Cindy Jones - My Jane Austen Summer - A Season in Mansfield Park

"My Dear Janeites," I said, knowing this was going to be bad, unable to stop because Jane Austen was driving, recklessly. "Why do you insist on another stupid party?" Several people gasped and I sensed a low rumble, unrest in the audience. Would someone please call the police and have me arrested? "Can you conceive that it may be possible to do without dancing entirely? Instances have been known of women passing many, many months successively, without being at any ball of any description, and no material injury accrue either to body or mind. But when a beginning is made—when the felicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly felt—it must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more. Obsession working on a weak head produces every sort of mischief."

No one laughed. I kept my mouth shut to make sure no further damage occurred. I conveyed harsh thoughts to My Jane Austen: How could you use me like this? We were best friends but you've gone too far. Return to my rear periphery and either stay there or go away. If you can't respect boundaries, you need to get help. Nigel's face bore frail amazement. Vera looked stricken. Omar's fist supported his nose, obscuring his expression. Just as I thought things couldn't get much worse, the muffled electronic wail of a cell phone interrupted the horror, the sound originating from the tiny fringed bag on my wrist. The unmistakable ringtone played the first line of Tommy's new song, "I'll Find You," as a rush of panic crashed against my chest. I answered the phone, why not? Perhaps Lionel Trilling was calling to get the last word. "Hullo?" I said. The audience waited, stifling black laughter as I listened to the halting voice.

"Oh, Lord Weston," I said, "I'm so sorry."

The audience hushed, watching intently.

"She's here with me, actually," I said, looking up at Vera. I listened. "Yes, I'll let her know." I nodded and closed my eyes. "I'm so sorry." I powered off the phone and looked at Vera. She sat stiff, prepared for the worst as I spoke the last line of my last one-woman show. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm terribly sorry to be the bearer of bad news," I said. "Lady Weston died early this morning."

The memorial service looked more like Masterpiece Theatre than a funeral. Mrs. Russell and the entire corps of volunteers filled our church with their Regency best, thankfully distracted from the insults of my one-woman show. Volunteers who had served tea, sold tickets, and passed out programs over the years, now gathered to celebrate Lady Weston's life. Even the sun presented a robust rendition of its English version—nothing you could fry an egg on—but the cobalt and emerald in the church windows sparkled like tumblers inside a kaleidoscope.

Surrounded by a multitude of glorious hats, I would see nothing unless I stood on the pew. I would miss the first glimpse of Willis when the clergy processed down the aisle. The organ thundered a prelude and my heart beat faster at the immediate prospect of existing in the same room with him. Only here, at the memorial service for a dead woman, would the world come alive for me. Breathing deeply to calm myself, holding his jacket to return to him, I failed to suppress the dangerous hope that he was sorting Philippa out of his life. My anticipation grew and I desperately needed a sign from him to sustain me.

The woman next to me fanned herself with the bulletin as the small assortment of gray-haired Weston relatives filed into reserved seats in the front. The actual funeral had been held elsewhere, making family attendance here optional. Philippa wore black except for the gold purse chain slung over her shoulder; her dark glasses, worn inside the church, compelled her to lean on her brother to avoid running into things. Randolph, in a somber suit, looked like the polished bankers or lawyers that rode the elevators to the upper floors in my old office building.

With a great rustling of fabric, the congregation stood for the opening hymn. I leaned forward for a view of the verger leading the procession, followed by an earnest young acolyte hefting an ornate brass cross, flanked by two torch bearers. Behind them, the small choir followed, and finally the clergy. A star zapped me when Willis entered, the center of the lovely universe; the only one who mattered. I saw the world through him, saw myself through him, and knew I wanted to get in there with him forever.

Music stopped and the priest said, "I am the resurrection and the life." The mighty words resonated. I heard them for the first time. Fear took note and fled the premises, snagging my personal tangle of dread and beating a hasty departure. Once freed, my spirit surged and I met myself in clarity, suddenly unafraid of being alone. I wiped tear-filled eyes with my bare hands until the woman next to me offered a tissue. I turned the pages of the prayer book feeling new and strong. What was so hard about this and why was I only now feeling this lightness? Fresh confidence sustained me all the way through the Great Thanksgiving.

When the time came, I approached the rail for communion, eyes downcast and hands folded, passing the family, including Philippa, without looking at them. Aware that Willis could see me, I knelt at the rail, head bent. If my mother's spirit were here, as Willis had assured me it was, there must be so many others, a great swirling mass of ethereal beings hovering above us like spirits in an Italian Renaissance painting. In their parallel plane of existence, they welcomed the new arrival—Lady Weston—and supported me as I knelt. Outwardly, I projected calm, but beneath my composed exterior I harbored the entire heavenly company, their voices joining with angels and archangels in a chorus of eternal forgiveness. I could be free.

Willis came closer every moment. His shoes entered my downcast vision, only two people away as the priest put the wafer in my hand saying, "The body of Christ; the bread of heaven." Willis stood before me and I looked up at him. "Lily," he said, putting the cup to my lips. Then, providing the sign I craved, he touched my hand supporting the base of the cup. "The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation." He lingered a beat longer in front of me than with any other communicant. I made the sign of the cross over my chest while the wine blazed a warm path to my heart.

As I left the church, scattering birds, it occurred to me I'd left without reciting the funeral liturgy for my mother. I could still go back and say the words for her, but it seemed unnecessary. My mother had moved beyond the need for a funeral. Perhaps I should recite the liturgy for my father next time. I sat on a bench outside the church with My Jane Austen and some birds. Our relationship had been cool since the Lost Letters debacle. Now we all waited; his folded jacket in my arms, birds pecking nervously in the pebbles. Willis would be shaking hands with the congregation as they filed out to join the reception at Newton Priors. He would remove his vestments in the sacristy. My Jane Austen stood and paced once birds began landing where her lap would be, and I focused on shedding any artifice I might have recently accumulated.

It seemed Willis and I shared The Look at communion but I couldn't be sure. He should be here by now. Sun and breeze conspired, causing leaves to flicker in my peripheral vision. Perhaps he had departed by another exit and missed me altogether. But then I saw him in the door, shading his eyes, looking toward Newton Priors. At that instant, the clock started. Time sped recklessly and I resented the passing of every precious second.

"Willis." I ran to meet him, slipping on the pea gravel.

"Lily." He came down the steps and held out a hand.

"You left this again," I said, surrendering the jacket.