Jane, Actually

by Jennifer Petkus

  What most assaulted her eye, however, was the confusion of dress, with styles ranging from the time of several different kings named George and through to the Victorian. And there were some costumes that would never pass muster in any age with a strange artificiality of fabric and colour impossible during her time. She also saw stitching, fit and design unworthy even of her own poor skills as a seamstress and not a few garments that seemed held together with Velcro and pins.

  There were, of course, those participants whose costume and manner were meticulously appropriate to Jane’s time in Bath, but they bothered her even more. They made her realize that when she imagined her corporeal existence, her image was not of her productive and mostly happy years in Chawton, but of their removal to Bath and the first betrayal by her father (the second being his death). Why should my mental image of myself be from that time?

  BertieFromHants says:

  Hello, Jane? Is there something wrong?

  Albert’s question awakened Jane from her reverie.

  JaneAusten3 says:

  I am sorry, I was answering a question from a co-worker. It is unforgivably rude of me.

  BertieFromHants says:

  Then I should allow you to return to work. I don’t want you to get fired for talking to a friend.

  They ended their chat, a much shorter one than usual, with promises to talk again soon, but they did not set a date, which was their custom. Jane was too preoccupied to realize this, especially as the time was approaching for the promenade to begin.

  “We’re about to begin. Are you done updating your blog?” Mary asked.

  “Just finishing.”

  “Ladies and gentleman, if I might have your attention!” boomed Martin, the emcee of the promenade. “We are about to begin and I would like to re-introduce our guest of honour, Miss Jane Austen, who …”

  A polite round of applause interrupted his introduction.

  “… who would like to say a few words.”

  Mary walked to the microphone, offered her hand to the emcee, thanked him, and turned to the crowd.

  “Thank you, Martin, and thank you everyone for celebrating Bath and the Regency and my own contribution to that tempestuous age. I am fair brought back to those days by the sight of you, young and old and from so many parts of the world. I confess, however, that my presence here may be somewhat controversial, even though this festival bears my name. You may know that my opinions of Bath were … somewhat decided …”

  The crowd laughed at this.

  “… and possibly might be described as uncharitable. This city seems to take a positive delight in reminding people of my harsh judgments. But I tell you now that Bath and Jane Austen are inextricably linked and I am honoured that I have been asked to officially open the festival. Please forgive me any of my ill-chosen remarks. I can only say that Bath is now as much my home as is Hampshire and I would like to again thank the Right Worshipful Mayor of Bath for bestowing on me the Long Service Award, for which they needed to create a two hundred years category.”

  Mary again waited for the applause, which was much louder this time.

  “And now I declare, ‘Let the promenade begin.’”

  Mary then put her hand on the emcee’s proffered arm and they left the square and strolled toward York Street.

  All that Mary said, however, was lost on Jane, who continued to brood.

  All lies, Jane thought. When did I learn to lie to so easily? I have gone so far as to pretend that I am editing a young adult vampire novel, although I rather liked the idea of it. Stupid woman! Do not distract yourself. I must tell Albert the truth before the AGM, she resolved, and hurried to stay with Mary and the promenade.

  Albert ended the chat with great misgivings. They had failed to set a date for their next chat in their rushed goodbyes. Jane had seemed reluctant to talk and eager to quit. It was all the more unusual for she had initiated the chat. At first he thought she had some news for him, but then she talked of inconsequentials. And why would a co-worker be asking her a question at six in the morning. True, she might be working unusually early at her office, but why would a co-worker be that early.

  The co-worker might also be disembodied, he thought. Soon he was constructing an elaborate scenario for why she might be at her office so early and the identity of the mysterious co-worker who demanded her attention.

  You’re a fool, Bertie. How can I be jealous of this person I’ve just dreamed up. How can a dead man be jealous of another dead man claiming the affections of a dead woman? It’s ridiculous and you’re just a ridiculous old fool.

  But why does she now conceal her location? he asked. Her AfterNet profile no longer lists her location as New York City and in fact the location heading was missing.

  I should never have suggested we attend the AGM. My offer to pay her registration was too forward. She obviously retains the proprieties of her time when alive and was offended. But then why did she call me?

  But unvoiced in his thoughts was the worry that perhaps Jane had shed those proprieties. After all, what loyalty did a disembodied woman owe a disembodied man?

  Instead he consoled himself that she had never said she wouldn’t attend the AGM, although that immediately invited the thought that she could always attend it but without his company … or in the company of another.

  I could send her an email asking whether my invitation was ill-advised. But he gave up that idea, fearing an answer.

  I will simply send her an email saying that I forgot to ask when we would next chat. That way I put the blame on me.

  1 The ton, or haut ton (also haute ton), is borrowed from the French and during Jane’s lifetime referred to high society, the fashionable

  The Men’s Club

  Stephen chats with his roommates

  Stephen was a little startled when his computer quacked to warn him of the upcoming chat. It should have been no surprise, for he’d been looking forward to it all day, but he was again lost in the inventory from Chawton. The mind-numbing depth of the project had sucked him in and he had found himself following fake leads and clicking on tantalizing links that revealed mundane objects, rather like Catherine Morland finding the laundry list when she had hoped to find evidence of some Gothic intrigue.1

  And so the multiple alarms he had set to remind him of the chat proved providential, and he quit Virtual Chawton and turned to his web browser. He clicked the bookmark he’d saved for the chat and logged into the AfterNet. A look at the clock in the menu bar of his laptop assured him he was still four minutes early but a glance at the number of people in the chat room showed him he was the last to arrive.

  Apparently he was not the only one looking forward to the chat. Almost immediately his future roommates greeted him, their onscreen avatars waving their hands or brandishing their swords or firing signal flares or doffing their hats or whatever they were using to signal their greeting. His avatar, a proper Regency dandy, jauntily twirled his cane in response.

  The background of the chat room resembled a Regency ballroom, and the assembled avatars looked incongruous against the parquet floor, the chandeliers and the plaster reliefs on the walls. All the men chose a military theme, redcoats from the Napoleonic War, one man in the green jacket of a rifleman and another wearing the infamous armour of Henry VIII with the giant codpiece. And a Tommy from the Great War.

  Might we be over compensating here? he thought. Do even literate disembodied men feel a little emasculated for enjoying chick lit?

  The visual was more than a little distracting so he maximized the chat transcript, reducing the animated characters to a thin strip at the top of the browser window.

  BeauAbrams has entered the room

  BeauAbrams says:

  Greetings gentlemen. Glad you could make it.

  He got effusive replies from the men in the room and again the avatars, relegated to the top of the window, signalled their greetings. Stephen felt a little embarrassed that his simple offer to be a roommate to the disembodied
men prompted such gratitude. In fact he hadn’t given his offer much thought; he’d been asked by one of the AGM organizers and readily agreed once he learned his registration would be reduced $50.

  Of course he hadn’t expected to become such friends with the men and if time were money, he’d probably lost the $50 savings and more in the time he spent in his weekly chats with the men and the separate conversations he held with them via email, twitter and facebook. It was almost like getting five uncles who wanted to tell you about their lives and families, but he didn’t mind. His was a small family, so he found a great deal of enjoyment in becoming a favourite nephew.

  All the men except Albert were aged between 50 and 70 when they’d died, and he imagined them all with a twinkle in their eye. They were all white males with a taste for literature and all had been married.

  The oldest among them, based on when he died, was Albert, who was also the youngest when he died at 27 and the man Stephen felt closest too. His avatar was the Tommy.

  BertieFromHants says:

  Ah, the hour produces the man.

  BeauAbrams says:

  I see the party’s in fulls wing. But before we get too far along, I just want to remind everyone to send in your field fingerprint. We’re still missing a few.

  AlanJTimison says:

  Guilty. I’ll send it tomorrow, first thing.

  WalkLikeADuck says:

  Me three. Sorry, I meant to last week. Slipped my mind.

  BeauAbrams says:

  Yes, well you know my terminal will be preset with your fingerprints so …

  AlanJTimison says:

  Yes maam.

  WalkLikeADuck says:

  He’s worse than my wife

  BeauAbrams says:

  And I’m afraid I got bumped off the list for the Regency tea at the woman’s club. I guess they overbooked and they asked if I’d mind skipping it.

  The men—except for Albert—expressed themselves on the subject of tea.

  mikechapman says:

  I was never much of a tea drinker when I was alive.

  WalkLikeADuck says:

  Those little sandwiches couldn’t satisfy me.

  AlanJTimison says:

  Real men don’t trink dea.

  Stephen wondered how genuine was their lack of remorse. Men who’d willingly go to a Jane Austen AGM probably would enjoy tea, but for some reason his past chats with the men had devolved into a bizarre Victorian men’s club with Benny Hill overtones.

  He watched ruefully as the men traded suggestions about substitutes for the tea involving strip clubs, dog racing and a cigar bar. He got a private chat message.

  BertieFromHants has requested a private chat

  BertieFromHants says:

  Sorry Stephen. They seem determined to embarrass you.

  BeauAbrams says:

  That’s OK, Albert. I know they’re just high spirited.

  BertieFromHants says:

  Yes, boys will be boys. I shall try to convince them that you are not a … Jell-O shots sort of person, whatever that is.

  BeauAbrams says:

  That would be appreciated. I know they would have liked to go to the tea. It was my fault for not registering sooner.

  They quit their private chat and Stephen and Albert did their best to sway the men from indulging in fraternity shenanigans. “I will not ride a mechanical bull,” he warned.

  Eventually Stephen promised that he would put his name on the cancellation list for the tea and suddenly their attitude toward the manliness of tea changed.

  mikechapman says:

  well to be sociable I would go

  lastchance says:

  To borrow from Willy Sutton,2 that’s where all the women are. So sure, I guess tea wouldn’t be so bad.

  After this was resolved, the men started swapping stories of their youthful escapades, each story being more outrageous than the previous. After a particularly salacious recount by Alan, Stephen claimed he needed sleep and wished the men good night. He lurked for a time though, trying to follow the various threads of reminiscences.

  They were not the typical image of men interested in Jane Austen. He recalled a former girlfriend who’d been baffled by his love of Jane—“real men don’t read Jane Austen”—but these were fully realized men who liked Jane Austen. They might pretend to a bluff, hearty masculinity, but they were as in love with Jane as he.

  When the topic moved to Jane’s presence at the AGM, it was clear their opinion ran toward a belief that she was the true Jane, and their attitude became worshipful. Their double entendres disappeared to be replaced with speculations of what she might be like and whether she would appear in any of the chat rooms during the AGM.

  He had to admit it was really cute how the men quickly shed their rakish behaviour once they talked about Jane. And then he laughed at how embarrassed the men would be if they’d known he’d called them cute.

  I really need to watch a Bruce Willis film, he thought as he put his computer to sleep and then himself.

  1 You can find this in Chapter 21 of Northanger Abbey

  2 Willie Sutton, a prolific American bank robber, supposedly said, “Because that’s where the money is,” when asked, “Why do you rob banks?”

  Seattle

  The other shoe

  “What do you know about this?” Melody asked as she pushed her laptop toward Mary, who was scooping cream cheese from a little plastic package to schmear onto her toasted bagel. It was a bagel in name only, but habits die hard. They were sitting in the free breakfast room of their hotel, which was almost empty. Jane and Melody had come down earlier and Mary found them conspiring. Mary had had a difficult night’s sleep and was still dragging. Before answering, she took a careful sip of her coffee, but the contents of the pump pot had grown cold.

  “What do I know about what?” She looked at the laptop and saw an article at The Daily Beast: “Jane Austen scholar questions identity of Regency author.”

  “I don’t understand, what is this?” She was confused and still groggy and not quite sure why they seemed unduly concerned. It was unfortunate, of course, but they knew there were some who still didn’t believe Jane was Jane.

  “That’s what we’re asking you,” Melody said.

  “Melody, don’t accuse her. Mary, dear, we just wondered if your Stephen might have given you any idea that Dr Davis felt this way about me.”

  “What? Dr Davis?” She looked more closely at the screen and realized the article was about Stephen’s graduate advisor. “It’s asking a lot to just accept this is the real Jane Austen,” the article quoted her as saying. “There’s no reason to doubt her, of course, but the opaqueness of how the AfterNet certifies identities just leaves one wondering what criteria were used to vet her identity.”

  Mary read the rest of the article and saw that Davis actually gave several reasons why Jane might not be Jane, without coming out and denouncing her.

  “Why would she say this?” Mary asked. “And no, I had no idea she felt this way.”

  She looked up at Melody who was still glaring. “Honestly, I don’t know and I …”

  Her phone stopped her and the ring tone—the latest catchy summer song—indicated the caller was Stephen.

  “Hello,” she said, “Yes, I just saw it. How could … yes, she’s right here, and Melody too. Uh huh … OK.” She activated the phone’s speaker. “Go ahead.”

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Austen. I don’t know why she said those things, but I know she’s been … well she was annoyed by your open letter.” Melody directed an “I told you so” look to Jane. “Somehow she’s gotten it into her head you were talking about her.”

  Unfortunately Jane didn’t quite catch all that Stephen had said; Melody’s terminal having had difficulty recognizing the voice on the phone’s speaker.

  “What did he say?” Jane asked.

  Mary realized the problem and told Jane to switch to her terminal after syncing with her phone, and then she repeated Stephen�
��s remarks.

  “But my letter was not directed to her, Stephen. I have nothing but respect for her.”

  “Did you know she was going to confront Jane?” Melody asked bluntly.

  “No … well, no. Maybe I should have seen it coming. I think a lot of it is resentment. For some reason everyone thinks she was on the AfterNet committee and everyone thinks the decision was unanimous, so she keeps getting interviewed.”

  “Maybe if Jane could meet with Dr Davis and explain …”

  “No Mary, I don’t think that would be wise,” Jane said. “At least not at present. Much of this problem is of my own making. I should have consulted with Melody before I wrote my open letter. Fortunately we now have a publicist who can repair what damage there might be, but perhaps we are flying off the handle. Graciousness should be our tone, don’t you think, Melody?”

  Melody, still glaring at Stephen, as represented by Mary’s phone, was caught off guard. “What? Oh, if you say so Jane.”

  “And Stephen, thank you for your call.” Jane said. “It was kind of you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replied. Recognizing a dismissal, he apologized again and spoke a further few words to Mary privately, and then rang off.

  “I don’t think we can trust him,” Melody said.

  “How can you say that? It was pretty decent of him to call and apologize!” Mary said.

  “It was a very gentleman-like thing to do, I agree,” Jane said soothingly. “But perhaps we should simply exercise prudence. After all, if we say something indiscreet in front of Stephen, then we can hardly blame him if he accidentally divulges it to Dr Davis.”

  Jane was pleased to see Melody and Mary nod. She had said something to which they could both agree and it recalled to her all the times Cassandra had settled or prevented arguments.

  In truth, Dr Davis’s remarks did not overly upset Jane and she was not disposed toward action to remedy them. After having met so many Janeites, signed so many copies and addressed so many groups, she had come to believe that most accepted her as the real Jane Austen. According to their surveys, Melody’s publicity campaign had swung the majority of readers into the “I believe in Jane” camp.