Jane Actually

was modest, ostensibly concealed under a veil of muslin 3 that, in fact, concealed little. And the compliments the men were uttering would undoubtedly have been familiar to the men of her time, although she hoped not to men of her acquaintance.
    She continued on her journey and not for the first time she tried to imagine what her behaviour and appearance would be were she young and alive today—today, of course, being a constantly moving target. She would have hated the strictures of the Victorian age—
what purpose does a bustle serve?
—and would have delighted in the 1920s. But when she thought how she might have dressed during the 1960s … well, her first wish was to giggle and share the thought with her sister, which triggered the usual ache of no longer being able to share with Cassandra.
    That ache brought her to a halt and she became aware that she had entered the park and was already strolling on one of the paths.
    I really must limit my daydreaming,
she told herself.
I must exist in the now or I shall forever be trapped dreaming of the past.
    She well knew the danger of losing herself, as she had the first few years of her afterlife. She tried to put nostalgia about Cassandra from her mind, but to no avail. She often worried whether her sister could endure the loneliness of the afterlife.
    If she has lost herself, perhaps the news of my identity or the publication of Sanditon will help her find her way back to sanity, but it does me no good to morbidly dwell on the past.
    She thought this as she watched a nanny pushing a pram, followed by a middle-aged man with paunch, receding hairline and sweat-stained running gear, who barely managed to pass the young woman. He managed a smile at the attractive nanny nevertheless, who brilliantly returned his smile, which occasioned him to stumble. He only barely recovered his equilibrium and increased his speed to put some distance between himself and his embarrassment.
    Especially as the here and now continues to prove worthy of amusement.
    She continued on her path and reflected upon her last visit to Central Park shortly after the end of the Second World War. It was her only other trip to America, when she took advantage of the many military aircraft crossing the Atlantic. She recalled that where she now walked were planted numerous Victory Gardens: plots of lettuce and tomatoes and spinach in place of the beds of roses she saw today. It was a world away and a time away, when the jubilation of a world free from war swept through the city.
    So much for my decision to think of the here and now.
She thought perhaps she should address the idea of completing
The Watsons
—it was at least a pressing concern—and how she might make it differ from Catherine’s version, although
The Younger Sister
had not stood the test of time and was largely forgotten save for Austen scholars.
    I could, however, follow Catherine’s lead and not feel beholden to my original text, as I was with Sanditon. There’s no reason I couldn’t add to the opening or even rewrite it. I really should re-read it.
    That thought made her desirous of finding an AfterNet terminal and perhaps an e-book copy by which she might refresh her memory. And she could check her email again to see if they were meeting with their publisher today. She pondered for a moment, trying to recall the map she had earlier studied and decided as she was already travelling north, she might find a terminal, comfortable chairs and pleasant surroundings at the New York Historical Society Library and it was to this location she propelled herself, in no particular hurry. 4
    1 The original title of
Sense and Sensibility,
Austen’s first published novel
    2 A short jacket with long sleeves, probably modelled after the military dress of the second Earl Spencer. Some fashions cut it ridiculously short.
    3 A loosely woven cotton fabric that was very popular for women’s dresses during Austen’s lifetime. Some
risqué
women would wet their muslin dresses.
    4 The disembodied do not walk. Like PG Wodehouse’s Jeeves, they shimmer from place to place. In a Washington Post story, comedian Stephen Fry, who played Jeeves opposite Hugh Laurie’s Bertie Wooster, said of Wooster’s valet: “… his feet don’t touch the floor, he shimmers into rooms, he oozes out of rooms. He seems to flicker and then he isn’t there. He coughs and it’s like a sheep clearing its throat of a blade of grass on a distant hillside or something.”
    To