Jane, Actually

by Jennifer Petkus

  “You hated Bath.”

  “Once. You should know by now that I can no longer be defined by my words or actions from when I was alive.”

  “Do you have a disembodied person with you?” their driver suddenly asked.

  “What? Oh, yes I do,” Mary confessed. “Is there a problem?”

  “Course not. I just like to know who my passengers are. I don’t want to close the door on anyone or leave someone locked inside. So which one of you is Jane Austin?”

  “She is, I mean we are,” Mary said. “Actually I’m Mary Crawford, but I’m her avatar, so it would be good if you think of us both as Jane.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “You’re American, right?” Mary asked.

  “Better than. I’m Canadian, so don’t worry, I’ll make sure I call you Jane Austin outside the cab. You’re not my first avatar.”

  “Thanks Tony, and that’s Austen with an ‘E.’”

  1 Kensington is a town and district of west and central London, within the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. It is home to many foreign embassies, Harrods department store and, of course, Kensington Palace. Neither the Ritz nor Savoy hotels are in Kensington.

  2 Alton is a small town nearby the smaller village of Chawton

  Walkabout

  Jane feels restless

  “Jane, it’s almost midnight. Don’t you think it’s a little late to start your night-time wanderings?” Mary said this while preparing for bed, thoroughly knackered from the flight. She had exaggerated; it was only 10 pm, but Jane was understandably bored, especially after watching Mary nap for three hours immediately after checking in.

  “I’m sorry, Mary, I am more than a little anxious tonight and would like the night air to settle me.”

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  “No, nothing more than the usual worries of an old ghost. Perhaps it is this city that affects me.”

  “OK, you will be careful. You know Melody wouldn’t approve of this. What if you get trapped somewhere?”

  “I am quite capable of looking after myself and have done so …”

  “I know, for two hundred years. OK, suit yourself.” Mary opened the door and waited for Jane to leave.

  “The fire door in the lobby hallway will be closed at this hour as well. I am afraid you will need to open that for me,” Jane said. She’d naturally observed all the exits when they’d arrived, not eager to find herself stuck in a stairwell.

  “OK.” Mary found her coat and put it on over her T-shirt, made sure she had her room card and walked out the door.

  She looked around and saw no one and in her bare feet she went down the stairs and walked the short distance to the fire door. She opened it for Jane.

  “When will you be back?”

  “I shall return at eight. These doors should be open by then. Have a good night, Mary.”

  “’Night Jane.”

  Mary stood for a minute with the door open and then allowed it to close and returned to her room.

  Jane travelled the hallway and into the lobby. Naturally the night receptionist didn’t look up when she entered. She suddenly realized that she could not leave the lobby without someone to open the front doors.

  I haven’t made a mistake like this in some time, she thought. I’ve become too accustomed to having a living companion.

  She now regretted her earlier self congratulation about checking the exits, but as she walked toward the reception desk, she caught an AfterNet field and realized it was her way to communicate to the receptionist. A cheerful “Welcome to the Park International Hotel” message was immediately triggered, followed by another message that said, “The following information is meant for the site developer for debugging purposes. Error Occurred While Processing Request. Corrupt table.”

  Then she noticed the sign on the front desk that said, “Oops, our AfterNet server is down. The nearest public terminal is in the Sainsbury’s.”1

  No matter. Surely someone will leave or arrive and I can escape. But she waited fifteen minutes before the front doors opened to admit a returning hotel guest. She raced for the opening and just missed being caught as the doors closed behind her. She found herself on the sidewalk and glided in the direction of the Gloucester Road tube station.

  Traffic was still busy on the Cromwell Road but of course for Jane it was all silence. She could imagine the sounds of the people as they walked by but she could not imagine what motorized traffic must sound like. She could only guess that cars and trucks must be louder than the carriages she knew. She had never actually heard a self-powered mechanical device such as a steam engine, which she thought would be the closest equivalent in her time.

  She moved quickly for she knew that because of planned disruptions—she did have the sense earlier to check the Transport for London website—service on the Circle and District lines would end about a quarter to eleven.

  She thought she made it to the Gloucester Road station in good time but still worried, so she flew through the turnstiles and down the stairs to the platform and luckily found a District Line train just arriving. Only a handful of people left the train and only three people got on, and none into the car she had chosen. She marvelled at the lack of crowding, which she could only attribute to it being Monday.

  The train remained still almost a full minute, however, with the doors still open. She began to worry that service had ended when finally the doors closed and the train began to move.

  Her car contained only five passengers and so she had plenty of room to herself and could ride in comfort to Westminster station. She was able to exit without difficulty. Even riding up the escalators was easy.

  Because of her recent efforts at writing something fresh, she thought of the young woman she’d followed to the Cabinet War Rooms all those years ago and wondered if it were possible to visit the attraction.

  Mary lay in bed, wondering how much trouble Jane might get in. It’s true she could have refused to open the door, but Mary worked for Jane, not Melody. She was more frightened of Melody, but Jane was the one who could fire her.

  Although good luck getting an avatar by tomorrow. And say goodbye to all the publicity photos we’ve taken. I guess I have a little more leverage than I thought. Damn, I shouldn’t have let her go out on her own. But it’s not like I could have tailed her. Ah crap, I should have put my foot down.

  The real reason she was upset had nothing to do with being blamed. She was just worried about Jane on her own. There were always stories about the disembodied going missing or being trapped in a closet or a bathroom for days or weeks—or in a storage room for months or years.

  She’s survived on her own without my help for a very long time. She’ll be fine.

  She got up from the bed and retrieved the remote from the little writing desk. Despite Jane’s disparagement, the hotel on Cromwell Road was quite nice. It was actually three merged Georgian row houses. She thought it looked very grand and imposing from the outside, but inside their room was miniscule. Jane joked it must have been servants’ quarters, although as it was on the British first floor, that was unlikely. The bed was so large and the room so narrow that you could only get to the other end of the room by crawling over the bed, making sure to avoid the flat screen television that hung on the wall at the foot of the bed. She wondered how the maid ever changed the linens.

  But the room was immaculate and obviously just renovated. After she opened the window, by clambering over the bed, she heard the sounds of Kensington, not too different from the noise of Brooklyn. She turned on the telly, too worried about Jane to sleep.

  She found a documentary about Morris dancers, whatever those were, an episode of Law and Order, the UK version, a bizarre quiz show that didn’t seem to have a point or any logic to the scoring, something called Horrible Histories that seemed to be mock music videos about historic figures (because of Jane, she was actually able to appreciate the four Georges), and finally …

  “… lined up around the bl
ock at this Waterstones.2 Excuse me, might I have a word?”

  Mary saw the Sky TV reporter approaching a woman wearing Regency costume camped outside a bookstore somewhere in London.

  “I see you’re in the proper attire, so you must be waiting for it to go on sale.”

  “Yes, I’ve been here since seven and I can’t wait to get my copy.”

  “What’s so special about it?”

  “It’s the first Jane Austen in two hundred years. Do you know how many times I’ve read Pride and Prejudice? I don’t because I stopped counting after the tenth. To have a new Jane Austen is Christmas and my birthday and the Queen’s Birthday all wrapped up in one.”

  “And that’s the scene here on Piccadilly, Steve. At least they’ll have a pleasant night, but it will be a long time until morning and the new Jane Austen novel goes on sale.”

  The camera pulled back and Mary could see the long line of people outside the store. Then they switched back to the studio and the newsreader.

  “Well, certainly a lot of interest in the new novel, thank you Barbara. And the book launch party tomorrow has turned into the social event of the literary world, with politicians, actors and pop stars and yes, even other authors, all trying …”

  Mary turned off the television.

  I knew it was going to be like this. The agency and Melody prepared me for it. I can handle it. Oh God, why did I ever let her leave?

  1 Sainsbury’s is a UK grocery store chain

  2 Waterstones is a UK bookseller chain

  In her own hand

  “Yes, very providential”

  Courtney waited nervously in the reception area, tapping his foot against the metal leg of the coffee table in front of him. The only other person in the reception area, a sharp-looking woman with her black Louis Vuitton bag on the couch next to her, coughed and glanced sharply at him. He stopped kicking the leg and smiled weakly at her. She did not return his smile.

  “Mr Blake,” he heard his name called and looking up saw the appraiser approaching him with his hand already outstretched.

  “I’m so sorry you were kept waiting,” Mr Handy said solicitously. “I should have been called the instant you arrived.”

  Mr Handy’s manner caught the attention of the sharp-looking woman, who now wondered if Courtney were someone important after all.

  “Not at all Mr Handy, I’ve only been waiting a few minutes,” Courtney said in a voice directed to the woman.

  “Call me Jim, call me Jim. Let’s go back to my office. I think I have some exciting news for you.” Courtney followed Handy after tossing another smile at the woman, who this time returned it.

  Handy ushered Courtney into his office and then closed the door. He urged Courtney to sit and then sat across from him in one of the two client chairs in front of his desk. He leaned forward eagerly to talk.

  “All the lab work is done and it’s all good news. The paper of the letter is genuinely from the time period, although the margin of error and Miss Austen’s life span isn’t much different. The ink is of the period as well and all the handwriting analysis … it’s in her hand; there’s no doubt.

  “I’m sorry the letter doesn’t address the topic you’d expected, however.”

  Courtney nodded. He’d already come to terms with the knowledge that the letter had nothing to do with Jane’s time in Lyme Regis.

  “It’s a disappointment, but obviously it’s still … well it’s still pretty revealing about Jane’s temper,” Courtney said.

  “I agree. It’s amazing to have a new Austen document, regardless. I’m more partial to the Brontës myself, but I can understand what it would mean to Janeites. Of course the content … well, that’s your business.

  “Needless to say we’re very excited and when Mrs Westerby should bring this to market …”

  “Yes, well that’s not decided yet. And the journal?”

  “That’s more difficult. Despite being in boxes, those papers are in much worse condition. The pages are quite brittle and stuck together. You really shouldn’t have opened the box. And unless we know that you definitely mean to bring those to sale … it would be a considerable expense to converse and authenticate those.”

  “So you can’t say whether the journal is … genuine.”

  “All I can say is that the undoubted authenticity of the one … makes one hopeful. We’re able to read a few of the pages of the journal … here’s a report,” Mr Handy said, sliding it to Courtney. He looked them over eagerly.

  “It’s a diary,” Courtney said, “of her married life to Harris Bigg-Wither.”

  “So it would seem, but again, this is only three pages of what we expect to be about 350.”

  “This is … it’s just amazing. But the cost of restoration and authentication … what is your estimate?”

  Silently Mr Handy handed Courtney another piece of paper.

  “Oh my,” he said.

  But sensing a potential sale slipping through his fingers, Mr Handy quickly added, “The authenticators are reasonably certain the despatch boxes were used by the Ministry of Defence during the war, possibly by military intelligence. That adds an air of mystery that should affect the sale price. And as it would be part of a larger Jane Austen collection … well your Mrs Westerby could find herself quite rich. Mind you we don’t exactly know how the identification of Jane Austen will affect the price. She’s got a book coming out this week in fact.”

  “Today, actually,” Courtney said.

  “Yes, very providential,” Mr Handy added.

  Feeling silly

  Pursuing a girl

  Albert closed the window and his newly purchased copy of Sanditon disappeared. He honestly did not know what to think. Austen’s unfinished novel had been a favourite of his because he’d read it so late in his afterlife. Being an unfinished work, it had been difficult to find someone reading it over whose shoulder he could peer; consequently he’d never had the opportunity to read it uninterrupted until the birth of the AfterNet. He could never make it past chapter two and Jane had only written about eleven chapters before her death.

  So the incomplete story had become a favourite both because it had been elusive and because once he’d finally read it, it seemed so full of possibility. He’d often wondered what Austen’s intent had been. Would Charlotte Heywood, from whose viewpoint the story was related, prove to be the heroine? and would romance be her reward?

  Upon finishing this completed Sanditon, he could not honestly say whether either of those questions had been answered. It ended so abruptly (for Austen) and the ending was so pregnant with possibilities that he was overwhelmed with emotions and questions. He was reminded of his wife telling him that he would be a father—for a second time had stopped, his legs had left him and he’d been unable to speak for half a minute.

  He certainly had not anticipated, that like Emma, Charlotte would be a matchmaker, or that unlike Emma, she would prove to be quite a capable one. Nor had he anticipated that Lady Denham should get her just deserts. He could not recall any of Austen’s villains ever getting their comeuppance, although the humour of Lady Denham’s downfall took some of its sting.1

  Humour, in fact, was the hallmark of the completed Sanditon, he realized. Austen’s previous novels breathed with humour, of course, but in this story it was a ever present ocean breeze that swept and swirled around every character and every character’s folly. That they were such laughable creations made them all the more endearing.

  He so much wanted to discuss the novel with his Jane, but she had of late been rather uncommunicative and some of his emails had gone unanswered, which was very unlike her.

  Not for the first time he wondered about her and also not for the first time did he worry about those details he knew or thought he knew about her. She had become more and more important to him since their first meeting four years ago, when they had argued on some forum: he defending Edward Ferrars in Sense and Sensibility and she ridiculing Edward’s passivity.

&nbs
p; He lost his temper, he now admitted, and he recalled how like an Austen character he called her an “insufferable woman,” a phrase that made him smile and realize that it was he who had overreacted. All her arguments had been calm and reasoned while he argued with emotion. He sought her out and apologized and they had become fast friends. She later admitted that her regard for Edward was not reflected in her arguments. She liked Edward in general, but did not wholly condone his character.

  All this was new to Albert, this dissection of Austen. He had enjoyed Austen since his discovery of her while in hospital. His memory was that he held Persuasion in his hands as he drew his last breath, and that he died without the knowledge of the reunion of Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth. It was not until two years later that he could confirm their happiness and it was one of the few joys he could remember from those dark days.

  It was understandable then, that his enjoyment of Austen was uncritical. She gave him joy and beauty at a time when he languished in the hell of the trenches and finally as he lay dying in the influenza wards. And over the decades, he had reread those six novels whenever he found someone enjoying them. He recalled the joy of finding someone reading Austen for the first time and enjoying her; and the misery of some dull elf2 reading her who did not understand her and did not appreciate her beauty.

  And so he was her champion, but he quickly found himself no match against a skilled opponent who might dismiss her as a romance novelist or a creator of simplistic plots that had only the inconsequential goal of marrying young girls of moderate means to slightly older men of substantial means.

  It was those insights he most desired now. What does she think of Charlotte emulating Emma? Does she agree that Sidney Parker is unsuitable? He decided to send his Jane another email, feeling foolish at this point in his life to be pursuing a girl.