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
O UR 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.
“Yeah?”
I paused. Now was not the time
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
O UR 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.
“Yeah?”
I paused. Now was not the time
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