Page 15 of The Austen Escape
My mom’s six leather-bound copies of Jane Austen’s novels rested behind her.
I backed away. “She gave those to you.”
“Only because you showed no interest. Please, Mary. I’m trying to make things right.” She put my copy into her bag. “Which did you like best?”
“Northanger Abbeywas the most interesting. I saw a little of you in Isabella Thorpe.” I said the name tentatively, in question. I had so many questions after reading that book, but none would come out well. Isabella Thorpe was not a likable character.
“The antihero?”
“That might be too strong. She was also beautiful and charming and—”
“We can talk about her later... I’ve got to go.” Isabel headed the few steps to the door. “I haven’t even started packing.”
“Hey.” I followed her. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I only wondered when you readNorthanger Abbeyand if you liked Isabella’s confidence. She’s a fascinating character.”
Isabel shrugged and looked thirteen again—a flash of vulnerability I hadn’t seen in years. She pointed back to the six books on the counter. “Cherish those... The car will pick you up first, then swing by my place. I’ll probably need the extra minutes. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
She asked the last as if it were a genuine question. Isabel had often given me this feeling of heightened expectancy in the past few weeks. Statements had turned into questions and she’d taken on an indecisive stutter-start-stop that was at odds with her usual decisive nature.
It had started long before tonight and my clumsy Isabella Thorpe comparison. I glanced around my apartment as if the cause was material and I could find it.
“It isn’t a question, Isabel. You know you’ll see me. Is there something—”
She gave a quick head shake—decisive, even brusque. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be ready at noon.”
And she was gone.
Chapter 7
Isabel slept most of the plane ride to London. I savored every moment—I watched a couple movies, read my book, ate all the warm nuts and chocolates, and discovered that the seats in first class really did recline into flat narrow beds. At one point I wandered the aisles and found that the entire flight did not have it so good, so I returned posthaste to my fuzzy slippers and Bose noise-canceling headset. Isabel’s dad had clearly not skimped on any detail.
Now we sat in the back of a car heading to Bath and Braithwaite House. We had not mentioned the books again. We had not mentioned Isabella Thorpe again. We had not talked much at all. If pressed, I wouldn’t know what to say—I was still surprised we were sharing Austen and a trip to Bath.
After all, Austen was another thing that Isabel had “laid claim to,” as my dad so aptly put it. She had staked Austen out sophomore year in high school with a book report on not one but all six of the completed novels—which she delivered dressed in a period gown. Our teacher dubbed her his “most brilliant Austen scholar,” and she had actually replied, “It was wonderful to read them again. Mymother and I read them together when I was young. They meant so much to us.”
She avoided me for days after that class. I never said a word, never told my mom or complained. I also never read another Austen. I doubt Mom noticed. There were other novels, other things to fill our time together. And in the end, she gave Isabel her beloved copies.
I glanced at her. Isabel faced the window and had for the past couple hours. She seemed deep in thought and much less excited than I thought she’d be as we approached her “ultimate escapist experience.”
I counted fields and cottages as we dipped farther into the countryside. London had given way to pastureland hours ago. There’d been an uptick in traffic and interest around Oxford, but as the car dropped farther south to Bath, pastureland reclaimed our view. A light rain dampened the fields, the roads, and the car’s windows, making the world look obscenely green and lush.
“It’s hard to believe we’re in a drought back home. I’ve never seen so much green. Is this how you remember it?”
“We lived in London and I don’t think we ever left the city. If we did... No... I don’t remember a thing. Isn’t that odd? I was eight when we left, but not a single thing.” Isabel stretched to see from the car’s front window as we topped a hill. “Look. Bath.”
The car’s hum turned to a pebbly rumble as smooth road gave way to cobblestones. The driver’s tired gray eyes captured mine in the rearview mirror. “I thought I’d bring you in on the A3039, then to York Street, so you can see some of the sights. It’s a Sunday, so no shops are open yet, but some will be after noon. Welcome to Bath, ladies.”
A low sandstone-colored city opened in the valley before us,punctuated vertically by church spires. It was larger than I anticipated. From my reading I’d almost expected to find a Regency town. Brigadoon come to life with horse-drawn carriages and strolling ladies. I almost laughed at my own absurdity. It was two hundred years later. Of course Bath would be modern, industrial, filled with shops, cars, and even a factory spewing smoke atop a distant hill.
Our driver tapped his window as we turned the corner. I felt reassured; Brigadoon existed—curiously well preserved.
“This is the heart of traditional Bath. Right there are the famous Roman Baths, first used by the Celts, long before the Romans. They are already open for the day; over a million tourists a year visit there. And up here...”
I plunged toward Isabel as the car took a sharp right turn.
“Landsdown Road comes right into Bennett Street and the Assembly Rooms.” He stretched his arm across to the passenger window. “You cannot come to Bath without visiting there.”
He drove through a large roundabout with a sign announcingThe Circus, then steered into a gentle and broad arc to the right. There stood a long, semicircular row of townhouses, completely contiguous and—semicircular. It spread for what seemed like half a mile and was the most extraordinary street I’d ever seen.
