by Tracy Kiely
Once at the table, Richard murmured something to Gail before turning his attention to Ian and Valerie. Valerie dove into her purse and quickly pulled out a handful of pictures, which she waved at Richard. From my vantage point, I could see they were of a boy about two or three years old. It wasn’t a Sherlockian leap to deduce that he must be “little Zee” who was so deserving of his grandfather’s money.
“She is so obvious,” said Izzy with a snort of derision. “She trots out either the boy or his pictures any chance she gets. I swear to God she uses that son of hers as a meal ticket.”
“Izzy, would you please lower your voice?” Cora begged.
Ian stood up and fumblingly shook his father’s hand before Valerie shoved the pictures at him. While Alex stood awkwardly at his side with a painted smile on her face, Richard thumbed through the pictures. Whatever you thought about Valerie’s motives and tactics, they seemed to be successful, for a fond smile now played on Richard’s lips.
Snippets of Valerie’s comments floated our way. “So much like you—so clever!” “Can’t wait to see you again.” “Talks about you so much!” Beside me Izzy made gagging motions. I tended to agree.
Once the pictures had been properly studied and fawned over, Richard handed them back to Valerie, who then prodded Ian. Ian coughed and muttered something about “getting together later to discuss a few things.”
Richard gave him a jocular slap on the back. I heard “busy week” and “see what I can do.” Even from where I sat, I could tell that Ian had just been blown off. Valerie’s face pinched in anger. Richard and Alex then said their good-byes and headed for their own table, seemingly oblivious of the emotions they’d created.
The instant they left, Valerie turned in her seat to berate Ian for his lack of success. Ian tried to defend himself, but after a few interrupted attempts he fell quiet, his head bowed low.
Throughout it all Gail sat quietly, her face serene and calm. I was just thinking that I would never be able to remain so cool and collected around Richard and Valerie—and they weren’t even my family—when I noticed Gail covertly reach into her purse. I saw a flash of a pill bottle, and a second later, Gail popped something into her mouth and took a quick sip of water. She briefly closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.
I revised my earlier opinion of Gail. She was no Jane Bennet. She was a self-medicator.
CHAPTER 8
My black cap was openly admired by Mrs. Lefroy, and secretly I imagine by everybody else in the room.
—LETTERS OF JANE AUSTEN
“YOU LOOK VERY PRETTY, LIZZY,” Aunt Winnie said to me the next morning, as I put the finishing touches on my appearance.
I grinned at her from underneath my straw bonnet and coquettishly flicked the skirt of my white muslin dress. “Thank you,” I replied. I was about to compliment her on her frock—a feathery print of pale blue and ivory—when she added, “But pull your shoulders back, dear! A man could go a long way without seeing a figure like yours, if you could only make the most of it!”
“Like you, I suppose,” I said with a laugh, as I stared pointedly at her chest. Like me, she was wearing a dress of thin muslin that was cinched up high, just under the breasts. Underneath, she wore a linen chemise. However, unlike me, Aunt Winnie had chosen to dampen hers down. It was a popular trend among the Regency’s more daring women who were aping the natural look made popular in France during the revolution. It was, I suppose, an early form of the wet T-shirt.
Aunt Winnie’s lips curved into an innocent smile. “You know me, dear. I’m a stickler for accuracy.”
“Uh-huh,” I replied, my gaze straying from her dress to the large assortment of cosmetics on her dressing table.
“Women in the Regency used makeup!” she protested defensively.
“True,” I agreed, “but did they wear colored contacts?”
She shrugged her shoulders apologetically, the small movement emphasizing the “naturalness” of her costume. “It was a struggle between propriety and vanity, but vanity got the better,” she admitted.
“As it usually does,” I said in agreement, as I added a touch more eyeliner to my own face.
* * *
WE LEFT THE HOTEL and headed to the Pump Room, the meeting point for the start of the promenade. From there, we would stroll through the streets of Bath until finally ending in the Queen’s Square. The day promised to be a good one; the sun was shining and there was a crispness in the air. Arriving at the Pump Room and seeing so many Janeites all done up in their Regency finery gave me a quirky little thrill. It was akin to being at a giant amusement park for Austen fans.
In spite of the large crowd, we located Izzy and Cora with little difficulty. Like Aunt Winnie, Izzy had opted for the authentic look and had wet down her chemise within a millimeter of decency. And, just so it’s clear, that millimeter was on the south side of the line of decency.
“Oh, you look marvelous!” cried Izzy upon seeing me. “You were simply made for these fashions!” Linking her arm through mine, she said, “I fear I shall make a shabby shadow to you today.”
I was about to contradict the sentiment, when Cora called out behind me, “Mr. Baines! Ian! There you are! I was hoping to find you this morning!”
Turning, I saw both Ian and Valerie. Valerie wore an ivory promenade gown with matching Spencer coat. Unfortunately, the color did nothing for her pale complexion and only served to suggest that she suffered from a severe case of iron deficiency. Ian, however, looked very dashing in a reproduction of the red regimentals that Wickham and Denny wore; the cut flattered his build and somehow made him appear taller. Beside me, Izzy extended a gloved hand to him and with a mischievous smile said, “My goodness! How handsome you look today, Ian. I hope you don’t think me forward, but I must admit I am quite partial to a man in regimentals!”
Ian’s cheeks turned crimson, clearly flattered by her words. He accepted her hand and bowed low over it. Valerie watched the interaction between them, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I hear that you are to be congratulated on your recent engagement, Izzy,” she said pointedly.
Izzy aimed a dazzling smile her way. “Why, thank you, Valerie. You heard correctly. I am engaged.” Shooting Ian a teasing gaze of longing, she added with a dramatic sigh, “With all the really lovely men already taken, I had to either lower my expectations or end up a lonely spinster.”
Ian’s response at hearing this was a comical mixture of stuttering and blushes. Valerie’s glower deepened. “Really?” she said. “I thought to be a spinster, one also had to be a—”
Happily, Valerie’s catty response was drowned out by the arrival of Richard and Alex. He was wearing a long gray linen coat with a blue vest and black top hat. She was wearing a white striped gown with a pumpkin-colored Spencer coat and matching bonnet. I thought they made a striking couple until it dawned on me that they were wearing exact replicas of the outfits that Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth wore on the walk during Mr. Darcy’s second proposal. I did not like it. Not one little bit. It wasn’t so much that it seemed to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, or even a most country-town indifference to decorum. To be honest, it just smacked of sacrilege. And besides, Mr. Darcy would never smoke. To see Richard happily puffing away while wearing the Darcy garb vexed me greatly.
Byron was with them, but I hadn’t noticed him at first. Now that I did, I saw that he wore a fitted blue coat with a white cravat and snug cream britches. And I mean snug. I quickly looked away before I could be accused of staring. Between the cut of those pants and the habit of dampening one’s chemise, Regency fashion wasn’t nearly as chaste as I’d once imagined.
Richard greeted us all in the manner of a gracious lord who has come upon sightseers on his land. “Why, we meet again!” he called out to Aunt Winnie and me, his previous annoyance at us seemingly forgotten or forgiven. Cora glared at him, her straw bonnet practically vibrating with anger. If Richard noticed, and I suspect he did, he didn’t let on.
�
��I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Alex,” Richard said, with a courtly gesture in her direction. “Or my associate, Byron Chambers.”
Introductions were made, and Byron said to me, “I believe I saw you in London. At Claridge’s?”
“Yes, that’s right. At tea.”
“I never forget a face,” he said with a friendly smile. “I’m horrible with names, but not faces. But seeing how your name is Elizabeth, I think I can manage to remember that, given our surroundings.” Izzy shot me a knowing expression and mouthed, “I told you.” I ignored her.
“Well, shall we begin?” asked Richard, as the town crier indicated the start of the promenade with a hearty bellow. I had just taken a few steps when I heard my name being shouted from several feet away. I did not immediately turn around because my first thought was that it was something to do with the festivities. However, I soon realized that I was indeed the intended “Elizabeth” being hailed.
With a sinking feeling, I turned and saw none other than John Ragget bearing down on me. Like the other men, he was wearing snug britches. It wasn’t a pretty sight. It wasn’t just that his legs were scrawny; rather, like Aunt Winnie and Izzy, John had opted to replicate another dressing habit of Regency times. In a manner not unlike Spinal Tap’s Derek Smalls and his infamous zucchini, John had knotted the long ends of his shirttails and stuffed them down the front of his pants.
“Elizabeth!” he called out again. “There you are! I thought we were going to meet this morning at the hotel and head out together.”
“You did?” I asked, stunned. “But I never…”
“No need to apologize,” he said with a magnanimous wave. “I am here now. No harm done.” Taking my arm, he said, “Now, you must be dying to know the history behind our little promenade…”
Byron caught my eye and gave me a sympathetic smile just before I briefly closed my eyes and sighed. I couldn’t very well yank my arm away without appearing rude. I would have to politely submit to John’s lecture with good humor. I would have to channel Elizabeth Bennet herself when stuck with a loquacious Mr. Collins. I would also have to have a large drink when this was done.
As we strolled along the glorious streets of Bath, I tried to focus on anything other than my blowhard guide. John didn’t really expect a response from me, as he was apparently content with the numbing buzz of his own voice, so it wasn’t too hard. I was pretending that I was Anne Elliot newly arrived in Bath and had just spied Captain Wentworth when I heard Ian, who was directly behind me with Valerie, say, “Yes, I know that the magazine needs money. But that’s not what’s worrying me…”
Next to me, John’s voice interrupted. “The first promenade set out from the Jane Austen Centre…”
“… surely, you’ve noticed a difference?” Ian said, his voice low and worried.
“Not really,” came Valerie’s indifferent reply. “She’s a bit quieter, I suppose, but that’s not a crime. What is a crime is not fighting for your family’s welfare. Ian, you promised you’d talk to him!”
“I was, of course, an integral part of it,” continued John.
“I said I would, and I will,” hissed Ian. “But right now, I’m worried about Mother and those damn pills!”
“I really don’t see the problem…,” Valerie said.
“In 2009, the promenade…,” said John.
“… if she seems happy,” finished Valerie.
“Happy?” cried Ian. “How can you say that? She’s practically catatonic!”
“… specifically asked me to lead the arrangement of…”
“Oh, Ian. Do be sensible. She’s a grown woman. She is not our concern. Our concern is—and should only be—with little Zee and his future.”
“… drummers, dancers, military and naval men!” John said with a flourish. “Shall I continue?”
“I’m all ears,” I said, quite honestly.
We continued along until we got to Queen’s Square. There we all gathered to have our picture taken, and I could finally let go of John’s arm without rudeness. However, it wasn’t without a price. I had to first promise him a dance later at the ball. I fear I did so with little grace. I only hoped that the dances weren’t historically accurate, otherwise I’d be forced to hear more of his incessant chatter for a full half hour.
After finding Aunt Winnie, we headed for the luncheon in the Guildhall’s Banqueting Room. I paused at the entrance to take in the impressive interior. Before me was an enormous room with spectacular plasterwork and gilding, Corinthian columns, magnificent chandeliers, and original royal portraits. I pulled out my camera and took several pictures. However, as my eyes were focused on the viewfinder, rather than where I was supposed to be walking, I crashed right into Byron.
“Oh! I am sorry!” I said. “I’m looking up instead of where I am going. I just can’t get over this room! It’s beautiful!”
“Don’t apologize,” he said. “It is an amazing room. I would tell you a bit of its history, but I imagine you’ve had your fill this morning of Bath trivia.”
I smiled. “That is true.”
Byron paused. A faint smile played on his lips, causing the laugh lines around his eyes to crinkle. “Mr. Ragget’s conversation is very … wholesome.”
“And there is so much of it to be had.” I laughed in agreement.
He paused. “Are you going to the ball tonight?”
“We are.”
“Perhaps then I could be so bold to ask for a dance? Maybe by then you might be up to hearing more about Bath,” he added with a smile.
“Sure, that would be nice. See you there,” I said, then headed over to Aunt Winnie and our table. As I settled into my chair, I said to her, “Dear God, but John Ragget can talk.”
“I thought you made a pretty pair,” said Aunt Winnie with a saccharine smile.
“Just because you’re wearing a bonnet doesn’t mean I’m not above slapping you around a bit,” I said. A waitress wearing cap and serving outfit came by and placed small plates of salad in front of us.
“Oh, come on now. It wasn’t so bad now, was it?”
“Only if you think Austen was serious when she said that ‘stupid men are the only ones worth knowing.’”
As Aunt Winnie bit into her salad, I saw Lindsay rush by and head for Richard, who was seated at the table next to us. Alex had just vacated it, and Lindsay apparently was determined to lose no time in chatting up her professor in private. She slid into Alex’s vacated seat, her face flushed. “I need to talk to you,” she said in a low voice.
“I’m rather busy right now,” replied Richard with cool indifference. “Perhaps we can talk later, after my lecture. I’ve set aside a substantial amount of time for questions and answers.”
Lindsay’s response to this went unheard by me, but whatever it was, it did not seem to please Richard. “I think you are being rather melodramatic,” he said. “I really don’t have time to indulge these schoolgirl antics.”
Lindsay gave a little gasp. “Schoolgirl antics!” she repeated indignantly. “This is serious. You have to listen to me…” But whatever knowledge she was about to impart was interrupted by the return of Alex and Byron to the table.
“I sent off that fax for you,” said Byron as he took his seat. “Hello, Lindsay,” he added politely.
“Hello, Byron,” she muttered, and ignoring Alex completely, she excused herself and left.
Alex resumed her seat. After watching Lindsay’s hurried retreating form, she turned to Richard with a knowing smile. “Dear, don’t tell me that you’ve conquered the heart of another one of your students? Really, you should cut the poor thing loose before she falls violently in love with you, and you are forced to break her heart.”
Richard gave a short laugh and shook his head. “You exaggerate, I’m sure. Lindsay is passionate about one thing only and that is Jane Austen.”
“Don’t be so modest, darling,” teased Alex. “It’s clear the girl has a crush on you—just like all your students. Just like me
, not so many years ago.” She pressed her hand on his arm and leaned in close. “But seriously, Richard, let the poor girl out of her misery, or I’ll have to do it for you.” Batting her eyes at him, she added, “Besides, you know how jealous I can get.”
Placing his hand over hers, he said, “Trust me, darling. You have nothing to worry about.”
I happened to glance at Byron as he said this. Byron observed Alex with an expression I couldn’t quite read, but if I was pressed, I’d have to say it was pity.
CHAPTER 9
My hair was at least tidy, which was all my ambition.
—LETTERS OF JANE AUSTEN
“NOW, LIZZY,” Aunt Winnie said to me some hours later as we readied ourselves for the ball, “I hope you’ll not keep Byron to yourself all night. I want to dance with him as well, you know.”
“I promise I shall not. Even if I wished to, I could not. I have to dance at least one with Mr. Ragget,” I replied.
“Oh, Lord, yes. He’s threatened to dance with us all.”
I sighed and put down my tube of mascara. “You know, this would be funnier if it weren’t for the fact that I’m the one dancing with the Official Tour Guide of Bath—which wouldn’t be so terrible in itself if it weren’t for the fact that nearly everything he says is incorrect.” I looked in the mirror and studied my handiwork. “Do you know that he actually told me that the Catholic church imports the waters of Bath for their Holy Communion water?”