Jane Austen Made Me Do It (14 page)

Good port thawed Tim Pemberley.

“I met Anne in Goa. They all go there, these days. Their authorities discourage the tabloids. She latched on to me, I suppose. Then I came home to London, after stopping in Delft and Antwerp, and there she was, sitting in our living room with my mamm-aah”—that famous English upper-class drawl, dragging out the word. “A little surprising, to say the least.”

“Oh my,” said Nicola, visibly reconsidering the story of Anne falling in love. “Do we have to save you from her?”

“Tell us about the book,” said Uncle Julius, and Tim Pemberley flinched in discomfort.

“The book thing. Yes.” He faced Julius. “I like nothing about this whole thing.”

“You mean the Nazi connection and all that?” asked Nicola.

Lord Tim looked perplexed. “No,” he said. “I mean, it's so awkward.”

“No kidding,” said Charles. Nicola looked at Charles with an expression that pleaded for candor, but Charles did not bite.

“So,” said Uncle Julius, “did your mom like her?”

“Mamm-aah's iffy, you know how it is. The class thing. But Anne, she's an amazing woman. Let's face it.”

Nicola was not sure that Tim meant “amazing” in a good way, but Charles—at last—was hooked. He dove into the ocean of controversy and asked directly, “Who bought the book? Where did it come from? Who actually paid for it?”

Lord Pemberley shrugged. “I did. In a way. That's what I mean by it being awkward”—and saying no more, he went to bed.

The next afternoon, Nicola dropped in to ASTA's.

“Look what I have. She's so proud of it, Charlie, it's heartbreaking. I asked her to let me show you.”

Charles took the book and turned it every which way in his large hands.

“Well, it certainly is somebody's idea of her signature.” He opened the cover with practiced delicacy and peeled back the first few left-hand pages. “It's probably a first edition, that's the ironic thing. See—1813. And now it's been defaced.” Charles handed it back. “What do you think all this is about, kid?”

“I saw her this morning. We had to review the contact sheets and we have to cover one more setup.”

“Tomorrow?”

“No. Day after.”

“Is he staying with us again tonight?”

“Sadly, no,” said Nicola. “The little lord was gone at seven. Didn't you hear him?”

“You make him sound like Jesus,” Charles said.

“I wasn't thinking of sanctity.” Nicola dreamed for a moment and then said, “Stop scowling, Charlie. You look harassed.” She straightened his tie.

He opened the door into the restaurant to a sound dense and mellow—one of New York's favorite melodies, a full dining room. The crowd looked dressed to kill, pushing their top-dollar
food from one side of their plates to the other. People waited in the foyer to get near the bar. It was after two o'clock and the place still hummed.

“A Page Six blind item claimed that André Talley had his own table at ASTA's. So the whole would-be fashion crowd is in again. Phones started ringing at eight.”

“I didn't know that André was a regular, Charlie.”

“He's not,” admitted Charles. “It's chum, darling. Brings all the fishies. Keeps us in caviar.”

“There's a pitchman lurking in you, Charlie.”

“Go to Sotheby's, kid. Cast your own net and pull in some facts.”

She saw him in an instant, leaning against a wall, speaking to two other men dressed in the English uniform of striped suit and striped shirt. He saw her too, but seemed embarrassed and looked away. Nicola stood at the rear of the auction room and waited. Tiles and murals came, urns and figurines went; gavels pounded, adrenaline surged, and money flowed.

Let's see what he'll do
. But the young Lord Pemberley did nothing—until she waved her hand.
He has to respond
, she thought.
It could be anything, a bid I want to make
. She judged it well; as they loaded some new sale items, he nodded toward the door and moved to meet her.

“Nicola, what a nice surprise. Can I bid on something for you?”

“We have to know about the book, Tim,” she said. “We can't allow Anne to think it's real. She'll feel humiliated.”

“I couldn't let it happen. God's sake, I'm on a Sotheby's salary. I've borrowed against everything.”

“Tim, what's going on?”

He stopped. “What did Anne tell you?”

“That she'd fallen in love with you. That she bought a book. That your mother had sold her beloved Jane Austen first editions when your father died. Not much more than that.”

He hesitated. “You should talk to her.”

“I'm talking to you.” She leveled her gaze. Nicola's talent lay in getting everyone on a set to sign on to her vision. She'd built a career on that skill.

Tim Pemberley led her out of the auction room, into the polished beige foyer of Sotheby's, down the staircase and out onto York Avenue. In sunlight bright and startling, he told his story without temperament or guise.

When he'd finished, Nicola advised, “Say nothing to Anne. Give us a couple of days.”

That night, Charles and Julius listened to Nicola as Charles worked a garlic scampi. According to Tim, the “rare books dealer” from Boston had arranged to meet Anne at the Pierpont Morgan Library, where, to prove his book's authenticity, they looked at a facsimile of Austen's writing in the manuscript
Lady Susan
.

When Tim first arrived from England, Anne couldn't contain her excitement, sure that this would cheer his mother, left so low by her husband's death. Tim made some excuse about checking provenance, and said that he'd want to ask the dealer a few more questions before the checks were exchanged—but he raised no alarm. When, instead of Anne, he went to the Morgan for the closing of the deal, he threatened to tell the police. The “dealer” said that Anne Elliott would buy the book for a million dollars, authentic or not. Nonnegotiable, he said. Anne had been a very ambitious girl. She'd done whatever it took to get out of Oklahoma and into orbit as a star. He had proof. Pictures and videos.

Tim couldn't countenance Anne's money being used on such a swindle, especially—as he saw it—one connected to a gesture of kindness intended for his own family. He went back to London
to raise his own cash. And he'd paid it just before he'd gotten into the restaurant the day before. It was gone. Paid and gone.

“So he was the mark all along?” asked Julius.

Nicola raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“The passerby,” said Julius.

“The what?” Nicola looked bewildered. “Don't give Nora shrimp, Charlie—she gets hives from shrimp.”

Charles rushed to change the subject. “They also call them spectators.”

“Your father—he called 'em ticket holders,” Uncle Julius explained, ignoring Charlie's frown. “The innocent third party,” he said slowly, letting Nicola take in the concept.

“So—what do you mean? Now you think that Anne is up to something?” Charles, in an obvious about-face, simply didn't want to believe it.

Uncle Julius amassed a second helping of scampi.

“Dunno. She got out awful fast from dinner when I axed my question.”

“It's ‘asked,' Uncle Julius,” said Nicola, whose eyes were distant with thought. Charles held Nora in his lap. She begged and squirmed and put her stubby little legs near his plate as he let her lick his fingers.

Nicola's eyes returned from her reflections. “I see you, Charlie Scott,” she warned.

Uncle Julius rolled his own eyes.

“Dog's life,” he said. “You know where we're goin' tomorrow, buddy?”

Charles shook his head.

With the waters of Long Island Sound flashing outside the train's windows, Uncle Julius said to Charles, “I'll do the talking. Manny's touchy.”

“Julius, listen. How often do I have to tell you? Don't talk about my father in front of Nicola. Or anyone.”

“Heard from him?”

“No, thank God.”

“I had a card. He's in Moscow. So he says. I couldn't read the postmark.”

“Sent to our house? Goddammit!” Charles pushed away his Amtrak cheese and crackers, which Uncle Julius grabbed.

“Anyway. Manny's tricky. Jewish mother, Irish father. He could be schizoid. But he's the best trader there is.”

“You mean ‘fence,' don't you?” Charles said dismissively. And when the driver pulled up in front of Manny's house, Charles Scott looked at the portico and its columns and said, “Jesus wept.”

“Yeah, he makes a few shekels,” said Uncle Julius.

A red-haired, large-breasted maid answered the doorbell. “He's in the library,” she said, nodding toward the door at the right and toddling off on heels high as a footstool.

The room was deep with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Charles could tell that few of the books had been opened—this was “library as movie set”—carved pilasters and pediments of inlaid, quality veneers. Manny saw Charles eye the marquetry.

“To be posh, you gotta look posh.” He opened his arms in welcome. “How are you, Julie, my friend?”

Uncle Julius waved a hand to take in the entire property. “The Picassos?” he asked.

“You got it,” said Manny, and laughed again.

“They go to Switzerland?”

“Where else?”

“And it's books now, is it?” Uncle Julius fingered the leather on Manny's pristine desk.

“Follow the money.” Manny turned to Charles. “How's your dad? Now, there's a gentleman.”

Charles shrugged ambiguously. Uncle Julius sat down.

“So, Manny, tell us,” Julius said gravely, “about Jean Austen.”

“Jane,” corrected Charles.

Manny laughed, but seemed immediately uncomfortable.

Charles picked up the discomfort and went for the jugular. “Give it back.”

“Was it Prickles?” asked Julius, ignoring Charles.

“Yeah.” Manny, keen to recover, couldn't hide his admiration. “And a great binder. Out west. Does mostly family Bibles and stuff. He used two-hundred-year-old glue. That's talent. Two hundred years.”

“You mean the whole book is fake?”

“Please. I hate that word,” said Manny, as hurt as a maiden aunt.

Charles pressed. “There's more to this, isn't there?”

Manny said, “It's only business.”

“Look, Manny,” said Uncle Julius, folding his arms like a well-considered hero. “We can get the book back for you. We can make this just go away.”

Manny opened the drawer and took out Tim's check. All he could say was, “Julie, I shoulda called you.”

“Yeah-yeah.” Julius said, smiling and patting Manny's shoulder.

Charles remained annoyed. “There's a little matter of the pictures,” he said with some bite.

“Right!” said Uncle Julius, a little too enthusiastically. “Can we see 'em?”

“Down, boy,” said Charles.

Manny said, “I got no pictures.”

“What?!” Charles and Uncle Julius exclaimed together.

Charles asked, “A bluff?”

Manny nodded. “A bluff.”

“What made you think he'd bite?”

“Gal like that?” said Manny. “You think there's no pictures?”

Julius took Manny's hand like a priest and kissed the top of his head.

“Manny, you're beautiful. What a pro.”

On the train, Charles ordered doubles.

“I'm still not sure I know what's happened,” he said.

Handing Charles the check, Uncle Julius said, “See, it's in Manny's interest for that book to disappear for a while. This dame, she tainted it by talkin' it up. If we keep a lid on it, he'll unload it next year. To someone quieter. A Swiss cheese or someone. He'll be fine. Don't you worry about Manny.”

“Believe it or not, Uncle Julius,” Charles said, dripping irony on the floor, “I'm not really worried about Manny.”

Anne Elliott and Tim Pemberton announced their engagement the following weekend during a luncheon party at ASTA. All Tim would tell her was that the book wasn't what it was supposed to be. But he knew about a book that had just been sold, inscribed by Austen's publishers to a family friend.

“It's as close as we'll get to the holy grail,” Tim told her. “As I see it, if you want to give me a wedding present, you could get that—or a new roof for the house.”

“Why not both?” Anne laughed, looking as happy as a movie queen in the last reel.

They kissed for the cameras. Off to one side, watching the circus, Charles nudged Nicola.

“In
Pride and Prejudice
, what does Darcy do?”

“He pisses off Lizzie.”

“No, kid, after that. What's the key thing he does?”

“You tell me, Charlie. You're the one who fancies Janey.”

“He pays off somebody's debts. He proves he can protect someone. That's why Lizzie melts toward him.”

Nicola, Charles, and Uncle Julius left the restaurant together. In the hall, they heard Nora's welcome and the tapping of her nails on the marble floor. Charles picked up his silky dog and Nicola stroked Nora's satin ears. Nora rolled her head back and closed her eyes—dog heaven.

“Well,” said Charles, “she won't be the first commoner marrying into the English aristocracy. But she might be the most beautiful.”

Nicola said, “You haven't seen her without the façade.”

Uncle Julius went to bed. Charles opened the cognac, their late-night nip. He carried their glasses upstairs.

“Love,” sighed Nicola, “it always brings out the best in people. Always makes them nicer.”

“So I was the one with the prejudice?”

“You're always the one with the prejudice, Charlie.”

“And the pride?”

She laughed. “I'm proud of the fact that Jane Austen can't have you. Nor can Miz E.”