The band stopped and I decided to postpone my metamorphosis into music to look for Bets. Crossing the pub floor in my dainty satin shoes, I watched for beer puddles as well as cords or contraptions. I didn't find Bets in the serenely quiet ladies' room, but I heard her voice.

"Nasty," she said, and Nick laughed.

They were sitting in a backstage room that smelled of male sweat mingled with essence of marijuana. Instrument cases and discarded amplifier boxes littered the floor, beer bottles and fast food cups lay in the corner and a wadded up T-shirt draped a chair; but no necklace anywhere. Sensing My Jane Austen sitting in the darkest corner of the black room, I looked directly but she disappeared. This had happened before; I'd hear a little rustle and imagine My Jane Austen lurked in the fringes, but it would come to nothing. In an effort to explain my bad behavior with Sixby, I'd told My Jane Austen, I don't know how to have a relationship with a man. With my father never home, and my mother unhappy most of her life, my entire knowledge of happy relationships came from books. You raised me, Jane. So forgive me this mistake. I know what I did was wrong.

"Hey, I'm free." Bets and Nick clinked beer bottles.

"Free from what?" I asked.

"Free from Literature Live," she said, rolling her eyes and stressing each syllable in ridicule of books and the clueless people who discuss them. "Apparently Tommy doesn't need money anymore—so the deal is off. I'm free." The deal had been with her dad: Bets spending the summer at Literature Live in exchange for her father's financial support of the band for one more year. "You know what really pisses me off?"

"What?" I asked.

"That I've been running around in a nightgown for no good reason. Tommy didn't bother to tell me he'd moved out."

"You're not going back to Hedingham?"

"Never." She shook her head, relishing the pronunciation of the word.

This news was not entirely bad. No more of her TV at all hours of the night, no more ethnic food cartons behind her bed. No one to play Maria Bertram.

"What about your stuff?" I asked.

"You can have it. Or give it to the poor—some starving actor."

I imagined myself distributing Bets's possessions to the long line of actors who'd waited at my door since dawn: her popcorn popper, her torn black shirt, her thongs, her TV, and the carton of cigarettes. "But how will I get home?" I asked.

"Don't cry; there's a lovely train that will take you to the heart of lovely Hedingham, darling," Bets said, in character, the best acting she'd done all season. She pulled train fare from her wallet. "A parting gift." Bets kissed me dramatically on each cheek and I felt not only the end of something, but a tiny blossom of freedom in my own breast. Tommy walked in, followed by grungy band members lighting cigarettes, and his new chick.

"Bets." Tommy extended his hand—optimistically, I thought—but instead of shaking, Bets gave him the folded paper, like serving a subpoena.

"This is where you drop the car—unless you have it with you now." She picked up her purse and beer, preparing to leave. "Nick can help me take it," Bets said, businesslike, not screaming profanity at Tommy or having a hair-pulling cat-fight with the new chick. Tommy's face fell. Maybe he hadn't realized Bets would take the car. He had counted on losing the operating budget and her brilliant companionship but—the car? Perhaps he should reconsider.

The new chick dug into her bag, furiously displacing lip gloss and credit cards, the car keys falling on the floor. Bending over to retrieve the keys, gravity acted on her blouse, not only exposing her wonderwear-induced cleavage, but freeing a gold chain that had been tucked beneath—my gold chain. I froze for a split second while my brain released a heady shot of adrenaline.

"Here's the keys," she said, bypassing Tommy and handing them directly to Bets.

The room's dim light reflected off the cross and I stepped closer to where it hung on her neck. My arms and legs moved in slow motion as if fighting the huge resistance of an invisible underwater current. One more step and I could touch the cross, although I couldn't afford to linger over a reunion with my property or risk a claim dispute—only action would do. I sensed My Jane Austen behind me, gathering her skirts to prepare for our getaway, urgent for me to take my necklace and run.

The clasp had worked its way to the side, halfway between the back of her neck and her front. I distracted her by exclaiming, "What a beautiful necklace." While she responded, I grabbed the cross in my fist and held it while I worked the clasp. Knowing the clasp intimately helped because she balked, raising her hands to fend off my arms. I had one instant to pull it from her neck and run. "This is mine; you can't have it," I said, bolting for the door.

I ran out the backstage room, through the maze of tiny tables and bus station chairs, past the bar and the popcorn aquarium, and into the street. Choosing the path of most resistance, I burrowed into the crowd, losing myself in the throngs of people who were walking, pointing, getting in and out of cars, crossing and recrossing my path, until, exhausted and breathless, I emerged far away.

My Jane Austen and I walked the ancient streets of London searching for a train station and I felt akin to protagonists who had lived their stories on these same streets, haunting the air I breathed, folding me into their rich, deeply layered existence. I felt Willis's presence just as surely as I felt my mother's cross in my fist; my memories of both belonged to me completely.

Not until the train left the station did I open my hand and allow myself to experience the reunion with the cross I thought gone forever. I fastened the chain around my neck in a brief personal ceremony during which I vowed not to remove it again. Settling into my seat and closing my eyes, I recited from memory every line of Maria Bertram I could remember.

Twenty-Three

Noise increased as the audience accumulated in the ballroom awaiting the debut of my one-woman show, The Lost Letters of Jane Austen. Patrons crossed legs and chattered, fanning themselves with programs, making plans for later while I hovered in the butler's pantry. Breathing slowly and deeply to calm my nerves, I struggled to recall what impulse had compelled me to produce a one-woman show. I blamed Vera, encouraging my ideas, glad for the money from extra events, and, from the success of the tea-theatre, convinced that I could pull this off. But taking the stage alone to deliver my homemade script from memory seemed half-baked and lonely at the moment.

Sabrina passed me on her way out. I smiled at her; we were buddies now. The departures of Magda and Bets removed all obstacles between me and the role of Maria Bertram, which I performed now, in addition to my own productions. Sabrina jerked her head, indicating my bonnet. In my nervous state, I'd forgotten to remove it. I untied the bow under my chin and removed the hat, stuffing the ribbons inside the crown, placing it on the countertop.

When the time came I entered the ballroom and took my place, front and center, in the chair with the spindly gothic arches, the sort of chair that might moonlight in a prison, hired for especially high-profile electrical executions. Claire sat near the front, waiting, perhaps she suspected me of harboring clues in the Case of the Missing Letters, a mystery originating in her mind. Stephen Jervis operated the spotlight I'd rented.

I bowed my head and took a deep breath, noting, in my downward gaze, the tiny drawstring bag hanging from my wrist. Too late to do anything about that now, a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on me, actively waiting. I raised my face, looked straight into the audience, and exercising the full power of my diaphragm as taught by Sixby, said, "My Dear Cassandra."

The familiar salutation incited such a reaction from the audience of Jane Austen fans that I might have been mistaken for a rock star launching into a greatest hit. In the commotion, My Jane Austen appeared downstage, one eyebrow raised. I hoped she'd brought her sense of humor. Repeating the words, "My Dear Cassandra," I continued, "I'm writing to you from Oblivion where I've been detained nearly two hundred years by the public's persistent interest in a certain number of my letters which are now said to be lost." The audience responded to my lead as if I were the driver and they the car, savoring every lingering consonant and nuance of expression, holding their laughter for my pauses. "Thank you, Cassandra, for your diligent attention in censoring and burning so many of my letters. Imagine the consequences had you not made such good use of scissors and fireplace. But back to me.

"Perhaps," I said, "if the public knew the content of the Lost Letters, I might be released from their curious grip and allowed, finally, to proceed to my eternal rest. To that end, I will now work very hard to recall their content. It is my hope that in so doing, we may all move on." I glanced at Claire before closing my eyes.

"My Dear Mark Twain," I said, squinting with the effort of remembering. The audience seemed to understand where I was going. My Jane Austen stepped closer, cautiously amused. "If you so much as touch my shinbone, I'll use it to beat sense into your head. If you don't like Pride and Prejudice, stop reading it!"

The audience waited for more. My Jane Austen scribbled on her ivories as if she might add her own remarks.

"My Dear Tom Lefroy," I said. "It wasn't good for me, either. P.S. I meant what I said about your morning coat."