Well said, as usual. You'll join me, then?

Yes, Jane replied, her voice unusually thoughtful. I suppose someone must chaperone and, as this involves you, it had best be me.

13.

The distance is nothing when one has a motive.

-Pride and Prejudice So, we flew out of Chicago's O'Hare, en route to England, three weeks after school let out. Jane chattered on about the indignities incurred by modern travelers despite the great advancements in speed. I murmured in agreement, but mostly I studied the Mr. Collinslike guy, down my airplane row, two seats away, and watched as he pestered the woman across the aisle from him. Typical.

There were only so many kinds of men in this world. They could be grouped or regrouped, and recognition of their Male Type could make it easier to contend with their respective deceptions. I'd decided on Seven Types. Jane, too, had laid out her groupings clearly but, as in the world of Pride and Prejudice, she'd done it by name: There were the Bingleys, like Jason and Tim.

The Collins types, like the obnoxious guy down the row.

Wickhams, like Brent and Sam and about half the guys I'd dated once or twice before I gained the wisdom to avoid them altogether.

Colonel Fitzwilliams, like Dominic, although I had to admit this comparison didn't entirely ring true. While the Colonel knew he had to marry for material concerns, he wasn't a blatant user of women like Dominic had been.

Which meant...what? That Dominic was also part Wickham? I considered this for a moment then allowed myself a pa.s.s on a.n.a.lyzing him further. Dominic was a strange enough guy to straddle two categories.

But then I thought about Mark. Was he a true Bingley? I cringed trying to stuff him into that box. Time proved he didn't fit any category with ease and he was, after all, still my good friend, despite the lying-to-me-about-being-gay thing. So, okay, another exception.

But what about Andrei? I sighed. Trying to pigeonhole him always gave me a headache. He wasn't any easier to cla.s.sify than Dominic or Mark. Not a Bingley. Not a Wickham, except in his insatiable s.e.x drive. Darcy-like only in bearing, which wasn't enough to qualify him there, any more than Tim's family money qualified him as a Darcy.

d.a.m.n. Where were the true Darcys? And why didn't I have one anywhere in my life?

My thoughts returned to Sam because, though he'd behaved abominably in high school, he hadn't turned out to be quite so contemptible later in life. Could I still rate him as a pure Wickham? I decided, no, I couldn't, even if Jane could...but where else would he fit?

I squeezed my eyes shut. This wasn't working, but maybe if I ate some airline peanuts, drank some airline orange juice and thought about it for longer, I'd puzzle it all out.

By the time we'd landed in London's Heathrow, I'd reached a point of near despair. For years I'd clutched at my well-tooled categories of men like the self-preservation tactics they were, but I was now convinced I'd have to let them go. Eight solid hours of thinking had shown me that such stereotyping was a lie that worked well enough in fiction, but it failed to capture the essence of a real man. None of those guys, upon serious reflection, could be stamped with a quick and easy label.

Jane, who'd decided somewhere over the Atlantic to join in the debate, disagreed.

Perhaps not ALL men are so simple as to be confined to merely one type of disposition, she said. But I do believe astute observation and the employment of rational thinking points toward categorization rather than away from it. One good viewing ought to be sufficient to draw a man's character, if one is not swayed by personal prejudice.

I considered where, exactly, my personal prejudices might have influenced my perceptions of my ex-boyfriends. I'm not with you on this, I told her. Yeah, I could get a general sense of the temperaments of these men almost immediately, but I've been wrong on the details too many times for it to be a simple oversight based on presumption. Humans are complicated, Jane. Really complicated. And I've made mistakes because I've repeatedly chosen not to see that.

She laughed. It is more likely a result of the philosophy you persist in holding dear. Romanticism encourages an abandonment of restraint and, as you've so often wished to fall in love without regard to rationality, this invites the absurd. Your mistakes in judgment are not due to the complexity of humanity, Ellie. They are due to the lens with which you view love.

You mean, I need to challenge the fairy tale and not the man?

Precisely, she said.

Maybe she was right-she so often was-or maybe she was gravely in the wrong. I no longer knew the truth. But I had voyaged thousands of miles to England for an adventure, and I intended to enjoy it. The time had come for me to open my eyes to new wonders, and to hope my heart would soon follow.

We started by sightseeing through London, then hopping a southwest-bound train to Hampshire county. Jane's old stomping grounds.

Lovely the way they have preserved it, Jane said of Chawton House, the seventeenth-century red-brick cottage in which she spent her final earthly years.

Yes, I said, wandering around the garden brambles out front and enjoying the sunshine and greenery. Thank goodness for historical societies.

She sighed. Of course the spirit of the building is not the same, for Ca.s.sandra is not here. But, alas, she has her own pursuits in the afterlife to attend to...and her own lessons.

You and your sister were really close, weren't you?

She was my greatest friend and companion, Jane said with feeling.

I nodded. Di and I aren't quite like that, as you're well aware, but I'm glad we've become closer in recent years. Your encouragement helped. I thought of my sister's changing body with a grin. I can't believe she's going to be a mom in a few months.

Yes, Jane said. She will rely on you this fall, to be sure.

Maybe. Unless she hooks up with another man before I get back. I laughed. With Di there's always that possibility.

Jane didn't comment, but I sensed she didn't believe me. She and her sister had possessed hearts more steadfast in the face of romantic adversity than Di's or mine.

I was reminded of this a week later when we were making a visit to Oxford. Two of Jane's elder brothers had been educated there and the cobblestone streets all but vibrated with the promise of history and the roar of tour buses.

After a pleasant afternoon of browsing at Blackwell's Bookshop, I strolled over a bridge, away from the city bustle, and paused to look down upon the river Thames. I was with Jane, of course, but, to the world, I knew I seemed to be just a single American woman, wandering the town alone.

Is that why you're with me, Jane? I asked her. The reason underneath the reason? Because we are to share similar fates?

She gave me a puzzled sniff. You are considering becoming a lady novelist?

I laughed. G.o.d, no. Most writers are half crazy. I mean as far as relationships. Do you know that part of my destiny already? Will I end up being alone like you?

Firstly, I was not alone, dear friend. I had the immense pleasure of my sister's company, the lifetime memory of a man I had loved deeply and the endless bounds of my imagination. I was neither alone nor lonely. She paused. And secondly, SOME writers are not AT ALL crazy.

I giggled.

You realize, Ellie, she said in her Lecturing tone, that my childhood writing, "Volume the First," is here in Oxford University's Bodleian Library.

Yes, I said. And as I recall, you referred to it as "one hundred eighty-four pages of sheer nonsense." But I take back my comment about crazy writers. Or, at least, I'll exclude present company.

Thank you, she replied, unable to disguise the amus.e.m.e.nt in her voice. I do believe my family would have been surprised by such success. Most surprised indeed. My youthful writing here at the university. Imagine!

I laughed with her. Millions upon millions of people had read her novels over the past two centuries and, more recently, had been glued to the movie screens to watch films based on them, yet the thing Jane found most diverting was that some of her juvenilia was housed at a major Oxford University library. No one was going to convince me that writers weren't at least a little nutty.

So, tell me more about this man you loved, I said. I'm older now. I can be trusted with the details. And, though I knew what she'd say (I'd asked a thousand times before with no success), I added, I want to know this handsome clergyman's name once and for all.

I have only ever spoken of him with Ca.s.sandra, and it is only with her that I have shared his name. Although I do know you can be trusted, Ellie, she hastened to a.s.sure me.

Yeah, sure. Where'd you meet him again? I remembered, of course-I'd pored over her biographies at my home library and memorized large chunks of them-but, though everyone knew of her youthful flirtation with Irishman Tom Lefroy, and even the much later marriage proposal of Harris Bigg-Wither, only a few scholars made note of her secret love interest in the years between. I was naturally insatiable on the subject and wanted to get her talking about The Unknown Man once more.

We met in Sidmouth, a Channel town in Devonshire, not far from Lyme, she said, when I was five-and-twenty.

And his brother was a doctor in town?

Yes. And Mr.-She cleared her throat. And HE was a young clergyman who was visiting his brother for a short seaside holiday.

And he was so wonderful even Ca.s.sandra approved of him for you, right?

She fell silent.

Jane?

This gentleman and I knew the pleasure of each other's company and conversation for but a few weeks, Ellie. And I had surely not guessed this would be my fate-to love so deeply and yet to have the object of my affection for so short a time. She paused and I could sense her measuring words, editing herself. When I heard of his death, my sister was the one person to whom I could turn. She, unfortunately, understood the pain of such loss only too well.

Ca.s.sandra's fiance, Reverend Thomas Fowle, had contracted yellow fever and died before their wedding. The Austens had known Fowle since childhood, and Jane's sister had never entertained the notion of loving another after his death. It seemed Jane had chosen a similar response to the dreadful news she'd received about the love of her life.

Yet, as for knowing the truth of your fate, Ellie, I confess I do not. I do believe, however, that it is always better to have loved well-fully and purely-for once, rather than halfheartedly for always. I had hoped this advice might be of use to you, too.

I'm sure you're right, I said, but I wondered, as I always did, about whether the memory of a lasting love (even a completely mutual one) would've been enough for me.

Whom, if anyone, had I loved with complete abandon like that?

And who, if anyone, had loved me back that way?

The only man whose name rose to my lips for the former question was, of all people, Sam Blaine. Though for years I'd hated to admit it, I had loved him. But I'd been so young and so impressionable when we'd first met that he probably didn't count. If he did, I guess it was true that we never really got over our first love.

And as for the latter question, I doubt any man had felt the way about me that Jane's unnamed Clergyman By The Sea had felt about her.

Do not worry so, Jane instructed, aware of the direction of my thoughts as usual. Regardless of what happens in your playing at love, you will end up where you need to be. Life brings its gifts to you either way. For, though I never married nor became a mother, I felt blessed and fulfilled.

I blinked away a sudden tear. That may have been the case, Jane, and I'm glad of it. But you also gave back your extraordinary gifts to the world. Your presence in my life has been priceless, and I've always been grateful for the richness of spirit you brought to me.

There was a long pause, and then she said something I hadn't expected. Something that made me feel connected to her, as a great-great niece of a beloved aunt might.

And by your kindness, your honesty and your courage in the face of love's challenges, you, dear Ellie, have brought the same to me. If I understand anything of the trials a modern woman must confront and conquer in order to find her place in the world, it is because you have opened my eyes.

14.

She threw a retrospective glance over

the whole of their acquaintance,

so full of contradictions and varieties...

-Pride and Prejudice Just a few weeks later, on August fifteenth, we celebrated my thirty-third birthday in the city of Bath, complete with high tea at the renowned Pump Room.

Rather indulgent of me, having a feast like this at a table for one, wouldn't you say? I said to Jane, taking in the full view of the open dining area from our little corner. Curious tourists strolled along the edges of the room and peered through the windows at the legendary bathing area below.

Jane made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, then muttered something unintelligible.

What was that? I asked her. I raised my teacup in the air to toast myself and reached for a delicate chocolate pet.i.t four filled with custard. The jars of strawberry jam and clotted cream called to me from across the tiny table, and I was tempted to rush through my first treat so as to sample another.

I despise Bath, Jane said, louder this time. It is a noisy, dismal place, where purported gentlemen and ladies visit for the exercise of gossiping and gazing at strangers. My opinion of it has not improved with the centuries.

I pointed to the pyramid of sweets in front of me. But just look at these delicious- Ellie, she said with a sigh. Do you recall the emotions you experienced during your school dances? You described them as times when gentlemen and ladies stared at each other yet did not speak. And the feast items on the table did not appeal to you either. Do you remember why?

Yeah. They were usually dried-out, awful things we ate so we had something to do with our hands.

Perhaps the desserts in my time had more flavour, she said, but our intention in consuming them was for much the same reason as yours. We relied on something else to divert our attention from the matter at hand.

The "matter" being husband-or wife-shopping?

Indeed, she said.

Okay. So you're saying spending time in Bath left a bad taste in your mouth. I laughed at my own joke and nibbled on another teacake.

Jane ignored my attempts at lightening up the conversation. When we were living here for five years and, later, in Southampton for three, I wished only to be someplace settled. Someplace that was home. It was dreadful being on display every day and forever in transit. A short seaside holiday was a welcome change, yes. But eight years of displacement and rooming with relatives was not. I wish to depart this room and this city, Ellie. I will leave you to enjoy your desserts in the peace of your own company and shall rejoin you at a later time.

Jane? I asked, but I received no answer. She'd left. Hidden herself in the dark unconscious of my mind, just beyond my grasp.

I popped a final pastry into my mouth and sipped on the last of my tea, mindful of my solitary state. I knew I had distant relations living in the area. Maybe I should've done some serious genealogy work before I came...or maybe it was better I hadn't.

Let's face it, people never knew what weird stuff they might uncover about their families when they began to dig. Truth was, I probably didn't want to know. But this left me, of course, with the downside of my reticence: There was no one I could really talk to here.

It was easy not to feel the sting of loneliness when Jane's acerbic and witty observations kept me company. In her absence, awareness of the reality flooded my mind unfiltered, and I became haunted by a homesickness I tried unsuccessfully to ignore. I, too, wanted to be back home. To be settled again in the place I belonged.

My flight back to Chicago departed in three days and, whether or not I'd gained greater maturity as a result of this six-week sojourn, the time had come for me to go back.