by Tracy Kiely
“Well, it should be an interesting week, then,” I said, after taking a sip of wine. “I get to attend my very first Jane Austen Festival with my new best friend, Izzy, her excitable mother, Cora, and then watch the fun unfold when Professor Baines announces to the world his discovery that Jane Austen was apparently something of a Commie tart.”
“Yes,” agreed Aunt Winnie. “You will have to keep a journal, for how are your absent cousins to understand the tenor of your life in Bath without one?”
I laughed at that and then immediately dismissed it from my head as the first of our courses arrived. It’s hard to stay focused on anything but your stomach when a bowl of Thai-spiced lobster ravioli, lemon grass, lime, and coconut broth is placed before you.
But by the week’s end, I would find myself wishing I had kept a journal. It might have helped in making sense of the coming calamity.
CHAPTER 5
Oh! Who can ever be tired of Bath?
—NORTHANGER ABBEY
“THERE YOU ARE!” cried Izzy the next morning as I crossed the lobby to her. “I’ve been waiting forever! Where have you been?”
Surprised, I found myself apologizing. “I’m sorry. Have you been waiting long?”
“Ages.”
Confused, I glanced at my watch. “But didn’t we say eight thirty? It’s just eight thirty now.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad that you’re finally here, and I can join Mama at the table and get away from those horrible men over there.” She tipped her blond head to the far end of the lobby. “They have been practically gawking at me this whole time. I grant you, they are very good-looking, but still, I am surprised. Englishmen aren’t usually so forward.”
I turned in the direction indicated and saw two conservatively dressed businessmen intently reading the London Times. I inwardly agreed with Izzy that they were very good-looking; however, they appeared to be anything but gawking. After a moment, one looked up and glanced rather vacantly in our direction. Seeing us staring at him, he nodded politely and returned to his paper. “See what I mean?” Izzy hissed. “It’s disgraceful!”
Either I was still jet-lagged or Izzy was delusional. “Where’s your mother?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.
“Mama went to get us a table,” she said. “Where’s your aunt?”
“Checking out. Oh, here she is,” I replied, as Aunt Winnie made her way to us.
“Good morning, Izzy,” said Aunt Winnie. “How are you today?”
“Fine,” Izzy said, shooting a coy glance in the direction of the men who were again absorbed in their papers. “Mama’s gotten us a table.”
Aunt Winnie followed Izzy’s gaze and then glanced back to me. I shrugged. “Well, let’s join her,” Aunt Winnie said. With one last lingering look at the men, Izzy turned and made her way to the breakfast area. Cora saw us and waved us to the table.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I already ordered us tea,” she said. “I don’t want to risk being late to the train station.”
“Tea sounds fine—” began Aunt Winnie.
Cora cut her off. “I was up all night, trying to figure out our problem. I imagine you were, too, and I think if we put our heads together, we can find a solution by the time we get to Bath.”
Aunt Winnie responded with a blank look. “What problem?” she asked.
Cora’s eyes opened in surprise. “Why, Richard, of course! What are we going to do to stop him from spreading his filthy lies about Jane?”
Aunt Winnie sighed. “Cora, anyone who believes his drivel is no Austen fan with any sense, and all true Austen fans have sense, so don’t worry. Besides, I don’t think there’s anything we can do. If the man wants to make his claims, we can’t stop him. It’s a free country, after all.”
Cora shook her head in disagreement. “No, it’s not. That’s America.”
I stifled a laugh. “I don’t think free speech is exactly frowned upon here,” I said.
Cora shot me a level look. “Well, his particular brand of speech is frowned upon by me, I can tell you that.”
“Yes, Mama,” said Izzy, pulling her still hopeful gaze away from the lobby. “Despite your rather cagey behavior, I think we all managed to decipher your true feelings about Richard Baines.”
“Well, what do you propose we do about him?” Cora countered.
“Nothing. Tease him. Laugh at him. Please, for once, don’t rise to his bait. You make it worse. Every blessed time you make it worse.” From the way Izzy uttered these words calmly and without emotion, I gathered it was an oft-repeated speech. From the way Cora kept proposing ideas, I also gathered it was an oft-ignored speech.
And so it continued for the rest of the morning. Cora could be steered to no other topic but how to thwart Richard Baines. As we headed outside to hail a taxi for Paddington Station, I saw with delight that it was a perfect, crisp autumn day—made all the more lovely by virtue of it being a perfect, crisp autumn day in London. Cora, however, seemed oblivious of our surroundings and prattled on. Could we steal his paper? Could we somehow get to Byron? Could we preempt him by calling the press ourselves?
It went on and on. After offering a few polite responses, I gave up and largely ignored her. So did Aunt Winnie and Izzy. I don’t think Cora noticed, so consumed was she by her topic. She only briefly stopped her rant when she thought she’d lost the train tickets, but upon discovering them in her coat pocket, she quickly resumed her tirade.
Soon the taxi deposited us at the station. While Cora continued to fret about “our” problem, we quickly made our way to our assigned track and soon we were on board the ten-thirty high-speed train to Bath.
Bath!
I got a happy little chill at the very thought of it. Home of the famous Roman baths, the glorious Circus, and, of course, the Jane Austen Centre. An hour and a half later, our train was pulling into Victoria Station in the city’s center. As we emerged from the station, I glanced all around me, afraid to miss one single sight. While Anne Elliot is perhaps second only to Elizabeth Bennet as my favorite Austen heroine, I have to admit I did not share her dismal view of the city. I neither entertained a very determined disinclination for Bath, nor did I hold a disinclination to see more of the extensive buildings. Rather, I was like Catherine Morland—all eager delight. My eyes were here, there, everywhere, as I approached the city’s fine and striking environs. I was come to be happy, and I felt happy already.
All around us was evidence of the upcoming festival. Banners and posters were everywhere. The streets were crowded with tourists, many of whom were clutching well-worn copies of Austen’s novels as if they were the Holy Grail of travel guides. As we were staying at a different hotel from Cora and Izzy, we said our temporary good-byes, which were mingled with fervent entreaties from Izzy to swear that we would meet later.
I admit it was with some relief that I saw their forms disappear up the street and out of sight.
“Dear God,” said Aunt Winnie with a weary sigh. “I’d forgotten what an excellent talker Cora is and how she can get so completely rattled over nothing.”
“I wouldn’t let her catch you saying that defending Jane Austen’s reputation is a mere nothing.”
“Good point. I’m beginning to remember why Harold was so quiet. I attributed it to dullness, but I think I’ve done the poor man a disservice. He probably just gave up trying to get a word in edgewise.”
“Do you think she’s really going to try and stop Baines from presenting his paper?” I asked, as we threaded our way through the crowd toward our hotel.
“I sincerely hope not,” Aunt Winnie replied. “I have a suspicion that that is exactly what he hopes she will do. As much as I think the man is full of it, he is right on one count: the press would love a story of some crazed Austen fan attacking an English professor over his scintillating views on Austen.”
“Do you think he’s intentionally goading her?”
Aunt Winnie paused in front of a poster. In large print, it proclaime
d THE TRUTH BEHIND AUSTEN’S DEATH: A COVER-UP EXPOSED. Below it, in smaller letters, it read, JOIN RENOWNED ENGLISH LITERATURE PROFESSOR, RICHARD BAINES, 7 P.M. SUNDAY AT 3 UPPER CAMDEN PLACE, CAMDEN ROAD, TO HEAR HIS GROUNDBREAKING REVELATIONS. In the background, there was a faded watercolor sketch of a busty woman provocatively sprawled on a bed, the neckline of her tissue-thin chemise millimeters away from indecency.
Aunt Winnie tilted her head. “I think I’d better keep an eye on Cora,” was all she said.
* * *
OUR HOTEL WAS on Henrietta Street, an elegant avenue lined with stately Georgian homes. I was convinced it served as the setting for Camden Place in the 1995 film adaptation of Persuasion, but Aunt Winnie disagreed. We argued the point for several minutes until the proprietor, a middle-aged woman with a kind heart-shaped face who appeared used to hearing such meaningless topics so hotly debated, politely interrupted to inform us that while her hotel was not the location in question, she would be happy to show us where it was. She pulled out a walking map of Bath and circled the location, Number One, Royal Crescent, and provided us directions on how to get there. Having been proved correct, Aunt Winnie smirked. I, as is also my habit in these situations, ignored her.
Our room key and map in hand, Aunt Winnie and I were about to head upstairs when a man who had evidently overheard our conversation came toward us. “I take it you ladies are in town for the festival?” he asked in a booming voice.
He appeared to be in his early thirties. He wasn’t particularly handsome; his forehead jutted out from a receding hairline over eyes that were set too close together. He was only a few inches taller than I am, and from the looks of his wiry build only a few pounds heavier as well. His tweed blazer was close to being threadbare, and his jeans were ripped. However, his Rolex was obscenely large, and his shoes hinted of Italian beginnings at the gentle hands of a gloved master. Taken all together, it gave the impression that he was intentionally trying to lessen the potential of his appearance. Why, I couldn’t begin to imagine.
“We are here for the festival,” Aunt Winnie answered. “Are you?”
“Yes indeed. I never miss it. I’ve been coming for the last fifteen years at least.”
I paused. “But I thought the first festival was held in 2000?”
“Good God, no! It must be older than that! I’m sure of it. I should know, after all, I’ve been coming to them all this time, haven’t I? No, no, you must be mistaken. But it’s a frightfully good time. You must let me show you some of the better sights. I’m quite an expert, you know. How could I not be, after coming to them for so long? I’m John Ragget, by the way.”
We shook hands all around, and Aunt Winnie and I introduced ourselves. “Well, you must let me show you Bath,” John continued. “You won’t find anyone more knowledgeable. And I have a car, of course. It’s a Jaguar convertible, actually.” Addressing me, he asked, “Do you like Jaguars?”
I really didn’t care one way or the other. I wanted only to get away from this blowhard and go to our room, but my mother raised me to be polite. “They’re very nice,” I offered. Apparently, my offering missed the mark entirely.
“Nice?” John cried in a loud tone of outrage. “They’re a damn bit more than just nice, I can tell you. They’re bloody brilliant! I just got mine last week. Paid through the bloody nose for it, but, damn it, I didn’t care! I simply had to have it. When I see something I want, I’m not one to dither about. No, indeed. I act!”
“You’re perfect,” Aunt Winnie said, her eyes bright. I surreptitiously nudged her, hoping she’d rein in the sarcasm, but I needn’t have bothered. John missed her meaning entirely.
“Well, as you Americans are fond of saying, that’s how I roll,” he informed us with a straight face. Aunt Winnie was right. He was perfect. Unintentionally so, and for all the wrong reasons, but nevertheless, he was indeed perfect.
“So, is it a date?” he asked, jolting me out of my thoughts.
“Date?” I repeated, confused. Surely I had misheard.
“Yes. To show you around Bath. In my car,” John answered.
I turned to Aunt Winnie for assistance, but she was of no help. Instead, she considered me, her eyes merry and her mouth spread in a wide grin. I could have killed her. “Oh, well, that’s very nice of you,” I finally managed, “but I’m afraid we already have plans today. We’re meeting friends.”
John was not deterred. “Oh, who are you meeting? I probably know them. I know practically everybody here.”
“Cora and Izzy Beadle,” I replied hesitantly, hoping that he did not know them. Seeing his blue eyes light up, I knew that hope was in vain.
“Izzy! Why, Izzy is one of my closest friends here! This is perfect! We can all go together.”
My brain, still tired and suffering from the draining effects of jet lag, drew a complete and utter blank. I gaped at John in frustrated confusion. Thankfully, Aunt Winnie finally came to my rescue.
“That’s a lovely invitation, John,” she said now, as she took my arm to steer me toward the stairs, “but I am afraid that we will have to decline it. However, I’m sure we will run into you later during the festival. Now, if you will excuse us.”
John called out something about getting in touch with Izzy, but Aunt Winnie kept us both moving steadily up the stairs until we were out of his sight.
“Dear God,” I muttered when we were out of earshot.
“What are you complaining about?” Aunt Winnie teased as we continued down the hall to our room. “I thought you loved the English. If I’d told you a week ago that an Englishman, complete with a tweedy blazer and posh accent, would be practically begging to take you for a drive in his convertible, you would have been thrilled.”
“First of all, I am quite happy with Peter, thank you very much. And second, that man gives all Englishmen a bad name. They should take away his passport.” I paused. “I have to admit, that while Catherine Morland isn’t my favorite of the Austen heroines, she does have one trait that I envy.”
“Really, what?”
“When she first came to Bath, she didn’t have a single acquaintance. I, on the other hand, have not only acquired a new best friend but have secured the attention of a blowhard with a Jaguar.”
Aunt Winnie laughed. “Remember, if adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.”
“That very well may be true, but I am neither seeking an adventure nor am I Catherine Morland,” I pointed out.
Both were true, of course. Only I forgot that sometimes you don’t need to seek out an adventure to find one.
CHAPTER 6
Insufferable woman!… A little upstart, vulgar being … and all her airs of pert pretension and underbred finery.
—EMMA
OUR ROOM WAS another high-ceilinged wonder, only this time the décor was faded floral prints rather than crisp neutrals. Tall windows afforded us a view of the back courtyard. After unpacking our things, we headed back out to the center of town. Happily, John was nowhere to be found.
Our first stop was to the Jane Austen Centre. Located on Gay Street, where Austen herself once lived, it’s set between two of Bath’s highlights, Queen Square and the Circus. Outside the door to the centre is a mannequin of Jane Austen, so Aunt Winnie and I were delayed several minutes from entering because we had to take numerous pictures of each other standing next to “Jane.”
Inside, we toured the costume museum, had tea upstairs in the Regency Tea Shop, collected our information for the festival, and then hit the gift shop. Aunt Winnie bought—among other things—a reproduction of the large oil painting of Mr. Darcy/Colin Firth while I bought several books and more I ♥ DARCY paraphernalia than was perhaps strictly necessary. Our final bill was shocking, and that was before we calculated the exchange rate. However, we left the store secure in the knowledge that our feelings of guilt would pass, and no doubt more quickly than they should.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon happily wandering
through the streets of Bath and returned to our hotel in the late afternoon only to shower and get ready for our dinner with Cora and Izzy. However, I had forgotten that Aunt Winnie is a shower singer. A loud shower singer. Her choice of song depends on her mood. For instance, if she’s stressed, she sings country. If she’s feeling silly, she belts out bad ’70s love songs. (Her favorite being “A Little Bit More” by Dr. Hook. Try hearing that without gagging.) But when she was happy, as she apparently was now, she became a “Fanilow.” Which was why I was being assailed with every verse, every lyric of Barry Manilow’s opening act at Caesars in Vegas.
By the time she got to “Mandy,” I could take no more. As I was already ready, I headed to the hotel’s reading lounge where I could escape the jukebox from hell and call Peter.
“Hey! How are you?” he said when I got through. “How’s Bath?”
“Wonderful,” I said. “Aunt Winnie and I went to the Jane Austen Centre and had tea, and we took our pictures next to the Austen mannequin.”
“Of course you did. When does the festival start?”
“Tomorrow. There’s a costume promenade in the morning and then a fancy dress ball tomorrow night. Tonight we’re going to dinner with an old friend of Aunt Winnie’s and her daughter. I think they might even be bigger Austen fans than Aunt Winnie and I—and that’s saying something.” I told him about our encounter with Richard and his crazy theories and Cora’s subsequent fury.
“Well, I’m glad that you’re having fun,” he said, “but be careful. Knowing your luck, someone will kill this Richard guy, and you’ll get all caught up in another murder investigation.”
I laughed. “Highly unlikely. These are Janeites we’re talking about. We’re too civilized for such base behavior.”
“Well, be careful anyway. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” I said, wondering for the hundredth time if I made a stupid decision in not moving in with Peter. As I cradled the phone close to my head, I found myself regretting that decision. “Peter?” I said.
