"The candle-making demonstration is over there," I said, a bit heavy on the plums. Ovah theh.

"Ovah theh?" The woman looked at her map, and then in the direction I pointed, as if she didn't understand. I ran toward the Carriage House.

Two enormous old mares parked outside swished flies with their tails. The dirty Carriage House windows concealed a graveyard for broken antiques: tables on end, chairs without upholstery, bed frames and slats, stacked in all directions. No room for horses or carriages in the Carriage House. And no Archie. Walking around the side of the building, I encountered a well-worn path through the high hedge. I followed the path, squeezing sideways through the bushes, and suddenly found myself looking into the sheepish grin on Archie Porter's face, one arm stretching to reach a ledge high above his head.

"You smoke?" he asked, lowering his arm and shaking out a cigarette in one practiced motion.

I started to say no reflexively, and then considered my case. "Actually, yes, please."

As Archie shook out another cigarette from a pack of Camels, not even the filtered kind, I began to hope I would get what I wanted. Putting it to my lips, he lit a match. "Getting on okay?" he asked.

"Swimmingly," I said, returning the long look, examining the crow's feet around his eyes and the gray in his ponytail. I imagined I was smoking with John while Yoko met lawyers. I'd never seen him so relaxed. "Where's Magda?" I asked innocently.

"Patching the roof." He smiled as if we knew each other. "One of an assistant director's many and varied festival responsibilities."

"Well then. Since she's busy, I'll ask you." Just one puff had made me dizzy; I couldn't inhale these things. The smoke sat on me, lodging in the pores of my skin, permeating hair follicles.

"Ask me." Archie blew dragon smoke out his nostrils as the American children from the lawn barged into our hiding place, giggled, and ran out. The little girl loudly reported what she'd seen.

I said, "You may not be aware that Bets—the actress playing Mary Crawford—is not here."

"No, she is not here." Archie smiled, lifting a branch of one of the bushes that concealed us, nearly brushing My Jane Austen's skirt.

"No, I mean, not in Hedingham. Not at Newton Priors. She's in London."

He took another long drag. "I see. You were supposed to keep track of her?"

"Yes." I looked him in the eye.

"A case of Magda putting the fox in charge of the hen-house."

"I'd like to take her part in the scene today."

He gave me an extra long sideways glance. "Who else knows about this?"

I took a short but dramatic drag, sensing what I once sensed when Martin was about to kiss me. "Does anyone else need to know?" I asked, smoke curling around my face.

Archie pulled on his cigarette, his eyes closing. "Nobody I know of needs to know about anything."

I threw my cigarette on the ground and stomped it out. "Then we're all set."

"You know the part?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

I had turned, just about to leave the enclosure, when Archie said, "You know what?"

"What?" I twisted to see his face and braced myself.

"You worry too much."

"Me?"

"Relax." He pulled a package of nicotine gum out of his pocket and punched one through the wrapper, slipping it into his mouth. "Want one?" he asked.

"No." The last time I relaxed around a professor, his hand visited my thigh beneath a table.

"Don't be so worried," Archie said. "Fanny Price is safe."

*   *   *

In the Freezer, I sat at the table among empty Diet Coke cans; the vacant computer screen stared at me as I read Mary Crawford's lines, "Oh! Yes, I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if they can do it properly," when Archie, who had just returned, his spearmint breath proclaiming his innocence, lifted the script from my hands and turned the page.

"We're skipping the second scene today," he said. "Start here."

I resumed my studies, struggling to focus, but couldn't get traction because people kept opening the door and I kept looking up, afraid Magda would walk in. Each person whispered to Archie and I tried to hear what they were saying. I wondered about checking my e-mail but Archie rattled a box of antique keys, to my complete undoing. He left the box next to me where I was free to examine keys, of every shape and size, at my peril. My pulse raced. Little time remained until the scene with the children would end, and even that was running out. My script lay open while I studied the jumble of rusty skeleton keys, wondering which key Lady Weston had used to lock the manor in 1945. This felt more like exam day than literary transcendence.

Just as I finally got traction with the script, the junior cast, three girls and two boys who played the children in the first scene, arrived noisily, congratulating each other on their performances. Their adult chaperone beamed at Archie, "Weren't they wonderful?" Archie pointed at me and shushed the kids. But they couldn't shush. I gave up the script and pulled the computer's keyboard out, typing my e-mail password and clicking "check mail." The connection seemed slow. The children giggled and the mother took one boy to a separate seat. Karen's name stood out from the spam; her subject line read: "Please call." I clicked on the subject; something must have happened. Was it Dad or her children? The page was so slow to come up. The mother raised her voice and the children squealed. The door opened again.


To: Lillian Berry [email protected]

Sent: June 13, 6:03 A.M.

From: Karen Adams [email protected]

Subject: Please call

Lily,

I don't have a phone number to reach you and we need to talk. I was planning to wait till you return but Greg thinks you should know. I found something that leads me to believe Dad knew Sue before Mom died. Before you fall apart, please call me so we can talk about it. It's not the end of the world.

If I'm not home, call my cell.

I'm sorry and I miss you,

Karen


Archie called my name. I turned and looked at him but I couldn't understand what he wanted, Karen's words reverberating like thunder through my skeleton. Sabrina Howard in full Regency costume—the lead actress who was playing Fanny Price—beckoned me. Time for my execution.

"Mary." Sabrina reached for my hand. "Come with me," she said. "Everyone is waiting." Archie waved us out the door and I left the Freezer for my rebirth into Mansfield Park, passing the tall case clock, its sharp points radiating from its face as mighty storm clouds gathered in my spirit.

Sabrina smiled as we walked, linking our elbows; maybe we could be friends, supporting each other through personal crises. "I'm Lily," I whispered, not sure she knew my real name. Sabrina's face changed channels. She shook her head once, and clicked her tongue; Mary Crawford had never been Lily a day in her life.

We walked through the entrance hall where portraits of stern men in gilt frames testified to their part in siring the Weston line, while the women who'd borne their tiresome infidelities watched bravely from their own elaborate frames. A smaller butler-type hall led actors to the ballroom where the performance was about to begin.

The door through which I would soon enter was cracked open enough to see the audience, people who paid actual money to watch me sort through my personal shock while reciting Mary Crawford's lines. The stage might as well have been an operating room where they perform amputations. The front row hosted an aging fan club decked out in full cleavage-busting Regency costume, their plumage and fans blocking the view of those seated behind them. Olive-skinned women dressed in saris, veils, and a variety of robes and head coverings made Magda's scarf look like something Katharine Hepburn would wear in a convertible. A portly man with a camera around his neck leaned back and nudged his wife to look at the medallion in the ceiling. Perhaps it would fall and kill all of us. Oddly, Vera and Nigel were not in the audience.

Sabrina took my hand and led me to the stage to perform the scene where, while touring the chapel at Mr. Rushworth's estate, Mary Crawford makes snarky comments about clergymen before learning that Edmund plans to be ordained. If I followed Sabrina, we'd make it through the scene. I knew I was safe during the long part where Sabrina, as Fanny, expresses her disappointment over the chapel to Edmund.

"This is not my idea of a chapel," Sabrina said. "There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand."

A streak of lightning flashed behind my eyelids, followed by a bone-rattling crash of thunder. My father knew Sue before my mother died. Sabrina bumped into me as if I stood in her place. I moved without any idea where to go. How did Karen know?

"No banners to be blown by the night wind of Heaven," Sabrina continued. "No signs that a Scottish monarch sleeps below." Sabrina gestured to the same chair whose outward scrolling arms supported Sir Thomas in the previous scene.

Mrs. Rushworth said her line: "Morning and evening prayers were always read by the domestic chaplain," she said. "But the late Mr. Rushworth discontinued the service."

"Every generation has its improvements," I said, as another flare of lightning illuminated My Jane Austen's pale figure. Were they intimate when my mother was alive? Shaking my head dramatically for no apparent reason, I moved so Mrs. Rushworth could take my place. I concentrated to deliver my long line about heads of the family requiring housemaids and footmen to attend chapel while inventing excuses for themselves to lie in bed for ten more minutes, but the chandelier glittering overhead distracted me, and the Prussian blue paint on the walls had "failed" and for the life of me I couldn't imagine what had brought Karen to her horrible conclusion. The sight of brown Currier and Ives china, donated to the production by a helpful volunteer, would forever strike terror in my heart.