Nigel's gaze traveled to the back of the room and we all turned to see a balding but confident man walking in, making his way through the tables. The guy I'd seen in the dark church walked in with him. The one from the church hit his head like a comedian and the other smiled, but I had a feeling the dynamics between them were usually reversed. "Today, I have the pleasure of introducing our patron," Nigel said. "Although we deeply regret Lady Weston's illness, we are delighted that Randolph Lockwood, the Eleventh Baron of Weston, is present to bestow her annual welcome."
The Randolph Department. But which man was Randolph? The guy from the church or the one with the deeply receding hairline? Everyone applauded and I experienced great relief that it was the hairline guy. Casually dressed in jeans and blazer, his white T-shirt peeking over the V-neck of his sweater, he smiled, walking to the podium as if he did this sort of thing a lot and his premature lack of hair was our problem, not his. I'd met his type before. The fact that he was not handsome in the accepted sense didn't bother him in the least. His profound powers of attraction stemmed from enormous confidence and intelligence: his type rarely played the straight man and never found himself at a loss for words.
Randolph cleared his throat, summoning gravitas. "On behalf of my grandmother, whose health prevents her from being with you today"—he was the prince now—"I welcome you to Newton Priors, my family's ancestral home, for another season of Literature Live." I imagined him mocking us in a bar later. "Her Ladyship is a person of many and varied interests," he said, "but none so capture Lady Weston's enthusiasm as the enactment of Jane Austen's novels. It has been her greatest pleasure to know you are here and to visit you each year at Newton Priors." I'd never seen an aristocrat. He was perhaps on the young side of thirty-five and spoke with a lovely accent. Probably a great dancer.
I glanced back at the guy from the church, curious to see his expression. His brow indeed furrowed attractively in concentration, a knowing smile on his lips betrayed familiarity with Randolph's remarks. I felt My Jane Austen in the background, taking notes, writing on her little squares of ivory fastened like a fan, the eighteenth-century word processor.
"Her Ladyship wishes to acknowledge deep appreciation for the financial support of the Banks Family Grant, as well as the dedication of time and talent on the part of so many staff members and volunteers who enable the festival's continued operation." I noticed he didn't thank the expensive actors. "And of course, the festival would not exist without the leadership and vision of Nigel Saintsbury, for whom we are most grateful." Everyone applauded, but it seemed Nigel had been added as an afterthought.
"To change course a bit"—he paused a moment while we adjusted our headings—"Vera will be taking a look at operations this summer, generating ideas to upgrade and maximize the utility of Newton Priors."
I sat up straight.
"And I invite all of you—Vera has mentioned that some of you have interesting ideas—to share your thoughts."
Had Vera told Lord Weston my ideas—about firing the expensive actors and selling lecture subscriptions?
"We mustn't rest on our laurels," he continued. "Even Jane Austen can stand a fresh approach every thirty years or so." This got a laugh. "Please know that we have the utmost respect for your talent and dedication," Randolph said. "And will carefully consider the ideas you bring to the table concerning the festival's future."
I sensed a threat of endangerment.
"And now," he said, raising his hands in princely benediction, "with all best wishes from Lady Weston; my sister, Philippa; and myself, let the season begin." Randolph shook hands with Nigel and a few others, darting looks to the left and right, aware that paparazzi lurk everywhere. The church guy waited in the back of the room, arms folded across his chest, and once Randolph reached him they departed the way they had come, taking some of the energy from the room when they left.
Nigel introduced Sixby, the lead actor and assistant creative director for Literature Live—my Hamlet from the pub and follies partner—who stood to open the meeting with a reading. In Texas, we'd be getting a prayer.
Sixby read from near the end of Mansfield Park. "'Timid, doubting, anxious as she was, it was still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of success.'"
I hung on the turn of Sixby's head, the way he said hope. He took my breath away; I wanted to get inside the words with him. Austen's prose never sounded so beautiful in my head. Where did he get the ideas for the inflection? Goose bumps prickled my arms and legs, and I wished he would go on, but he stopped, and everyone clapped thunderously. I made a mental note to get the book and read that part again—in his accent.
"Close as he could get to a love scene in Mansfield Park," Nikki snarked.
Nigel looked at the floor, showing us the thinning hair on his crown as we took a breath with him. When he looked up, he said solemnly, "We gather every summer—in this place—brought together by the work of the great artist Jane Austen." He paused after each phrase to allow his words to float down and settle on us like snowflakes. I felt certain My Jane Austen enjoyed this as much as I did. "When I explain to others what we do, I like to borrow the words of John Burroughs: 'Literature is an investment of genius which pays dividends to all subsequent times.'" He paused. "Jane Austen gave us her genius. We are simply the clerks whose job it is to pay out dividends to our time.
"We return to the text again and again," Nigel continued, "in order to penetrate the meanings with which Austen charged her books." I stopped breathing in order to concentrate on his point; did his returning to the text idea include Magda and her radical interpretation of the subtext? "The words are the medium through which Austen expresses her particular vision of what it means to be a human being in the world we share. Two. Hundred. Years. Later. We continue to return to her text."
I felt my heart swell, my mind raced on the adrenaline of Nigel's comments. I was with him. Someone chose that glorious moment to walk into the room and noisily pull back a chair. Heads turned to see the young woman sit next to Omar. How could anyone be late? How could anyone disrupt our communion with Jane Austen? And I feared it was her.
Nigel introduced several other staff members, including Suzanne Forbes, the wardrobe director, who instructed all cast members to schedule fitting appointments after the meeting or suffer bleedings.
The latecomer sat too far away for me to read her name tag.
Archie Porter, the hip, middle-aged managing director in torn jeans and a gray ponytail, took the stage, his forearms resting on the podium.
The latecomer didn't look like she belonged here.
His words struggled to keep up with his rapid neural connections. He spoke to the floor and then looked up at us. "You know"—he pointed—"it doesn't matter if you like your Austen straight or with a twist of politics, whether Mansfield Park is about society's limits on individual spirit or about slavery, incest, and lesbianism, it all comes down to..."
I sat on the edge of my seat wondering what it all came down to, thrilled that he might reveal a delicious new insight.
The latecomer wasn't paying attention.
But Magda rose from her seat and interrupted Archie, silently handing him a clipboard. Archie's next words sprang not from his brain but from Magda's clipboard. We looked at the sticker on the back: a cigarette in a red circle with a line through it. His other hand raked his hair, and when he resumed speaking, he stuck to the mundane details of our orientation, never sharing what it all came down to. Perhaps Magda didn't want us to know.