My Jane Austen Summer: A Season in Mansfield Park

by Cindy Jones

  I couldn't let it be over before it even started. "I want a part," I said firmly.

  "I'm working on it," Vera said, irritated.

  I crossed my arms, staring at Vera, wondering what to believe. Was Vera a good witch or a bad witch? And then I remembered Randolph's comment. "Vera," I said, "did you talk to Randolph Lockwood about firing the actors and letting tourists enact the novel?"

  "Yes." Vera brightened. "I gave you all the credit, if that's what you're curious about."

  "What did he say?"

  "He's interested," Vera said. Her eyes raced back and forth. "Randolph wants everything in writing." She touched my arm. "Can you write a business plan?"

  "What?" I dimly recalled a business plan for a made-up company I'd written as a requirement for a class in college. How did I do that? Something about strategy and goals.

  "That's what you'll do here. Help me," Vera said.

  I would not live in a novel but instead be swept into the current of history, another casualty of Vera's Pygmalion operation, business plan version. Magda swooped in, her black robe billowing as in Miss Clavel, Something is not right, her arm locked with a disinterested Miss Banks. "Here's the Lily," Magda cooed. The Lily. Magda said to Vera, "Your friend charmed everyone at the pub." She placed her long, muscular hand on my arm and I knew she would never lift a finger for me, evident from the way she mocked my name. I studied Magda up close, her perfectly shaped eyebrows above her fine nose, her hair hidden beneath the sea of black fabric, her voice oddly sandy—like a smoker. "This is Elizabeth Banks," Magda said, gesturing to the implausible goth groupie on her arm. "You two are roommates. For now."

  I extended my hand and in the instant of introduction saw that the necklace Elizabeth Banks wore was mine—the cross from my mother. I started to speak but I felt someone pull on my arm and turned as Nikki the actress said, "See you at rehearsal." When I turned back my roommate was gone.

  My Jane Austen had seen everything.

  * * *

  In my room, I was surprised to find Gary seated at my table and my roommate—who bore no resemblance whatsoever to a Jane Austen character, secondary or otherwise—lying on a batik spread, a cell phone attached to her ear. I looked, but did not see my necklace on her neck. Her shaggy black hair, too blue-black for nature, covered her eyes and contrasted her light bulb-white skin. She raised a hand that looked like a greeting until I realized she was begging off to finish her phone conversation. I tried to look busy while monitoring her speech for signs of professional training, waiting for her to get off the phone so I could ask about my necklace. How could she care about Jane Austen? Gary stared at her, but did he understand what she said?

  Suitcases waited, piled on the floor, enough for a Princess of Monaco, some still loitering in the hall. On the table, a pack of Gauloises sat unopened. Oh God, a smoker. The books I'd left on the table had vanished, replaced by her stuff: a small television and a boom box. She dug her fingers under the thick pile of black bangs, her eyes focused in a cell phone stare beyond me. A matching batik bedspread lay folded on my bed, her large flat box hid under my bed, a crate of toiletries dominated my shelf, and an abundance of black clothing hung in my closet. A recent memory of my father's girlfriend surfaced, the one where she discarded all my mom's old refrigerator magnets: the pizza ad, the library hours, even the broken angel magnet that protected us from pigging out since I was nine. When I complained to my father, my heart pounding and my breath too ragged to power my voice, saying his girlfriend had no business throwing our magnets away, he'd said, simply, "Your grief is upsetting Sue."

  "Cellmate darling," my roommate put her phone down and crooned in a husky voice, the accent completely American. Just then, I discovered my books sitting in the windowsill; displaced, not destroyed.

  "I'm Lily Berry." I extended my hand, feeling the roly-poly syllables of my name, almost certain my mother named me after the tragic Lily Bart. My sister says nonsense. Perhaps now would be a good time to switch to Lillian.

  "I'm Bets," she said, adding, "Short for Betsy, which is short for Elizabeth."

  "Can I see your necklace?" I asked.

  She looked surprised, and then perhaps embarrassed. She pulled my cross out of her shirt.

  "That's mine, right?" I asked, recognizing the custom design as well as the chain.

  "I got it out of that drawer." Bets pointed and shared an endearing smile, perhaps the key to her life's progress thus far. "Don't be mad at me," she said.

  "I'm not mad," I said, "but that necklace is very important to me and I need it back."

  She didn't move.

  "Now," I said, my voice calm. "I need it now."

  "I'm so glad you're here, my fellow American," she said, reaching behind her neck to unfasten the clasp. "My mother's a Brit but my father's from New Jersey. Where are you from? Oops." She looked on the floor and then at me. "It just slipped off."

  I fell to my knees and searched. She reached under her bed, exposing a spiked leather band around her wrist, the rest of her attire too short, mismatched, and torn. She must be really rich. Her shoes, electric blue stiletto pumps, bared white toe cleavage. "I found it."

  "Oh good." I sighed. She handed me the cross and then the chain.

  "Do you know Gary?" she asked, gesturing to the silent driver watching from his seat at the table. The familiar white bakery bag lay on Bets's bed next to an open package of potato crisps.

  "Yes," I said, standing, working to put the necklace together. "The link is gone," I said, tripping over one of her bags.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry for being such a hog with my things." She waved a lazy hand in the air and offered the charming smile again. "Do you want me to move my stuff?" Her eyes glanced at the box stored under my bed.

  "It's okay," I said, automatically retreating, vowing to accept her second offer, although the second offer never came. I would draw the line at smoking, though. "I really need to find the link." I returned to my knees and resumed searching.

  "I'm so sorry," Bets said, standing over me. "Please let me get it fixed for you. I know a really good repair shop in London."

  "That's not necessary," I said. "I can fix it if I can find the link." Bets seemed truly sorry and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. "Congratulations on your part, you must be very excited about the summer," I said, sweeping the floor with my hand.

  "Oh, terribly," she said, lifting one of her suitcases.

  I waited. I still needed help finding the link and she'd moved on to something else.

  "It's just that my life is my band," she said, throwing the suitcase on her bed and pulling out a pair of black pants. Bets reached for the zipper on her skirt, about to strip. Quickly, Gary stood, shielding his eyes with his hands, and walked toward the door. "Bye, Gary," Bets called. "Thanks for the cookies."

  While I sifted through dust bunnies seeking a tiny gold circle of metal, Bets explained how she did odd jobs for a soon-to-be-appreciated band. They specialized in emotionally intense pop rock with a Teutonic edge, thanks to a talented guitarist from Frankfurt.

  "So you're leaving the band to do this?" I asked, exploring a small pile of grit.

  "That's the problem." She zipped the pants. "The Wallet made a deal that if I came here for the summer, he'd finance the band for another year."

  "The Wallet?"

  "My father. He's on the board of this place and he thinks three months away from the band will cure me."

  "Wow," I said. "I bet the band appreciates the Wallet." I sat up; unable to find the missing link.

  "Let me get that fixed for you," Bets said.

  "No." I waved her off. "Thanks, but I'll take care of it." I slipped the broken chain and the cross back into the jewelry pouch and closed my drawer. "I can pick up a new link in town." I would not let her take it for repair, regardless of her sad expression. What part could she possibly play in a Jane Austen production? I asked her. "What role are you assigned?"

  "I am"—she put her fist in front of her mouth, and cle
ared her throat—"not sure." She pointed to a brown envelope on the bureau. "It's all in there, but I haven't looked."

  "Which Austen book is your favorite?" I asked.

  She was caught in the headlights. Silence. "Um. The one about the guy who marries the nanny?"

  "Yeah," I said, nodding. I hoped My Jane Austen was getting all of this.

  Her phone rang and she hissed into it, "Just tell him to call me," and snapped it off. Then she moaned, "I'm not very good at this sort of thing."

  "What sort of thing?"

  She lifted her hands in helpless supplication and moaned dramatically, "Take my cell phone away and lock it up somewhere; it's so distracting." She smiled again.

  "Okay," I said, reaching to take it. But it rang, and she spoke.

  "Tommy." Her voice thick, I pretended not to hear. But before I could find anything to pretend to do, she pulled the phone away from her ear, looked at me, and squinted. "Would you mind?"

  "Excuse me?" Certain I'd misunderstood; the fog in my brain had clogged something.

  "I'm sorry but I need to have this conversation," she said, pointing at the phone. "Could I have some privacy?"

  A little put out, I walked into the hall. Through the open transom, I heard one side of the whole argument and gathered the deal with the Wallet accounted for only part of the reason Bets had shown up at Literature Live. It sounded like Tommy wanted Bets out of the way so he could concentrate on writing music; Bets was a distraction. The angst of the argument drained my remaining energy and I slumped against the wall. After a while, I left the dorm and walked toward the town, where I discovered the quaint pastel doors merely fronted for the usual suspects: The Gap and Victoria's Secret. My Jane Austen stayed behind in the room to listen, of course.

  * * *

  A note waited on my pillow when I returned, "Gone to London." I turned the paper over and wrote my response, "Please move your things out of my spaces ASAP." I put the note on her pillow and stood alone in the room. Bets and her cell phone gone. Just me and her brown envelope alone in the room. Unable to restrain myself, I grabbed the envelope, unfastened the clasp, and removed the stack of papers welcoming Elizabeth Banks to Literature Live. I flipped through a schedule, calendars, directories, and a welcome letter signed simply, "Weston." Was that a legal name? Could he sign that name on credit card receipts? A note from Magda Habibi offered Bets the part of Mary Crawford. Wow! Having a father on the board didn't hurt her in the casting department.

  I flipped open the script, and read:

  * * *

  Mary Crawford: Selfishness must always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope of a cure.

  * * *

  I straightened the papers and pushed them back into the envelope, refastening the clasp and placing it exactly where I had found it. What if Bets didn't come back from London? She seemed like the type who did whatever it occurred to her to do. Not a team player. I imagined myself in the role of Mary Crawford.

  * * *

  Before retiring for the night, I opened the drawer where I kept the jewelry pouch, feeling the need for a reassuring look at my cross. But the pouch lay open and my necklace—the last gift from my mother—was missing again.

  From: Karen Adams karen@adams.net

  Sent: June 10, 6:22 A.M.

  To: Lillian Berry verryberry7@hotmail.com

  Subject: Helloooooo!

  Hi Lily,How's it going? Same old here. The kids have vacation Bible school this week so I am taking time to sort through Mom's Christmas ornaments. Sue vacated Dad's house long enough for me to go through some things last weekend. It was heartbreaking and only the tip of the iceberg. What I really need is a kid-free week and a truck. Wish you were here to help since I'm afraid Sue will take it upon herself to dispose of our inheritance. I'm dividing the ornaments equally, giving you all the ones you made in preschool, of course. I'll store them here for you.

  Met Mr. Darcy yet?

  Don't forget, I love you.

  Karen

  From: Lillian Berry verryberry7@hotmail.com

  Sent: June 10, 7:58 P.M.

  To: Karen Adams karen@adams.net

  Subject: Re: Helloooooo!

  Karen,

  I may be coming home. I can't believe I came all the way over here to find out they only take professional actors...or large donations. You were right about quick moves. I am so disappointed. I'm also rooming with a punked-out kleptomaniac who took my necklace. I'll explain later. I may need a place to live until I can find a job, etc. Kiss your babies for me. Funny, when I was in preschool laminating my face into angel ornaments, I thought I was making them for both of my parents.

  Love,

  Lily

  Six

  The Literature Live offices in the east wing of Newton Priors included a room full of books called the library, furnished with two mismatched hand-me-down tables. I was in the library affixing address labels to invitations on the morning Bets was scheduled for her costume fitting.

  How hard would it be to organize a tea party for Janeites?

  Vera had given me some administrative donkeywork, including mailings for the Founder's Night Dinner and Follies, and reminded me to get started on the business plan. I'd written a business plan in college. If I could only remember how I did it. Vera said she would pay me something. Omar, my new best friend, leaned back on two legs of the library chair—his feet perched on his toes—chatting about the national mood toward historic preservation. Wagging a pen, Omar said, "Politicians are campaigning to respect all cultural identities, not just those identities belonging to stately manor homes."

  "And what does that have to do with us?" I removed ten labels and stuck them on the table's edge.

  We would need hot water for tea, of course.

  "The national mood matters to us to the degree tax policy is influenced."

  "Oh?"

  And scones.

  "Whoever is steward of Newton Priors will care about tax policy."

  "I see." I thought of Randolph's receding hairline and how it would look furrowed over tax policy as I slapped the ten labels on envelopes in rapid succession.

  Cucumber sandwiches.

  Tax policy sounded like something to address in a business plan, which I would know if I had paid more attention in school. When I had asked Vera if not having a part meant I would eventually have to go home, she assumed her impatient tone and told me to "write my own part." She warned me not to be hasty. With my future tied to the bottom line, I'd better generate some persuasive ideas to employ myself if I wanted to stay. As in: the Business Plan.

  "Actually," Omar said, "Lord Weston and his sister are cozying up with the Architecture League these days. Parties to save car parks."

  "Car parks?" I imagined Randolph's picture in the paper, published in black and white society pages, laughing over wineglasses in a greenbelt for cars.

  "Parking garages, to you."

  Then, with no warning Magda blew in. We both flinched and Omar fell off his toes. Magda had spent two solid days in the ballroom fussing at actors, writers, and conservationists, bangles making a racket, her own personal Middle Eastern turmoil. Now she scanned the library as Omar made a hasty exit. I could rest in peace knowing she wasn't seeking me; I'd already been cast off by her. I cringed anyway.

  "Lily," she said.

  I wondered if her toes were as long as her fingers and what she could possibly want with me. "Yes?" I said.

  "Where is Bets?" she asked, looking at my stack of invitations.

  "I don't know," I said, sticking the last label. "Probably London."

  "Are you aware she missed her fitting appointment?"

  I stacked the pile of envelopes on Claire's desk, angry that Bets had taken my necklace to her London repair shop even though I'd told her not to. She'd smiled and asked me not to be mad, a pretty good indication of how she interacted with the Wallet. I glared at Magda. "I haven't seen her."

  * * *

  The next day, I was folding Founder'
s Night invitations, stuffing them into the envelopes I'd already labeled for Claire.

  What china would we use for the tea party?

  Omar was tipped back in his chair holding forth on one scholar's suggestion that Jane Austen was an incestuous lesbian, when Sixby entered wearing a cap turned rakishly backward. "Have you seen Bets?" Sixby asked as My Jane Austen yawned.

  "No." We both shook our heads.

  Sixby nodded toward the conference room. "We're getting ready to start a read-through," he said. "She's missed each one."

  I felt a secret thrill, another step in the right direction.

  Omar asked, trembling theatrically, "Is Magda coming?"

  "No, she's at the visa office with her brother; I'm running the read-through." Sixby started for the conference room and then hesitated, remembering to ask Omar, "Are the scripts ready?"

  "Oops." Omar's chair returned to ground level and he jumped up to complete his task at the copier.

  In light of Bets's irresponsible behavior, Vera's remark about not being hasty began to make sense. "Sixby," I said, "if Bets doesn't show, can I read her part?"

  "Absolutely," he said.

  * * *

  Bets didn't show and I joined the cast, sitting next to Sixby at Nigel's conference table where everyone waited for Omar to finish copying scripts. Nikki the actress demonstrated plummy diction for me. "Like your mouth is full of plums and you have to talk around them."

  I tried to copy her, imagining big balls of fruit displacing my jaw; the actor next to Nikki laughed.

  "No, actually that's much better," Nikki said.

  Enjoying my place in this group, I felt hope revive. Omar arrived panting; his arms full of paper, his glasses sliding down his nose as he circled the table distributing the scripts, running out before Sixby got one. "I thought you kept the revisions from yesterday," Omar said, adjusting his glasses.

  "I'd like a fresh script," Sixby said, drumming his fingers.

  I'd gotten my copy from Omar earlier and slid it over to Sixby, scooting closer to share with him. I watched as he crossed out all the italicized acting directions associated with his lines, words like gently and loudly. Perhaps he didn't need anyone telling him how to act. I read my lines in what I hoped sounded plummy—My Jane Austen mouthed them painfully with me. When I looked up, Nikki nodded and Sixby whispered, "Excellent. Don't forget we're partners for the follies," and he patted my arm. My Jane Austen took a deep breath. How could I forget? He didn't coach me as he did the others, probably because I was just standing in. We were reading the scene where Mary Crawford is recruited to join the theatricals, and in the middle of reading my line where I say, "What gentleman among you am I to have the pleasure of making love to," the door opened. Magda's terrible presence filled the room and she interrupted me. Had an actual plum been in my mouth, I would have choked to death.