by Tracy Kiely
“My filthy theory?” he repeated, glancing at Byron in seeming bewilderment. Byron pretended not to notice and studied the papers on the table in front of him. “Theories are either true or false. I don’t see how they can be ‘filthy,’” continued Professor Baines. Cora huffed noisily. “But perhaps,” he said with a meaningful glance at Aunt Winnie and me, “you are referring to what I told your companions on the plane last night? My discovery—which, my dear Mrs. Beadle, I must point out, is very different from a theory.”
Next to me, Cora clenched her fists until her knuckles showed white. Izzy rolled her eyes in annoyance, seemingly more at her mother’s reaction than from Professor Baines’s condescending behavior. “You know damn well what I’m referring to, you arrogant…,” Cora began, then stopped herself. Taking a deep breath, she attempted to calm herself before continuing. “Are you seriously claiming that Jane Austen died of…” Her voice petered out, unable to form the word.
“Syphilis?” Professor Baines supplied politely.
Cora closed her eyes and visibly shuddered at the sound of the word. “How can you possibly claim such an outrageous perversion?” she asked, but Professor Baines cut her off by forcefully tapping his long forefinger on the thick pile of papers that lay in front of Byron.
“I do not ‘claim,’” he said, “I prove. I establish. I demonstrate. With my findings, I will once and for all validate my long-standing claim that Jane Austen was not a blushing virginal spinster but rather an experienced woman of the world who wrote about the hypocrisy of Regency England. For her to not only die from syphilis, but for it to be covered up by the establishment with bogus tales of Addison’s disease, only serves to prove my broader point that her novels were also willfully perverted and misconstrued to fit the prudish norms of her day.”
Cora’s round face was flushed from anger, and her eyes blazed. “This time you’ve gone too far, Richard. We’ve tolerated your ridiculous theories about Austen’s real stories, and God knows we’ve tried to be polite—”
Professor Baines cut her off with a snort. “Polite? Last year, you threw a glass of wine in my face. A pink Zinfandel, of all things, if I remember correctly,” he added with a shudder.
“I said we’ve tried to be polite,” Cora retorted. “I didn’t say we’ve always succeeded. Sometimes you simply make it too impossible. But my point is that if you present this filth, you will have pushed us too far. We will be forced to take the appropriate steps.”
Professor Baines leaned back into his upholstered chair and nonchalantly took a sip of tea. “We? And who, may I inquire, is this illustrious ‘we’?”
“The true Austen fans,” Cora replied confidently. “The fans with brains in our heads. We will not sit idly by and let you besmirch her name and reputation. You will be laughed out of every society.”
Professor Baines only smiled. “But not laughed at by the press, I think.”
Cora leaned forward, her body tense. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Professor Baines shrugged. “I thought it was clear, but then you and I have very different opinions on what is clear and what isn’t. However, I am always happy to provide edification for you—again. I have taken the liberty of inviting various members of the press to attend my little announcement. I think that most will be quite happy to come out and record the reaction of the … as you called them, ‘true Austen fans.’ I believe that in itself will make quite a news splash.”
Cora blanched. “You would, wouldn’t you? You’d make some trashy public spectacle just to get your name out there, just to get your precious publicity,” she spat out with revulsion. “You’re hoping for some horrible public display so you can get your lousy fifteen minutes of fame.”
Professor Baines’s smile grew wider. His teeth really were almost abnormally white and large, I thought. “On the contrary,” he said, “I assure you. I just want to share my findings with everyone who is interested in Jane Austen, not just those who are fortunate enough to be in Bath.”
What little was left of Cora’s self-control now broke. “Why, you repulsive, dirty-minded…,” she began but was interrupted by the arrival of a woman.
“Oh, dear. Has the fun started already, Richard?” she asked in a tone of bemused surprise. “I thought you were saving that for the festival.” Turning to our table, she said, “Hello, Cora. Hello, Izzy. It’s nice to see you again.”
While Cora struggled to get her emotions under control, Izzy shot a wry smile at the woman. “Hello, Alex. Nice to see you, too.”
Alex returned the smile. She was very pretty. She was wearing a creamy white cashmere sheath dress and brown suede boots. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into one of those loose, casual-looking ponytails that are anything but. She was maybe about five foot nine and could have been anywhere from thirty-nine to forty-nine years old. It was hard to tell; she had that dewy, fresh skin that is hardly ever seen without the aid of expensive treatments—not after the age of six, anyway. Poor Lindsay, I thought; she hadn’t a snowball’s chance in hell against a woman like Alex.
Alex turned her attention back to Professor Baines. She leaned in close to his face to place a kiss on his cheek, but then crinkling her nose in disgust, she abruptly pulled back. “Ugh. Darling, you smell like an ashtray. You promised me that you were going to try to quit.”
Professor Baines rolled his eyes. “And I will, but not right after a transatlantic flight. A man’s got to know his limitations.”
Alex produced a small pout. “I thought we were going to have tea, darling,” she said with a pointed look at Byron. “Or are we once again to be graced with Byron’s presence? Honestly, you two spend so much time together of late I wonder if I should be jealous.”
Byron took the hint and immediately stood up. I noticed that his face was slightly flushed, but whether from embarrassment or anger, I couldn’t tell. “I was just leaving, Mrs. Baines,” he said with cool formality. “Please excuse me.” Turning back to Professor Baines, he added, “Richard, I’ll make the changes we discussed and get you the final draft tomorrow.” With a polite nod in our direction, he left the restaurant.
Next to me, Izzy whispered, “As you can see, Mrs. Baines and Byron are not the best of friends.”
As Alex settled into the chair just vacated by Byron, I whispered back, “Why don’t they like each other?”
Izzy shrugged. “I’m not sure, really, but I get the impression that Byron doesn’t think Alex is terribly bright. I once heard him say that she gives flibbertigibbets a bad name. I think Alex senses that and it chafes because in lots of ways she’s been living in Gail’s shadow ever since the divorce. Gail is really well liked and respected among the Janeites.”
“Gotcha,” I said.
Alex turned to Cora now. “I see that you’ve heard about Richard’s findings regarding Jane Austen’s death,” she said, her tone almost playful.
“You mean his fabrications,” Cora shot back. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous! I will not let him spread this vile story, not while I have breath in my body.”
Alex’s delicate brows pulled down in a frown. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Cora. Can’t you for once just leave him alone? If you don’t agree with him, fine. But he is entitled to his opinion just as you are entitled to yours.” Unfolding a crisp linen napkin and laying it gently on her lap, she continued, “Honestly, I don’t see what the big fuss is about, anyway. Who really cares how the poor woman died? She wrote a few very nice books—some nicer than others, of course.” Picking up a cucumber sandwich from the plate on the table, she took a delicate bite before continuing. “I, for one, was never a fan of Mansfield Park. Fanny was such a dreary little mouse. But in any case, the fact remains that Jane Austen has been dead for about one hundred years. Let it go, already!”
Alex’s little speech did have the intended effect of defusing the tension. However, that effect was twofold: while Cora and Richard seemed to have momentarily forgotten their war with each other, both now s
eemed equally annoyed with Alex.
Jane Austen ironically penned in Northanger Abbey that “a woman especially, if she have the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.” Somehow, I doubted that this was what Alex was doing. Instead, I rather suspected that Byron was right: she was merely a fledgling flibbertigibbet and, as such, apt to annoy her more serious sisters.
CHAPTER 4
I have always maintained the importance of Aunts as much as possible.
—LETTERS OF JANE AUSTEN
WHEN OUR TEA WAS FINISHED, Cora and Izzy seemed loath to part from us. Izzy, in particular, seemed almost distressed that we wouldn’t see each other again until the next day. “Promise that we will meet at eight thirty for breakfast. Then we can all go to the train station together,” she implored of me. I agreed, of course, because it would be rude not to, but I was still surprised when she hugged me and said, “Oh, this will be such a fun week, especially since you’ll be with me!”
I wasn’t positive, as Izzy seemed a reserved sort of girl, but I think I’d just made a new best friend for life.
We were just leaving the restaurant when Cora gave a sudden yelp of alarm. “My purse is gone!” she cried.
“Really, Mama,” Izzy huffed with a practiced roll of her blue eyes. “You lose everything!”
Cora ignored Izzy and began to frantically search the area. Happily, her purse was found within a few minutes, shoved under a nearby chair. “But how on earth did it get there?” Cora asked us with a bewildered face.
“You must have somehow pushed it with your foot,” offered Izzy.
“But I didn’t!” came Cora’s indignant reply.
“Well, then elves must have done it,” Izzy retorted. “Or perhaps Richard Baines did it. Lord knows you fight with him about everything else; perhaps you should add malicious mischief to his list of crimes.”
Cora muttered something under her breath while Izzy continued to tease her. Aunt Winnie and I took advantage of their distraction to quickly pantomime our good-byes and dashed upstairs to our room.
I have to say, I have never been in a room like our room at Claridge’s. It opened into a small, elegant foyer where we were greeted by a side table upon which there was an arrangement of purple and white orchids and a complimentary platter of grapes, dried apricots, and figs. The room itself had a high double tray ceiling and walls the color of thick cream. The patterned rug continued this neutral color theme with shades of toffee and champagne, offering a contrast to the gauzy purple of the bedspread and furniture upholstery. And the bathroom! The bathroom was an art deco masterpiece of marble and glass. I could live in that bathroom for a week and be quite content with my situation. I added several more photos to my growing collection.
Flopping on the soft bed, I let out a sigh of happiness. “You have a sweet room here, Ms. Reynolds. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Claridge’s,” I said.
Aunt Winnie laughed. “And I would not think of quitting it in a hurry,” she said, “were it not for the exorbitant cost.” Examining the fruit platter, she chose a plump fig and popped it into her mouth.
I propped myself up on my elbows. “Yes, about that. Would you please let me chip in for this? I have money and, as much as I appreciate the gesture, I don’t need or want you to pay for everything.”
Aunt Winnie waved away my words while she finished chewing. “I never said you did,” she said once she’d swallowed. “But this is my treat. Besides, you just quit your job. Now is not the time to be spending money foolishly.”
While it was true that I had just quit my job as an editor for a D.C.-based newspaper, a publication that was nothing more than a vanity project for the odious owner, I wasn’t without funds. Not totally, anyway. One of the unexpected perks of having a rampant mold problem in your apartment is not being saddled with a pesky rent bill while the landlord fixes the “unfortunate trouble.” Of course, not having a place to sleep was a definite drawback. And while my sister, Kit, had kindly taken me in, that came with its own set of difficulties. Kit is the personification of the “smug marrieds” that Helen Fielding wrote about, especially since she became pregnant with her second child or, as I privately refer to it, “the Second Coming.” In her spare time, she likes to tell me what’s wrong with my life.
Kit has a lot of spare time.
The main thing that bugs Kit about me is my involvement—my helpful involvement—in a few murder investigations. Not out of any fear for my safety, mind you. No, what really bugs Kit is that on her private scorecard, she wins in the categories of house, husband, and family, but she can’t compete with me on murder investigations. It’s that—no pun intended—which kills her.
“Spending money to attend the Jane Austen Festival in Bath could never be considered foolish,” I retorted. “It isn’t right for you to pay my whole way, Aunt Winnie. I’m a grown woman. I simply can’t let you do it.”
Aunt Winnie snorted. “There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”
I was not to be outdone. “I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own,” I quoted back.
“True,” Aunt Winnie replied with a dip of her red head. “But, I’m resolved on the matter, so keep your breath to cool your porridge. Or, in other words, shut your pie hole,” she added with a grin. “Besides, you need to get dressed for dinner. We have reservations downstairs at Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant.”
“How did you manage that?” I asked, momentarily distracted from the topic. “We only found out last week that we were coming—don’t you need to make reservations there several months in advance?”
“You do,” Aunt Winnie replied smugly as she plucked a silky dress from the closet. “However, a friend of a friend pulled some strings and got us in. Which is why you need to stop yakking and start getting dressed.”
“Okay, okay, but our conversation is not over.” I hopped off the bed and headed for the shower. “I’ll be ready in a flash.”
Forty-five minutes later (okay, okay, so I’m not the Scarlet Speedster), I was showered and ready. I was wearing a new dress, one that I had bought especially for the trip. It was a black square-necked sheath with horizontal pleats and short sleeves and an illusion back. I thought I looked rather elegant until I saw Aunt Winnie. As usual, her ensemble far outshone my own simple one. So much so that I suddenly felt like the main character in Cousin Bette. Her dress was bright sapphire. It was also skimpy and clingy and, judging by its incandescent glow, spun from silkworms suffering from radiation poisoning. It also offered an almost indecent amount of cleavage. Silver and rhinestone platform pumps with four-and-a-half-inch heels completed the look. In short, she looked like she’d been poured into her dress by an overzealous bartender on ladies’ night. Which, when I stopped to think about it, was a typical outfit for Aunt Winnie.
“How do you like it?” she asked, happily twirling in front of me.
“Would you be offended if I told you that you look at once expensively and nakedly dressed?”
“Of course not, silly. That was my aim.”
“Oh, well, in that case—well done. Full marks.”
My subsequent suggestion of a shawl was rejected as prudish, so we made our way downstairs and crossed the lobby to the famed restaurant. Decorated with a nod to 1930s opulence, the room is furbished in warm shades of caramel, burgundy, and honey. I closed my eyes for a moment to soak in the atmosphere, from the faint tinkling of expensive crystal to the hushed accented murmurings where nary an r was rolled and several t’s were elegantly dropped. It was as if I’d stepped into an episode of Agatha Christie’s Poirot, one in which Poirot and Hastings were seconds away from the civilized confrontation of the wealthy killer, all while enjoying a delectable amuse-bouche. I may have sighed with happiness.
Oh,
who am I kidding? I did sigh with happiness. I was finally in London, damn it! I was floating in a giddy tea-infused, strawberries and scones, Burberry tweed dream come true.
Okay, so maybe I was a bit jet-lagged. And I guess there might be some truth to the oft-repeated observation by some that I watch entirely too much PBS and Masterpiece Theatre.
Whatever. As if there is such a thing as too much Masterpiece Theatre.
Once we were seated at our table, we were attended by a seemingly never-ending parade of exceedingly polite waiters. After our orders had been placed and the wine had been served, I leaned back in my chair and said, “So, seeing as how I have the strong feeling that Izzy is to be my constant companion over the next week, tell me again how you know them?”
Aunt Winnie laughed. “Well, I don’t really know Izzy. When I last saw her, she was a little bit of a thing. She’s grown into quite a nice-looking girl, though.”
“I gather she takes after her father in looks,” I said, remembering Cora’s earlier comments.
Aunt Winnie paused to consider the question. “No, actually. She doesn’t look a thing like Harold, which, God forgive me, is actually a blessing. Harold was short, bald, and terribly nearsighted. Or was it farsighted?” Aunt Winnie mused. “I can never remember which is which. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I just remember he wore these enormous glasses, a bit like the ones Charles Nelson Reilly used to wear. But Cora is relatively harmless,” Aunt Winnie said with a smile. “She’s just very excitable. She was never one to take a deep breath and think before speaking or acting—as you saw for yourself today.”
“Yes, I sort of caught on to that whole theme of her being eager in everything and her sorrows and joys could have no moderation.”
Aunt Winnie nodded. “Cora means well, but Lord, how she used to fray poor Harold’s nerves. He was the complete opposite of her, of course. Always cool, calm, and rational. Bit of a bore, actually, now that I stop to remember him.”
