A Jane Austen Encounter (3 page)

“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.” She 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.”

“And then that rather lovely Arthur—I think Gerri longs to have him dance to her tune the way she does to Muriel’s.” Elizabeth picked up her menu, but didn’t open it yet.

“Isn’t Geraldine too old for him? Hard for me to judge a woman’s age, but I’d put him at ten years her junior. Besides, our Arthur has his eyes elsewhere, if I don’t miss my guess.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Claire? She’s charming, isn’t she? Do you think I’m safe letting you take up her project?”

Richard laughed. “Safer than either of us would be if we defied Muriel twice in one day, I should think. Besides, I’m rather looking forward to getting my hands on some moldy old papers. I’m sorry to miss the time with you, but there’s just the off chance I might find something of interest. I do need to get my subject narrowed. I feel rather like one of my own freshman students flailing about for a topic for their research paper.”

“Well, just don’t get carried away with your delving. I’m looking forward to our doing the tourist thing together.” Elizabeth opened her menu. All the dinners, it explained, were served trencher style:
Traditionally, a type of bread, known as a Trencher, was used before the invention of plates. Unlike plates (invented around 1500), the Trencher bread gets its flavour from the food and is eaten as part of the meal. Our historic menu offers main courses served in the Trencher tradition on a slice of Sally Lunn Bun—and a plate.

Elizabeth shook her head. “This says
‘The use of Trencher breads remained popular in Georgian England.’
I wonder if that means Jane Austen ate her meals trencher style.”

Richard frowned. “Somehow I can’t see her using anything but fine bone china sprigged with small flowers.”

“Actually, I believe willowware was the particular rage in Jane’s day.”

When the waiter appeared, Elizabeth asked him about the Sally Lunn bun. “Oh, yes. Very popular delicacy in Georgian times because its special taste and lightness made it good with either sweet or savory accompaniments.” The waiter gave a self-satisfied grin. “Attempts at reproducing its delicacy have been made around the world, but no one has succeeded. The original recipe is passed on with the deeds to the house and is still made by us by hand.”

That left no question—they must have it. Elizabeth ordered hers with mushroom stroganoff.

When the waiter departed, they made their way through the room crowded with diners at small tables to the museum at the back that showed the history of the house. An open stone fireplace with massive crocks and iron pots filled one wall of the kitchen museum. “Amazing.” Elizabeth pointed as she read out loud. “‘Bread ovens of this design originated in Rome around 100 B.C. and were still the normal type of construction until the early 17th century.’” She shook her head. “How could things have changed so little in all those years?”

Richard agreed. “Pre-Georgian Bath was a place Jane would little have recognized—a walled city with narrow alleys and gabled roofs.”

“How fortunate that this house escaped the wrecker’s ball—or whatever they used to knock buildings down in the 18th century.”

The display showed Roman tiles and pottery shards, which indicated that there was a Roman building on this site which likely served as an inn for travelers.
This would take our tradition of hospitality and refreshment back nearly 1800 years, to the period when the hot springs and the temple of the goddess Sulis Minerva attracted visitors from all over northwest Europe,
the sign said.

“Wonderful, isn’t it,” Richard said as he led Elizabeth back to their table, “how traditions can continue over hundreds, maybe even thousands of years.” He paused. “Those Roman tiles and pottery bits give me hope that there could still be something to be found for my research, if one only knew where to look.”

“Certainly there will be something.” Elizabeth put more assurance in her voice than she felt. So much had been done on all the Austen topics. Still . . . “There’s new scholarship all the time. I remember just a few years ago hearing about a librarian in the eastern United States who found a manuscript in Beethoven’s own hand. I think it was auctioned for several million dollars.”