Page 23 of The Austen Escape
Isabel called me over. “Mary, this is Mr. Mueller. He and Mrs. Mueller are here from—”
“Herman and Helene, please,” Mr. Mueller cut in. “We are from Salzburg.” His chest swelled and broadened.
“The Sound of Music,”I blurted.
Helene laughed. “You would be surprised how often we hear that.”
“It was not real; they do not get it right.”
“He is talking about the movie,” Helene clarified.
Herman thrust a finger straight at me. It was an aggressive gesture, but the arthritic bend at the second knuckle softened any insult. “They changed all the names to make them American sounding. They were not Americans and they did not carry their suitcases over the Alps while singing. They boarded a train to Italy. It was all scheduled and planned and dangerous enough without all that hiking, chasing, and whistle blowing.”
“Herman,” his wife said.
He waved her off. “There was no need to change the truth. They did it for the Americans; they do not understand.” He turned back to me. “But they still sing. That is true.”
“Who still sings?” I looked back to Helene.
Herman shifted into my line of sight. “The Von Trapps.”
“Aren’t they all...”
“They are dead, yes, but the great-grandchildren, Werner’s grandchildren. Another lie. They named him Kurt in the movie. They still sing. They make recordings and tour. They came to theAltstadt’smusic hall. The Von Trapp Family Singers.”
“We saw them in concert,” Helene added, then addressed me directly. “Where are you and your friend from?”
“We’re from Austin, Texas. I work as an electrical and design engineer for a technology company, but Isabel here is an Austen scholar. This trip is part of the research for her dissertation.”
Helene brightened. “Gertrude mentioned her. I consider it very lucky to have her here. I have loved Jane Austen all my life, but I have never studied her. I only know her stories, but your friend will know what our characters should do and say.”
“Our characters?” I tapped Isabel’s arm.
“You didn’t read that part? It was on the website. You get to pick a character.”
“But Gertrude said we didn’t—”
Isabel flicked her fingers at me, breaking contact. “No matter. I picked Emma Woodhouse fromEmma.We can be in the same story. What about Harriet Smith or Jane Fairfax?”
I schooled my expression.
“Well then, what about Eleanor Tilney fromNorthanger Abbey? You liked that book.” She added a pointed inflection to her words.
“If I get to choose, I’ll guess I’ll pick a heroine too. What about Catherine Morland fromNorthanger Abbey? And if you still want to be in the same story, you can be Isabella Thorpe.”
Isabella, as I’d stated the other night, was beautiful and charming. But her other attributes hung between us now—she was also a cunning and manipulative gold digger who relished adoration and flattery.
Isabel matched my flat expression. She glanced to the Muellers, then shot her gaze back to me.
“I’ve already chosen Emma.”
“I choose Catherine.” I nodded to the Muellers, as if their witnessing the decision made it final.
I liked Catherine Morland. She was young, naïve, got carried away with Gothic romances, and made some pretty poor assumptions, but she was also honest, kind, intelligent, and eager to get things right—and she wasn’t the sidekick. From page one, with her plain tomboyish beginnings, I cheered this unlikely heroine on as she grew, learned to think for herself, question, and take ownership of her own story.
Helene looked between us. I sensed she caught our swirlingundercurrents. They were so tangible I almost raised my hand to swipe them away.
She cleared her throat. “I have chosen Mrs. Jennings fromSense and Sensibility. Isn’t she fun?” Her words landed like a white flag between us. “And because I have long since married off my own children, I have little to do but...” She slipped a piece of paper from her pocket and read, “‘project romance upon all.’ Also I have a knack for the ‘quick discovery of attachments.’”
