Jane Actually

during the author’s final days.
    2 John Keat’s
Ode on a Grecian Urn

Regret
“Oh God, I went too far”
    S tephen walked with ever slowing steps to his advisor’s office, his resolve fading with each step. It’s not that he was scared of Dr Davis, although he was; as his advisor, she could make his life hell. It was more that once he confronted her, he couldn’t make allowances for her anymore. He’d put up with her obsession that Jane wasn’t Jane, because at least it was … academic. At first it was fun rummaging through Virtual Chawton and he’d even found information for his own thesis, but lately Dr Davis seemed consumed by the topic.
    He stopped just outside the door, reluctant to enter and confront her. He was about to leave when he heard: “For Christ’s sake come in already.”
    So he took off his backpack and tried to enter as nonchalantly as he could.
    “Hey, Doc,” he said, while trying to casually toss his bag onto a chair, and missed. He grimaced at the sound of his iPad inside the bag hitting the floor. He took a seat, picked up his bag and put it primly on his lap.
    Dr Davis looked up from the website she was visiting, peering at Stephen over the top of her reading glasses.
    “You came because of that story,” she said matter of factly.
    “Well, yes, and because we have a standing appointment,” he said, just as casually.
    Neither said anything for about half a minute. Stephen fingered the zipper on his backpack while she pretended to resume reading the website.
    “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.
    “No, not particularly.”
    “It’s just that it made me look rather stupid in front of Mary and Jane.”
    Finally she looked up from her laptop and asked, “Oh, I am sorry, but did it ever occur to you that maybe she’s not Jane Austen?”
    “No, it never occurred to me. The AfterNet vetted her and that’s good enough for me. I’ve read
Sanditon
and it’s good, maybe it’s not
Pride and Prejudice
but it’s funny and it’s warm and it’s different and pretty much everyone loves it but you.”
Everyone but you, you miserable old cow
, he thought.
    The look she gave him left him with the uncomfortable feeling she had intuited his “miserable old cow” thought. “You don’t see how it’s completely different from everything she’s written?” she asked.
    “Sure, but that’s how I feel about all her books. And this book is the product of someone who’s been dead two hundred years so of course it’s going to be different.” He said this with his first note of anger. It wasn’t as if he’d expected her to apologize for making him look bad with Austen, but he had hoped she might acknowledge she’d gone too far in the interview.
    “Well, I am sorry I made you look bad in front of your girlfriend,” she finally said.
    “Look, Dr Davis, forget about that. The fact is, there’s an official Jane Austen now, and nothing you can do is going to alter that fact. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of this. They’re going to crown her at the AGM, you know it. And if you start bad mouthing Jane …”
    “Thank you very much for your advice, Stephen. I shall take it under advisement. And now that I know your opinion, I think it would be wise to not speak of the matter. I would not want to jeopardize your standing with the Austen camp.” She returned her attention to her laptop.
    “Fine. I already sent you what I found this week. Then we’re done.”
    “For now. I am actually rather busy, so perhaps we can give it a miss today.”
    He nodded, rose from his chair, collected his bag and left her office, thinking he’d just thrown away the last two years of his life.
    She looked up after he left. She’d actually been looking over the email he’d sent with his latest findings. As usual his work was impeccable and his email filled with little jokes and asides, obviously created before he’d learned about the article.
    Stupid woman! You’ve gone too far, and now you’ve antagonized a good student … and you’ve lost your spy.
    Her last thought made her feel a little guilty and more than a little sad. She hadn’t known when she’d crossed the line from being annoyed at the idea of an Austen claimant to being an obsessive crank. She still had enough presence of mind to know that’s what she’d become. Literary scholarship was full of obsessive cranks and she cringed at the idea she was now akin to those who questioned the identity of Shakespeare.
    But