Chapter 1
If one has spent one's entire life an ocean and a continent away, one might perhaps be forgiven for arriving at the conclusion that Scotland is a reasonably close approximation for the nation of Jane Austen. The further extenuating circumstance that the distance between London and Glasgow is somewhat shorter than that between San Francisco and Los Angeles need hardly be mentioned in this context, but it is perhaps worth noting that the epic voyage undertaken across the aforementioned continent and the subsequent ocean was for the express purpose of instruction in the literary tradition in the English language at an ancient Scottish university, and furthermore that when our intrepid traveler attempted to ascertain beforehand if there were any classes in English literature that concentrated particularly on Scottish authors, she was mildly surprised that there were none to be had. Still, this was hardly a significant barrier to one who sought the civilizing ghost of Jane Austen among the peaks and glens, and the journey was made. If this were a narrative of old I might now have recounted at great length the epic struggle of the treacherous journey across continent and ocean, and described our intrepid heroine's perilous encounters with various peoples who would pose to her obstacles of differing natures for uncertain cause, allowing our heroine to outwit some, befriend others, and flee from all the rest. In fact it might be noted that peoples is a somewhat restrictive term in this context, and that the excellent example of our classical forebears demonstrates that there is no cause for such encounters to be exclusively inter-human, and for that matter even to restrict things to all known species on Earth is to show a most provincial bias. But the possibility of such encounters is much reduced in these retrograde days, which must constitute some excuse, and we are to be pitied, not censured, if in such a manner is the Odyssey transformed into the road novel. When our heroine eschews even this modicum of adventure and chooses to fly, our entire epic is compressed into the one dilemma as to whether a young lady not yet one and twenty might partake of alcoholic beverages in a British aircraft flying over the United States, and having noted that fear on the whole predominated over curiosity, and that she did not dare to ask, then we may look back in contentment and be assured of having said it all.
But the end of one story is very fertile grounds for the beginning of another, and those who would learn the sequel to this journey may be quite contented in the precipitous manner in which our heroine was deposited through very little effort on her part, other than the outlay of some portion of her parents' not insubstantial income, at the very doorstep she sought. What a different heroine we must now have had had she undertaken that treacherous journey which must have been the alternative to her flight! Could any amount of hassling by immigration authorities (of which there was remarkably little, our chosen heroine being a presentable and personable young lady) or any delays forcing missed connections (of which there were none, for otherwise I might contradict my own case about such a journey not requiring an epic chronicle) compare to the glorious exhilaration and infinite frustration of interaction with hitherto unknown races of beings, human, animal, or otherwise, and the knowledge of other and of self that such encounters might bring? Could our heroine possibly have reached the shores of Alba with the brightness in her eyes so undimmed, and the expectations of her fancy so elaborate, had she endured such travails and such exhilaration?
Gaining admittance through this doorway, she was cordially escorted to her room by the hall wardens, where she proceeded to belie all her own romantic expectations of immediate adventure by taking a very sound nap. Leaving her momentarily while she sleeps off her remarkably moderate exhaustion, I would be lax in my duties as narrator if I did not now note that the aforementioned doorway, though in fact leading to student accommodation, was set in a Victorian terrace, suitably lavish for our heroine's tastes, and if it was not quite what Mrs. Darcy might reasonably expected of her husband's house in town, having been built at least some fifty years after that lady's wedding, it bore at any rate a far closer relationship to such hallowed ground than the spacious and comfortable home of unromantic siding in sunny California to which our heroine had been accustomed. And the room itself, of which our heroine had made hardly an examination upon remarking the beckoningly made bed that constituted its centerpiece, was likewise satisfactory. It was not large, indeed, but it was not much smaller to that which she inhabited at home, and was distinctly more agreeable to that which she had shared with an uncongenial room-mate at her home university. Additionally, it possessed all the advantages that an extremely high ceiling and a bow window can be supposed to bestow, and if said window proved on further examination to be impossible to completely close then this can only be supposed to increase the old world charms of the chamber. The remainder of its furniture comprised a very serviceable desk, a chair, a chest of drawers, a bookcase, and a sink. In addition to this there were a profusion of lights, one for the bed, one for the sink, one for the desk, and one more presumably for the room at large, none of which individually were overly useful for anything beyond their particular function, but which together did succeed in giving the room a comfortable, if not bright, aspect.
My story would have a dull beginning indeed if I now failed to report that our heroine awakened from her nap much refreshed, and consequently proceeded to embark on a series of adventures, and fortunately for my story, and its young heroine, no such unhappy tidings need here be advertised. Whether or not this series of little adventures will prove to be of any interest to my indulgent readers or whether it will collapse eventually into unutterable tedium is not for me to say, but I am of great hopes that my heroine's tale will prove at least to be of some diversionary value. I might add here that the manner in which I have thus far alluded to this young lady has not been through any motive of concealment, but simply to emphasize the role that she will be playing in subsequent installments. But it is perhaps proper to mention here that she answered to the name of Katie Moore.
The remarkable degree to which this name coincides with one of Miss Austen's heroines might have been supposed be a cause of some contentment to our heroine, but if truth be told it had no particular impact. For though her dearest wish was to live the dreamlife of a heroine of an Austen novel, and though all her fondest expectations of her present adventure were entwined around this dream, her notions of heroinedom were rather narrowly defined. Catherine Morland was a very peripheral presence in her Austen universe, and was hardly a creature to be mentioned in the same breath as Mrs. Darcy or even Mrs. Knightley. The sisters Dashwood derived much of their stature from Ms. Winslet and Ms. Thompson, and even Hugh Grant failed to make Edward Ferrars appealing. Willoughby had not quite lost his charm to her, and as for Henry Crawford, why, Fanny Price was a tiresome creature to want anything more. Captain Wentworth's impetuosity lent him some favour, and Mr. Knightley's charms were admissible when she could be quite convinced that he did not share Colonel Brandon's tendency towards rheumatism, and more especially in the guise of Mr. Northam. As for Mr. Darcy, it was he who reigned supreme in this universe, although not even Katie could have distinguished between his particular appeal, and that of a certain Mr. Firth when less than formally attired.