The train entered the next room which was lined on both sides with glass cases. Marjorie pointed to the first case as the train moved past. ‘Behold,’ she said. ‘We begin at the beginning. Jane Austen’s christening bonnet.’ A tiny muslin cap smocked with grub roses sat on a wooden plinth.
‘That is not my christening bonnet,’ Jane declared. Marjorie turned around and scowled at Jane. Sofia elbowed Jane in the ribs.
‘Control yourself,’ Sofia said. ‘This woman is not an actor. She’s a real person. She could boot us out of here.’ Jane scratched her head and agreed to stay quiet.
‘One of Jane’s favourite pastimes was tea-making,’ Marjorie pressed on. The train moved on to the next glass case. It displayed a china tea set.
‘Untrue again,’ Jane said, more quietly this time. ‘And that is not my tea set, either.’ She knew this was all some grand fantasy her mind had concocted, but still, she objected to so many details of her life being arranged so inaccurately and haphazardly.
The remaining glass cases contained an assortment of hats and gloves, James’s writing desk, a pair of Cassandra’s stockings, a prayer book of her father’s and more spoons and teacups.
‘Do you recognise anything?’ Sofia said.
‘Yes. Not a single thing is mine. Wait,’ Jane said. ‘Excuse me please, Marjorie. What is that ribbon?’
A 2-foot length of inch-thick silk ribbon, once pink but now yellowed with time, hung from a wooden bar in the final glass cabinet.
‘A hair ribbon.’ Marjorie shrugged. ‘It is of no great significance. Women wore hair ribbons.’
How wrong she was. Jane recognised the ribbon in an instant. Black soot charred the ends of the ribbon that had once tied the manuscript for First Impressions. The ribbon had caught the edge of the flames before Jane hauled it out from the inferno. In this charlatan shrine of Jane’s fantasy, this one length of silk was more visceral to Jane than the other objects combined. She struggled to believe she had conjured such a detail in a fantasy. The train jerked to a halt.
‘We have reached the end of the tour,’ Marjorie said. ‘Your complimentary sweet.’ She presented them each with a small brown disc furnished with a crooked silhouette, which, when Jane squinted, resembled her own head.
‘Cheers,’ Sofia said. She popped the brown disc in her mouth.
Jane observed her and did the same. The solid disc dissolved to cream on her tongue. Jane closed her eyes and rocked backwards.
‘Are you well?’ Sofia asked.
‘What do I consume?’
‘Chocolate.’ Jane had heard of chocolate but never had the funds to procure it. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It is the highlight of the tour,’ Jane said.
They exited the building and stood on John Street. Jane reflected on the events of the morning and found that her self-diagnosis of insanity perhaps deserved deeper scrutiny. Was this all truly a hallucination? She began to falter in her certainty. Her own current experience differed from the examples of madness she had observed in the known lunatics of her acquaintance. While the soup-stained poet of the Pump Room, for example, spoke only to herself in her own world, Jane conversed with others of flesh and blood. While the same woman possessed no awareness of the stench of the fish that rotted 2 feet from her in the gutter, Jane had tasted that chocolate as it melted in her mouth. She had touched those books and felt the fabric of their covers. She had smelled the vanilla in their pages. All five senses remained alert and intact. No one she talked to indulged her as one did a child or patted her head; no one offered her a carriage ride to Brighton. Each person interacted with her in a manner befitting someone who retained control of her senses; they treated her as though she were lucid and sane.
She allowed herself to consider that there might be some minuscule chance lunacy had not taken her, but rather, with a sound mind, she had indeed cast a spell which had moved her through time to the year 2020, where her reputation as an author was such that museums were now built in her honour. It was pure fiction, surely.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They left the museum. Sofia listened to the Jane Austen impersonator detail her alleged journey from 1803 to the present, about travelling to London to visit a witch in a falling-down house, of her mother burning her manuscript, of the witch’s fondness for cabbages. The saga enthralled her, and while Sofia didn’t understand why the actress went into such detail, at least she felt entertained. The actress remembered great chunks of dialogue, names, facts and dates. She had done her research. Sofia had read every Jane Austen novel as a teenager. She loved them and confessed to being something of a secret bonnet-drama fiend, so despite the whole thing being contrived for an elaborate candid-camera prank, she thoroughly enjoyed listening to it all and threw herself into her own part.
‘This was all houses before,’ Jane said. She pointed to a row of convenience stores and dress shops which lined the street. Brutalist boxes of concrete had replaced the famous Bath-stone buildings.
‘Bath was bombed in the war,’ Sofia said, taking her cue.
‘Which war? Did the Little Corporal finally invade? The French are never to be trusted.’
‘The Second World War. Bombed by the Nazis. We like the French now. Sort of.’
‘The whole world was at war?’ Jane exclaimed.
‘Ask my brother to fill you in when he gets home. He’s a history teacher, among other things; he’ll have some dusty doorstop of a book to put you to sleep with.’
A rusty black sedan drove past. ‘Where are the horses?’ Jane asked. ‘To pull it along?’
‘Inside,’ Sofia said, waving to the car. ‘There’s a machine which does . . . something.’ She squinted, trying to appear wise without having to explain how a car worked.
Jane looked confused but nodded. ‘I like walking,’ she said. ‘I walk every day, even in the rain.’
‘There’s no chance of that here,’ Sofia said. ‘It hasn’t rained in six months. England is in a drought.’
‘Is this the apocalypse?’ Jane asked.
‘Maybe,’ replied Sofia with gravitas. They walked onwards. Sofia strained for something else sophisticated to say to keep the conversation going. The Jane actress had remained subdued since the ‘I am now a famous novelist’ scene. ‘What else have you observed about the present?’ Sofia asked her.
‘The world smells of paraffin.’
‘Paraffin? You mean petrol? That’s concerning.’ Sofia snorted. ‘Sounds about right, though.’ She was keen to move on from science and history; they would bore her husband to tears. ‘Tell me more about the witch,’ she said, changing the improv to something juicier.
‘Her name is Mrs Sinclair. I visited her at her house in London. Is there still a London?’ Jane asked.
‘There’s still a London,’ Sofia said. ‘And this “spell”?’
‘I still have it,’ Jane said. She reached into her pocket and retrieved a piece of paper.
Sofia examined it. Someone – the props department, likely – had scrawled blobs of black ink across a charred, yellowish piece of paper. ‘I can’t make this out.’
‘She had terrible handwriting,’ Jane said.
Sofia held the page at all angles, looking for any type of clue or inspiration. She could not decipher the words. ‘Did props make this for you?’
Jane slumped. ‘I was hoping that this occurred often. That you would know what to do.’
Sofia shook her head. ‘I don’t know what this is, sorry.’ She handed the paper back.
‘Am I stuck here?’ Jane asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Sofia said. ‘Maybe. Are you fainting again?’
The Jane actress possessed a knack for physical stunts, it seemed. Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. Sofia rushed over and grabbed her under the arms. It all seemed a bit over the top for this scene, but the actress fainted convincingly, so Sofia let her have her moment. She glanced at another CCTV camera above them and shifted the woman’s shoulders towards it so they both featured in the shot. �
��Are you okay?’ she asked in a tender voice.
‘I’ll never see my brothers or Papa again. Even Mama,’ she replied, looking forlorn.
Sofia dabbed the woman’s brow with her sleeve and played along. ‘There, there. I will help you. Hush now, Sofia is here,’ she cooed.
Jane looked up at her. ‘The woman who gave me the . . . well, spell – shall I call it a spell?’
‘Sure, why not?’ Sofia replied.
‘It seems a silly word. I still struggle to believe she had any power at all, let alone magic. She was barely a matchmaker.’
‘Spell sounds great,’ Sofia said, nodding. ‘The audience will love it.’ Talk of mystical things always added darkness and romance to a storyline.
‘Who?’ Jane asked. ‘The audience?’
‘Never mind.’ Sofia rolled her eyes. Amateurs. ‘So . . . the spell?’
‘Yes. Well, Mrs Sinclair – the woman who gave it to me – told me it was reversible.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Except she did not mention how to reverse it. I found the encounter rather ludicrous, you see. I now wish I had listened more.’
‘Okay.’ Sofia shrugged. She had neglected this part of the improvisation. ‘Remind me, who is Sinclair?’
‘The matchmaker. In London. When I met her, she said to me, “There always has been, and always will be, someone like me in this place.” I found it ridiculous at the time, so did not pay it much heed. Now I begin to think it possessed some significance.’
Sofia remembered now. The collapsing house, the cabbages. This was difficult terrain to keep interesting for an audience. People were bored by hearing of action which took place off-screen. Still, she did her best to keep the flow going and suggested some forward movement. ‘So, maybe go check it out? Go back there.’
‘Back where?’ Jane asked.
‘Go back to London.’
Sofia showed Jane to a guest bedroom in her brother’s house. Night had fallen, and no one had come to tell her what to do next. No person had jumped out of the shrubbery and yelled ‘gotcha!’ No production runner had called her offering to reimburse her for the Jane Austen Experience tickets (she kept the receipts anyway). The producers seemed determined to keep the farce going and Sofia felt happy to oblige. Sofia had tried suggesting to the Jane Austen actress that they call it a day once it began to get dark and gently tried to get her to leave, but the woman looked about, forlorn, like she might cry.
‘I have nowhere to go,’ she said. ‘What if the constabulary arrest me?’
Sofia was unsure about the exact nature of the crime the Jane actress had committed which seemed to make her fear arrest now, but she couldn’t risk the whole thing falling through if the actress left town – they had come this far. She decided the safest option was to let her stay in the house. After providing her with a bowl of canned soup she found in the cupboard – which Sofia felt quite pleased with herself for heating up without destroying the microwave – she showed Jane to the guestroom. ‘You can sleep in here,’ she said to Jane. Sofia walked into the room and switched on the light on the bedside table.
‘What is that?’ Jane asked, transfixed. She pointed at the light.
‘That’s a desk lamp,’ Sofia said.
‘Desk-lamp,’ Jane said. She clicked the switch at the base of the lamp, mimicking Sofia’s action. The lamp switched off and threw the room into darkness. She clicked the switch once more and the lamp flicked back on. She repeated the motion again. The room was light, then dark, then light, then dark.
Sofia grabbed her hand. ‘Best just leave it on, methinks.’
Jane shook her head. ‘Extraordinary,’ she whispered, in a tone of wonder.
‘You can wear this to bed,’ Sofia said. She offered Jane a pink silk nightgown.
Jane studied the dress. ‘You sew far better than I do,’ she said. ‘Though that is no difficult feat.’
‘Save your compliments for Donatella Versace,’ Sofia said, and sat down on the bed. ‘I have a six a.m. call time. Do they want you on set tomorrow?’
‘Who is “they” and what is “set”?’ Jane asked.
Sofia exhaled, feeling exhausted by the continuous state of confusion the actress seemed determined to maintain. ‘You can break character, you know.’ She leant in. ‘This is private property. The production wouldn’t dare put cameras inside here.’
‘Madam, once more, I have little idea of your meaning,’ Jane replied.
Sofia sighed. ‘A method actor, hey? I dig. Okay, I’ll respect your process.’ She would have to continue the farce for a little longer, it seemed.
‘I should go to London as soon as possible,’ Jane said. ‘To search for information regarding Mrs Sinclair. If I can locate her house, perhaps I will find clues to reverse the spell.’
‘Sure. Do whatever you like,’ Sofia said. She was unsure of the point of this discussion. The hidden camera crew was not going to follow this sweet little extra all the way to London. They were interested in Sofia Wentworth, movie star. Still, she indulged the actress, keen not to ruin another thespian’s improvisations. ‘My brother sometimes goes to London,’ she said. ‘Ask him in the morning. Perhaps he’ll take you.’
‘Splendid. Though, is that not improper? Travelling with a man who is no relative, to whom I am not engaged?’
‘You could travel to London in a bikini and no one would care.’
The actress appeared confused by this. ‘The address is for 8 Russia Row, Cheapside. Do you know of it?’ she asked.
‘Cheapside? That’s EC2.’ Sofia replied. ‘Give me your paper. I’ll write it down.’
Jane handed Sofia another paper prop she had been cradling, which contained an address for London written in old-fashioned, fountain-pen handwriting. Sofia took it and wrote down the postcode for Cheapside.
‘What is that?’ Jane whispered. She pointed at Sofia’s hand.
‘This? It’s a pen.’
‘May I?’ she said reverently. Sofia nodded and handed Jane the pen. Jane put the pen to the corner of the paper and scribbled. She gasped. ‘Where is the ink?’ She drew the pen to her face and studied it.
‘Inside the barrel,’ Sofia said. ‘It’s more convenient than a quill, I suppose?’
‘It’s the finest thing I have ever seen,’ Jane said. She held up the pen as though she examined a gold nugget.
‘Keep it,’ Sofia said.
‘I could not possibly,’ Jane said. ‘A self-inking quill must cost a fortune.’
‘It’s yours.’
Jane gasped and nestled the pen in her hands.
‘Now, I must get my beauty sleep,’ Sofia said. ‘You have everything you need?’
‘I am well, thank you,’ Jane replied, still staring at the pen.
The interaction struck Sofia as odd, though not unpleasant. The Jane impersonator seemed determined to uphold the farce, despite Sofia’s insistence that no cameras existed inside her brother’s private property. Still, Sofia didn’t mind. She could not put her finger on it, but something other-worldly surrounded this actress. What Sofia had earlier written off as bad acting now struck her as something different altogether. Jane appeared to be genuinely taken with the pen and the desk lamp. She showed an interest in everything Sofia said, whereas most people zoned out the minute Sofia opened her mouth. She seemed to be one of those annoying types who liked people. Sofia commanded herself to remain frosty and professional with the woman, however, to not like her too much, for Sofia was the movie star, and this Jane was a nobody, employed by a film studio to make fun of her. With any luck, she would just stay the night and be gone by the morning, and Sofia would never see her again.
‘Goodnight, then, Jane Austen,’ Sofia said.
‘Goodnight, Sofia,’ Jane replied.
Sofia left the room and shut the door.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Fred sat in the Black Prince Inn and drained his third lager for the evening.
Four weeks ago, his sister, Sofia, had showed up o
n his doorstep and turned his life upside down. It was the first he’d heard from her in three years in any meaningful way; she flew around the globe from red carpet to film set and they exchanged brief, humorous text messages around birthdays and holidays with a distinct lack of any real emotion. That’s how they did it in their family, with jokes and booze. When he had learned about her separation from her husband (on the internet), he’d made an awkward, half-hearted offer to call, but she hadn’t replied, which he had been grateful for, for he had no idea what he would have said if she’d taken him up on his offer.
In the last few weeks of living with him, she’d already managed to destroy his stereo, scratch his car, drink all of his wine and somehow spill rice into every drawer in the kitchen. Grains of rice still stabbed his feet when he got up in the night.
She’d returned to Bath to shoot some period film – a Jane Austen movie, like they all were in Bath – and she’d asked to stay with him, declaring that no hotels in Bath met her standards. The request had startled him. Sofia wasn’t just some actress. She was a movie star, and the last time he had seen her face, it had been on a 30-foot-high billboard in Piccadilly Circus. She didn’t stay with relatives, she stayed in presidential suites and on yachts, and bunking down in the little cottage they had both grown up in seemed several levels beneath both her taste and price range. He’d tried to assuage her concerns and reassure her of the quality of hotels in Bath; after all, the city had hosted Roman emperors and kings for two thousand years; there were more than a few decent rooms in town with appropriately eye-watering price tags. ‘None good enough for me,’ his sister had insisted. ‘I’ll have to stay here.’ She’d scratched her face then and gazed at the floor. He had never seen his magnificent big sister look so tired and small. They still hadn’t discussed her marital split, and he didn’t plan on bringing it up any time soon.
‘You’d better stay here, then,’ he’d said, realising she wasn’t going to budge.
She’d done an odd thing then. She’d hugged him. He recalled her leather jacket crackling like crushed cellophane as she held him tight. She reeked of French perfume and money. She embraced him for almost a minute, saying nothing. She hadn’t hugged him – or perhaps anyone, from what he could gather – in a long time. It was all very strange.
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