by Tracy Kiely
“I think that you are forgetting that Mary’s not the heroine—Fanny is. Mary’s words were meant not as a jab at the church but as evidence of her own selfish character,” I said. “Remember, in the end Mary is revealed to be a woman of indifferent morals.”
Professor Baines shook his head. “You are incorrect. That’s how she’s portrayed in the film adaptations, perhaps, but not in the book. You just have to know where and how to look for it. You are like so many of my younger students. You rely only on Hollywood’s interpretation of Austen’s works to form your opinion.”
“I don’t, actually,” I said, not knowing whether to laugh or scream. “I’ve read each of her novels many times over—Mansfield Park included. And I’m sorry, but I don’t see any evidence to support what you are saying.”
“Well, it takes a special kind of reader to see the clues,” he said.
“‘There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil, a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome,’” Aunt Winnie quoted rather pointedly.
Professor Baines arched his eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that mine is a propensity to hate everybody?”
“No, of course not,” Aunt Winnie answered with a saccharine smile. “Only to willfully misunderstand.”
The flight attendant finally arrived with the champagne. After dispensing the glasses, she returned to the kitchen area. Professor Baines regarded the pale bubbles in his flute suspiciously before lifting it in a kind of salute. “Although we may disagree on Austen’s intended message,” he said, “we can at least agree that we enjoy her work.”
Aunt Winnie lifted her glass in turn and tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Agreed.”
Professor Baines’s aristocratic nose wrinkled as he brought the glass to his mouth, but then with a what-the-hell smile, he gamely took a large sip. Lindsay was less daring. Her face pulled into an expression of indecision; she reluctantly took a teensy sip before quickly setting the glass back down on her tray table. Professor Baines patted her hand with understanding. “I grant you that it is not a tête de cuvée, but we must make do,” he said sympathetically.
Catching Aunt Winnie’s eye, I indicated my glass. “It is tolerable, but not bubbly enough to tempt me,” I whispered.
She grinned. “Good God, man! I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom!” Then, to prove her point, she downed half the glass.
I took another sip without complaint. But then it was rare that I was in such poor humor as to not give consequence to free champagne slighted by pompous pseudointellectuals. Putting my glass down on the tray, I picked up the latest issue of SkyMall with feigned interest. I hoped that my apparent fascination with lawn-aerating shoes would deter Professor Baines from continuing the conversation, but he persisted in trying to prove his point. “You have to understand that the general opinion of Austen is incorrect,” he said.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Really?
“‘Where an opinion is general, it is usually correct,’” countered Aunt Winnie.
Professor Baines ignored her and kept talking. “I think that much of the conventional wisdom regarding Austen’s work comes from our perception of her chaste, quiet life. Had she been a different kind of woman, her works might be viewed differently. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Not necessarily,” I answered, reluctantly putting down the magazine. “Take Hemingway, for instance. He was a bullying, alcoholic misogynist, but knowing that doesn’t change his Nick Adams stories and their theme of redemption through dignity in deeds.”
Professor Baines shot me an indulgent smile as if I were a petulant child. “That’s different, of course, because Hemmingway was a man. Hopefully, you’ll figure that out when you’re a little older.”
Okay, now he had gone too far. Because he was a man? He was officially in the boat with Fredo. Aunt Winnie put a restraining hand on my wrist. I paused and put my shoe back on.
Professor Baines continued on, unaware. “That’s why I’m so excited to deliver my latest paper. Finally, I will provide the proof that Jane Austen wasn’t merely writing clever little romances. After much research and by breaking the codes apparent both in her letters and works, I believe that I have finally discerned something truly shocking, something that the literary establishment doesn’t want you to know.” His voice dropped ominously. “In fact, what I’ve discovered is nothing short of a bombshell.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt it is,” Aunt Winnie replied, lowering her voice in turn. “But don’t tell me. Let me guess.” She leaned forward, her face serious. “You’ve discovered that Edward Ferris rather ‘enjoyed’ the company of horses, haven’t you?”
While I attempted to mop up the champagne I’d spit all over my chin and sweater, Professor Baines’s mouth twisted in annoyance. Despite his obvious irritation, however, he was determined to go on and impress us with his discovery. “I have uncovered proof—although coded proof—that Jane Austen did not die from Addison’s disease or tuberculosis.” Pausing dramatically, he said, “Jane Austen died as the result of syphilis.”
After making this preposterous proclamation, he leaned back in his seat, clearly pleased with himself and his so-called discovery. I’m not sure what effect he expected this “bombshell” to have on us, but I doubted it was the one he got. After a brief moment of stunned silence, I began to giggle. Then Aunt Winnie joined in. Then we couldn’t seem to stop. It was like when you’re in church and you know you shouldn’t laugh but that somehow makes it all the funnier. Soon tears were streaming down my face, and Aunt Winnie was snorting inelegantly and muttering, “Capital! Capital!”
“This is no laughing matter!” Professor Baines exclaimed angrily. Next to him, Lindsay glared indignantly at us on his behalf.
“I’m sorry, but what you are proposing is ludicrous!” Aunt Winnie finally said when she got her breath. “Honestly, I don’t know how you think that’s even remotely possible. But, Rich”—Professor Baines winced—“I can tell you this, if you plan on presenting that paper during the festival, you are going to find yourself on the wrong side of an angry crowd.”
“The uninformed masses do not frighten me,” he replied coolly. His earlier spirit of magnanimous condescension had vanished. His eyes had sharpened while we were giggling until his pupils were tiny black dots anchored in icy blue pools. It would seem that Professor Baines did not like having his “shocking discovery” so openly mocked, especially in front of one of his adoring students. And he really didn’t like being called “Rich.”
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” he said stiffly. “I can see now that your mind is closed to that which you do not wish to see. I will trouble you no more.” With that he turned his back to us and resumed his lecture to Lindsay.
Aunt Winnie shook her head and wiped the moisture from her eyes. “I’ll tell you this much,” she said to me in a low voice, “if he gives that paper at the festival, he’ll be drawn and quartered.”
“Which is, I believe, what happened to Mrs. Tilney,” I whispered back.
For the next hour Aunt Winnie and I tried to outdo each other with outrageous perversions of Austen’s novels. I thought I had her with my “discovery” that Louisa Musgrove didn’t jump down the stairs but was pushed by Anne Elliot, until she topped me with her revelation that Jane’s cold at Netherfield was actually the clap.
After a while we both fell asleep, neither of us giving any more thought to Professor Baines and his fate once he presented his thesis. Of course, we knew that whatever it was, he wouldn’t be drawn and quartered—even though, as Jane herself might opine, his name was Richard. No one was going to do that in this day and age.
CHAPTER 2
I must endeavor to subdue my mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve.
—PERSUASION
THE NEXT MORNING my eyes were bleary, my neck was stiff, and I had a nasty taste in my mouth. But I didn’t care. I was in London! Well, on a plane, on the tar
mac, at London’s Heathrow Airport, but that still was—in the lingo of a true Anglophile—a brilliant way to start my day.
As we departed the plane and made our way to the baggage area, we passed through an area that looked identical to the opening and ending scenes in Love Actually. I stupidly found myself looking for Hugh Grant, Emma Thompson, and, God grant me, Alan Rickman. Some dreams never die.
After we retrieved our luggage from the carousel, I headed for the ladies’ room to freshen up. Just because I wasn’t going to let the nasty taste in my mouth ruin my morning, that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to do anything about it. I had just retrieved my travel toothbrush from my purse when Lindsay exited one of the stalls, looking pale and wan. She headed for the sink, where she turned on the taps and began splashing water on her face. Once done, she looked up and saw my reflection in the mirror. Meeting my eyes, she dipped her head slightly in acknowledgment, and I gathered she was still upset at the less than serious consideration with which Aunt Winnie and I had received Professor Baines’s important “bombshell.” However, in spite of her lack of enthusiasm at seeing me, I could see that she wasn’t feeling well. I took a tentative step toward her. “Are you okay?” I asked.
Grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser, she patted her face dry. “I’m fine, thanks. I guess I’m not the best flyer,” she said quietly.
Suddenly feeling guilty at my giggly reaction, I said, “I’m sorry if we were rude last night. I…” There, unfortunately, I stopped. I couldn’t think of anything else to say, other than, “But really, the idea that Jane Austen died of syphilis is the most absurd thing I’ve heard in a long time.” And as that hardly seemed apologetic or helpful, I closed my mouth.
Lindsay shook her head. “It’s all right. Ric … Professor Baines is used to people dismissing him and his ideas. But he is making a name for himself through his discoveries.”
Of that, I was quite sure. However, I suspected the name that immediately sprang to my mind—wanker—was far different from the one imagined by Lindsay. I hoped I managed to keep my face neutral, although it wasn’t a particularly high hope. Facial neutrality is not a trait that I’m known for, especially first thing in the morning. Fortunately, Lindsay wasn’t watching me. She rested her hands on the edge of the sink and closed her eyes.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked.
She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and shook her head. Staring at her ashy reflection in the mirror, she said, “No, I’ll be fine. Too much champagne, I guess. I just need to eat something, that’s all.” She moved away from the sink toward the exit. At the doorway, however, she turned back to me and said, “But you and your aunt should really reconsider Professor Baines’s discoveries. They’re all backed up in the books. You just have to know how to look for them.”
I had been rude enough already, so I merely nodded and said, “Okay. I hope you feel better.”
After I brushed my teeth, I found Aunt Winnie, and we grabbed a much needed cup of coffee and headed for customs. I knew it would be more fitting to get a cup of tea, but I needed the jolt of caffeine that only coffee can promise. Once through customs, we ran into Lindsay and Professor Baines again as they headed for the exit. While she acknowledged my presence with a slight nod, Professor Baines did not. In fact, he practically pushed past me in his haste to move away from us. I was surprised at his rudeness until I saw the unlit cigarette in his hand and the steely determination in his eyes as he closed the gap to the outside smoking area.
By the time Aunt Winnie and I stepped out into the cold morning air in search of a taxi, Professor Baines was greedily sucking on the end of his cigarette, each breath seeming to calm him a little more. Lindsay stood next to him, her pale face etched in misery as she tried without success to avoid the smoky gray tendrils. When the cigarette was halfway gone, his equanimity was restored to such an extent that he was able to bestow a small smile in our direction.
Aunt Winnie and I waved back with equal affability, and then hailed a taxi—one of those iconic black beauties—and headed to London proper. Although our final destination was Bath, Aunt Winnie had insisted that we spend our first night in London. And she said that if we were to spend a night in London, then we simply had to stay at Claridge’s.
Before I knew it, our taxi was in Mayfair and pulling up to the famed hotel on Brook Street. Described by many as “the last word in London’s luxury hotels” and “Mayfair’s Art Deco Jewel” and by me simply as “awesome,” it was by any description stunning. From its relatively humble beginnings in a conventional London terraced house, it has grown both in size and reputation to its current status, that of an extension of Buckingham Palace. I was practically giddy. Pulling out the camera that my boyfriend, Peter, had given me before the trip, I snapped several pictures.
We were helped out of the taxi by a uniformed doorman complete with top hat and led into the Front Hall, a magnificently airy room of yellow walls, intricate white moldings, and gleaming floors of black-and-white marble. I snapped several more pictures.
As we moved to the reception desk, Aunt Winnie said, “I booked us for high tea this afternoon. It’s such a treat and I know you’ll love it.”
“I can think of no better way to end a day after exploring London,” I said.
“I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm, but I didn’t know how jet-lagged you’d be. But the best thing to do is just keep going and get on local time. I thought we could check in, change our clothes, and then do a little sightseeing and shopping. After all, Bond Street is just a few feet away. Tea is at four, which should allow us plenty of time to explore the city. What do you say?”
“I say that I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed,” I replied with a grin.
Although it was my first time to London, it wasn’t Aunt Winnie’s. In fact, she’s been around the world several times. When she was younger, she landed a job as an investor—a vocation for which she apparently has quite a talent. The result was that she made a lot of people, including herself, very wealthy. Several years ago, she retired from all that and bought a house on Cape Cod. She turned it into a B and B—despite having absolutely no experience in hotel management. But just like most things she did, she did it well. The Inn at Longbourn was a huge success, though it did have a rocky start when one of the guests was murdered. But once that was cleared up, with some assistance from yours truly, business picked up. In fact, business was so good that she and her current boyfriend, Randy, recently purchased another property. This one was on Nantucket, and it too was to be converted into a B and B. Like its predecessor, it was to have an Austen theme. Each room is going to be decorated in a manner consistent with one of Austen’s novels. Aunt Winnie plans on calling it Aust-Inn-Tatious.
Now that we were finally in London, we immediately made our way to one of the city’s most treasured sites: Jane Austen’s portrait in the National Portrait Gallery. The unfinished pencil and watercolor sketch was undertaken in 1810 by her sister Cassandra, and it is the only known authenticated likeness of her.
The painting is roughly the size of a playing card, and to set your eyes upon it is simultaneously exciting and disappointing. As a Janeite, to behold an image of her is, of course, wonderful, but sadly, it’s not how most fans picture their beloved author. While Cassandra was considered an accomplished artist, the picture is not a flattering one. Jane, who would have been about thirty-five in the sketch, appears dowdy and has an almost pinched, unanimated expression. It’s hard to find the woman whom her nephew, James-Edward, recalled as being “very attractive; a clear brunette with a rich colour; round cheeks, with … well-formed bright hazel eyes, and brown hair forming natural curls close round her face.” Although her niece, Anna Lefroy, claimed it was an unrealistic depiction, going so far as to call it “hideously unlike” her aunt, most scholars agree that the picture is accurate.
We stared reverently at it for several minutes and then rushed through the rest of the museum catching vari
ous highlights. We visited the portrait of King Richard III, the villainous ruler who supposedly imprisoned and killed his nephews in the dreaded Tower of London but whom Aunt Winnie and I think was actually framed by Henry VII. After that we headed over to see Holbein’s portrait of Henry VIII, Chandos’s portrait of William Shakespeare, and Patrick Brontë’s painting of his sisters Charlotte, Emily, and Anne. As for that last one, you didn’t need to be a student of the Brontës’ work to know they weren’t a cheerful bunch. That portrait alone makes it quite clear that a generous dose of antidepressants would have done that family wonders.
After the gallery, we walked through Trafalgar Square, taking pictures of ourselves by Nelson’s Column and the four lion statues that guard its base. Then we headed to Buckingham Palace to fight against three thousand other tourists to catch a glimpse of the famous guards. From there, we headed to Big Ben and Parliament, fought the crowds again to catch a glimpse of 10 Downing Street, and then took a taxi to Tower Bridge. Our last stop was Gracechurch Street, the home to Elizabeth Bennet’s Aunt and Uncle Gardiner.
I was close to being overcome with Anglophile fever, not to mention developing some new form of carpal tunnel syndrome from repeatedly snapping pictures.
However, it was getting late and we were both starting to fade, so we headed back to the hotel for tea. We had just crossed the lobby when a voice with a distinctive Midwestern twang called out, “Winnie! Winnie Reynolds! Is that you?”
I turned toward the voice and saw a tall, slim woman who appeared to be in her early sixties. She had frizzy brown hair, cut into an odd triangular bob, and a round smiling face. Aunt Winnie peered at her for a moment and then said, “Cora? Is that really you?”
Cora eagerly nodded and hurried over to us, her sensible shoes making nary a sound on the marble floor. “My goodness, you haven’t changed a bit!” Cora gushed to Aunt Winnie, once she was standing next to us.