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 cleared 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 [email protected]

Sent: June 10, 6:22 A.M.

To: Lillian Berry [email protected]

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 [email protected]

Sent: June 10, 7:58 P.M.

To: Karen Adams [email protected]

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.