Not unlike what I was doing now. I returned to the window and stared out, willing Liam to appear. He did not.
But we had to get to Hampshire eventually anyway, because that was where the targets of our mission were. The manuscript of “The Watsons” had to still be in Jane Austen’s possession, and where could it be but in her house? Then, there were the letters to her sister, Cassandra. It was the particular wish of Eva Farmer that we get those as well: a priceless trove of gossip and biographical information that Cassandra mostly destroyed before her own death, leaving only a few dozen as keepsakes to some favorite nieces. And for Eva Farmer, it was ask and get; just as Norman Ng had said, she was the presiding genius behind the Jane Austen Project.
I thought back to our one encounter, when she had come to the institute weeks before Departure. It was her affectation to pretend to be like anyone else, so she instructed that no special measures be taken for her arrival; the institute should go about its normal routine. Which was nonsense: how was that possible with Eva Farmer expected? But that was how she happened to show up, tiny and dapper, with a smooth bob of white hair and a small security detail, in the sand room during equestrian practice.
Horses were rare in our world; I’d never gone near one before being chosen for the Jane Austen Project. But by then I was used to the smell and scale of them, so despite my surprise I dismounted from my sidesaddle position with relative grace, handed my reins to my instructor, and dropped a curtsy. We’d been advised to meet her in character; it was how we spent our days anyway.
“Dr. Katzman.” Dark eyes took me in, a gaze thorough but approving. “How happy I am to meet you in person at last.” Her tone swooped and fell, and she dragged the final word out as if unwilling to let it go.
I felt light-headed. I had never been in the presence of someone so famous, so important, so rich. The energy of the room had changed, drawing everything into a swirl around her, like the aura in a Van Gogh. She had a sheen that seemed partly expensive tailoring and grooming, partly just her.
I wondered if being called by my real name meant I could answer as myself instead of as Mary Ravenswood, the persona I would assume in 1815, but I decided to stick with playing Mary. “The honor is all mine, madam.”
“I supported your candidacy almost from the start.” She had a way of stressing and elongating random syllables, and an Old British accent that I was pretty sure was assumed, since she had grown up a dentist’s daughter in Saskatoon, with nothing but the force of her genius and determination pushing her to rise as she had. “I did, you know. Others were less sure, but I was adamant.”
“For which I am grateful.” I made another little dip of my head, feeling both seduced and silly. “Would it be impertinent to ask why?”
“I was most intrigued by your biography; your travels, and the lives you have saved.” She paused. “And by something you said in your essay, about repairing the world.” She paused again, and looked at me expectantly. “The phrase is from the Kabbalah, isn’t it? Isaac Luria? I’ve studied it. But it was a long time ago.”
I was not sure what to say. Eva Farmer was a rarity in our specialized age, a true polymath: a physicist whose work had led to the Prometheus Server, a tournament-level bridge player, the author of an acclaimed biography of Jane Austen and another book about daily life in the early nineteenth century. She played the harpsichord, and had a noted collection of early musical instruments. But the Kabbalah? Really?
“I think so,” I finally said. “But I was using the term in its more general sense, of our obligation to our fellow human beings, to make things better to the extent we can.” My words sounded absurd as I stood there in my military-inspired Regency riding habit, still clutching the crop I would never in a million years use on a horse. I had meant those things when I wrote them; I meant them now. But I had provided medical care in epidemic zones, been on the ground days after a catastrophic earthquake. Our world was so full of suffering, and I was going off to 1815 in search of a manuscript and some letters? “Perhaps it has little to do with Jane Austen,” I said, following my own thoughts to this apparent non sequitur.
“It has everything to do with her,” Eva Farmer said, her tone permitting no argument. “And each sentence of your essay was shot through with your love of—it is not too strong to say your reverence for—Jane. I knew as I read it that you were the person I could rely upon to do what needs to be done.” She concluded these words with an abrupt nod and an arch of her meticulous eyebrows. “I think we understand each other, Dr. Katzman.”
I thought we did not. But there was no time to ask more: behind me, I heard hoofbeats. Liam, who had been at the other end of the sand room when she and the others had come in, dismounted and made a low bow over her outstretched hand.
“Professor Finucane, a pleasure to meet again.”
They knew each other? They began talking about some mutual acquaintance, and my audience was over. I was not sure if I was more sorry or relieved.
WHEN THE CLOCK STRUCK ELEVEN, I WAS FILLED WITH THE URGE to do something, but what? I could hardly go searching for Liam; London was chaotic and dangerous, especially for a woman, especially at night. Even a hackney coach was not something I could safely take alone, certainly not at this hour. Which meant—what? Inviting Jencks? No, there was nothing to do but wait. If Liam was not home by morning I would visit the Bow Street Runners, forebears of the Metropolitan Police, or write to Henry Austen myself and—No. If he was not home by morning, he could only be dead. Or press-ganged.
Could he just be on the town with Henry Austen? For a man with money, London’s choices were endless: gambling hells, taverns, the theater, bordellos at every price point—No. I refused to accept that Jane Austen’s favorite brother, a respectable banker and a future clergyman, would propose a visit to a whorehouse. Nor could I see Liam joining him; he’d blushed and turned away from the sight of me in underwear, our first night in London. Gambling was easier to picture. Though I cringed at it: Jane Austen never having a cent of her own until she sold her first book, while her brother could be driving around London in his curricle, throwing away money at gaming tables.
Yet it was a world run by men, for their convenience and gratification, as I understood better each day I was here. Maybe they had gone to a play, or were still boozing at the club; it was an age of heavy drinking.
Liam had to know how worried I was, how anxiously I was waiting. And yet—
The clock struck twelve as I stared at the dying fire. Time was a rack, and I was being slowly stretched on it.