“No, really. Thank you.” Geraldine studied the white tablecloth.
“Well, then, if you’ve all finished—” Muriel finished her tea with a gulp and pushed her chair back. “I suggest we get on about our work.”
Elizabeth eyed the pastry remaining on the tray, but rose obediently when Richard stood and placed a hand on the back of her chair to pull it out for her.
“Told Claire—the director here, you know—I’d do the lecture for the next batch of punters. The potted history their tour guides here produce is all very well, but bit of a treat for them to get a real scholar’s view, don’t you know. Wouldn’t want to say no, and I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“No, of course not. We’re delighted,” Richard said. “We haven’t done the tour of the centre yet. We’d be most honoured to have you guide us.”
“Absolutely.” Elizabeth realized her smile was forced, but really, what possible objection could there be to having an expert as a personal guide?
Chapter 2
“JANE SET TWO NOVELS in Bath, and they are altogether very different novels. Northanger Abbey, the first of her novels completed for publication, was written after Jane had visited Bath, but not lived here. Catherine Morland tasted the pleasures of Bath and loved it.” Dr. Greystone held up a copy of the book to the roomful of visitors.
Richard nodded. He had made the same point to his students when teaching Jane’s youthful novel satirizing the popular Gothic novels of her time. He recalled Catherine’s warm response when Henry Tilney quizzed her on the difference between country life and life in Bath: “Those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country . . .” His memory faltered—something about the sameness of life in her home and the great variety in Bath. “. . . a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there.” And then the famous line, “Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?”
“Persuasion,” Dr. Greystone continued, “Jane’s last completed novel, was written after Jane had actually lived here. You get a very different view of the city indeed.”
Again, Richard gave a small, knowing nod, and recalled Jane’s comparison of Anne Elliot’s reactions to those of Mrs. Russell as they entered Bath on a wet afternoon in the lady’s carriage: Lady Russell made no complaint at the dash of other carriages, the heavy rumble of carts and drays, the bawling of newspapermen, muffin-men and milkmen, and the ceaseless clink of pattens.
Anne, however, did not share her friend’s complacency. “She persisted in a very determined, though very silent disinclination for Bath; caught the first dim view of the extensive buildings, smoking in rain, without any wish of seeing them better; felt their progress through the streets to be, however disagreeable, yet too rapid; for who would be glad to see her when she arrived? And looked back, with fond regret” to the seclusion of her former home. Perhaps an autobiographical moment for the author? Richard mused.
But he was brought back to the present as their lecturer strode across the front of the room to thwack a chart of the Austen family with her pointer.
Richard noted that most of the tourists around him were taking notes as assiduously as if this were a college lecture they were to be examined on. He supposed he should be doing so as well, although most of the information was familiar to him. Elizabeth appeared blissfully relaxed and seemed to be letting the information flow around her. That was fine—for her, this was a holiday. He was the one required to produce a learned paper at the end of his sabbatical.
What if nothing caught fire in his mind? How humiliating it would be to return home at the end of the summer and face his committee and new department head empty-handed. Dutifully, he drew a notepad from his briefcase and began jotting notes without enthusiasm.
Dr. Greystone thumped the silhouettes of the Reverend George Austen and his wife Cassandra heading the family chart. “Jane’s family was located socially and economically on the lower fringes of the English gentry. Jane’s father was rector of St. Nicholas Church in the village of Steventon in Hampshire from 1765 until 1801.
“Her mother was a member of the prominent Leigh family.” The lecturer pointed to the rather beaky silhouette of Jane’s mother. “Cassandra was proud of her aristocratic nose, but we don’t know whether or not she passed this feature on to her daughter. Jane was noted, however, for having very fine eyes, a feature she shared with her most famous heroine, Elizabeth Bennet.
“Apparently, however, at least some of Jane’s writing talent came from her mother, since Cassandra was known to write comic verse and to record her recipes in rhyme.”
Ah. Richard drew an arrow beside that note. What if he could uncover some of Cassandra’s rhyming recipes? Was it possible that some had been handed down in the family and left unexploited all these years? That was the trouble with Austen research—everything had been done. Done to death, one would think. Still, new books were published every year. Surely he could find something to justify a paper in an obscure journal.
Muriel went on through the genealogical chart, expounding on each of Jane’s siblings: James, the oldest, a clergyman who succeeded his father at Steventon; George, who was reared by neighbors because of some abnormality in his mental or physical development; Edward, who was adopted by the wealthy, childless Knight family and who provided Jane, her mother, and sister a home on his estate at Chawton after their father’s death; Henry, Jane’s favorite brother who had careers as a banker and a clergyman and served as Jane’s literary agent; Cassandra, Jane’s beloved sister and faithful correspondent; Francis, Jane’s naval brother who rose to the rank of admiral; and Charles, a rear admiral in the Royal Navy.
As Dr. Greystone went on to talk about Jane’s time living in Bath, Richard looked back over his notes. Hmm. Perhaps he could do a biographical work on one of Jane’s brothers. Perhaps Francis and Charles, who probably served as models for Captain Harville and William Price in Jane’s novels? Even Captain Wentworth, surely. That really could be interesting, he assured himself. But he wasn’t convinced.
Or the letters Cassandra was said to have burned after Jane’s death. Now that would be a find to rock the literary world. Surely the devoted sister had burned the letters containing the juicy tidbits everyone really wanted to know—the truth about Jane’s supposed romances. But what if Cassandra hadn’t burned them and they were moldering away in a small wooden chest in an attic somewhere, tied with a faded blue ribbon? Richard gave himself a shake. Goodness, and he accused Elizabeth of having an overheated imagination.
“You need to understand,” Muriel thrust a finger toward a map on the wall, “that in Bath, the higher the elevation of your property, the higher your social standing. When Jane visited Bath, she stayed with her mother and brother Edward in fashionable Queen Square, and one of her uncles lived in the Royal Crescent.” She pointed to the top of the map. “It’s little wonder Jane had pleasant memories of Bath to transfer to Catherine Morland.
“In 1801, however, Jane’s parents announced to their daughter that Reverend Austen was retiring and they would be leaving Steventon Rectory, where Jane had been born and lived all her life. They were removing forthwith to Bath. They had been married in Bath and had always loved it, and undoubtedly thought this delightful news.
“It was such a shock to Jane, however, that she fainted. Still, their younger daughter’s reaction had no bearing on the senior Austens’ plans. All their household goods were to be sold, including Jane’s beloved piano.”
Richard made a note on the margin of his pad: piano sale—reflected in Frank Churchill’s gift to Jane Fairfax? Perhaps autobiographical moments in the novels might be an unexplored area he could research. Intriguing. Or would it be too speculative?
With a shake of his head, he returned his attention to the lecture and followed the trail on the map. “The Austens settled into No. 4 Sydney Place. A very nice residence, just a step from the lovely Sydney Gardens. Jane was undoubtedly absorbing background which would
be used later in her novels, but she did almost no writing—evidence of her unhappiness with life in Bath, or simply of how busy her life was? All we know for certain is that she began and then abandoned a new novel, The Watsons.
“George Austen died suddenly in 1805. The Sydney Place residence was too expensive for the widow and her two daughters, so they moved down the hill to No. 25 Gay Street—just up the street a bit from where you are now sitting. When their circumstances became even more reduced, they were obliged to move to Trim Street, which Mrs. Austen had said earlier that she would ‘do everything in her power to avoid.’ Having fallen prey to her fearful presentiment must have, indeed, been a trial to Mrs. Austen’s nerves, which undoubtedly served as a model for Mrs. Bennet’s unhappy agitations, although Mrs. Austen herself was fortunately more sensible.
“They then spent a time living in Francis’ home with his new wife in Southampton—surely a noisy, crowded arrangement after the first of his eleven children arrived. Then early in 1809, Jane’s brother Edward offered his mother and sisters a more settled life—the use of a large cottage on his estate in the village of Chawton, not far from Steventon, the site of Jane’s happy childhood. And so Jane returned to the quiet country life that suited her so well. And she returned to Bath only in her books.” Richard felt that a more fanciful lecturer than Muriel Greystone might have ventured to suggest that Jane’s spirit lingered on here yet, but he needn’t have worried about anything so capricious from that redoubtable academic.
It was clear, though, that Elizabeth was entirely captured by the Regency ambiance the centre had created. As they moved through the rooms, viewing the clips from the many movies made of Jane Austen’s novels—with Elizabeth expressing her displeasure at directors who took such liberties as inserting kisses which Jane never wrote; observing the period costumes on display—Elizabeth’s favorite was the tea gown with a pink satin Spencer and reticule; and various rooms decorated in the Regency style—a card table for the gentlemen, a tea table for the ladies, all accompanied with appropriate quotations from Jane’s work, Richard smiled and nodded at each of his wife’s comments and exclamations over how charming it was.
But he was feeling an increasing restlessness. Elizabeth paused before a poster demonstrating “The Language of the Fan,” showing a young Regency woman holding her fan in various positions to communicate such messages as: “I wish to be acquainted,” “Follow me,” or “Do not forget me.” Richard stepped on down the hall.
“There you are. I wondered where you’d got to.” Muriel Greystone’s brusque, reproving tones took Richard so by surprise that he turned abruptly and knocked against a narrow shelf on the wall. “Enjoying the exhibit, are you?”
“Er—yes. Certainly. Very, um, evocative.”
“I notice Elizabeth seems enthralled. Quite a treat to get to the living scenes after all those years in that college, what?”
Somehow she made it sound as if their time at a small, but quite lovely college nestled at the foot of the Rocky Mountains with spreading green lawns under clear blue skies had been a prison sentence.
Muriel moved on and Richard stooped to pick up the book he had knocked from the shelf. He held it carefully, hoping he hadn’t damaged the antique volume. Unlike so many things in the centre’s displays, this wasn’t a reproduction, but rather an actual rare book. Remarkable that it had been simply sitting out there in the open on a shelf where an unsuspecting awkward visitor could knock it from its perch.
Richard examined it more closely. The Watsons by Jane Austen, “Continued and Completed by Edith (her great-grandniece) and Francis Brown in accordance with her intentions,” it proclaimed. The volume was published in London by Elkin, Mathews and Harrot. Richard reluctantly returned the volume to its perch; he longed to read it.
There were many theories as to why Jane had abandoned the novel after writing only five chapters: Perhaps because of her father’s death; perhaps because of her discouragement when the publisher who had purchased an early version of Northanger Abbey for a nominal sum failed to publish it; or perhaps, as her nephew James suggested, because Jane realized she had placed her characters “too low” on the financial and social scale.
Many continuations and completions had found their way into print over the years. Long ago, Richard had read John Coates’ completion. He still remembered laughing out loud at some of the humor—something one seldom did at Jane’s sub-subliminal wit. He would enjoy reading another, especially this one, if it actually had been written in accordance with Jane’s wishes.
But how would the great-grandniece know? Stories handed down in the family? Something Jane revealed in a letter to Cassandra? Surely Jane hadn’t made notes or written an outline herself—he was quite certain there was no evidence of her working this way. Was it possible Jane had actually written more than the 18,000 words acknowledged to be hers and that the manuscript pages had become separated and lost during the Austens’ many moves?
“Ready to move along, are you?” Richard was certain from Muriel’s tone that an affirmative answer was the only acceptable thing. Actually, no answer was necessary. When Muriel Greystone spoke, one obeyed.
She led on to the shop well stocked with books, CD’s, DVD’s, Regency jewelry, tea cups, embroidered linen, sachets of English lavender . . . Richard stopped and turned back to the jewelry. He would choose something for Elizabeth, something to mark their second honeymoon. He smiled, pleased with himself for the thought. He was not given to romantic, impulsive gestures, but surely it was time for one. This would be just the thing.
He checked to see that Elizabeth was across the room, examining the various editions of Jane’s novels as pointed out by Dr. Greystone. He hoped the lecture would continue. He looked first at the reproduction of Jane’s own turquoise ring, lovely in its oval simplicity, with Jane Austen engraved inside. That would look lovely on Elizabeth’s long, slender finger.
But then his attention was caught by a topaz cross. A copy of the one Charles Austen gave to his sister, the sign said, and it undoubtedly served as Jane’s inspiration for the one William Price, serving in the Royal Navy like Charles Austen, gave to his sister Fanny in Mansfield Park. The cross was formed of five narrow oval topazes with a round white topaz in the center. It managed to be intricate and simple at the same time. Perfect.
He asked the Regency-costumed clerk to gift wrap it. A bright giggle made him turn his attention to the rare book section. Geraldine Hammersley pushed her exuberant hair out of her face and smiled at a young man who held a book out to her. The clerk returned with Richard’s credit card and the parcel, which he put in his pocket.
“Dr. Spenser.” Geraldine beckoned to him from across the shop. “I want you to meet Arthur Langton, who’s helping me with my research.”
Richard turned to a young man with thick blond hair, somewhat shorter than himself, wearing a tattersall plaid shirt over a turtleneck. “I’m pleased to meet you. So you’re researching Jane’s spiritual life as well?”
“My own subject is George Herbert, but I’m always glad to pick up a bit of extra work when I can. Are you on holiday or is this research for you?”
Richard frowned, wishing he could give a definitive answer. “I’m thinking about delving into The Watsons. I’d like to know more about Jane’s descendant’s claim to having followed her plan.”
Arthur started to reply, but stopped at the approach of a slim blond woman in a blue dress. “Claire.” His voice came out slightly strangled. Richard had the feeling his companion wanted to say more, if only he could get his tongue to cooperate.
“Hullo, Arthur.” She smiled. Her manner was entirely businesslike, but Arthur reddened as if she had batted her eyelashes at him. “I was wondering if you’ll have any spare time while you’re in Bath. We’ve had a rather large box of material donated to the centre and it needs going through.”
“Er—absolutely. Gladly. What is it?”
“Hard to say, exactly. Mostly papers and old books, documents.” Sh
e sighed. “Probably nothing of great importance, but one never knows. There could be hidden treasure. That’s why we need a scholar to pore over it. If you could spare some time. . . Er—I’m afraid we don’t have a budget for this.”
“No, no. I quite understand—”
“What’s this? Papers? Manuscripts? Charming!” Richard had failed to notice Muriel Greystone’s approach. “Pity Arty can’t help you. Already booked to help Gerri. Rather desperate situation, you know. Likely to lose her post if she doesn’t get her thesis finished.” Arthur stood rigid before the onslaught, but Geraldine faded away behind a display of books.
“Now Richard here,” she slapped him on the shoulder, “he’s your man. Have you met?”
When Claire and Richard both shook their heads, Muriel made up for the oversight. “I’m taking Elizabeth to the Fashion Museum tomorrow. I’m sure you’d be more interested in helping Claire sort out her donation, Richard.”
He wouldn’t, but Muriel Greystone was a force of nature. Richard smiled and nodded.
Chapter 3
ELIZABETH FINGERED THE TOPAZ cross at her throat, thinking how it was glowing in the soft lights of the Sally Lunn House, and smiled at Richard across the table. “It’s so lovely. And so thoughtful of you, Richard. I truly cherish it.”
He grinned back at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Lights from the street twinkled on the small square panes of the bow window at the front of the oldest house in Bath. The sign beside the door dated it c.1482 and declared that they served the most famous local delicacy—the Original Sally Lunn Bun, generically known as Bath Buns.
“I’m so glad we made our escape.” Elizabeth chuckled. “When Muriel announced that we were to meet them at that pub, I thought I’d choke at the way you stood up to her. And so quietly, too. I’m not sure she quite knew what hit her. I wonder if anyone has ever resisted her before.”
Richard shook his head. “Can you imagine being one of her students? Or worse yet, working for her? Poor Geraldine.”
A Jane Austen Encounter Page 2