Archie said, "No one is ever to enter the gates in civilian clothing. Cast members must be in costume and staff must be dressed in black at all times." I wanted to schedule my fittings. "Rehearsal for all actors will begin immediately," he said, and "the schedule for the season is in your packet." I wanted to rehearse. Archie warned us, "Treat maids kindly; they are paid, but not much." I wanted the latecomer to go away.
Then Archie made a goofy face, alerting us to an inside joke as he reminded us, in a falsetto voice, to prepare ourselves for the annual Founder's Night Follies, an evening of homemade entertainment commemorating Jane Austen's half birthday, sort of. "And you will be there," he threatened, "or you will miss Magda's impersonation of Aunt Norris." Magda gave him a look and he shrugged.
Maybe the latecomer was one of Omar's writing students.
The staff woman, Claire, jumped up and reminded everyone "how thankful we must all be that the Banks Family Grant has agreed to finance this summer's budget shortfall." Banks family? Then Claire made it final by looking directly at the latecomer. My worst nightmare had arrived and taken a seat among us. Miss Banks ignored Claire, pulling the cellophane off a pack of cigarettes. Miss Banks, present and accounted for.
"And for those of you who may not know, Literature Live is an independent operation. I can't really think"—Claire, the staff woman, looked at the ceiling—"of any other festival or conference that operates without university or corporate affiliation." She pointed to herself. "I'm the accounting department. You're looking at the accounting department."
Laughter, solid like one dense sound, rose and receded.
She listed on her fingers, "The tuition from the writing program covers staff, our endowment from wills and bequests covers part of the actors' salaries, but we will not be here next year unless a new dedicated funding source is found."
Was this true? I looked at Vera, her jaw clenched, gaze fixed straight ahead. Had she seen Miss Banks? Claire, the staff person, might have had more to say, but Nigel thanked her and she returned to her seat.
A low murmur rumbled through the room and Nigel raised his arms to quiet us. "You may have heard rumors," he said, "concerning our lease renewal. Please don't gossip about it." His hands went into his pockets. "Vera and I have known Lady Weston for over thirty-five years. That relationship, along with Her Ladyship's commitment to sharing Jane Austen's voice with the world, will ensure our lease is renewed and Literature Live thrives well into the future."
Again, the low murmur from the room.
"Your job is Mansfield Park." Nigel put one finger in the air and spoke over the noise. "Your job is to exercise your gifts of writing and academic inquiry in this safe place." He raised another finger in a peace sign. "Your job is to dazzle with your performances." Nigel pleaded with his arms, "Bring Jane Austen's words to life."
Yes, I said silently.
"Leave the renewal of the lease to me and Vera."
Vera closed her eyes and nodded.
I could wait no longer. People were going through the papers in their envelopes, consulting each other and raising hands to ask questions. I had to know. My pulse raced as I approached Vera.
"Is that Miss Banks sitting over there?" I asked. "The Miss Banks that wasn't supposed to show up?"
"Oh dear," she said, looking over her shoulder. She appeared older in this light, and I wondered if she and her table-mates were seventy, some pushing eighty. "This makes no sense," she said. "Come with me."
Conversations buzzed and spun around my head. People with questions approached the stage and Nigel yelled over the din for anyone with payroll issues to consult Claire. Nigel touched Vera's arm fondly and leaned in to listen to her question. What was it like being married to him? Then he straightened, looked at me, and shook my hand.
"The great American reader; I've heard of you." Nigel winked; he looked much older up close. But I loved him and feared for his approval already. Surely he could fix the Miss Banks problem.
"Nigel." Vera grabbed Nigel's arm and pulled him close, a look of restrained hilarity on her face. "Don't look now," she said, "but Mrs. Russell is at eleven o'clock, headed this way." Heedless, I looked up and saw the Janeite from yesterday's check-in table. Still dressed as if she'd just stepped from the pages of Pride and Prejudice, ribbons from the military hat still straining her throat, she made her way over.
"Oh damn," Nigel said. "Give them a ball and they'll be back in two ticks demanding a seance."
"Run." Vera pushed Nigel. He managed to escape, but Mrs. Russell was no lightweight. She snagged me instead.
"Oh, Miss Berry," she said in her singsong voice, standing on tiptoe. "Have you set a date for the tea?"
"Every day at four." I waved a napkin as Vera pulled me in the opposite direction.
"Let's check with Archie," Vera said.
"She showed up," Archie said, shrugging.
This was my life he was shrugging about.
"We made a decision." Vera insisted, her nostrils flaring. "We gave Lily the part. Would it be so hard to just find another part for the Banks girl?"
Archie shook his head and, at that moment, I had a perfect image of him lying to his wife, throwing another stick on the fire threatening his marriage. Then he pulled Vera into an embrace and spoke so close to her ear I heard only the word Magda. I felt my forehead. My hand was cool, my forehead burning. Watching them, I felt the possibility of Literature Live slipping from my grasp, the presence of the immortal Jane Austen closing down again. Had I been mistaken to believe I could find my niche in this place? Feeling faint under the burden of my accumulated failures, I pulled out a chair and reproached myself: Literature Live was an exclusive club I could not join; Newton Priors somebody else's house, and Mansfield Park a novel I'd never live in. Leaving Texas had been so final, and Literature Live my happily-ever-after. This couldn't be over already; the universe was running out of places for me to fit in.
"Are you okay?" Omar asked.
"It seems there's no part for me." I looked up at Omar.
"No kidding," Omar said. "You're not a professional actress, am I right?"
He nailed me.
Nikki chatted behind us with an acquaintance from previous summers, laughing, touching the place over her heart, finally letting the other person talk.
"I'm a human resources level five specialist," I told him. "Or I was before they fired me." I began to think writers were the new psychologists. I'd been wary of psychologists from a young age, afraid they had a power like X-ray vision, capable of infiltrating the defenses guarding my deepest private meanings. Karen thought a therapist or minister could penetrate my grief, I'm just glad she never thought of putting a writer on the job; Omar would have nailed me in the first session.
Omar sniffed. "Vera's done this before, for your information. Her M.O. is to adopt an innocent young reader like you and expose her to this world, her own little Pygmalion operation. We all know she does it but you're the first she's tried to pass off as an actress."
My mouth hung open. "What happened to those women?"
"Not much, a little admin work, a minor flirtation with our resident aristocrat, and back home. Nigel fixed the problem by hiring a staff person."
"You mean Claire?"
"Yes. Vera knows the drill here. They hire professional actors."
"What about Elizabeth Banks?" I asked. "She's not a professional actress."
"Oh." Omar smiled. "Right. They will hire amateurs that belong to families of board members that come with big donations. And she's related to the Westons. Elizabeth Banks and Randolph are cousins." Omar nodded to the door by which Randolph had left.