Page 16 of The Austen Escape
“Wouldn’t it be fun to have a compass large enough to measure this? It feels like a full one-eighty degrees. It’s gorgeous.”
Isabel shook her head at me, but she smiled.
The driver twisted in his seat and offered me a toothy grin, minus a few teeth. “The Royal Crescent is beautiful, isn’t it? It’s one of the finest examples of Georgian architecture in the country, built in the mid-1700s. It looks the same today as it did then, and some of them are private homes. Can you imagine that?”
“Honestly, no, but it is beautiful.”
He turned out of the crescent and away from town. “Wait until you see where you’re headed. Braithwaite House is a right gem. An American couple fixed it up and it is beyond something grand now.”
Isabel pulled herself forward by the driver’s headrest. “Is it far?”
“Less than a mile. It’s one of the only estates in the county left with its full acreage. I don’t often say it, but it was a good thing when those Americans bought the property. They kept it intact. A good number of estates have long been carved up by developers.” He adjusted his rearview mirror to capture Isabel’s face. “Have you been to Bath before?”
He didn’t wait for her answer, but continued his monologue down Weston Road in a long, contiguous sentence. He had much to tell us and, if we were going to reach our destination in a few minutes, his time was running out.
I caught a sign for Braithwaite House. “This is it.”
Isabel slapped my arm. “Okay, now I’m getting giddy.”
“About time.” My excitement matched hers.
She stretched farther ahead. “Look. Look. There’s the house.”
I held my breath as the large four-story home came into view. I blinked and studied it. Two stories. The tall windows revealed that it had only two stories, but very high ceilings. The beigetoned gravel drive, flanked by mature trees, turned and continued to rise to a car park at the side.
I mentally calculated the house to be at least fifty thousand square feet, but I couldn’t see how deep it ran—meaning my estimations could be shy by several thousand feet, if not more. The front featured tall, rectangular, flat windows in the center and curved ones set in deep bays at the corners. I caught glimpses into therooms where the sun shot through the glass rather than bouncing off it. And fireplaces... I looked up and counted eight chimneys visible from my vantage point alone.
“It’s... it’s massive.”
The driver heard me and chuckled. “Here we are, ladies. Braithwaite House.” He pulled the car to the front door and made a dramatic skid on the gravel. He then twisted to almost fully face us. “I’ve never been in, mind you, but they say the queen herself could stay here and not be disappointed.”
I faced Isabel. “Are you ready? This could be your Pemberley or Netherfield Park, or even your Kellynch Hall.”
Her face glowed. “I’m beginning to believe in my own thesis. Let’s go.” She gestured to the car door.
I climbed out, a sense of awe welling inside me. Colin Firth had never occupied a moment of my time; Downton Abbey never swallowed a Sunday evening; and even love, friendship, and zombies had failed to entice me into the theaters. But I agreed with Isabel—I was beginning to believe her thesis too. This was the ultimate escape and a luxury beyond imagining.
She stood beside me. Eyes fixed on the building, she grabbed my hand and squeezed tight. “It’s perfect.”
I followed her up the six broad front steps to the single-pane glass front door. It opened out, while an enormous wood one opened into the house.
Between the two open doors stood a woman, tall and elegant, dressed in gray with silver hair. Something about her glowed against the now graying sky—as if they were one and she was the brighter iteration.
Although she came from inside the house, she wore a deep-gray waxed coat and hot-pink rubber boots.
I felt her track my gaze to the boots and back. When our eyes met again, hers danced with laughter.
“Aren’t they marvelous? I was crossing from the side garden when I saw your car.” She pulled her hand from a gardening glove and stretched it toward me. “Welcome to Braithwaite House. I’m the manager, Gertrude. You must be Miss Dwyer.”
“I am.” Isabel stepped fully in front of me and captured her hand. “Isabel Dwyer. It’s nice to meet you, and this is my friend, Mary Davies.”
Gertrude nodded at the rushed introduction and peered at me over Isabel’s head.
“It’s lovely to meet you as well, Miss Davies.” She cast her gaze beyond us to the driver. A single flick of her fingers conveyed he was to bring our bags in a side door somewhere to the left. She then retreated into the house and wiggled the same fingers to beckon us to follow.
“You are the third academic group to stay with us this year. You are the professor?”
“Doctoral candidate.”
