Y
oung Fanny Price is sent to live at Mansfield Park, the manor home of her wealthy Aunt and Uncle Bertram, where she grows up neglected and abused, and secretly in love with her cousin Edmund. But Fanny is the obvious dark horse in any competition for Edmund's affection, especially after the arrival of Mary Crawford, a witty and engaging husband hunter.

Edmund is so charmed by Mary Crawford that he abandons caution and agrees to act in amateur theatricals while his father is away--mischief! As expected, the relaxed decorum of the stage inspires Mary's brother, Henry Crawford, to flirt with both of Edmund's sisters, one of whom is engaged to be married. When Uncle Bertram arrives home unexpectedly, the stage is shut down, but the scene is already set for disaster.

Without theatrics for amusement, the players are left to their own devices. Edmund's sister marries her rich buffoon, and Henry Crawford blazes uncharted territory: he will make Fanny Price fall in love with him. Henry convinces everyone, perhaps even himself, of his reformation. But Fanny has seen Henry in action and she steadfastly refuses his marriage proposal, even though it makes everyone mad at her. Uncle Bertram hopes an extended visit with her birth family in gritty Portsmouth will allow sufficient leisure to rethink her impertinence.

Henry pursues Fanny to Portsmouth, where he maintains his good behavior, ingratiating himself by overlooking her mother's slovenly housekeeping and her father's coarse manners. At the moment when even the reader thinks perhaps Henry
has
changed and perhaps Fanny should reconsider, news arrives that Henry has committed a sin of the first magnitude; he has run away with Edmund's sister, a newly married woman. Mary Crawford's casual response to her brother's barbarous behavior clues Edmund to Mary's real character. His infatuation destroyed, Edmund is free to discover his affection for Fanny.

In the end, Fanny's tenacity in the face of competition and steadfast resistance to artful guile win her the love and happiness generally reserved for witty and charming heroines.

Mansfield Park
was published in 1814.

One

M
y spirits always lifted the instant my car started. Abandoning the grocery store pretense, I backed out of the driveway and headed in the familiar direction of my ex-boyfriend's house, driving the same direction I'd driven the previous three, eight, or perhaps thirty-eight nights. Passing through familiar neighborhoods: ferocious Highland Park, sleepy SMU, earnest M Streets, stopping for lights, I played the protagonist careening toward destiny, Anna Karenina rushing to Vronsky, or Marianne seeking Willoughby. One soulful connecting glance and Martin would confess he'd missed me. We would share his blue denim sofa like the old days, Martin watching ESPN, me reading a novel. But Martin didn't expect me anymore; I was no longer a part of his life.

At the red light a mile from his house I opened the book on my passenger seat: Jane Austen's
Unfinished Novels and Juvenilia
. Having read all six novels, I now trolled her minor works
desperate for the sort of Jane Austen fix a book like
Sense and Sensibility
offered. But instead of reading a few sentences at the red light, I studied the postcard doubling as a bookmark: a postcard promoting a summer literary festival in England where people enact Jane Austen's novels. Vera, owner of my favorite indie bookstore, gave me the postcard the day I bought
Mansfield Park
, saying, "I think you're ready for this."

The light turned green and my stomach lurched. This drive-by spying thing wouldn't be happening if Jane Austen hadn't died so young. I'd started reading
Persuasion
aloud to my mother shortly after her cancer diagnosis, kept reading
Emma
as her faculties deteriorated, and finished
Mansfield Park
alone. I read the last three in a state of denial and hit the wall after
Pride and Prejudice
, confronted with the stark reality there would
never
be any more Jane Austen novels. The sequels and prequels failed me; no amount of fan fiction could bring her back to life in my mind. All other books paled; I reread random pages from
Mansfield Park
for days, postponing the inevitable withdrawal, jilted by Jane Austen. If only Austen were still alive and writing, I wouldn't have to stare at the walls of my bedroom, studying the Braille-like texture under the paint, as if the clues to my failure hid there.

Or stalk my ex-boyfriend.

At first, I drove by his house late at night and saw the blue light flickering in the front room, Martin operating the remote from his sofa. Once, on a Saturday evening in early spring, I drove down his street of stately trees and found him outside, his back to me, relaxing with a beer in his hand, talking to a neighbor. As much as I loved seeing his familiar male legs and broad shoulders, the close call scared me into staying home the next two nights. But great windows of free time opened up after my termination, allowing me to drive by earlier and
more often, lured by the notion that discovering Martin's secrets would reveal my own missing pieces.

Lately, he'd been up to something. Last Wednesday evening Martin had not been home. His car gone, windows completely dark, the dog didn't even come to the fence. Thursday I drove by a little later and he was gone again. But the dog was home. On Friday, stopping just beyond his driveway, lurking in my dark car as if
I
were the secret, I noticed an unfamiliar bicycle leaning against the garage wall. I told myself he slumbered alone, tired from the busy week, but the unfamiliar bicycle troubled me.

At home, I tidied up my kitchen and went to bed with Henry James, unable to engage
The Wings of the Dove
no matter how many times I started over. Did Martin sleep alone in that dark house? I reviewed the clues: the bike, the pattern of absence, the missing dog. Saturdays were the critical night. I could barely function, couldn't even stare at the walls for the anxiety of Saturdays because, if Martin was going to have a date, he would have it on a Saturday.

Turning off Mockingbird Lane, my pulse quickened, driving through the neighborhood where I'd long imagined Martin and I would eventually reside: mannerly Tudors with yard signs announcing births, advertising remodeling projects, or proclaiming enrollment in elementary schools, private or public. The closer his house, the more nervous I felt, but nervous was so much better than the desperate loneliness of sitting at home wondering whose bicycle had moved in.

My mother had said Martin wasn't my type and I should let go, but she just didn't like him because of his commitment problem and his habit of sometimes closing his eyes when he talked to you. I reminded her Martin was the first guy who would ever agree to a date in the bookstore on Saturday night.
I missed the way I could always find him in the magazine department reading
Car and Driver
when I was ready to go. Now, the scorching pain of my emptiness was unbearable. I began the final approach to Martin's street; one more turn and I would see his car in the driveway. Twenty feet farther, the dog would recognize me. Adrenaline surged as my car accelerated into the turn, putting me on the street that had been mine. My heart stopped for just a moment because there, on the sidewalk directly in front of me in cargo shorts and flip-flops, was Martin. I'd never seen Martin walk the dog. Too late to backtrack; I was nailed and he wasn't alone. Stopping the car, my mind raced for excuses.

Martin contemplated his cargo pockets and then fixed his gaze on the air just over my head, waiting. The woman holding his hand turned and stopped speaking when she saw me. The dog, straining on his leash, stopped pulling. Stepping out of my car, ankles teetering on my optimistic stilettos, keys jangling in my trembling hand, I tucked my hair behind my ears and smoothed my stalker-black sheath as if I had a purpose in interrupting their walk. Martin adopted the expression one saves for door-to-door magazine salesmen, but the woman smiled warmly, as if unaware of our adversarial position as well as her advantage.

"Hi, I'm Ginny," she said; her hand twitched as if she had considered extending it, and I could tell she knew everything. I tried not to study her dark blond Afro, her T-shirt advertising a hunger walk four years ago, and her lack of any of the
Car and Driver
curves Martin found interesting. My replacement was so contrary to my expectations I began to think I'd completely misread Martin.

"Hi," I said, looking at Martin. The dog sniffed my legs, pulling the leash Ginny held. Martin had never walked the dog with me.

"Scout," Ginny whispered, coaxing the dog to her side.

Martin glanced down the street as if help might be coming. "What's up?" he said.

Tucking the hair behind my ears again, unfortunately using the hand holding my keys that tangled and pulled out several long brown strands, I prayed for inspiration. She was down-to-earth, ordinary, and apparently sweet, not a single quality I could claim for myself. Is that what he wanted? I'd been struggling with cosmetics, lingerie that guaranteed cleavage, and sheaths selected to accentuate all things slim, when, all along, he had preferred Mother Earth.
I
could have done
earth
for him.

"Scout, please," Ginny said, "remember what we talked about?"

We waited for Scout to answer.

"Ginny works in a vet's office," Martin said.

I found my perky face and smiled, then changed the subject. "I just wanted to let you know"--I cleared my throat--"that I'm going to England for the summer." This was news to me, too.

"England?" Martin directed his face at me, but closed his eyes. He'd been expecting a hormonal rage or paternity test results.

Ginny stood apart, reminding the dog about not jumping on people.

"Yes," I said, trying to remember the words below the English manor house on Vera's postcard: "Featuring
Mansfield Park
, June through August." Vera's invitation was thoughtful, but did she understand my utter dependence on salary and benefits? "I'm going to a lit fest," I said.

"What's a lit fest?" Ginny asked, smiling, way too familiar.

I shook my hair and stared meaningfully at Martin: my Countess Olenska to his Newland Archer, urging him to in
dulge his true passion or be sorry. "Literary festival," I said slowly. The postcard said, "Literary escapes in rural England: A novel approach to the study of literature." "They feature a Jane Austen novel every summer."

"Oh, I love Jane Austen," she said, handing the leash to Martin like a wife passing a baby off to the husband.

"Really," I said, disconcerted by the friendly hand rubbing Martin's back and the way Martin took the rubbing for granted.

"And what will you do there?" Ginny asked.

"I don't know yet." Leaning on my car, I crossed my arms over my chest, unable to bear the idea of sharing Jane Austen, as well as Martin, with her. Jane Austen was
my
new best friend. Even with the age difference--me twenty-six, Jane eternally forty-one--we understood each other and agreed on everything. Ours was a possessive relationship. I crossed my legs at the ankles and gave Martin the look that always brought him closer. "I'm still working out the details." Like whether to toss the postcard in the trash.

"What about work?" Martin asked. "They giving you more vacation?" He took two steps backward, aware I had exhausted my vacation time watching him ski.

"Work is not a problem."

Martin nodded, taking two more steps away from me.

"I quit my job." I pursed my lips and gazed upward.

"Really." He stopped walking away.

Ginny raised her hand. "Nice to meet you," she said. "I'm going to get Scout a drink of water." Then I witnessed an exchange between them, a look so packed with understanding and implying such a depth of intimacy I had to glance away. Ginny walked to the house, leaving Martin to me.

"So," he said, blinking rapidly.

"Now you know," I said, remembering how my boss caught
me reading
Northanger Abbey
in my cubicle, my lunch hour so far in the past that even the fumes from my tuna sandwich were history. Phones, copiers, and printers resumed business while I danced in Bath. I made a show of tidying my lunch bag while my boss counted the five other novels stacked in my corner. "You've been busy," he said. Then, using his chain saw voice, he informed me that I'd cost the company over ninety-two thousand dollars misrouting payroll tax deposits. As my boss explained termination benefits, it occurred to me that books should come with a warning from the surgeon general:
Literature can be dangerous to your mental health and should be indulged in moderation. Read in excess, fiction may blur the line between fantasy and reality, causing dysfunction in personal and professional relationships. Readers should refrain while operating heavy machinery or driving automobiles.
Or working in offices.

"So what are you going to do?" Martin asked.

"Move home, of course," I said. "As you know, my duplex is two doors from annihilation." I'd complained to Martin for a year about the McMansions invading my street, moaning about moving, but he'd left me to the wrecking ball rather than propose marriage. "And my dad needs me."

"How
is
your dad?" Martin asked. His concern might have been touching had he not ditched me in the wake of my mother's death, exercising his option while I grieved, optimistic that one more hit could hardly matter.

"Not good," I said. "He has a girlfriend. Twenty years younger."

Martin's eyes bulged. "Really."

"I'm not happy about it."

"Doubt your mom would approve."

The last time I saw her, my mother had been dead ninety minutes and the look on her face conferred anything but ap
proval. Rather than the peaceful repose I'd been promised in books and movies, her jaundiced features were frozen in tension, her cheekbones raised, and her mouth slightly open as if she'd died in pain. Eyes were closed but her head tilted up, giving the impression she had been trying to raise herself as she died. I bent and kissed her forehead as she had kissed mine all those nights I pretended to be asleep clutching the still-hot reading light under my covers. Her forehead felt chilly under my lips and she no longer labored over the ragged breathing that sustained us halfway through
Mansfield Park
. In spite of these powerful indications of death, I wanted to believe she was pretending, as I had once pretended with her.

"Well," Martin said, raising a hand in farewell, taking steps away from me. "Have a great time in England."

"Martin," I said, perhaps too loud.

At the sound of my voice, Ginny and the dog closed the front door behind them. Martin halted in his tracks and slowly returned, his head bent. "Let's not have tears," he said. His eyes scurried up and down the street, waiting for someone to turn our page. His porch light came on. "You need to go home."

A car passed behind us.

"Martin, look at me."

He reluctantly focused on my face.

"Is it really over?" I asked. "Is this what you want?"

Martin shook his head. "Ginny's not needy." He raised his hands in supplication. "If you can't stay away, you need to get help." He enunciated as if I were dense. "We've seen you drive by. Even Ted's seen your car." He gestured at Ted's window, especially damning since Ted's eyes never left his video screen.

"I can't believe we're saying these things. Martin, how did we get to this point?" He took a breath and closed his eyes
and I knew he was considering whether to reveal a painful truth. I braced myself for the hit.

"I let it go on way too long," he said, stepping away.

"Wait." I reached out.

"Are you listening?" he whispered. "You're a lost dog." He shook his head. "Go home."

∗ ∗ ∗

At home, my phone was ringing and I raced to answer it, expecting a remorseful Martin.

"Hi, Lily." It was Karen, my sister in Houston. I'd never had much use for her growing up except during tours of my house I gave my six-year-old friends. I'd fling open her bedroom door to reveal a real live teenager in bedcovers; we'd scream and run if she moved.

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