‘It makes me sad.’
‘What does?’ Morgan pulled a face as she sipped the tea Chrystal had insisted she try, laying on a bet of five pounds as incentive.
‘So many people around her, but she looks distanced from them. I have never seen her with anyone. She’s always on her own.’
Dropping three lumps of sugar into her cup, Morgan laughed. ‘Well, delusion thrives best in isolation, don’t you think? Hey, have any of you met or spoken to that lady over there, the one outside? Don’t all look at once! Jeez! Guys, real smooth.’
‘Hey, there’s Marita.’
Sure enough, out in the street their friend had stopped by Jenny and was pointing in the direction of the Guildhall, and as the lady set off along the street, Marita hurried into the restaurant and Rose scooted along the seat so she could squeeze in.
‘What did our favourite fan want, Marita?’ Morgan inclined her head towards the window. ‘Was she in a chatty mood?’
Marita shrugged. ‘Not really. She was looking for the market; said something about ribbons.’
Rose had become thoughtful as all the things about Jenny that puzzled her seemed to coalesce in her sleep-deprived mind.
‘Something about her calls to me.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Tess waved the freshened teapot at Rose, who nodded and held out her empty cup.
‘I think Rose just has a heart for the criminally insane.’ Morgan grinned. Anxious Morgan might find it amusing to share their ruminations over Jenny’s purpose with the letter-writing, Rose spoke quickly. ‘No – it’s not just that.’ She sighed. ‘I think…’ She lowered her voice and everyone leaned forward to listen. ‘I don’t think she’s faking it – any of it. I think it’s all completely real for her, as though she’s living and breathing it.’
‘Do you think she’s escaped from somewhere – like an asylum?’
Rose shook her head. ‘I wonder if – because she believes it, because she’s obviously studied and read… I mean, she’s even tried to get a look of Jane about her.’ Rose hesitated. ‘Okay, you’re going to think I’m mad but, it’s like she is Jane Austen. Or at least, the closest we could ever come to knowing the lady herself.’
Rose held her breath as a momentary silence descended. Such a wistful look echoed around the table amongst her friends, but it was enough for the absurdity of it all to fall into perspective, and Rose started to laugh, the others quickly following suit.
‘Maybe we should just follow her around – get an autograph or two,’ Morgan snorted.
As one, they all craned their necks to see if they could still see Jenny, but she had gone.
‘I didn’t really study her,’ Marita said with a smirk, ‘but she’s looking pretty good for someone who’s over two hundred years old.’
‘Yeah – shall we ask her what face cream she’s using?’
‘Or what vitamins she’s on?’
They all laughed again, but Leo shrugged.
‘Don’t all you ladies think you’re Jane Austen when dressed up?’ He looked thoroughly unperturbed by their speculations.
‘Oh no.’ Chrystal shook her head. ‘Some of us like to believe we’re Elizabeth Bennet.’
Morgan nodded emphatically, and Tess laughed. ‘She’s right. Aside from the lucky ladies whose partners have come along with them, we can pretend we’re searching for our own Mr Darcy.’
‘Or Captain Wentworth?’
All eyes turned on Leo, and he raised a brow. ‘What? He’s definitely my favourite.’
Rose smiled as Morgan asked a passing waitress for the bill and, resolving to put her ridiculous suspicions where they belonged, she reached for her purse.
* * *
It was possible every event at the festival would become Rose’s favourite – and the dancing class was no exception.
Rose smiled happily as she moved elegantly – or so she hoped – along the line as they followed the instructions of the incredibly patient caller, a cheerful if emphatic lady called Diana. They had been at it for over an hour now, and Rose’s cheeks ached with laughing, but, though it could hardly be said they were moving as one, they were definitely making progress.
Everyone was in good spirits, gamely stepping well out of their comfort zone, but Rose had been surprised to find Morgan hadn’t mastered it in her usual quick way. Not that it dampened her friend’s mood as she sailed off in the wrong direction once more. ‘I thought I had it that time. No!’
‘Your other left!’ Rose called over her shoulder as Morgan skipped straight into the next line over from them, laughing and apologising at the same time.
Rose was enjoying the swishing of her long skirt as it brushed against her ankles. Whilst there were a fair number of people in period dress, she had opted for a full-length but modern skirt and an empire-line top. Morgan had been instantly regretful for throwing on her jeans, and Rose and her friends had quite a job on their hands persuading her against grabbing one of the white cloths from the tables in the foyer to fashion a makeshift skirt of her own.
Stopping triumphantly on the final note of the music, Rose turned with everyone else to cheer their almost successful completion of a whole routine. Tess and Sandy, who were attending the advanced class later in the week, were watching from the side lines and applauded enthusiastically. Morgan was high-fiving Marita, celebrating their survival of the set if not their dancing prowess, and Leo was bowing deeply to a blushing Chrystal. Turning back, Rose smiled – their second dance, if she was not mistaken.
It was exactly as she’d imagined it should be: laughter and music and friendship. She looked around at the happy faces and sighed blissfully. Just then, however, she spotted Jenny gliding towards the chairs lining the walls and taking a seat. Like Rose, she wasn’t in costume today but wore a similar floor-length, full skirt, a neatly buttoned blouse and clutched a shawl in her lap. Making a sudden decision, and under the distraction of everyone grabbing cups of water – it was surprisingly warm work – Rose walked over to sit beside her.
‘Are you going to join in? It’s so much fun.’ Rose gestured towards the milling dancers as they chatted and practised a few steps.
‘Good afternoon.’ Jenny looked briefly in Rose’s direction, those bright eyes sparkling as always. ‘It is not my purpose – no.’
‘But it’s a dance class.’
‘A fine sport indeed.’
‘So…’ Rose turned in her seat to face Jenny, who glanced at her again but this time did not turn away, her eye caught by the necklace around Rose’s neck. Then she raised her gaze to meet Rose’s and smiled. There was something in her steadfast gaze…
‘I’m curious; why did you come if you don’t want to dance?’
Jenny glanced around the room. ‘Is one obliged to participate? Did you never attend the theatre merely to enjoy the performance? Do those who follow the sporting endeavours of others join them on the field of play? There is ample amusement to be derived from observation and thus little need for the effort of partaking.’
It was the most Jenny had ever said to her, but Rose found herself wrapped in circles over what her actual meaning was. Perhaps she was best left to her own devices after all.
‘Do not mistake me, Miss Wallace. I appreciate your interest, but please rest assured I am perfectly content.’
Realising the dancers were reassembling, ready for more mayhem, Rose stood up. ‘Well then, I’ll leave you in peace. See you later.’
‘Had a nice chat?’ Morgan grinned as Rose rejoined her.
‘I asked if she planned to join in. But Morgan – I wonder…’
‘Yes, you wonder a lot about her. Rose, let it go.’ Morgan threw her a fond look.
‘I’m trying but I just can’t help but feel I’m missing something. And it’s weird; when you talk to her, when she’s got you fixed with her eye…’
‘Her eye? Now you’re making her sound spooky. She’s just a mad crazy fan who learned how to write like a famous author – or… I dunno, maybe she’s
like an actress, playing a role. Hey, that’s it!’ Morgan laughed. ‘She’s one of those— you know, the ones who have to live the part they are about to play. What do they call it? Role immersion? No, wait – method acting.’
Rose tried to apply it to everything she’d seen, to how she felt when in Jenny’s company. ‘I don’t know. It’s even more than that. It’s not as if she’s trying to live the life so much as – it is her life.’
‘Well, that’s the point of the Method, I think. It’s that, or she’s even more delusional than we first thought.’ Morgan turned back to face the dance hall.
‘But I don’t want her to be delusional. I so want to believe in her.’
‘What?’ Morgan choked back another laugh. ‘You want to believe she actually is Jane Austen? Rose—’
‘No! Of course not. But I don’t want her to be a criminal either.’ She glanced over her shoulder, then back to Morgan. ‘I feel some sort of – oh, I don’t know… connection when I see her? Like she’d be fun to know?’
‘Despite the possible forged letters you saw – and the candles and all the loot?’
‘Maybe it’s as we first thought and she’s just something to do with antiques? She clearly loves the past and anything associated with it – and why not? Perhaps the letter-writing is something she enjoys, loves to indulge? What if she’s pretending she lives in that era and because of her job, she’s able to acquire the props to help her live the dream?’ The more she spoke, the more sense it made to Rose.
Morgan eyed her sceptically, then grinned and waved a hand at the lines of dancers who were trying some new steps under Diana’s careful guidance. ‘You’d have thought she’d have leapt at a chance at this, then. Why don’t we both go and see if we can persuade her? I still think her lack of interest does hint more at fraudster than obsessive fan, though.’
Rose looked around again, just as Jenny raised her head and they locked eyes. They stared at each other for a second before a flash of unease crossed the lady’s face. ‘Shit, she’s seen us looking at her. I have to go and—’
Morgan grabbed Rose’s arm. ‘Where are you going? No! Are you kidding me? You can’t just accuse her of being a fraud – or a loony!’
‘I’m not going to,’ Rose muttered. A whirlwind of images spun through her mind as she stared at Jenny: the inexplicable disappearance into thin air, the figure staring reverently at Jane Austen’s books in Waterstones; her well-worn costumes and the curiously old-fashioned style she favoured at other times. Then there was the vast array of candles in the flat above hers, the boxes spilling their old yet suspiciously fresh contents over the floor, and the handwriting, using proper ink and a genuine pen of the era…
Trying to read the look on Jenny Ashton’s face as she got slowly to her feet and picked up her shawl, Rose narrowed her gaze, her head swirling with all sorts of impossible thoughts. Then she murmured, ‘Jenny. That was Mr Austen’s pet name for his youngest daughter.’
Morgan rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, look, just hold on. We don’t want to scare her. Let’s just—’
‘She’s going,’ Rose said urgently as the lady turned to leave the room.
‘Well, no surprises there. You’ve been staring at her. Enough to freak any normal person out, never mind Crazy Jenny.’
‘I’m going after her.’
Morgan had to walk with a sort of trot to keep up as Rose strode out into the entrance hall and pulled open the door to the street. ‘Rose, seriously.’ And then, in a different tone, ‘James!’
Rose stopped short in her run down the steps. Sure enough, walking past the sports centre was her boss, looking decidedly caught out. Distracted though she was, both by the culpable look on James’s face and the glowing expression on Morgan’s, Rose managed to catch a glimpse of Jenny’s figure hurrying down the street towards Pulteney Road.
‘I want to catch her before she disappears.’ Turning back, she shook her head at James as he tried to waffle his way through how he happened to be there.
‘What a – a coincidence?’ Morgan, for once in her life, sounded a little uncertain, and Rose looked from one to the other. If the colour flooding James’s cheeks was any indication, coincidence had nothing to do with it.
Casting another glance down the road, just in time to see Jenny escape from view around the corner, Rose sighed. Interfering in her friends’ personal lives went totally against the grain for her, but for a reason she couldn’t quite explain, time seemed critical, as though she didn’t have a moment to waste.
‘Morgan – this is James. He’s a lovely, genuine bloke, who wouldn’t take anyone for a ride.’
Rose turned to her boss. ‘James – this is my very best friend, Morgan. She’s great company, warm-hearted, adorable and would love to go for a drink with you.’
They both stared at her like a couple of deer in the headlights, and, running out of patience, Rose rolled her eyes.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake; you have a cat together! Surely that’s grounds for at least getting a drink?’
Morgan choked on a laugh; then she turned to James with a wide smile. ‘Hey! Wanna help me find that big place with the huge stairs and all that glass? Wait, no. What about that other place – the one with—’
‘How about we just… walk?’ James gestured back towards town and Morgan nodded.
‘I can still talk, right? While we walk?’
James smiled but said nothing, gallantly offering his arm to her, and Rose saw her opportunity.
‘Off you both go then.’
Morgan narrowed her eyes at Rose. ‘You’re just trying to distract us so you can go off and play Nancy Drew.’
James frowned. ‘What’s going on?’
Morgan jogged his elbow. ‘She thinks she’s uncovered a counterfeit Jane Austen and wants to confront her. She’s going to get herself shot!’
Despite her anxiety, Rose laughed. James, however, eyed Morgan seriously. ‘This is Bath, Morgan.’
Morgan looked between them sceptically. ‘I’m not in LA any more, is that what you’re saying, Toto?’
Rose held up both hands. ‘I just want to ask her about some things. That’s all.’
James shrugged. ‘Fine. Then we’ll all go.’
Rose turned away. ‘No, James, don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be fine. This is my own… quest or… delusion or… something.’ For a second, the image of Jenny’s face from moments earlier appeared before her, and Rose gasped. ‘And she knows.’
Morgan frowned. ‘Knows what?’
‘She knows that I suspect she’s…’ Rose stopped. What on earth did she suspect? ‘Please bear with me! I have to find her, I have to talk to her.’
‘Rose, she will think you are the mad one!’
‘Then she and I will have to run mad together.’ She attempted a reassuring smile at James and gave her friend a quick hug before turning and walking rapidly down the street in Jenny’s wake.
Then she called over her shoulder as she broke into a run, ‘But do not worry, we shall not faint.’
Chapter Twelve
Jenny was quick on her feet, but Rose was catching her up. ‘Jenny! Wait!’ There was no response as the lady hurried across the road ahead and rounded the corner at the top of Great Pulteney Street. Putting on a spurt of speed, her long skirt clutched above her knees, Rose managed to be just a few paces away as her quarry took the step to number 4 Sydney Place.
Holding onto the railings bordering the steps to her own flat, Rose was out of breath, but she managed to summon enough to call, ‘Jenny!’ It was as though she was invisible and for a moment, Rose’s resolve stumbled, but then she recalled the lady’s formality. ‘Miss Ashton? Please, could we speak?’
There was no response again as Jenny placed her key in the lock, and desperate now, Rose said firmly, ‘Miss Austen.’
Sure enough, the lady froze.
‘I would like to talk to you. Please?’
Rose held her breath, but slowly the lady removed the key and turned to look at he
r. ‘I suspected as much – perchance it was inevitable. How may I assist you?’
Swallowing quickly, unsure whether she was relieved or not, Rose walked forward to meet her as she stepped back onto the pavement.
‘There’s something I have to know.’ The absurdity of what she was doing struck Rose, but she pushed on. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking. It’s just – it’s just I saw, you see.’ She gestured towards the ground-floor flat. ‘In the garden – and then, the other night; the letter on your desk, written in a fair imitation of Jane Austen’s hand.’
The lady looked amused by this. ‘It would be surprising were it not.’ She studied Rose in what felt like an assessing manner. ‘Yet these are mere observations; what is it you would wish to know?’
What was it she wanted to know? ‘I – er – I just wanted to know that—’ Rose grasped at straws. ‘You – well, you have no plans to try and sell the letter.’
‘I do not follow you. Why would I wish to dispose of a letter penned to my sister in such a manner?’
Rose blinked – her sister? Either this woman was as delusional as Morgan suggested, or she was so deep into living her upcoming role that she just refused to pull herself out of it. Nevertheless, Rose tried to plough on. ‘I need to know you have no intention of pretending… to try and pass the writing off as…’ She stopped. If this woman was playing at being Jane Austen, then she would consider her letters to be genuine, as far as it went.
‘I cannot comprehend your meaning. There is nothing untoward in writing to my sister, in whom I have every faith, for she destroys each letter as soon as it is read. Is this your concern, that someone might discover what is afoot?’
Rose frowned. ‘So you aren’t writing them to sell them?’
‘Most indubitably not. What a singular notion.’
‘I’m so pleased.’ Rose smiled in genuine relief, but it was fleeting. ‘But wait! How did you plan to send it – to Cassandra, I mean? Is she also a – er—’
‘You are acquainted with my sister? This is most singular.’
The Particular Charm of Miss Jane Austen Page 8