Jane, Actually

by Jennifer Petkus

  “That would raise a stink too. No, we have to defuse this now. I’m afraid I let this get out of hand. I should have been on top of it.”

  “It is not your fault,” Jane said. “Dr Davis has made up her mind that I am an impostor. Past a certain point, it is impossible to change a person’s belief.”

  “But what kind of proof does she have to make an accusation like this?” Mary asked.

  “It doesn’t matter. I can only assume that being a scholar, Dr Davis believes she has credible reason to discredit me. Melody, has the nature … the format of this meeting been decided?”

  “Yes, Davis wants to make her accusations in front of witnesses—I’ve asked Alan if he can be here as well—and she wants it recorded. And when she ends up humiliated, she agrees not to say anything during her break out session.”

  “And what if I’m humiliated?” asked Jane. “And by that, I am not confessing that I am an impostor. I merely posit the possibility that she has evidence I cannot refute.”

  Mary and Melody looked at where they imagined Jane to be.

  “We stand by you, Jane,” Melody said. “My faith in you remains, since that first query letter you sent me. I got a shiver down my back that day and I’ve never lost that feeling.”

  Mary said, “And I’ve shared a room with you and been your voice for nine months. You’re a decent and honourable person and I believe in you and … and being you is a privilege I hope I have for a long time to come.”

  “Thank you both. You make me realize that Jane Austen is more than just one person. It requires the work of three.”

  1 This was actually an enjoyable breakout session at the AGM

  2 In Pride and Prejudice, Lydia Bennet was fond of playing lottery tickets, a card game of no skill and well suited to the silly, youngest Bennet sister

  Showdown

  Jane confronts her accuser

  Melody walked back and forth within the confines of the small conference room the hotel had provided for their confrontation with Dr Davis.

  “She’s making me nervous,” Mary said to Jane, silently.

  “Allow her her pacing.” Jane replied. “It is preferable to her tapping her teeth.”

  “Ugh. I hate that. How about you? Are you OK?”

  Jane decided to put a brave face on it. “Please do not worry about me. Being dead makes one philosophic. What’s the worst that could happen? But I admit I do worry about the reputation of … and do not be alarmed if I slip into the third person … I worry about the reputation of Jane. I would rather relinquish my claim if I could avoid the ignominy of an argument before the members here assembled.”

  “You’re not giving up are you? I meant what I said before. I can’t imagine not representing you, for as long as you’ll let me.”

  “I will do what is necessary …”

  The door opened, stopping Melody’s pacing and interrupting Jane. Ajala Johnsson and Cindy Wallace entered, both looking troubled. They were about to close the door behind them when Alan Pembroke entered.

  “Alan!” Melody cried. “You made it.”

  “Of course. I couldn’t let you deal with this on your own. You need moral support. Mary, how are you? And Jane?”

  Mary quickly put Jane on speaker.

  “Thank you for coming, Alan,” Jane’s voice said. “It is a terrible imposition on your time.”

  “You’re really my only author, Jane. I couldn’t possibly stay away. But who are these ladies?” he asked. He beamed at them in his Uncle Gardiner way and they cast aside their dour looks.

  “Alan Pembroke, with Random House. I know you, Ms Johnsson, from my JASNA newsletter. And you must be …”

  “Cindy Wallace, the regional coordinator for North Texas.”

  “Good to meet you. Sorry it must be under contentious circumstances, but we’ll soon sort this out.”

  The women nodded in agreement, a little flustered by his attention and his seeming implication they would sort things in Jane’s favour.

  “Er, perhaps you should remove those buttons,” he observed, and vaguely pointed. “It might unnecessarily antagonize Dr Davis.” They both looked down at their “I Believe in Jane” buttons in surprise, and then hurriedly removed them.

  The door opened again and admitted Stephen Abrams.

  “What are you doing here?” Mary demanded. He paused in the doorway, uncertain what to do.

  “I asked him to attend,” Jane explained. “I believe him to be blameless in all this, as he has tried to explain to you. He had the good sense to contact me and may truly be a third party. After all, he has fallen out of favour with Dr Davis and you certainly do not care for him.”

  Ms Johnsson and Ms Wallace understandably were confused by this exchange and also unnerved by Jane’s digitized voice. To date, all their transactions with the famous author had been with Mary or with Jane via email. To hear her flat, digitized voice was disturbing.

  Mr Pembroke approached Stephen and offered his hand. “Alan Pembroke. I have no idea who you are, but Jane seems to vouch for you.”

  “Uh, nice to meet you. Stephen Abrams. Dr Davis is my graduate advisor.”

  “Oh. That puts you between a rock and a hard place, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I guess it does.” He turned to address Mary. “Look, I really knew nothing about this. You’ve got to believe me.”

  “Time for that later, young man,” Mr Pembroke observed. Stephen had left the door open and standing in the doorway were Alice Davis and Courtney Blake. As in a Western movie trope, all conversation in the room had stopped and everyone was staring at the new arrivals.

  “Dr Davis, please come in,” Ms Johnsson said with a hesitant smile. Her words broke the impasse and Alice and Courtney entered.

  “Dr Davis, I think you know Cindy Wallace, the North Texas regional coordinator.”

  “We’ve talked,” Alice said, and curtly nodded to Ms Wallace.

  “And you are …” Ms Johnsson said to Courtney, unsure who the man was.

  “Courtney Blake,” he supplied. “You may have read my book, The Real Jane Austen.”

  “I haven’t had the … pleasure yet,” Ms Johnsson said, frostily. She then introduced them to Mr Pembroke.

  “So glad you could come,” he said, as if he’d invited them to dinner. He shook hands with Alice and tried to hide his wince occasioned by her firm grip. Then he turned to Courtney. “I’m afraid I’m unaware of your involvement in this, Mr Blake.”

  “He’s with me,” Alice said, as if that explained it all.

  Courtney coughed and said, “Actually I’m the one who found the documents.”

  “What documents?” Mr Pembroke asked.

  He was about to offer further information but was stopped by a cold look and a question from Alice: “And where is Miss Austen?”

  Mary almost spoke up but remembered Jane wanted to be on her own for this.

  “I am directly before you, Dr Davis. I appreciate your coming and allowing us to resolve this privately,” Jane said.

  Alice was unfazed at Austen’s “voice,” but Courtney took a half step back.

  “I make no promise to keep this private. In fact, events outside my control will make it very public.”

  “Well, that’s as may be. Now may I introduce my avatar, Mary Crawford.”

  Mary stepped forward and extended her arm. They shook hands quickly. “You should be taller,” Alice said, and her eyes dismissed Mary.

  “Is that video camera working?” Alice suddenly asked, and pointed to a camera on a tripod in a corner of the room.

  Ms Johnsson responded, “Not yet, I’ll turn it on, if you insist.”

  “Perhaps … Stephen, would you mind filming what will transpire here?”

  Stephen was taken aback by the request from his mentor. He felt like she was trying to make him a party to her accusations.

  “That’s an excellent suggestion,” Jane said. “Would you be so kind, Mr Abrams?”

  Stephen nodded his agreement
after some hesitation. Ms Johnsson then took the camera from the tripod and gave him some quick instructions.

  Once the camera was recording, Alice continued. “We can resolve this in a matter of minutes, if Miss Austen can simply identify a certain document and give a brief description—just an outline—of what the document is about. “

  “You’ve found an Austen manuscript?” Cindy Wallace asked.

  “I found it,” Blake answered. He put his messenger bag on the conference table and took out an accordion file. From the file, he extracted a photograph of a piece of yellowed paper. A ruler in the photograph showed that the paper was small, about four by five inches. The two JASNA woman stood and gasped.

  “Journal of Jane Bigg-Wither,” Stephen read softly.

  “Please point the camera at the document, Stephen,” Alice instructed him.

  “What the hell is this?” Melody demanded.

  “That’s for Miss Austen to tell us,” Alice said.

  “I have never seen this before, Dr Davis.”

  “And yet it’s in your own hand.”

  “Prove that,” Melody said.

  “It’s already proven,” Alice said. “Court, show them the Sotheby’s report.”

  He produced another item from the accordion file. Everyone could see it was written on letterhead bearing the name of the London auctioneers and appraisers. Stephen grabbed the report and began studying it.

  “According to Sotheby’s it’s written in Austen’s hand,” he said, “and they should be familiar with it, as they just sold The Watsons. It’s also written on paper and with ink authentic to the period.”

  While he was saying this, the camera was untrained and Alice quietly reached out to point the camera back toward the document.

  “That is as may be, but I am still unfamiliar with this,” Jane said. “I admit that appears to be my handwriting, but I most certainly did not write it.”

  “I think I’ve proved my point,” Alice said.

  Stephen objected: “Excuse me, but you haven’t proven anything.” He trained the camera on his mentor. “Miss Austen says she didn’t write it and this report only says they can’t prove it isn’t genuine.”

  “How is that different from the proof this woman provided the AfterNet? How do any of us know what she told them? Presumably she told them something only Jane Austen can know. Well I say only Jane Austen would know what was in this journal and if this woman will just offer a brief outline, then you will have my apology.”

  “Well where’s the rest of it?” Mary asked.

  “Safe at Sotheby’s. Did you think I would bring it with me?”

  “This is insane,” Melody said. “Are you seriously trying to defame Jane with this?”

  Ms Wallace said, “I have to agree. Dr Davis, you can’t make these accusations against Miss Austen in your presentation.”

  “I never said that I would.”

  “Where did you get this anyway?” Stephen asked.

  Courtney cleared his throat and said, “From an old woman in Leicestershire, England. Her mother left it to her … and not much else. Here, I have photos of the despatch boxes I found them in. It’s about three hundred pages in all.”

  He produced the photos from his bag and handed them to Stephen, who eagerly took them.

  Ms Johnsson tried to return to Alice’s denial: “Are you saying you didn’t tell Cindy you were planning to ‘expose’ Miss Austen?”

  Now Alice looked momentarily confused and said, “I may have … misspoken. I realize that making such an accusation at the AGM would cause a commotion.”

  “Oh, so you’ve brought us here for nothing,” Melody said.

  Melody’s sharp words roused Alice. She said, “On the contrary, I’ve accomplished my purpose of putting you on notice, in front of witnesses, that I do object to this woman being proclaimed as Jane Austen.”

  “Stop calling me … her … ‘this woman,’” Mary protested.

  “Ms Johnsson, please put a stop to this. If this woman”—and here Melody pointed to Alice—“has no other proof …”

  Now Alice smiled broadly. “I never said I had no other proof. I would be happy to give Miss Austen another opportunity to prove her identity.” She said “Miss Austen” very deliberately.

  “Court, show them the letter.”

  Courtney produced yet another photo from his bag, this time of what appeared to be a letter. The letter, which had been folded, was laid flat. The recipient was plainly visible, but the rest of the writing had been intentionally blurred. He also produced another photo of the letter in a small battered frame. The letter was folded so that only the recipient was visible.

  “And before you ask, the original is now at the British Library in London. So, Miss Austen, do you recognize this?”

  Jane had difficulty seeing because the others were passing the photos back and forth or were hunched over them.

  “If you might put them in the middle of the table?” she asked.

  Ms Johnsson placed them as directed and Jane looked at them closely.

  “How did you get this? I thought Cassandra … yes, I do recognize it.”

  “You do?” Alice asked, the look of surprise on her face evident to everyone in the room. She took several seconds before she said anything further. “Then prove it. What does it say?”

  “I would rather not …”—her accuser saying “Ha!” interrupted her—“… but as you put me on the spot. You must realize I never intended to send it. Once I began, I knew it would be too cruel to Mr Bigg-Wither and would drive a wedge between our families. I am ashamed I ever wrote it, but I kept it as a reminder that the sharpest wits should remained sheathed. I assumed Cassandra had burned it.”

  “Oh Jane, everyone’s done something they’re ashamed of,” Mary said.

  “Precisely,” Melody said. “I hope this satisfies you, Dr Davis.”

  Although she was obviously surprised by the turn of events, Alice rallied.

  “No, I’m not satisfied, not unless she can remember specifically what she said in the letter.”

  “It’s a little much to ask that she remember what she wrote two hundred years ago,” Mr Pembroke objected.

  “She famously recalled Sanditon from memory,” Alice countered.

  And then Jane said: “‘Were I to marry you, Mr Bigg-Wither, it would be an abdication of those principles by which I have apparently chosen to live my life. Without consciously intending it, I have decided that marriage without love is a betrayal, and I can assure you our marriage would bring neither of us love. That I might have affection for you is entirely possible and that you might return that affection is also possible, but love is out of the question.’

  “Is that sufficient to convince you that I am the author of that letter? Or must I betray the portions of the letter that … is it sufficient?”

  As Jane had spoken, it was obvious that her accuser recognized those words.

  Alice now stood, slowly.

  “Where are you, Miss Austen? Where are you now?”

  “I stand to the left of my friend, Ms Kramer.”

  Alice turned to the empty spot so indicated, and said, “It is sufficient. I am … I think those are the exact words …”

  “Near enough,” Jane said.

  Alice swallowed, trying to understand the enormity of what she’d just accomplished.

  “I was wrong,” she said quietly.

  “But what about the journals?” Courtney asked in a small voice, and then louder, “She still hasn’t explained that.”

  An exclamation from Stephen drew everyone’s attention. He’d been recording his mentor’s admission and now lowered the camera. “Ha! I knew the name sounded familiar. He’s in the missing and returned inventory from Virtual Chawton.”

  Stephen put down the camera and picked up his tablet. “Give me a second. Thank God I synced it.” He was furiously tapping the screen of the device. “Got it!”

  He put the tablet on the table.

  “
Dr Davis had me looking through the inventory, to see what Miss Austen might have used to prove her identity.” His remark elicited an angry look from Mary.

  “It was before we met,” he said in reply to the look. “Anyway, I remembered the name Gorrell-Barmes, the name on the despatch box.” He pointed to one of the photos that displayed the name painted on the lid of one of the boxes.

  “It’s here in the inventory, look.”

  He enlarged the image of the ledger sheet that was displayed on his tablet. A blurry handwritten entry showed: “Returned to Major Gorrell-Barmes, SOE, the ‘journal’: Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

  “The Jane Austen Society in the UK must have owned it at one time. They were formed to save Chawton Cottage and must have found it.”

  “Excuse me, what’s Virtual Chawton?” Mr Pembroke asked. Stephen explained about the project to put everything Chawton related online.

  “Presumably then if they returned the thing to this major …” Mr Pembroke said thoughtfully.

  “You mean it’s a fake?” Cindy Wallace asked.

  Melody answered, “Absolutely. If they didn’t want an ‘original’ Austen manuscript and called it bad rubbish then it’s a sure bet they knew it was a fake.” She turned to Alice. “My God, if you’d just asked your graduate student to look it up … what a monumental waste of time.”

  Alice didn’t reply. She took a seat at the table.

  Melody was not finished, however. She leaned in close to the woman and asked, “Do you know how much damage …”

  “Enough, Melody,” Jane said. “Enough.”

  Mary put a hand on Melody’s shoulder and gently moved her away from the woman.

  “No, I don’t think we’re quite done,” Stephen said. “What did you mean earlier, that events beyond your control would make it public?”

  But Alice said nothing and Stephen asked again, “Dr Davis? What did you mean?”

  “Uh, she meant the sale of the journal,” Courtney said. “Sotheby’s was going to announce tomorrow … its discovery … a teaser before they announce it’s for sale.”

  “Then maybe you ought to tell them it’s a fake,” Stephen said. “What about the letter?”