The Particular Charm of Miss Jane Austen

by The Particular Charm of Miss Jane Austen (retail) (epub)

‘No – of course not.’

  ‘Yet you hesitate not to use her given name. Such informality is a little precipitous. ’Tis almost an impertinence.’ Rose stared at her; then she narrowed her gaze. The lady was almost laughing at her. ‘’Tis but a tease, Miss Wallace. Forgive me.’

  ‘Right. Okay.’ Rose drew in a breath, trying to get back on track. ‘So why do you write them, then?’

  ‘To send intelligence of myself. Why else?’ She peered at Rose. ‘Does aught sicken you? Your faculties seem not wholly at your disposal.’

  ‘Look, enough of this. I know what you are; who you are pretending to be.’

  ‘Miss Jenny Ashton?’

  ‘No – wait. Is that not your real name?’

  The lady looked taken aback. ‘You know it is not.’

  ‘Yes, but then what…’

  There was silence for a moment, a frown on the lady’s brow. ‘Is there a deficiency in your memory, Miss Wallace? Did you not acknowledge me not five minutes hence?’ She gave a delicate shrug. ‘So be it. ’Tis unfortunate, though long has Cass warned me of its inevitability and, to be sure, there is no little liberation in speaking of it at last.’

  Rose stared at the lady before her. They were almost on a par for height and possibly age, yet there was a noticeable air of something different about her… A pair of intelligent hazel eyes held Rose’s steadily, and she was struck, now they stood in the natural light of day, by the hint of resemblance in her features to the descriptions and attempts at visual manifestations of Jane Austen. Yet it was as if none had been quite right. This was like the master bringing all those images into focus.

  Feeling very glad James and Morgan had not come with her, Rose shook her head. Was she still slightly drunk? What was happening to her? Why did her skin tingle, right to the tips of her fingers?

  Her voice came out in a whisper. ‘I thought I saw you… disappear.’

  The lady merely continued to hold Rose’s gaze. ‘And pray, when was this?’

  ‘Thursday morning – early. You came out into the garden, and I was down in the courtyard. I convinced myself I must have blinked and you’d moved out of sight – the view is so restricted.’

  ‘I see. I shall take more care in future. And this is common knowledge, hereabouts?’

  ‘Not… exactly.’ Rose wasn’t sure if she was talking to a delusional woman or becoming one herself. This must be what being brainwashed was like. Was she saying she really did disappear the other morning?

  Rose shook her head. ‘It’s not possible.’

  The lady cautioned Rose with a finger to her lips. There was an elderly woman walking past with a small yapping dog on a lead, no doubt heading for Henrietta Park.

  Once she had turned the corner into Sutton Street, Rose looked at her companion again. This is not happening, she chanted to herself.

  ‘It is said all things are possible.’ The lady reached into her pocket and withdrew a soft pouch. Then she smiled at Rose. ‘How convenient are your pockets in comparison to ours. Oft one would be caught reaching for the recalcitrant thing in a manner most inelegant.’ She tipped the contents of the pouch onto her palm and raised it for Rose to inspect. ‘This is the means by which I come here.’ It was a topaz cross and chain.

  Rose caught her breath as she stared at it, mesmerised. ‘It’s very pretty.’ Then she frowned, a hand raised to her own necklace. ‘It’s very similar to the ones belonging to Cassandra and Jane Austen. I’ve seen the real thing.’

  The lady’s shoulders rose and fell. ‘As have I – and also the likenesses in books of the crosses they believe belonged to my sister and me, the ones they display, by all accounts, in a cottage in Hampshire where I go to live… or rather, once lived.’

  ‘It’s not true? They didn’t belong to you – I mean, them?’ Rose felt like a small part of her world was splintering.

  ‘In part, but they numbered three. Why only two survive today, I know not. This’ – she gestured towards the replica cross hanging around Rose’s neck – ‘is a copy of my mother’s, not of mine.’

  They both stared down at the cross, still resting in her palm, as Rose tried to grapple with all she was hearing. ‘And this’ – Rose pointed warily at it – ‘this has been a – a way through time?’ It sounded completely ludicrous when said out loud, but instead of looking at her as though she was stupid, the lady nodded.

  ‘Indeed. I simply place it about my neck, and lo, I am either taken forward or back, dependent upon which way the cross faces. I only ever use it within the confines of the house and the walled garden.’ She gestured towards 4 Sydney Place. ‘For then, though it moves me from one time to another, the place remains constant.’ Then she laughed. ‘How well it would look, would it not, if I were to journey between time and arrive…’

  A sudden burst of noise interrupted her, and they both turned quickly to see the small yapping dog, now free of its restraint, racing around the corner towards them, the elderly lady panting along behind and calling its name in a high-pitched squeal: ‘Prancer! Prancer, you come here this minute!’

  Prancer threw a disdainful look over his shoulder and kept running, unfortunately straight into the skirts of Rose’s companion, who stumbled and, as she righted herself, the cross and chain fell from her hand.

  Both she and Rose instinctively reached for it, but not soon enough. Snatching it as it fell, Prancer seized it in his teeth and with one quick swallow consumed it, disappearing immediately into thin air.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The lady said nothing; her eyes were fixed on something over Rose’s shoulder, and she spun around to see what it was. Something was different about the building, but she couldn’t immediately detect what it was. Then, seeing Prancer’s owner still calling for him as she walked up and down the street, the empty lead trailing behind her, Rose swung round.

  ‘That dog just disappeared into thin air! Did you see it?’

  ‘I did. And thus I must remain hereafter.’ She met Rose’s eye seriously. ‘We were full aware of the hazardous nature of my undertaking.’

  Rose was struck by both the calmness of the lady’s demeanour and the finality of her tone.

  ‘We? Who… no, wait! Why must you remain – stay, I mean?’ Rose’s skin was still tingling, and she put a hand to her head, then it dropped to her bare throat. ‘My necklace. It’s gone!’

  ‘The power to come and go is beyond my reach, for my necklace is irretrievably lost to me. I have no means of regaining my former life and must resign myself to my fate.’ Rose didn’t think she sounded particularly resigned at all. She seemed decidedly smug.

  ‘But the dog! Can’t it come back?’ Rose’s gaze followed Prancer’s owner as she disappeared into Sydney Gardens, still calling shrilly for her pet.

  ‘I suspect not. The charm passed from my hand to the hound, touched its throat; thus, it may have returned whence I came – to a street in this city more than two hundred years ago.’ She gestured around them.

  ‘May have returned? I don’t understand…’

  ‘Perchance the hound travelled forward two hundred years?’ The young woman looked unconcerned. ‘Whatever the outcome, the means to alert my sister is beyond me.’

  ‘Your sister?’ Still? This was ridiculous. Rose shook her head to clear it. ‘I think I need a cup of tea and a sit-down. Would you like a cup of tea?’ Her mind spinning, she turned towards the gate in the railings, trying to keep herself in check, but she was stalled by a hand on her arm.

  ‘Do you not wish for me to tell you why and how?’ The lady raised a brow. ‘Did you not own to an excess of curiosity not a moment ago? Did you not make such haste to have this curiosity satisfied?’

  Rose drew in a shallow breath. What she wished for was to say, ‘No, thank you, I think I’ve heard enough craziness for one day.’

  ‘No. I – er – I just thought a cup of tea might help. It’s traditional, you know, in a crisis…’

  She turned back to the gate and pushed; it didn’t move. Ro
se glanced down, only to realise it was padlocked! She frowned, then as her gaze flew to the windows. There was no sign of the pretty curtains she had hung so proudly in her kitchen the day she moved in, no photo frames on the sitting room window sill, and none of her carefully nurtured pots spilling their contents out over the steps.

  ‘What the hell is going on? Is this some sort of joke?’ Rose turned back, a sudden thought crossing her mind. ‘Wait – is this one of those TV shows?’ She looked up and down the street, then peered across at the foliage bordering the Holburne Museum. There were no visible cameras, but then, didn’t they always conceal them?

  ‘’Tis neither quip nor jape, Miss Wallace.’ Rose turned back to the lady as she spoke, her manner softer than before. ‘This is your home no longer.’ She gestured towards the basement flat. ‘You live elsewhere.’

  Rose shook her head in denial. This could not be happening; it was some stupid dream. Had she fallen asleep at the dance class, bored with her want of a partner? She pinched herself hard on the forearm.

  ‘Ouch!’ No, definitely not asleep. She stared at the young woman in front of her, trying to take in what she was saying. ‘But – but you can’t be here. You can’t be Jane Austen.’ She bit her lip. It felt terribly insensitive to say it out loud, but she had to. ‘She – you – died. Two hundred years ago. You were buried in Winchester Cathedral.’

  ‘A building I much admire, yet it is a singular honour from which I take little enjoyment.’ She sighed. ‘Look.’ She pointed at the front of the building, and Rose looked up. The plaque proclaiming Jane Austen’s residence was gone, as were the smart box trees. Moreover, the ground floor was clearly an office, serviceable blinds covering the windows and the company name emblazoned on the glass.

  ‘Much may have altered; you will see.’

  Rose stared at her in disbelief. This was ridiculous; only moments ago, she’d thought there couldn’t be anything more outlandish than her belief in this woman being Jane Austen. Now she was supposed to believe her whole life was entirely different, too.

  Grabbing her bag, she opened it and rummaged around for the keys to her flat, pulling them out with a feeling of immense relief. It was quickly dashed. The keys were perhaps not that different, but the key chain held less than it should have and her usual mementoes were missing. In place of her pen and ink charm and Jane Austen silhouette was a small stuffed owl sporting a Ravenclaw scarf.

  Feeling almost sick with trepidation, she pulled her mobile from her pocket, staring in disbelief at the unfamiliar casing before quickly scanning her most recent calls. Where it should have shown Morgan – several times – James, her friends attending the festival and even the doctor, the only names showing were her mother (who never called her), someone called Mary, and several from someone known as Lottie, both names she was unfamiliar with.

  Rose closed her eyes. Her body felt weak and, used to being organised and in control of her life, she was at a loss as to what to do. She swayed on her feet and then felt an arm steadying her.

  Her eyes flew open to meet those of the young woman, who smiled faintly. ‘I regret I have no salts upon my person, or I would offer them.’

  Shaking her head, Rose tried to summon a smile. ‘I’m fine. It’s just – unexpected.’ She stuffed the mobile into her bag.

  The lady nodded then looked around before turning to face Rose again. ‘A dish of tea would be just the thing, but there are matters we must speak of. I do not think it would be wise to be overheard.’

  ‘We could go into the gardens?’ Rose gestured weakly across the road. She felt completely lost.

  With a surprisingly firm grip, the lady took her arm. ‘Come, then, let us make haste!’ Leading a bemused Rose across the road, she steered her into the relative anonymity of Sydney Gardens and a wooden bench tucked away beside a tall hedge.

  * * *

  Rose stared at her hands in her lap. They appeared to be the same as always: pale skin, slender fingers with no adornment; neat, well-cared-for nails. She looked up. The sky was still there; blue with a smattering of clouds. The trees of Sydney Gardens continued to stand tall and proud, their leaves stirring in the gentle breeze and the faint rumble of traffic passing by on the Warminster Road could be heard in the distance.

  It was all so familiar – yet so much had changed. She turned to look at the young woman at her side. She was also still there, her eyes free of guile or amusement, only an earnest plea in them for acceptance of all she had just told her.

  ‘It is true, then. This is…’ Rose swallowed quickly and waved a hand in the air. ‘This is really happening. You are Jane Austen, and we are sitting on a bench in Sydney Gardens, calmly discussing how you managed to travel between living over two hundred years ago and being here now.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘And there is an iron safe built into the wall of your bedroom through which you and your sister exchange letters…’

  Jane nodded. ‘Indeed. I comprehend your confusion, Miss Wallace. It could be no more than mine when first I came here!’

  ‘No, I’m sure!’ Rose swallowed with difficulty. How was she to get her head around all this absurdity? ‘And, er… how long has this…’ A fleeting memory came of her landlord, Marcus, telling her about the new ground-floor visitor and how she was to stay for an indefinite period.

  ‘I have been coming and going for some months now. Perchance I may not have tarried so long, had I not learned of the approaching festival bearing my name. I will own to having been curious.’

  Rose shook her head. ‘It must have been the most bizarre time for you, but seeing all the people arriving lately, dressing up…’ She looked at Jane again. ‘I thought you were a dedicated fan!’

  Jane’s eyes twinkled as she smiled. ‘I suspected as much.’

  ‘And… and did you send your sister a copy of the programme through the safe for her amusement?’

  She shook her head. ‘’Tis not possible. Objects may be brought forward from the past, but one cannot send back that which did not exist back then. Cass sends me ink and parchment so we may continue our habit of correspondence. Modern paper and ink will not pass through.’

  ‘But virtually no letters survive from when you lived in Bath! It’s always been said you and your sister were rarely parted during those years, or they were also amongst those Cassandra destroyed because…’ Rose’s voice tailed off as realisation struck. Jane merely raised a sardonic brow. ‘And – and all those things in the apartment, in the boxes…’

  ‘Are come from my sister; from our home: small pieces of silverware, even teaspoons, thimbles and suchlike, have acquired an astonishing worth, as do our books, which are sought-after first editions here. I sell them at the antiques centre in Bartlett Street. It is how I fund my life.’ She shrugged delicately. ‘How else could I afford my expenses?’

  ‘How else indeed,’ Rose said weakly.

  ‘But no longer. I am not sure what I shall do, but I must find a new home. All that remains are these’ – Jane indicated the clothes she wore – ‘and this.’ She withdrew the leather pouch from her pocket. ‘I knew the risk of becoming stranded; thus I kept this on my person – precious funds and a few other treasures. It seems they have remained.’ She glanced around. ‘I shall not be sorry to leave Bath, be it this century or the past.’

  Rose felt suddenly cold and grabbed the arm of the young woman beside her, half-expecting her hand to go straight through it. ‘Wait! Were you living in Bath then? What year was it… Oh no!’ She started to shake her head as she released her grip. Jane seemed perfectly calm, as though it made little difference to her.

  ‘You begin to comprehend whence I came.’

  Rose stared at her, her head still moving from side to side in denial.

  ‘It was in the year three. This very month.’

  With a shudder, Rose closed her eyes. No! This could not be happening. She would open her eyes and she would be here alone. Jane Austen could not possibly travel through time to the future, and she would not b
e seated beside her on a bench in Sydney Gardens speaking words which were tearing Rose apart.

  Cautiously she raised her lids. The dark-haired, hazel-eyed woman with an air of the past about her remained in her seat, her gaze steady.

  Rose cleared her throat. ‘You have disappeared in 1803 – eight years before your first novel was published. If there is no way back, then you were never published at all. The world has never heard of you, or any of your characters – this is a world without Mr Darcy?’

  ‘I suspect it to be so.’

  A silence fell as they stared at each other. Rose felt so agitated she half-expected to explode, but there was no sign of disquiet in Jane Austen’s face.

  Just then, the sound of music coming from Rose’s bag made them both start, and she stared at it for a second, confused. She recognised the tune, but it took her a moment to realise it must be coming from her phone, and she snatched the bag up to find it.

  It was her mother!

  ‘He-hello?’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Where on earth are you? Your dinner has gone cold. I really don’t know why I bother!’ Before she could summon any response, her mother had hung up, and Rose lowered her hand, her eyes wide with surprise.

  ‘I must still live at home!’ She felt the colour drain from her skin, conscious of Jane’s curious stare.

  ‘Excellent.’ Jane got to her feet gracefully. ‘Here is where we part company, Miss Wallace. I wish you a good evening.’ She made as if to curtsey again but stopped herself, which would have amused Rose greatly in other circumstances. As it was, she was gripped by a sense of panic.

  ‘No – wait! You have to stay with me, at least for now.’

  ‘And pray, to what end?’

  ‘I don’t know! But I need some time to think about all of this – the implications! I may have more questions. Besides, you have nowhere to go, do you?’

  Jane met her frantic gaze with calmness. ‘No. But I am resourceful, and I am in funds, which I have discovered eases many a path that might otherwise be obstructed. It serves just as well in this century as it did in the past.’