it.”
“Now.” Richard pulled a map from his pocket and held it so they could both see. “What do you think? Shall we attempt to approach this chronologically and see the places in the order Jane lived in them, or just go with the geography?”
Elizabeth considered. “Geography, definitely. I’m only walking up this hill once.”
At 25 Gay Street, they stopped before the deep blue door of the dental surgeon’s office now occupying the rooms which Jane, her mother, and sister rented after Mr. Austen’s death. Elizabeth smiled at the net curtain covering the window and the brilliant red and white flowers filling the window box of what must have been Mrs. Austen’s parlour.
“Do you think Jane was working on The Watsons when they lived here?” she asked.
“If those who say the shock of her father’s death contributed to her abandoning the manuscript are correct, she would have put it away by the time they lived here.”
“Do you think Jane was very unhappy here?” Elizabeth thought it seemed a pleasant-enough location now.
Richard took another map from his pocket. “I brought my cheat sheet.” He grinned and unfolded a map of Bath in the time of Jane Austen, giving comments on each location from her letters and novels.
“Well, other than her general dislike of living in a busy city, she doesn’t seem to object to the location.”
Elizabeth, reading over his shoulder, laughed. “Certainly not, if it wasn’t beneath Sir Walter Elliot’s dignity to visit the Crofts living here. What a good example of Jane writing about what she knew.”
At the top of Gay Street, they entered The Circus, a circle formed by three neoclassical crescents of townhouses all facing in on a green lawn, then continued on along Brock Street to the elegant curve of the Royal Crescent. Elizabeth stopped. “Oh, this is stunning.” She gazed at the wide, green valley before them. A sweep of green grass, dotted here and there with couples sitting on the verdant carpet, ran down the hill to the trees bordering the River Avon. “Now this would do quite nicely as a place to live.”
“Or even as a place for lesser mortals to stroll.” Richard consulted his annotated map. “It seems to have been the thing to do in Jane’s day. Catherine Morland and Isabelle Thorpe hastened away to the Crescent on a Sunday after divine service when they discovered there was no one of consequence in the Pump Room. But, alas, Mr. Tilney was not here either, although they walked here for half an hour.”
“Oh, I remember,” Elizabeth recalled. “Poor Catherine. Later, Mrs. Allen mentions to Catherine that she met Mr. Tilney and his sister in the Crescent, but that addled lady was much more concerned about discussing the availability of veal at the butcher’s. One of Jane’s lovely comic touches.”
“And Jane wrote to Cassandra that she and her mother walked here on a Sunday after leaving Chapel,” Richard added. Elizabeth looked at the paving stones beneath her feet. Had Jane stood on these very stones in her half boots when she and her mother were invited to tea by Miss Irvine? It made her feel so very close to her literary idol.
Turning their backs on the Crescent and all it evoked, Richard led Elizabeth back downhill. Across the street, they entered the quiet, narrow Gravel Walk bordered by trees with the green spread of a park on one side and a high wall on the other. In spite of the windows of tall buildings of flats overlooking them beyond their gardens, the wall and sheltering trees gave a sense of privacy that was not easy to find in this bustling city.
Elizabeth slipped her arm through Richard’s and slowed her steps. “Wait. This is where Anne and Captain Wentworth walked after she read his wonderful note declaring his steadfast love.” She dug in the floral bag she carried over her shoulder and pulled out a paperback copy of her favorite of Jane’s novels. “Here it is. ‘. . . soon words enough had passed between them
“Now.” Richard pulled a map from his pocket and held it so they could both see. “What do you think? Shall we attempt to approach this chronologically and see the places in the order Jane lived in them, or just go with the geography?”
Elizabeth considered. “Geography, definitely. I’m only walking up this hill once.”
At 25 Gay Street, they stopped before the deep blue door of the dental surgeon’s office now occupying the rooms which Jane, her mother, and sister rented after Mr. Austen’s death. Elizabeth smiled at the net curtain covering the window and the brilliant red and white flowers filling the window box of what must have been Mrs. Austen’s parlour.
“Do you think Jane was working on The Watsons when they lived here?” she asked.
“If those who say the shock of her father’s death contributed to her abandoning the manuscript are correct, she would have put it away by the time they lived here.”
“Do you think Jane was very unhappy here?” Elizabeth thought it seemed a pleasant-enough location now.
Richard took another map from his pocket. “I brought my cheat sheet.” He grinned and unfolded a map of Bath in the time of Jane Austen, giving comments on each location from her letters and novels.
“Well, other than her general dislike of living in a busy city, she doesn’t seem to object to the location.”
Elizabeth, reading over his shoulder, laughed. “Certainly not, if it wasn’t beneath Sir Walter Elliot’s dignity to visit the Crofts living here. What a good example of Jane writing about what she knew.”
At the top of Gay Street, they entered The Circus, a circle formed by three neoclassical crescents of townhouses all facing in on a green lawn, then continued on along Brock Street to the elegant curve of the Royal Crescent. Elizabeth stopped. “Oh, this is stunning.” She gazed at the wide, green valley before them. A sweep of green grass, dotted here and there with couples sitting on the verdant carpet, ran down the hill to the trees bordering the River Avon. “Now this would do quite nicely as a place to live.”
“Or even as a place for lesser mortals to stroll.” Richard consulted his annotated map. “It seems to have been the thing to do in Jane’s day. Catherine Morland and Isabelle Thorpe hastened away to the Crescent on a Sunday after divine service when they discovered there was no one of consequence in the Pump Room. But, alas, Mr. Tilney was not here either, although they walked here for half an hour.”
“Oh, I remember,” Elizabeth recalled. “Poor Catherine. Later, Mrs. Allen mentions to Catherine that she met Mr. Tilney and his sister in the Crescent, but that addled lady was much more concerned about discussing the availability of veal at the butcher’s. One of Jane’s lovely comic touches.”
“And Jane wrote to Cassandra that she and her mother walked here on a Sunday after leaving Chapel,” Richard added. Elizabeth looked at the paving stones beneath her feet. Had Jane stood on these very stones in her half boots when she and her mother were invited to tea by Miss Irvine? It made her feel so very close to her literary idol.
Turning their backs on the Crescent and all it evoked, Richard led Elizabeth back downhill. Across the street, they entered the quiet, narrow Gravel Walk bordered by trees with the green spread of a park on one side and a high wall on the other. In spite of the windows of tall buildings of flats overlooking them beyond their gardens, the wall and sheltering trees gave a sense of privacy that was not easy to find in this bustling city.
Elizabeth slipped her arm through Richard’s and slowed her steps. “Wait. This is where Anne and Captain Wentworth walked after she read his wonderful note declaring his steadfast love.” She dug in the floral bag she carried over her shoulder and pulled out a paperback copy of her favorite of Jane’s novels. “Here it is. ‘. . . soon words enough had passed between them
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