Jane Actually

said.
    “Then let us leave rancour and blame behind us and move on to crafting a strategy to address the problem.”
    Melody replied by nodding her head in agreement. “And I’m sorry I … your post wasn’t … I shouldn’t have …”
    Jane knew this amounted to an abject apology from her friend and to stop her train of elliptical contrition, Jane said, “I hope you can quickly hire a publicist to repair the damage.”
    Melody looked embarrassed and answered, “Actually I hired her two days ago. She starts tomorrow.”
    “That is fortuitous timing,” Jane said. “I am sure she will be a great asset.”
    Mr Pembroke looked to Melody and then to Jane’s empty chair, wondering what dynamic he was missing. He decided to ignore it, happy that he had reconciled the two friends and added, “I’m pretty sure this will die down shortly and then perhaps I could approach a few academics that might come to Jane’s defence. They might help explain that Jane doesn’t want a moratorium on Austen scholarship. There’s a Dr Davis in Chicago who’s writing a book right now. I’m sure we can count her on our side.”
    1 In a letter to a relative, Austen offered this writing advice: “You are now collecting your people delightfully, getting them exactly into such a spot as is the delight of my life. Three or four families in a country village is the very thing to work on, and I hope you will do a great deal more, and make full use of them while they are so very favourably arranged.”
    2 In a letter to a different relative, Austen wrote: “What should I do with your strong, manly, spirited sketches, full of variety and glow? How could I possibly join them on to the little bit (two inches wide) of ivory on which I work with so fine a brush, as produces little effect after much labour?” Austen wrote on small pieces of paper, examples of which you can see at http://www.janeausten.ac.uk/.
    3 Excessively or affectedly quaint, pretty, or sentimental

Shared interests
She looked fully capable of ripping most men in half
    C ourtney couldn’t get comfortable in his chair or quit his worry that he was in the wrong place. He’d told the taxi driver to take him to Jimmy’s Bar on 55th Street and the driver assured him he knew the place, but had deposited him at a nondescript looking building labelled Woodlawn Tap. Inside the almost empty bar it was dark and smelled of decades of cigarettes, fried foods and spilled beer. A large print of Nighthawks was by the entrance, several band posters adorned a small stage and a bartender had assured him he was in the right place and that he should sit anywhere.
    He rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants, tried to think good thoughts and took another sip of his rum and Coke. He’d been surprised when Davis had replied to his email and had suggested meeting. Fortunately the timing had worked out, he having just returned from England to meet with his agent, and could stop in Chicago on the way. He’d frankly given up hope of hearing from her, but obviously the news that he was very close to obtaining the letter must have persuaded her.
    Then he saw her enter the bar and thought of the description of Liesl from Robertson Davies’
The Manticore
. She was a large domineering sort of woman whom one might uncharitably describe as ugly. She had not that regularity or fineness of features or smoothness of complexion so admired in Austen novels. She was square jawed and her nose was bulbous and she looked fully capable of ripping most men in half. But in her elegant yet eccentric green tartan wool dress, she exuded confidence as she scanned the room looking for him. Her thick reddish hair that ended in a war club-like braid whipped about her head when she turned sharply at the sound of the bartender laughing at something on the television.
    “Is Jimmy here today?” she asked the bartender. He looked over his shoulder at her and said, “Not today. He said he’d be in later.”
    She nodded, asked for a club soda, and returned to her observation of the room. Her eyes locked on Courtney and he answered with a timid wave.
    As she strode toward him Courtney stood, which caused her to break stride momentarily.
    “Dr Davis?”
    “Mr Blake,” she said, not feeling the need to confirm her identity.
    He extended his hand, which she took in a firm, quick grip. She started to take her chair, but Courtney quickly pulled it out for her.
    “Thank you,” she said in her husky voice.
    He quickly took