Omar winced.
"You know, E. M. Forster, Howard's End," I said, holding my breath.
Omar folded his arms in concentration. "As in, 'connect the beast and the monk; the prose and the passion'?"
Now it was my turn to be confused. I'd read the book long ago, actually seen the movie more recently. Perhaps I should brush up before holding forth to English teachers. "Yes," I said, vowing to find the book at my earliest opportunity. Maybe there was a copy of Howard's End in here somewhere.
Omar walked; I followed. Shells, rocks, stuffed birds, and a statue of a shepherd boy kept company with the books on the shelves, all collected by someone long gone, the house a living relic, a repository of the Weston family, their spirit lingering like dust on the books.
"From a photo taken in the 1920s, it is clear that nothing, down to the peacock feathers in that urn over there"—Omar pointed to the corner—"has been changed in nearly a century."
I had a strong feeling right then that My Jane Austen walked the rooms with us and that rather than old and dusty, the place was green and growing, full of hope and possibilities of fulfillment. Another passage led us to what appeared to be a kitchen, tacked onto the end of the house.
"This room was added at the turn of the century." Omar pointed to a pair of odd faucets, connected to metal pipes snaking over the wall's surface. "The sink hasn't been used since 1945." My eyes found a patch of light where settling had caused a gap in the wall large enough for a hand to reach through. I thought of Fanny Price exiled to her shabby home in Portsmouth. The room had no counters, just dark bare wood, shelves holding pale china, and racks for towels. Baskets gathered dust and a rack of old teacups hung on the wall. Mrs. Russell and her volunteers would have a hard time making tea in here. No wonder Lady Weston's daughter fled. Again, My Jane Austen flitted through my peripheral vision, looking pale in her lavender dress.
"What do you understand only connect to mean?" Omar asked. "I'm not sure I follow."
"Oh." I cleared my throat, wondering if he could sense Jane Austen in the room or if it was just me. "It's like really connecting," I said. "Connecting in an emotional, rather than worldly, sense." Sounded plausible to me. "The way readers connect with books, actually; on the higher plane of ideas. I hope to find people here with whom I can connect, on that level."
"Oh." He pushed his glasses up and folded his arms. "That's not what I understood it to mean."
"Oh?" I braced myself.
"No, I understood Forster advocating that people connect what they profess to believe with their actions." Omar looked up at me. "This requires self-knowledge."
"Oh."
"Which is why I was confused you would come here to meet people who understand." He walked out of the kitchen back into the hallway. "Actors? Literature Live is the Grand Central Terminal of disconnected personalities," he said. "And this place is Fantasy Island for Janeites."
I thought of Mrs. Russell wearing her costume on the train.
"You've got your work cut out." Omar chuckled, which seemed better than lingering on my misunderstanding. Omar led us back into the ballroom, where we found a man jumping on the stairs.
"Hey, John." Omar waved. Omar introduced me to John Owen, the project's conservationist. "A friend of Nigel's."
"Don't mind me," John Owen said. "I'm only testing the stairs."
Omar put his hands in his pockets and we watched the man bounce on one step, and then move down to the next. I noticed he was wearing an odd combination of clothing: pants from an old office suit, a dingy soccer shirt, and sneakers with Velcro fasteners. "What do you expect to find?" Omar asked.
We strained to hear him whisper, slightly breathless, "A noticeable bounce may mean structural problems."
"Is it bouncing?" Omar asked.
He stared past us in concentration. "Not sure." He went back up to a previous step. "There may be something here." He examined the steps, going from one to the other, jumping and trying again.
We took the stairs to the second floor while Omar explained that John Owen had been part of the original deal with Lady Weston. "He putters around all summer with his crew of grad students who think they're having a symposium, fixing things, making sure the place isn't falling into irretrievable disrepair, in return for Literature Live's use of the property."
I smiled. "The students think they're having a symposium?"
"And they pay for the privilege." Omar gestured to a lot of closed doors in the second floor hallway. "None of this is open to the public. Some of these bedrooms serve as private offices for Archie and Magda and the lead actors, and since I'm not sure which are which, I just stay downstairs unless summoned." As we walked down the hallway, Omar grinned, nudging me with his elbow. "I don't think John Owen grasps the meaning of only connect, do you?"
"I think you're making fun of me," I said, "and we've only known each other since six."
Omar touched the handle of another narrow door and explained about the third floor. "Off-limits," he said, "just a lot of dead furniture up there, not interesting."
I sensed My Jane Austen touching the handle from the other side of the door.
"Do you think we'll get a lease extension?" I asked, imagining the first real lines in my novel life interrupted by a real estate broker with a sign and a hammer, wondering if Omar had felt anything because he was holding his own hand.
"Depends. The taxes are exorbitant, and the new lord needs the cash to finance his bar bills." Omar started down the stairs. "The offices are over here in the east wing." Omar led us down a curving hall and opened a door but we didn't go in. "Nigel's office, the conference room, and library. Not interesting, just the admin heart of the festival." Omar turned and bumped into me. "Let's go, it's dark," he said.
"But we must have seen less than half."
"Tomorrow is another day, Scarlett. You can't see anything in the dark anyway."
The great wooden door, not locked as feared, responded to my push, admitting me into the chilly stone nave of St. James's Church. I'd gently disengaged Omar by professing a need for more exercise, although he likely sensed I was up to something. Pulling the door shut, I waited for my eyes to adjust, dim evening light filtering through the ruby and cobalt of stained glass, delighted to sense that My Jane Austen was still with me.
Tiptoeing carefully over uneven stone to a dark wooden pew, I sat, breathing the musty air deeply through my nose, exhaling through my mouth, a visitor in a quiet tomb. A narrow shelf built into the pew before me held the diminutive Book of Common Prayer, the English version, smaller than those back home. The regular size hymnal hung over the shelf's edge, too big to fit. A needlepoint cushion hung from a hook below. Near the front of the church, stone effigies, perhaps the First Baron of Weston and his wife, slept in a bed of marble, their hands clasped in prayer these many years. I tried to be quiet but the pew creaked with every movement. Another entombed body lay prone in the far corner, all alone, facing the wall with the great window. Lifting the needlepoint cushion from its hook, I knelt and whispered the words from the funeral liturgy: "All we go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song. Alleluia. Alleluia." I repeated the phrase over and over, with a special heartfelt emphasis on "yet even at the grave." Usually the repetition would begin to soothe me and I would become lost in the words, but it wasn't working for me now. I kept thinking about the ancient sleepers and the universal smell of mustiness and how it smelled old but still alive. Still present among the living, but separate. At times like this, the utter permanence of death came home to me like a thick iron wall that closed forever between my mother and me. I could never tell her about Sue or ask her advice about my father or anything else. Death did not negotiate.