Confessions of a Jane Austen Addict (11 page)

Nineteen

I t’s betrayal, I realize. That blindsided, gut-punched feeling I had when I saw Frank with Amy. The double whammy of it when I learned that Wes knew all along and lied for Frank.

I get that what I saw in my mind at Edgeworth’s was Jane’s memory, not mine. What I don’t get is why I’m feeling Jane’s feelings. Or are they my feelings?

What difference does it make? The truth is that Edgeworth is not a man to be trusted, and the truth is that finding him attractive should have been my first clue. Haven’t I always been attracted to men who can’t even refrain from flirting with other women at my birthday parties? Don’t I possess a finely tuned radar that picks out the worst of the gender in a mob of thousands and finds him irresistible? Why would I think a change of era, body, or even brain would make a difference?

I lie down in bed, my body leaden. I want something to take my mind off everything. So, I creep down to the drawing room and find Pride and Prejudice, and I open the first volume to page one. Ah, yes. This is just what I need. This is my drug of choice.

When Mary comes by the next morning, I am puffy-eyed and stupid from lack of sleep but happy to see her. Here is someone on whose judgment and honesty I can depend.

Today Mary is coachman-less, driving me herself in a little open carriage to the pretty spot where we first got acquainted. The weather, which is considerably grayer and cooler than our last outing, is perfect for this nineteenth-century version of a convertible, which is too slow for a breeze but also merciful to my hairstyle, which is already protected anyway with one of the horrible, de rigueur bonnets I’m forced to wear—it’s either that or battle with Mrs. M, and I’m learning to pick my battles.

As we settle ourselves and our dresses on a linen tablecloth Mary lays on the grass for that purpose, she says, “Do you forgive me, dear friend, for that horror of a dinner? You look pale today.”

“I’ll admit it wasn’t the best evening I ever spent, but that’s not your fault.”

Mary smiles. “You are very good. But my aunt Talbot—how tiresome she is with her talk of Charles as the rescuer of my uncle.”

“Oh?”

Mary brushes a leaf off her dress. “My uncle is in no more need of Charles’s services with his estate than my aunt is in need of a new gown. No, it is for quite another purpose that Charles’s presence is desired.”

She looks at me to gauge my reaction. I avert my eyes and focus on the pond.

“Have you not guessed it?”

“I guess not.”

“Well, my dear. She is determined to have him as a son-in-law.”

“What?”

“The ‘pressing matters of business’ of which my aunt spoke have been pressing for many years. The truth is, she is an expensive woman whose disdain for economy has all but ruined my uncle, and she hopes an alliance between Charles and Anne will set all to rights again.”

I need to stand up, move my legs. I can’t sit another moment and listen to her. Why should I care anyway? If Edgeworth wants to marry Anne, let him.

As I move to get up, Mary stays me with a light touch on my arm, her golden brown eyes wide with concern.

“I have not upset you, Jane?”

“Of course not.”

“Oh dear. He has no partiality for her. Anyone may see that his interests lie elsewhere.”

I stand up and stretch to hide the hot tears that spring into my eyes. What’s wrong with me?

“I couldn’t care less,” I say.

“I see your feelings have taken a turn. Very well, I shan’t attempt to hide mine. Jane, if you have finally opened your eyes to his character, then I am happy for you.”

Mary rises and puts her hand on my shoulder, but I move away.

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Let us walk for a while then and enjoy the silence.”

“Something I had precious little of last night.”

She laughs. “Jane, you are a wicked creature to torment me about that disaster of a party,” she says, linking her arm through mine. “My aunt gave us no hint of her intention to return our visit with such alacrity. Had I known, I should not have inflicted her company on you.”

We walk without speaking for some time, and the soft grass and waving breezes, the play of muted light on the ripples in the pond, and the twittering of birds do a lot to ease my agitation and clear my mind. Mrs. Talbot wants her nephew as a son-in-law? It’s one thing to read about Lady Catherine wanting her nephew Darcy as a son-in-law, and for her daughter Anne, no less; it’s another thing to encounter it in real life, or whatever this no-exit land is supposed to be.

“It’s so peaceful here,” I say when we return to our little spot on the grass.

“In a few days my own peace shall be restored by the departure of Charles and our guests for my uncle’s estate. And I have a notion to go to Bath; that is, if you would do me the honor of being my guest. Charles has engaged Mrs. Smith, who was my governess, to be my companion, thus providing me the means to go. It may not be the most fashionable watering place, and it will likely be rather thin this time of year, but compared to the retirement of the country I daresay there will be amusement enough to suit us both. More important, I am convinced Bath will do Mrs. Smith’s rheumatic complaints a world of good.”

Would I hesitate for a second to see the Bath of Catherine Morland, or even of Anne Eliot? Not to mention a chance to escape Mrs. Mansfield?

Mary interrupts my thoughts. “I can see from your face that the idea does not displease you. Oh, will you come, Jane?”

“Yes,” I say, hugging her and laughing. “Of course I will.”

Twenty

A s our carriage draws near the place I have visited only through Jane Austen novels, one of which has not even been written yet—must stop thinking about time the way I used to think of it—I glance at Mary, who has fallen asleep, her head on the shoulder of the dozing Mrs. Smith, a plain, motherly looking middle-aged woman who is not at all disabled like Mrs. Smith from Persuasion, despite all Mary’s talk of “rheumatic complaints.” It didn’t take much to get Mrs. M’s permission for my trip, especially because Mary is traveling with not only her big-brother–sanctioned companion, but also an additional carriage for our luggage, her personal maid, and a contingent of servants to make sure no harm comes to us on the journey. Besides, my so-called aunt, Mrs. Randolph, is due to arrive in Bath within a week of us, which, as Mrs. M put it, will ensure us “the most desirable chaperonage” to parties and balls.

The fact that Edgeworth would be nowhere near us did not seem to make a difference to Mrs. M. If he wasn’t in her neighborhood, her daughter was free to be gone as well.

I usually get stressed out when I leave town, which isn’t very often. The biggest stress factor is what to pack and how to fit all of it in my suitcases. But this trip involved none of those decisions. All I did was stand by on the day before my departure and watch while Barnes packed my trunks and Mrs. Mansfield told her what to put in them.

When the last trunk was filled and Mrs. M finally left my room, I noticed Barnes furrowing her brow more than usual.

“What is it, Barnes? Are you tired?”

“Oh no, miss. I was just thinking how this week is a week of good-byes, what with you off to Bath and my brother gone as well.”

“Your brother?”

“Ever since Mr. Dowling forbade him to wait at table, James was moping about and Mr. Dowling was this close to dismissing him. Anyway, James finally took matters into his own hands, and ’tis all for the best that he be as far away from Mansfield House as his legs can take him.”

She sighed again as she removed a perfectly folded shift from the trunk and refolded it.

“But how will he support himself?”

“James has long had an offer of employment from a boyhood friend who made his way as a draper, but he always found one reason or another not to take it.” She looked down at her shoes.

“I—I’m sure he will be very successful.”

“Thank you, miss.”

I sat down on the bed while Barnes fastened the trunks. I had only barely noticed James’s absence in the dining room; I’d been too caught up in my own situation to waste a moment wondering why. Oh, well, he was better off without someone who couldn’t even remember having had feelings for him. Besides, my life was complicated enough without adding to it a forbidden flirtation, let alone a serious relationship, with a servant. I guess I was becoming a class snob after all.

“Barnes, when you hear from your brother, would you tell him I’m sorry if I caused him any pain? I hope you know I never meant to hurt him.”

Barnes turned to me, her eyes full. “Dear miss. You are so good. God bless you.”

Now, as the carriage comes to a stop before a long row of eighteenth-century townhouses, I wonder about Barnes praising me for my goodness. If I’m such a good person, or if Jane is, for that matter, then why do we get our hearts bashed in by men like Frank, or Edgeworth?

Mary opens her eyes and smiles sleepily, and I remember how fortunate I am to be here in Bath, far from the restrictions of the country, far from the dangers of falling into a depression.

“Do you like it?” Mary asks as I ease my stiff legs out of the carriage and survey the expanse of elegant, honey-colored stone buildings, on one end of which are green trees fronted by a neoclassical sort of building, and on the other far end is a stone fountain. The sun is low in the sky, turning the buildings a pinkish gold. Across the street, carriages are letting out women in feathered turbans and men in tails and knee breeches. A door opens, and the couples glide past a footman in a powdered wig. I hear snatches of violin music and laughter. Following the sound, I glimpse glittering chandeliers through the upstairs windows.

“Are you joking? I can’t believe what I’m seeing.” And that’s no exaggeration; as if everything about my life here isn’t surreal enough, the scene across the street is so eerily familiar that I’m unsure as to whether I am having another one of Jane’s memories or if what I’m looking at is right out of a movie version of Northanger Abbey.

But whether this is a memory or not, and regardless of which life it’s from, I can’t deny that this place is all that I could wish for, short of going back to my real home. From the palatial elegance of the house belonging to Mary’s aunt, but which we have all to ourselves, to the bustling staff ready to cater to my every wish, from the inviting comfort of my room, which is actually more like a suite, to the absence of Mrs. Mansfield lurking about, I feel like I’m in heaven.

Being here with Mary also means having some distance from Edgeworth. Despite my telling myself that he’s only a temporary part of this borrowed life, I can’t deny that it’s just too dangerous to be around him. I can’t reconcile that disturbing image/memory of him and the auburn-haired woman with the effect he has on me in the here and now. I can’t trust myself to be cautious around him. That was clear when he came to Mansfield House to wish me a good journey.

His visit to me was no more than fifteen minutes, and with Mr. and Mrs. M close by the conversation was hardly intimate. Until right before he left, that is.

When Mrs. M said, “How we shall miss the young ladies, Mr. Edgeworth. I hardly know how I shall do without Jane,” I had to restrain myself from rolling my eyes.

And then Edgeworth said, “Perhaps only Shakespeare has words to express what it means to part with one’s friends.” And then, with a gentle look at me he said, “‘When you depart from me, sorrow abides, and happiness takes his leave.’” He returned his attention to Mrs. M with a smile. “Is that not so, Mrs. Mansfield?”

“You are fond of a play, are you not, Mr. Edgeworth?” said Mr. M.

“I believe Miss Mansfield is as fond of plays—and of poetry—as I.” Again, he glanced at me as if trying to say something with his eyes, before smiling at Mr. and Mrs. M and making his parting courtesies and compliments.

I don’t even know what I managed to mumble, if anything. I was so flustered by the time he left the house that I had to go off and walk for an hour just to calm my breathing and stop my palms from sweating.

As I lie in bed, attempting to mold my pillows into a more comfortable shape, I once again thank heaven that Jane Austen’s world has no phones, PDAs, or computers. This is the one time in my life that my happiness won’t depend on the leavings of my voicemail and email. As for snail mail, there’s little chance of that from Edgeworth. Thank goodness for archaic courting rituals. The farther away from him I am, the better.

No, I couldn’t ask for a better situation. Without Mrs. M to annoy me and Edgeworth to confuse me, I can focus on what’s important: getting back to where I’m supposed to be. And maybe even having some fun in the meantime.

Twenty-one

E veryone seems to be on vacation here in Bath. Come to think of it, life, not just Bath, appears to be one long vacation for just about everyone I’ve met; except for the servants, of course, who could definitely use a labor union. But even for women of the privileged classes, unmarried women, that is, life as a vacation is not exactly a refined concept. It’s like one of those vacations where you’ve fantasized about going somewhere like a Caribbean island or Paris or even Las Vegas, but instead you were guilt-tripped into spending your meager vacation time visiting your parents. The big difference here is that the so-called family vacation is a life sentence. There’s never any job or apartment of your own to go back to, just an endless basket of sewing and endless days with Mom in the drawing room.

No wonder the woman whose life I’m in was desperate for a new one. If her only possible career option, i.e., marriage, offered such perks as constant pregnancy and child-rearing, and submission to a philanderer, no less, who wouldn’t? Which is why being in a new city, with my new friend, and without the restrictions of Mrs. M, feels like my first true taste of freedom.

Bath, with its elegant buildings of stone that look white in some lights, golden or pink in others, is a charming concoction of meandering streets, pedestrian bridges, and pleasure gardens. After the isolation of the country, people watching is as fascinating a pastime for me as admiring the architecture and the shops. How could anyone not prefer the variety of Bath to the sameness of the country? I am beginning to doubt the biographer I read who claimed that Jane Austen hated Bath. How could anyone hate Bath? Laugh at it, yes. But hate it?

There is much to laugh at in Bath, like the curious, daily ritual of promenading in the Pump Room, which is the social nexus of Bath. The Pump Room has the self-important architecture of a Greek temple, although it’s directly next door to a massive Gothic cathedral. Everyone who’s anyone appears in the chandeliered Pump Room to walk the floor, hear the band playing from a little balcony, note who else is in town, and, even more important, observe what they’re wearing.

When we first arrived, there was the entering of our address in a big public book in the Pump Room, so that anyone we knew could find out where we were staying. There was the leaving of calling cards at the houses of the acquaintances of Mary’s who were listed in the book. Unfortunately, there also was the enduring of tedious visits with said acquaintances, mostly female, whose idea of scintillating conversation consists mostly of the weather, the lace they’re using to trim their gowns, and choice bits of gossip, such as the woman who danced five dances in a row with the same man when they weren’t even engaged. Stop the presses.

But the Pump Room does much more than ensure Bath tourists access to such companions; it also purports to dispense a mineral water with curative powers. At first I was curious about the water, which a sort of bartender dispenses to the faithful who belly up and take their daily glass or two with ritual solemnity. But after my first and only sip, I could see it would not be an acquired taste. In fact, I decided it would never again pass my lips unless there were a loaded gun to my head.

There are those for whom drinking the water isn’t enough, or perhaps the taste disgusts them as much as it disgusts me. In any case, they prefer to immerse themselves in the steamy baths that I can see from the Pump Room windows. So when one gets bored with watching the dry folks walk around the room, there’s always a view of sopping wet bathers downstairs in their clinging yellow bathing outfits.

When we tire of all things Pump Room, we stroll the wide lawns of the Crescent, with its curve of sparkling white buildings, or we meander through the streets of the town. That’s what I like most, just walking around and window shopping, making frequent stops in pastry shops for tea and sticky Bath buns with crunchy currants on top. There’s so much walking that I don’t even worry about the extra calories.

Of course, we can’t resist going inside other shops as well. As Mary put it best, it would be shocking if we were to leave Bath without having visited her favorite dressmaker in Milsom Street and running up a considerable bill. Spend it, girl. Besides, Mrs. M insisted I get myself a couple of new dresses, and Mr. M seconded that dictum with plenty of money. Not to mention we’ve been invited to a ball and want to look our best.

I find, however, that a visit to the dressmaker is not nearly as much fun as a visit to the pastry shop. Aside from the inevitable sameness of waistlines and hemlines, dress shopping in the early nineteenth century requires an imagination my twenty-first-century brain doesn’t possess. There is no such thing as fingering racks of finished garments, let alone trying on anything, not to mention the impossibility of walking out with a dress right then and there, the comforting heft of it wrapped in tissue in a trendy little shopping bag. Nevertheless, I surrendered to the dearth of immediate gratification and let Mary help me choose fabrics, colors, and patterns. I can see that this type of clothes shopping, which is really all about finding the right raw materials, imagining the end result, and having faith in the fashion sense of one’s shopping companions, would take some getting used to. At least I can be grateful for the fact that this borrowed body looks passable in an empire waist.

It is now our fourth full day here, and Mary decides that a dip in the hot baths is just what we need after our latest exhausting round of shopping and walks. The weather has cooled off, she points out, so the heat of the water will not be unpleasant.

“Besides, my dear,” she adds, “the waters are not only healthful for those with poor constitutions, they are quite beneficial for the complexion.”

“I am not about to float around in a fishbowl, with wet hair plastered against my face, for every bored soul in the Pump Room to see.”

“We shall go to the Cross Baths, my dear, and you shall see how delightful the waters are.”

How Mary can reach such a conclusion is beyond my comprehension. As we enter the sweltering pool in preposterous yellowish bathing attire that covers us from neck to ankle, my nostrils are assaulted by a potpourri of body odors rising from the boiling flesh around me. Spiced-orange pomanders, which sit in floating bowls tied on ribbons around our necks, lose the battle against the stench rising from the steaming water before it even begins.

But even the smell of this human soup is not as revolting as the sight of some of our fellow bathers. Just a few feet away from us, a stout woman grimaces as a younger female helps her unravel soiled bandages from her legs and then submerges those legs, open sores and all, into the water. Her companion isn’t in much better physical shape herself. She has a loud, phlegmy cough that she makes no attempt to shield from the breathing passages of anyone within ten yards. The proximity of this pair is enough to make me scramble out of the water and stand shuddering at the edge of the pool.

Mary looks up at me from the steaming water. “It is hot, to be sure. But do give it a few minutes. You will see how comfortable it becomes.”

I kneel down beside the edge and say in a low voice, “Didn’t you see those people behind you? No, don’t look yet.”

Mary turns her head in the direction of the two women, then back to me, her face as serene as before. “And…?”

“And if you don’t get out of that water you’re going to catch whatever horrible diseases they have!” I hiss.

“Foolish girl,” she whispers. “This place is a preserver of health. In fact, I cannot help but think that if only we had brought my poor mother here to take the waters, she might not have succumbed to her final seizure.”

Or succumbed sooner, I imagine. “I can’t think of anything less healthy than this place.”

Mary looks around her and then back at me, clearly not getting it. “Dear. They say the waters can cure a number of distempers. Perhaps it might help restore your memory?”

“I think I’d prefer amnesia—and some dry clothes.”

“Very well. But would you mind terribly if I spend a few minutes here and then meet you outside?” She glances over to Mrs. Smith, whose eyes are closed and who appears to be blissfully unaware of the filth she is floating in. Mary whispers, indicating her friend. “I will of course persuade Mrs. Smith to stay as long as she wishes.”

“For your own sake, and hers, I wish you wouldn’t.”

Mary waves me away, and as I hurriedly dress, I pray I haven’t exposed myself to something that only a future of overly prescribed antibiotics can cure.

No sooner do I get outside the building into the bracing freshness of a brisk but sunny day than I see a vaguely familiar figure crossing the street in my direction. The light is in my eyes so I can’t quite make him out. He moves a little out of the glare; it’s James, Barnes’s brother.

Our eyes meet, and he freezes in midstep, apparently uncertain as to whether he should approach. I pull myself together and make him a little nod of acknowledgment, and he hesitantly walks toward me, tipping his tall hat and straightening his coat. He is much more elegantly dressed than I imagine a typical servant in civvies would be. In fact, he looks just as gentlemanly as any so-called gentleman I’ve seen in Bath, and he’s much easier on the eyes than most.

He stands before me, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and barely meeting my eyes.

What am I supposed to say to him?

I force myself to smile. “James. What a nice surprise.”

He starts, “Do you mean that?” then turns red and bows. After a moment, he looks more in command of himself. “I trust you are well, miss?”

“What are you doing here in Bath? I thought you went off to work for a friend of yours.”

“True, miss. And the best piece of luck it was. The very first thing my new employer did was advance me enough money to buy these clothes.” He sheepishly fingers the edge of his jacket, as if he has no right to wear it. “And to make sure I put them to good use, he sent me off to Bath to see to a small matter of business for him.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you, miss. It is most kind of you to say so.”

He can hardly meet my eyes for more than two seconds at a time. Could it be possible that I had some sort of relationship with this guy?

“Must you be so formal? There’s no one watching, you know.”

“Forgive me”—and at this he dares to meet my eyes—“Jane.”

The intensity of his gaze makes me catch my breath. “Aren’t I the one who should be asking for forgiveness?”

He puts his gloved hand around mine and squeezes my fingers gently. His brown eyes search my face, which suddenly feels hot.

“Jane, I didn’t dare—I have so much to say. Will you meet me tomorrow? Outside the labyrinth in Sydney Gardens? Would two o’clock suit you? I’ll look for you at the northwest corner.”

His eyes dart past my shoulder, and he drops my hands as if his were burned. I turn around to see what’s unsettled him. It’s Mary.

She takes in the sight of me in a tête-à-tête with James and frowns slightly. “There you are, Jane.”

“Mary, may I present Mr. Barnes. Mr. Barnes, this is my friend, Miss Edgeworth.”

James’s eyes widen, but he quickly bows to Mary, who barely nods in return.

“If you will excuse me, ladies,” he says. “I must be on my way. Good day to you.” And with a bow to both of us, he turns and walks off down the street.

“That was rude,” I say to Mary.

“Indeed,” she says archly, “to introduce me to a servant in your house as if he were a gentleman worthy of my acquaintance.”

“He is no longer a servant in my house. He happens to be a draper. And since when did you become such a snob? Not that I would remember anything about you anyway.”

“That is cruel, Jane.”

“As was making him feel like a piece of dirt. Is it a breach of etiquette to show common courtesy to someone who worked in my own house?”

“I have never thought the words ‘common’ and ‘courtesy’ belonged together.”

I try to stare her down, but she won’t budge. Instead, she turns on her heel and begins to walk toward home, with me following sullenly a half step behind.

When we reach the house, Mary stops to examine the visiting cards that have been left on a silver tray in the vestibule. I rush past her, taking off my bonnet and heading toward the solitude of my room.

“Jane,” Mary says, her voice gentle again. “May I talk to you?”

“I’m not in the mood for a sermon.”

“It won’t be.”

I nod and hand my bonnet and shawl to Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper, then follow Mary into the drawing room.

She settles herself on a sofa and pats the seat beside her. I sit down, as far away from her as I can manage, when Mrs. Jenkins sweeps in with the tea tray. The little privacy that exists in this world is even more diminished by the almost constant presence of servants. Not that I would mind having a housekeeper in L.A., hovering or not.

As soon as the door closes behind Mrs. Jenkins, Mary clears her throat. “Jane, I apologize for speaking to you sharply before. And for my coldness to your friend. Do understand that my only concern was for your reputation. Bath is full of gossips, and if but one of them had seen you holding the hand of a common tradesman, one who had been a servant in your own home, your life would be reduced to the most acute misery.”

I roll my eyes. “Isn’t that a bit dramatic? You weren’t so concerned with your brother’s reputation when you suggested he marry a servant in your home.”

“But that was a matter of duty and honor, which must always outweigh any consideration of marrying beneath one’s rank. How can you make such a comparison?”

I take a sip of my tea.

Mary gasps. “Do not tell me you are in love with this Mr. Barnes?”

“Absolutely not. No. I mean, why would I be? I don’t know. Actually, I don’t remember a thing about him.”

“I see,” she says, her forehead creased with worry.

“And what if I were in love with him? Do you think I would tell you after the way you reacted?”

Mary sighs heavily. “I do not blame you for being guarded.”