In Costume

A woman wearing a pale-yellow Regency dress — not an original, but a lovely imitation — sat smoking a cigarette among the wreckage of the tables and chairs, her careful hair beginning to fall apart. Ava was not unaware of the way she looked, her self-consciousness and ability to see herself with a cinematographer’s eye was legendary among her friends. It was a point of affection, a reason to say, Oh Ava, with a smile in your voice. If she were to begin to cry, Ava thought, it might be worth a photograph. As it was, she laughed a little, still stunned by the unexpected success of the evening. All around her were its signs: the empty champagne bottles, dessert plates stained with chocolate and strawberry, cloth napkins twisted like found origami. And of course there had been the surprise appearance of Edward Emanuel.

The Centre had kept its doors open after hours for the event. The upstairs reception room, where lectures about Austen’s life were sometimes given, had been cleared for the round tables and place settings. There had been white cloths, candles. A trio had been hired to play music. Vivian was known to be a wonderful fund-raiser for the museum — she and her husband, Roger, though he seemed to spend most of his time shaking the occasional hand and smiling absently. No, these events belonged to Vivian. She had a way of moving around the room and creating an immediate intimacy, grazing an elbow or a shoulder with her fingertips, modulating her voice for each guest’s imagined needs, almost but not quite touching them for a check right there in the middle of things.

“It’s why they’ve been invited,” Vivian reminded her, murmuring through clenched teeth, an ever-smiling mouth. “Subtlety is lost on most people.”

Ava loved her complex snobbery, loved, most days, being the woman’s protégé. She was taking in everything. All the little touches that had transformed this dusty meeting room into an occasion. Most notable were the items that Vivian had brought in from other rooms in the Centre. There was the mannequin dressed in a blue gown and bonnet, the porcelain tea service, a framed drawing of the famous Crescent. Of course, the real attraction was the reenactors like Ava herself, dressed like a page out of Northanger Abbey, out of Persuasion.

One of the reenactors hadn’t shown, Jeremy, who carried off mutton-chop sideburns in a way that was oddly sexy. Vivian had been beside herself for a little while because of this defection — that was her word, she took these things very personally — but only the staff would know they were a boy short. By the time the sun was beginning to set and the candles were lit, the wall sconces turned on to create a warm, low light, all had been forgotten. Roger and a friend were discussing the demise of Manchester United and the impact of the Brussels bombings on the stock market. Vivian was heard to be rationalizing Jeremy’s absence.

“The reenactors are really for the women,” she was saying. “It’s their nostalgia that’s at stake. For that, the dresses are what’s important.”

“Nostalgia?” Ava wasn’t sure how she felt about the word.

Vivian rolled her eyes but then smiled. She failed, however, to clarify why she’d said “nostalgia” like an obscenity. The tone of voice was in Ava’s mind now, and she couldn’t let it go, though the food was a nice distraction. Roast beef au jus. New potatoes. Asparagus in butter. Soon the musicians had hit their stride and everyone was seated. A waiter was pouring Ava her second glass of champagne when something in the room shifted.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Vivian was suddenly saying. The musicians stopped midnote. “Please welcome Edward Emanuel to our party.”

The actor was a tall man in corduroy trousers, a black shirt with a black tie, and a jacket of an almost indescribable color — perhaps platinum. His once-blond hair was artfully tousled, and on his face he wore a pair of tortoiseshell eyeglasses...