Jane Actually

her car but invisible to her was Jane Austen, her favourite author. She’d read the six novels so many times—
OK, Mansfield Park not so often
—she could recite passages from memory and often did to the annoyance of others. She had seen countless adaptations of the novels and of course read a good deal of the fan fiction, but mostly eschewing the ones with zombies or vampires. She had been to England twice and visited Winchester and Bath and Lyme Regis and had been a JASNA member for fifteen years.
    But this was not what she expected meeting Jane Austen would be like.
    In the back seat, Barbara was having similar thoughts. This Jane sounded more like Mrs Bennet or Miss Bates than Elizabeth Bennet.
    “What a delightful city this is. Did you know I first visited Denver in 1895? It was very different then … well naturally it would be, more than a hundred years ago, and yet I remember it very well. Some of the streets of your downtown retain the same names I knew but otherwise … it is hard to reconcile. The mountains, however, retain their majesty. They are the purple mountains majesties, are they not? but why purple? They are in no way purple, but surely it is a matter of the light.”
    “It’s from the dark firs and other trees, I think,” Barbara offered. “Maybe when the forests were thicker, it was more purple.”
    “They’re more purple at dawn, I think,” Susan conjectured.
    The conversation lapsed for a while. Jane was enjoying the novelty of being in the care of relative strangers, although her joy was tinged with some guilt that she had left Mary alone in the hotel room.
    Guilt was not her only emotion, for she also carried a barely acknowledged resentment of Mary. She was actually happy to be away from her for just a bit. Her avatar was the best of companions and a very competent representative, but sometimes she envied the life Mary was enjoying, which was in fact her life. As she gazed out the window, these complex thoughts and emotions silenced her stream of observations.
    Susan and Barbara, however, were alarmed by Jane’s sudden silence and yet reluctant to restart the conversation. Eventually, Barbara said, “I want to tell you Miss Austen how much I enjoyed
Sanditon
.”
    “Thank you, and please call me Jane, and I hope I can claim the honour of calling you Barbara.”
    “Thank you,” Barbara said.
    “And if I may also ask the favour of calling you Susan?”
    “Please do … Jane,” Susan answered.
    “I apologize if I am not quite the Jane Austen you were expecting,” Jane said. The second she said it she gave thanks the terminal could not really convey the self-pity behind her words.
    “No, we’re quite happy to … it’s you we came to …” Barbara said.
    “Please forgive me, I phrased that badly,” Jane said, embarrassed at her words. “I only meant that … it was presumptuous to ask that you be responsible for me. I am quite prepared to take care of myself and have done so for a very, very long time. But it is kind of you to take me to the restaurant … especially today.”
    “You’re welcome,” Susan said. “We thought you shouldn’t be alone on July 18th.”
    “You were already aware of the significance of today?” Jane asked.
    “Well duh, we’re Janeites,” Barbara answered, and then was mortified she’d just said “duh” to Jane. “I mean we saw what day you’d be in Denver and we called your agent and she thought it was a great idea. We had it all planned out, but when your avatar …”
    “Her name is Mary.”
    “When Mary got her toothache, we assumed it was off.”
    “I’m afraid we kind of forgot that she’s not really you,” Susan added.
    “That is understandable,” Jane said. “There are times when I forget. But today I especially feel separate and alone and I appreciate your being so kind as to take charge of me.”
    “It’s our very great pleasure,” Susan said warmly, any misgivings now vanished.
    “You should be with family and friends on such a day,” Barbara added.
    . . .
    Jane was happy. Her new friends were the very best sort of company and not just because they were Janeites. They were relaxed and happy, fuelled partly by the mint juleps that seemed
de rigueur
at the restaurant, and no longer awed by the famous author. They sat on a patio table with a beautiful view, not of the Rocky Mountains but of the city of Denver and the plains that stretched out to infinity. The lights of the city outshone the stars in the