Rose got to her feet and stretched before walking over to the window to draw the curtains. A perfunctory examination of her wardrobe revealed a lack of her usual work clothes: the smart suits, dresses and heels. With a sigh, she closed the door on the sight of some familiar and many not so familiar outfits. It looked like the dress code at the library was a little more informal than she was used to.
Then she turned to the shelves and studied again the books spilling onto the desk below. The shock on entering her room had been profound; it had been like entering a slightly warped time capsule. So much was as it had been when she was in her late teens and early twenties and studying at school and college, with a proliferation of fantasy titles littered around the room, quotes from books by Tolkien, Rowling, Pullman and Lewis – classics new and old – on her mouse mat, her slippers, her walls, the mug on the bedside table…
But all her books by or about Jane Austen and her life were gone. All those joyful hours of reading and rereading, wiped from the face of the earth. Hours and hours of browsing at book fairs and along the dusty shelves in second-hand shops, building up a collection of as many different versions of Jane’s books as she could – just a memory. Trying to keep a hold on her emotions, Rose turned slowly on her heel, surveying the room.
The DVD collection stacked by her television was no consolation. Gone were the many adaptations of Jane’s books, both the period and the fun, modern ones: Bridget Jones’s Diary, Bride & Prejudice, Clueless… Her heart heavy in her chest, Rose turned away.
Everything spoke of Rose living a fairly reclusive, introverted and quiet life where she lost herself in the worlds of her other beloved books. And a lonely life, whispered a voice in her head, and she welcomed it like an old friend.
It was true. How could she have known what a love of Jane Austen’s writing had brought her: the friends, the life choices which had led to a job she loved, a slow but steadily growing confidence in herself as someone of value?
She felt like someone had died, the sense of loss was so severe. Time and again she had turned to Google and searched: Jane Austen; the names of her oh-so-famous novels; Chawton House; the museum in what was her last home; the Jane Austen Society – nothing. It was all gone.
So had the many forums and blogs she had religiously visited and followed, where she had met people – made friends – who could talk as endlessly as she about all things Jane Austen. This is where she and Morgan had built on their early acquaintance and become the very best of friends, soul sisters for each other, because for all her extended, multicultural family, Morgan had confessed years ago to Rose about how adrift she felt, even amidst the loving family around her.
Morgan! Turning quickly back to the computer, her heart thumping wildly, Rose tapped the space bar, pretending not to notice the tail of Harry Potter’s broomstick as the screensaver sailed out of sight. She scanned the recent history of the pages she had visited, trying not to see the link to the New Zealand Embassy in London. Was she in such a bad place in her life that she was really thinking of emigrating to the land of elves, wizards and hobbits?
The last Harry Potter book had been out for several years, as had the last film; surely she didn’t still frequent any of those forums? But if she did…
There was nothing in her recent history, but she had never forgotten the web address of the site where she’d first met Morgan and she quickly entered it and brought up the Hidden Tower. The announcement (in all caps) that J. K. Rowling’s Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them would be turned into a trilogy was the top thread. But there was nothing in the conversational thread from Morgan, so she clicked on the Member List and selected her screen name: CAgirl. Her last post had been several years ago.
All this time? She had spent so many years in this life without Morgan around to talk to, any time of day or night? It was too much to take in, and either through exhaustion or shock, Rose was unable to stop the tears as they began to flow steadily down her cheeks.
* * *
Just as dawn was breaking, Rose had fallen into a deep sleep. Feeling quite spent from her burst of tears, she had lain back on her bed, her mind reeling with all she had learned, and tiredness had suddenly swept through her as she had fallen into oblivion.
When she finally awoke, just for a fleeting second, Rose thought she had had the strangest of dreams. She lay still, her lids closed, barely daring to breathe; then a hard rap on the door and her mother’s voice thrust her back into reality. It wasn’t a dream; none of it was.
Opening a reluctant eye, she glanced at her bedside clock; it was almost midday. Drowsily, her head emitting a dull ache, she crawled off the bed and wandered out onto the landing, her eye immediately drawn to the door of Jane’s bedroom. The house was incredibly quiet. Was she in her room or downstairs?
Rose hurried back into her own room and showered before pulling on some clothes automatically and pausing outside Jane’s room again as she passed, wondering whether to knock or not. She felt weary and decidedly unrefreshed, despite having slept so long.
Her mind was full of all the things she’d spent years wishing she could ask her favourite author, but half of them hadn’t even happened to Jane yet – not back in 1803.
Why didn’t she publish Persuasion? What made her put it aside after completion and start a new work in Sanditon? Did she really intend it to be called The Elliots? It was widely said that her brother, Henry, had named both that and Northanger Abbey (had she intended, after changing the heroine’s name to Catherine, to call it that instead?) And what of the world-famous silhouette, said to be Jane Austen but not 100 per cent proved? It was drawn around 1815, found pasted into a copy of Mansfield Park – another book she had yet to write. There was no point in asking her if it really was Jane, or who had produced it and labelled it ‘L’aimable Jane’.
No answers, just so many questions. Rose drew in a shallow breath and tapped lightly on the door – no response. A firmer knock went unanswered, so Rose poked her head around the door to find the room empty. Downstairs, she found every room in a similar condition. The only note was from her mother, saying she had gone to the beauty salon and telling her to empty the dishwasher and move a load of washing into the tumble dryer as soon as the cycle ended.
A momentary panic gripped her, and she was suddenly wide awake. Grabbing her bag, she looked around wildly for her car key, then remembrance struck her and with a muttered curse under her breath, she rushed out of the house. Where might Jane have gone? How on earth would she find her? What if she didn’t intend to be found?
No! Rose admonished herself as she hurried up the road towards the nearest bus stop. If I am the only person who remembers Jane Austen’s novels, her wonderful stories, her well-loved characters… I will not lose her as well.
But where to begin searching? As the bus rumbled along the road towards the city, Rose ruminated on where Jane might have gone. Perhaps she was at the antiques centre? Did she have more valuables from the past tucked into that leather pouch?
The bus pulled to a halt at the next stop and, realising where they were, Rose hurriedly picked up her bag and dismounted. She would cut through Sydney Gardens. Surely there was a chance Jane had merely come out for a walk? If she had come into town on foot, she would have passed by here and its familiarity may well have drawn her in.
After twenty minutes of walking up and down every path, however, Rose realised the futility of her search. There was no sign of Jane anywhere, though sadly there were posters of a missing dog fastened to a lamp post as she resignedly left the Gardens behind. She crossed the road but had gone barely a few paces along Sydney Place when she realised there was someone on the step outside number 4, about to press the bell, and her heart leapt. It wasn’t Jane Austen, but there was something familiar nonetheless about the petite figure.
‘Morgan!’
The woman’s raised hand fell to her side and she spun around. Yes, it was definitely her, despite the neatly fastened hair and trendy glasses.
‘It’s me, Rose!’ She hurried along the pavement to join her friend on the step to 4 Sydney Place, refusing to look at the empty space where the plaque once rested.
‘I’m sorry.’ Morgan was shaking her head. ‘Rose who?’ She eyed Rose carefully. ‘How did you know my—’
It was galling to be treated like a stranger by her best friend. Then, saying a silent prayer for the Internet history links she’d browsed the previous night, Rose summoned a smile. ‘I’m Ginger Weasley. From the Harry Potter forum?’
Morgan’s brow furrowed for a second, then her gaze shot to Rose’s face and she laughed. ‘Oh – my – God! It is you.’
She dropped her overlarge shoulder bag onto the ground and wrapped her arms around Rose in a hug before letting her go, and Rose felt a prickling behind her eyes. So soon after her first meeting with Morgan in reality – and that heartfelt hug in Hall & Woodhouse only days ago – the enormity of what she had lost was hitting home.
‘Wow!’ Morgan was shaking her head again. ‘That was a few years ago. I don’t think I ever went back to the forum after the last book came out.’
Rose, who knew they’d moved on from chatting on a Harry Potter forum two years earlier than that – exactly when they’d discovered they had a mutual love and admiration for Jane Austen’s works – merely nodded. What could she possibly say?
‘Wait a minute.’ Morgan eyed her warily. ‘How did you… you recognise me? My profile pic then – well, I was a teenager.’
‘Yes, and I said you looked about ten.’
Morgan laughed. ‘I remember! I tried to be offended, but you weren’t the only one to say it.’
Rose’s mind was in overdrive. What should she do? She couldn’t tell Morgan everything that had just happened. She would think she was mad and would give her a wide berth. She needed to build on this small reintroduction, keep Morgan part of her life whilst she tried to work out what could be salvaged from how things used to be.
‘So, umm…’ Rose gestured towards the door of number 4. ‘Did I interrupt you? Sorry.’
‘Oh – no.’ Morgan threw a cursory glance over her shoulder at the building. ‘I can come back. I’m not expected, it’s just one of the stops on my trail.’
‘You’ve just arrived in Bath?’
‘Yes, this morning. I’ve been in London for a few days, but that was vacation. Now I have to start work.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Hey, do you fancy grabbing some lunch? I’m feeling kind of… well… foreign surrounded by all these British accents. After all the Harry Potter and Doctor Who immersion, I honestly thought I’d fit in a bit more than I do.’
Rose nodded quickly, grateful for the natural reprieve. ‘Of course. Let’s go round the corner, there’s a really nice cafe where we can catch up and eat at the same time.’
Chapter Sixteen
They fell into step along Sydney Place, and Rose threw Morgan a curious glance. ‘I didn’t realise you wore glasses.’
‘I don’t.’ Morgan winked at her as they reached the corner of the street. ‘It’s clear glass. I bought them for the job, thinking I’d look a bit more serious… studious, you know? It’s just that it’s hard enough to get respect as the boss’s daughter – I thought – what do you think? Too hipster?’
Despite the strangeness of everything, Rose could not help but laugh. Whatever else had changed, this was still the Morgan she knew and loved. She only hoped her friend would come to cherish their friendship in this new life as much as she had in the previous one.
She led her around the corner to a small cafe on Bathwick Street, and they were soon settled with cold drinks and awaiting their sandwiches. Morgan, however, was giving Rose that wary look again and she braced herself for whatever might be coming.
‘I still can’t believe you recognised me earlier. It’s amazing, Ginger. Just like a movie…’ Morgan’s mouth dropped open slightly. ‘Wait, did we know real names on the forum? I don’t recall your…’
‘Oh, I’m sure some of us did,’ Rose said hastily. ‘I mean, I can’t remember really, but we must have, mustn’t we? What sort of job are you here about? Are you working for your father, then?’
Morgan nodded slowly, then she smiled. ‘I have to get used to calling you Rose. Yes… you know – I can really see it’s you now.’
‘Hmm, the hair?’
‘No – no, it’s something else. I feel I know us, if you know what I mean.’
Rose knew precisely what she meant, but thankfully their order arrived just then and the moment passed as it was laid out before them.
‘Anyway, yes – I’m working for my father. Well – it’s more like he throws me at unsuspecting people who need a bit of help. Like someone sends him a proposal for a story – but they don’t have the time to do the research nitty-gritty – Dad sends me in.’
‘You must learn the most interesting things. Have you travelled all over, then?’ Rose paused and frowned. ‘Is there something wrong with your sandwich?’
Morgan had moved around the bread on her plate as if wondering what was underneath it, but she shook her head. ‘It’s fine – is this bacon?’
Rose couldn’t help but laugh at Morgan’s expression. ‘You should’ve said you wanted it burnt to a crisp.’ Then she stopped. Would Morgan wonder how she knew that was how she liked her bacon? She bit her lip, but thankfully, Morgan was more intent on removing the thick slice of bacon from her BLT sandwich and laying it aside, wiping her fingers on her napkin.
‘So right, what was I saying? I’ve learned some interesting things – but most of the research I’m asked to do is stuff that can be confirmed with a well-timed phone call. People submitting to the science magazines generally have all the research assistants they need – so I get stuck dealing with the travel writers who can’t read their notes so I need to spellcheck names and such. But this story I’m working on here: this is another kettle of fish entirely.’
Rose was intrigued, despite the awkwardness she was feeling. ‘And it’s brought you here to Bath?’
‘Oh right, you asked if I have travelled. The answer is: yes, but only all over the US. But this is the first time I’ve been scheduled outside the States.’ Morgan took a sip of her drink. ‘So, yes. A real mystery set right here in Bath. Wait! Do I remember correctly? Weren’t you born and bred here?’ Rose nodded. ‘Awesome! I’d love to talk to you about it – you might even be able to help. Can I record you?’
Rose had difficulty not choking on her sandwich, but managed to nod again as she watched Morgan choose an app on her phone and prop it up between them.
She put her hands under her chin in what Rose suspected was a pose she used with people she didn’t know but whom she wanted to put at ease and also get information out of. It didn’t put Rose at ease in the least. ‘Have you ever heard of the Lost Lady of the Gardens?’
‘Er – no, not that I can recall.’
Morgan laughed. ‘I’m not surprised. I’m starting to feel like she’s about as easy to find as Waldo.’ At Rose’s face, Morgan chewed on her lip. ‘The Where’s Waldo? books? Do you have them here? Never mind. Anyway, I’ve done the obvious background research, of course, family records, that kind of thing, but there is very little to go on.’ She shrugged and smiled her warm smile at Rose. ‘That’s when the guy I’m working for…’ Morgan paused and pulled a face. ‘He’s not easy to work with; too intelligent for his own good. Anyway, he suggested I come here. This is where the story begins and ends.’ Morgan clapped her hands lightly. ‘Daddy agreed, after some serious begging, and here I am.’
She started to question Rose about the history of Bath, something she was more than willing to discuss, but it was only as the conversation turned towards the Regency era, which naturally led her mind back to Jane Austen, that Rose faltered, unsure of herself, her sense of bewilderment returning with a vengeance.
There was
a strange sort of unreality about Morgan being here, yet their friendship no longer had the history she knew and loved. A pang of homesickness struck her; where was James? She had known him a little, of course, outside of the work connection. And what of Dr Trevellyan? He would still have been on that infamous dig in town, but she wouldn’t have seen him, wouldn’t have embarrassed herself. Well, at least she’d discovered something positive about her new circumstances.
The sing-song ringtone of Morgan’s phone caused her to start, and her friend grinned at her as she answered it.
‘Excuse me.’ Rose gestured towards the WC sign. ‘Won’t be a sec.’
Morgan waved at her, turning her attention to the caller.
Leaning back against the wall in the corridor, Rose’s mind was in turmoil again, the sense of loss all-pervading. So many important things in her life – people – just… gone from it, beyond her reach. She was still grappling with it all: Jane Austen was here in the twenty-first century, and currently staying, for heaven’s sake, in the spare room in Rose’s mum’s house. And no one – not one person other than Rose herself – seemed to recall there ever being such a person in the world.
Her cosy home was hers no more, her beloved job was in someone else’s hands, many of the friends she had made all over the world through a shared love of the author were lost to her – except for Morgan. Dear, wonderful Morgan… Despite the situation, the inexplicable circumstances, this one fact grounded her, brought her back to herself, and she drew in a steadying breath.
Come on, Rose. Get a grip. You have to make sure you don’t lose sight of Morgan – find out where she is staying.
Back at their table, Morgan was still on her mobile.
‘That’s awesome!’ She winked at Rose as she flopped back into her seat. ‘Yes – I’d love to. Hold on.’ She put the phone down to rummage in her bag, pulling out a leather-bound notebook. ‘Yes… yes, I’ve got that.’ She scribbled in the book for a moment, then glanced at her watch. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll come now. And thanks!’
The Particular Charm of Miss Jane Austen Page 11