A Jane Austen Encounter (2 page)

Of course, for him it would be a bit of a busman’s honeymoon, since Rocky Mountain required their faculty to produce works of scholarly research in order to justify granting a sabbatical. And coming up with an appropriately erudite subject was his most pressing mission at the moment. Lucky Elizabeth—she was free of all that now.

“Sure you don’t regret resigning your position as department head?” Richard cut in on her reverie.

“Especially not that! What a relief to be free of the administration work. No, I’m definitely ready for a change of pace. A new challenge.”

* * *

THE WORDS RANG IN ELIZABETH’S ears as she spoke them. A new challenge. Yes, that was what she needed. With all the busyness of finishing up the school year and getting ready for this trip, she hadn’t given the future much thought. But hearing the words spoken aloud—from her own mouth—made her wonder. She was only in her fifties—a young woman, by today’s standards. As attractive as sitting around reading novels and eating bonbons sounded, she knew such shallowness would have her screaming in less than a week. If they’d had children, she might be expecting grandchildren now, but as it was . . .

Richard raised an eyebrow. He looked almost worried, as if she had spoken the very words he had been thinking. “You weren’t bored, were you?”

Elizabeth chuckled. Richard knew well her low tolerance for boredom. She had turned down his first proposals of marriage under the misapprehension that he would be boring. How wrong she had been to mistake thoughtfulness for dullness. In twenty years, life with Richard had never been dull.

And she was determined to see to it that it not become dull now. Whatever new direction life took, it must offer challenge.

And, to be completely honest, their life had settled into something of a routine after the very exciting start of their relationship, solving an actual murder at a mystery weekend that was intended to be merely a carefree intellectual puzzle. And then, only a few months later, facing down a murderer once more on their honeymoon. That had been the first scrape her sister Victoria had involved them in, and there was the one other . . . Goodness, after all that and some 8000 students, it was little wonder she felt they had justly earned an idyllic trip to England.

She nibbled at a delicate cucumber sandwich and recalled those long-ago adventures to Richard. But they obviously weren’t lighthearted memories for her husband. He reached across the table and took her hand. “Don’t. When I think of you being in danger . . .”

Elizabeth laughed. “I don’t think I was ever in serious danger. Still, I wouldn’t want to be chasing murderers again.”

Richard gave her one of his wonderful, eye-crinkling smiles. “Little fear there, not with lovely, civilized Jane. No murder, no sex, no zombies.”

“Definitely no zombies! You’ll find us all purists here. Guaranteed.” Elizabeth started at the clipped English voice of the newcomer and looked up at a woman with blunt-cut iron-grey hair, her broad shoulders encased in a shocking purple blouse.

“Dr. Greystone?” Richard rose and took the hand the newcomer offered for a vigorous handshake. Elizabeth saw that she was almost as tall as Richard.

“Call me Muriel. Please, don’t get up. I didn’t mean to interrupt your tea.”

“No, not at all. Won’t you join us? This is my wife, Elizabeth.” Richard pulled out a chair for their guest.

Muriel Greystone accepted the chair Richard offered and the cup of tea Elizabeth poured when the waitress brought another cup. “No milk. Two sugars,” Muriel Greystone directed and took a sandwich from the tray Richard held out to her. “Sorry to be late. Trains from Oxford always unreliable. And then Gerri must stop in the loo. She’ll be along soon.”

“Gerri?” Richard asked.

“Geraldine Hammersley, my assistant, working on her PhD. Very keen on Jane, she is. Surely I mentioned her in one of my letters—writing her thesis on Jane Austen’s spiritual life.” The corners of her mouth pulled down in a near grimace. “Sounds a bit wet, I know. But a valid-enough topic, I suppose, what with Jane being a daughter of the manse and all that.”

“We both enjoyed your article on Jane Austen’s use of landscape to exhibit character in the JASNA journal, Dr. Greystone, er—Muriel,” Elizabeth said. Although the correspondence had been almost entirely between Richard and Dr. Greystone, he had shared all her letters with Elizabeth after he began writing to the author of the aforementioned article following its publication by the Jane Austen Society of North America.

Richard had been delighted when the noted academic had offered to be their tour guide to the sites of Jane’s homes. Elizabeth readily saw the advantage that offered for Richard’s sabbatical study, even though Muriel Greystone might not have been quite the first person Elizabeth would have chosen to accompany them on what was intended to be something of a second honeymoon. But at least they weren’t likely to have this time interrupted by murder, as their first honeymoon had been.

“So sorry to be late.” A short, plump woman with frizzy red hair wearing trousers, a tunic, and a flowing orange scarf scuttled into the empty chair at their table before Richard could stand to help her.

“Never mind, Gerri. I made your excuses,” Dr. Greystone said. “Richard, Elizabeth, this is Geraldine Hammersley. Gerri, the doctors Richard and Elizabeth Spenser.”

Geraldine pushed her tortoiseshell glasses back up on her nose. “I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m looking forward to researching together.”

Muriel Greystone took another sandwich, but didn’t offer the tray to Geraldine. “Don’t suppose you want anything, Gerri, since you had tea on the train.”

“Oh.” Geraldine looked uncertain. “Oh, no. No, thank you.”

Elizabeth wasn’t so sure. “We can easily ask for another cup.”

“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
.