly into her eyes.
Doris blushed prettily and said, “You Americans, you always think flattery will get you anything.”
Behind her, Ariel was getting bored and asked, “Can I get back to my lunch, Doris?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll help Mr …”
“Blake, Court Blake,” he supplied.
“Charmed,” she said and actually giggled. “I suppose I can pose … I mean hold the ledger for you.”
“Great,” he said, and instructed her to stand with the ledger facing outward, with her finger pointing at the entry.
He stood back a little and took several photos and then transferred one of the pictures to a USB thumb drive.
“Those were great,” he told her and tried to show her the picture on the LCD screen of the camera, but she refused to look.
“Oh I never look at photos of myself. It would utterly destroy my self image.”
“But why, you look lovely,” he told her, and he meant it. He dropped his hand on hers, still resting on the ledger. She had to look away from the intensity of his gaze and he took the opportunity to get what he really wanted.
“Do you think you could print out one of those copies for me now, Doris?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
“And maybe you could add the spelling of your name, for the cutline in the book.”
“Of course,” she said, delighted her picture would appear in the book.
“As a matter of fact, could I use your printer to print a copy of the photo I just took, and maybe you could sign that as well.” He handed her the thumb drive.
“I don’t know how …” she said, confused at his request and also the process of printing directly from the thumb drive. But he recognized the printer model that stood behind the counter and directed her through the process of inserting the thumb drive, specifying the photo and printing it out.
Then he asked her to sign the photo and date it, which she did with a stamp kept behind the counter.
“And lastly Doris, could I have your phone number?”
This request surprised her more than his one for the print out.
“Why do you need that for your book?” she asked sharply, her suspicion suddenly aroused.
“As I said, I’m leaving Bath tomorrow, which means tonight I’m free.”
From around the corner, he thought he heard the sound of Ariel voicing an exaggerated sound of disgust.
1 Cassandra burned many of her sister’s letters
First Impressions
Jane meets the improbably named Mary Crawford
Mary waited nervously, now the next person in line in a hallway that seemed full of women very much like her. They were all of an average or just above average height, all had brown hair of moderate length but which they all, except for Mary, wore up and most had brown or hazel eyes. Two were in costume. Most were also reading with rapt concentration Jane Austen novels, predominantly Pride and Prejudice. Mary was an exception, knowing little about Jane Austen except for a dim recollection of reading her in high school. She hadn’t even thought of reading any of the novels when she was told she should audition to be the dead novelist’s avatar.
Her lack of resolve could partly be attributed to her disinterest in Jane Austen but mostly because she frankly didn’t give a damn whether she got the role. Since she’d applied to be an avatar she’d had the talk with one of her teachers where she learned that not being suited to be an actor was not a personal failing but simply a mismatch of desire and ability. She was considering leaving school and going back home and so really didn’t need to land a role as an avatar, except for those outstanding debts she ought to address before leaving the city.
But the single-minded concentration of the other women auditioning did make her wonder whether she should have at least tried to remember something about the English novelist. The woman third in line was reading Mansfield Park, a unique choice among the group, but lying at her feet was a dog-eared paperback of Pride and Prejudice.
“Excuse me, do you mind if I look at your book, the one on the floor,” she asked the duplicate of herself.
“Huh? No, help yourself,” the woman said after a distracted glance at her questioner.
Mary reached down to pick up the book, then had to retrieve the half of the book and several individual pages that were no longer attached to the cover. That cover caught her eye as it depicted a young woman with dark black hair and sparkling eyes, younger than herself she thought, and wearing a bonnet that somehow appeared attractive, and also wearing an almost military looking jacket over a thin white gown. The artist, for it appeared to be a painting or at least made to look like a painting, had captured a woman of intelligence and some little mischief—a woman sure of herself and appearing not to have anything at all in common with Mary.
She would be fun to play, Mary thought. She turned the book over and saw from the description that the character had to be Elizabeth Bennet, the heroine. The back cover also displayed a painting of the author—really more of a sketch, apparently done by her sister.1 Mary looked at the painting, which showed an unpleasant face, two parentheses bracketing a tight mouth and a long nose. She looked off to her right and her arms were crossed. She seemed to be sitting in judgment over something and the phrase “the suspicion that someone, somewhere is having fun”2 came to her mind.
She turned back to the cover and saw the painting of Elizabeth and couldn’t reconcile the two images. Did her sister hate her? she wondered. Or maybe her sister wasn’t a very good painter? Or maybe she got kind of grumpy in her old age?
She opened the book to the foreword, which surprisingly wasn’t written by a scholar of whom she’d ever heard but by Garrison Keillor,3 whom she knew from public radio.
It’s a mystery why we keep reading the works of an English spinster who died almost two hundred years ago and wrote of silly, little things like friendship and marriage an
d love. She didn’t write about great intrigues or famous people, but she’s never been out of print since 1832 so she must have found a way of finding the importance of silly little things. After all, silly little things remain the same while big important things change all the time.
I guess it’s similar to the mystery of why anyone would listen to a grumpy Midwesterner talk about silly, little things like marriage and love … and Ole and Lena jokes. To many people my voice on the radio probably seems as dusty and ancient as the words of that good woman from Hampshire, which is probably why the folks at Penguin Books thought I’d be a good choice to write this foreword, a task usually left to even dustier academic voices.
But as I write this amid all the news about the afterlife being real and provable and the possibility that maybe someday we’ll get to talk to Jane Austen herself …
“Miss Crawford, you’re up.” A man even younger than herself, holding a clipboard, was standing in front of her. He was smiling and motioning her to follow him, but for a second she found herself rooted to the spot. Reading Keillor’s words suddenly made seem very important the role for which she was auditioning.
Finally she stood, nodded at the young man and followed him as he led her through a sea of cubicles and then into a corner office.
. . .
Jane looked up as this newest applicant entered the office. Despite her initial misgivings, she found herself enjoying the experience of essentially shopping for a new body. She’d never, at least in a modern sense, gone shopping before. She’d lived in a time before ready-made clothes, where usually you picked materials after seeing illustrations showing a dress design, or if you were lucky, dressmaker’s dolls displaying the fashion. Afterward, you either found a woman in the village to make the dress for you, made it yourself or if you could afford it and lived in London or Bath, paid a dressmaker’s shop to make it. But rarely could you try things “off the rack.”
But now young women were parading before her and she had the luxury of admiring their fashion, their poise and most importantly their looks. In fact she had wanted to select the first applicant, a tall stunning beauty of auburn hair, ample bosom and striking blue eyes—much to the apoplexy of her agent.
“Jane, you can’t pick her!” Melody said, after the applicant had left.
“Why not?”
“She looks nothing like you. She has blue eyes, for Christ’s sake. And she’s stacked and taller than Shaq.”4
“And how do you know how I looked?”
“Your sister’s portrait.”
Jane groaned silently. That damn portrait. She must as a good sister defend Cassandra’s skill as an artist, but that damn, awful portrait.
“It was a sketch, nothing more. Cassie always said she’d …” Jane stopped, realizing that she was whining. “I was considered tall.”
Melody snorted, which Jane could not hear but suspected. “You were considered tall for a woman in the 1800s. That girl was a gigantor. You can’t just buy the first dress you try on. After all, your public has an image of you …”
“But I don’t like that image. I don’t want to be a 41-year-old spinster anymore.”
“You don’t have to be. But you can’t be Xena,5 Warrior Princess either.”
The reference was lost on Jane but a quick search on YouTube showed her the absurdity of Melody’s comparison, and also showed Jane the absurdity of her preference. So she remained largely noncommittal as the other candidates entered and left, keeping her notes to herself. Then Mary Crawford entered.
But then she stopped, momentarily ignoring the proffered hand of Mr Pembroke, and instead stared outward through the large windows of Mr Pembroke’s office. Jane too looked out through the windows and saw the breath-taking view toward Central Park and thought how especially wonderful New York City could appear on a bright sunny day. Miss Mary Crawford—and suddenly Jane realized the import of the name—was the first applicant to appreciate the view.
“Miss Crawford?” Mr Pembroke asked, breaking the spell the view had on the young lady. She started, then smiled and shook hands with Mr Pembroke and Melody, and then was introduced to Jane.
“Miss Crawford, I’d like you to meet Miss Jane Austen,” Mr Pembroke said. He suddenly looked surprised and said, “I just realized … Mary Crawford!”
He laughed and after a second was joined by Melody.
“Jane,” she said, “that’s a coincidence. Wait, that is your real name isn’t it?”
Mary had no idea to what Melody referred but she realized that her name obviously had some association with the author.
“Yes, it’s my real name,” she said, trying to project confidence that she appreciated the coincidence.
“Mary Crawford was an enjoyable character to write, but I hope you don’t share her faults,” Jane said.
Mary heard the words come from a speaker attached to what looked like a smartphone. She assumed it was a portable AfterNet terminal through which the author was speaking. There was an empty chair immediately next to the terminal.
“Miss Austen? Excuse me, where are you?”
“I am in the chair before you. Forgive me, you seem somewhat uncomfortable. Please have a seat.”
Mary took the seat Mr Pembroke offered.
“Do I detect that you are as new to the role of an avatar as I am to the need for one?” Jane asked, although she knew from the information provided by the agency that Mary had yet to play the part of an avatar. She was being considered primarily because of her appearance and her considerable ability to interface with an AfterNet field.
“Yes, I am new to this. I’ve met other disembodied people of course, but …”
This was a partial lie. Mary had corresponded with a few disembodied people online, but had never met one in person … so to speak.
“But talking to an empty chair is disconcerting, I understand. And you have shown me how important it is that I employ an avatar for my upcoming book tour.”
“I’m sorry,” Mary said nervously, understanding how wrong it would be for someone so untried to expect such an opportunity. “I think maybe it would be better if you interview the next candidate.”
She made to rise.
“Please, Miss Crawford, have I offended you in some way?”
The question disconcerted Mary.
“No, of course not. I think it’s the other way round. I mean you’re Jane Austen and I’m just some schlub6 who doesn’t know the first thing about you auditioning to play you, well more than play you, but be you. Most of the women out there have their noses in your books and I didn’t even think to look you up.”
“You don’t know who Jane Austen is?” Melody asked, alarmed.
“Well, yes, I do know who she is. I read her in high school, but that’s about it. I don’t think it qualifies me to be you.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that.” Jane said. “By the bye, do you even know the significance of your name, why we find it so surprising?”
Mary was ashamed to say, “No, I do not.”
“She is a character in Mansfield Park, and I enjoyed creating her almost as much as I did Emma,” Jane said. “Mary Crawford, my Mary Crawford, was a person who could behave well, even generously when it did not cost her anything or to be fair, even when it did not benefit her. She was in her own way genuinely a friend to poor, drab Fanny. But she also treated Fanny as a plaything, but then so did I. Sadly my Mary Crawford never had the conviction to choose happiness over status.”
Mary laughed. “I know someone like that.” She thought of her brother, the fair-haired child of her family. She noticed that Mr Pembroke and the agent, whose name she forgot, were waiting for her to elucidate.
“Oh, my brother,” Mary supplied. “Your Mary Crawford sounds like my brother.”
“Don’t tell me his name is Henry,” Melody said.
“Uh no, it’s Nathan. I guess Henry Crawford’s also in Mansfield Park?”
“Yes he is and he’s a thoroughly rott
en scoundrel,” Jane said.
“Who was also a lot of fun to write, I’ll bet?”
“Oh yes, quite fun. Now, Miss Crawford, perhaps you might tell me something of yourself despite your complete and utter lack of suitability for the role of yours truly.”
Mary allowed herself to relax, dropping her shoulders and sitting back in her chair slightly, but careful not to slump. Somehow she had the impression that Jane Austen never slumped. For some reason, perhaps because she needed to talk, she revealed more of herself than she ought. Her words came in a torrent.
She spoke of her upbringing in Ohio; of her mother, a Briton who had grown up in Hounslow, which Mary rightly believed to be a London suburb—“I knew a very pretty young girl from Hounslow” mused Mr Pembroke; of her decision to become an actor despite her diffidence—“a young lady who leaves home and moves to New York City must have some confidence,” said Jane; and of her partiality to musicals, including West Side Story—which occasioned Mary and Melody to relate the plot to Jane, with musical accompaniment that sadly the terminal interpreted as “unintelligible.”
Mary found herself enjoying the interview, but it was finally interrupted by a knock at the door and an assistant informing them that there were still many candidates waiting in the hallway.
“Thank you for taking the time to come today, Miss Crawford,” Jane said.
“Yes, it was very nice meeting you and we’ll let you know soon if we’ll need you to come back,” Melody said.
“Good day to you, Miss Crawford,” Mr Pembroke said with finality.
Mary thanked them all in turn and was led out of the office by yet another assistant and within a few minutes found herself out on the street looking up at 1745 Broadway.7 She felt adrift after having made a connection with Melody, Mr Pembroke and most of all Jane Austen. She could have sworn it had been going so well but then they had hustled her out so quickly and efficiently, like a trapdoor had opened and dropped her body to the river below. She shrugged her shoulders and walked back to her subway stop and again contemplated that New York City and her dream of acting were to be consigned to the past.
Jane, Actually Page 7
