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 proclaimed THE TRUTH BEHIND AUSTEN’S DEATH: A COVER-UP EXPOSED. Below it, in smaller letters, it read, J OIN RENOWNED E NGLISH LITERATURE PROFESSOR, R ICHARD B AINES, 7 P.M. S UNDAY AT 3 U PPER C AMDEN P LACE, C AMDEN R OAD, 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
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 proclaimed THE TRUTH BEHIND AUSTEN’S DEATH: A COVER-UP EXPOSED. Below it, in smaller letters, it read, J OIN RENOWNED E NGLISH LITERATURE PROFESSOR, R ICHARD B AINES, 7 P.M. S UNDAY AT 3 U PPER C AMDEN P LACE, C AMDEN R OAD, 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
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