Chapter Two
Caroline
Bath, Somerset
Having survived shopping, which wasn’t at all the trial I was expecting and turned out to be fun, I’m now writing this in my new bedroom.
I’d thought when we first got here that I might as well be Catherine Morland because the houses haven’t changed since Jane Austen’s time, and stepping inside the hallway and the reception rooms on the first floor you might be forgiven for thinking you’d gone back in time.
It’s very Georgian, furnished with tourists in mind, and scented with the magical fragrance of a house that’s only ever known brimming flower bowls of milky narcissus and heady lilac in spring or spires of delphiniums and plump roses in summer.
It’s full of the sights and smells of life lived luxuriously - elegant Chippendale furniture, watered silk on the walls, embroidered cushion covers on satin sofas in the drawing room, and giltwood pier glasses set between the windows.
Anyway, I must write down how I got on. Ellen, as she now insists I call her, was not only overwhelmingly generous, but very kind, and I feel ashamed to think how much I’d dreaded the idea of shopping with her.
We walked up to Jolly’s department store on Milsom Street, and she took me to the boutique section, after all.
There were so many dresses I liked and Ellen said I could choose any three.
I picked out a romantic Laura Ashley style dress in green needlecord, one in purple velvet with a wrap-over skirt, and then Ellen said I must have a dress for a formal evening.
‘Try on this maxi-dress,’ she said, taking a silk crêpe de chine dress, the colour of rose petals, from the rack.
I knew it must cost a small fortune and bit my lip, but Ellen wouldn’t hear of me finding something less expensive.
‘I know your mother would want you to have a nice dress to wear in the evening,’ she said, ‘and it really would be my treat to see you in it. Indulge me, just this once. There might be a dance before Christmas, and you could wear it to a disco, if you wanted.’
It was beautiful, but I’d never been to a formal dance, and I couldn’t imagine wearing it anywhere else.
I’d never learned ballroom dancing, though Dad used to let me stand on his feet when he waltzed me round the room.
When I tried the dress on, the silk felt exquisite next to my skin, and I loved the halter neck straps.
I stood in front of the dressing room mirror, and couldn’t believe quite how sophisticated I looked, especially when I pulled up my hair.
‘The rose brings out the blue in your eyes,’ said Ellen. ‘You’ve got beautiful eyes, like a china doll.’
I felt very satisfied with that compliment; feeling that it must be true if Ellen, with all her sharp comments, said so.
I had to choose a pair of shoes too, and it was Ellen who picked out the pink suede platforms. The assistant, laden with clothes, bustled off to the counter to pack it all in tissue paper and the kind of designer boxes I’d only ever dreamed about.
When the assistant said, ‘What a lucky girl to have such a kind mother,’ Ellen seemed to glow with pride, and I decided I’d probably not considered how hard it must be for Ellen to see my mum and me, and all the lovely times we have together.
So, I didn’t correct her, and just said I was very lucky indeed.
Ellen looked a little misty-eyed, took my hand and squeezed it, and then suggested tea at the Pump Rooms.
It was a cold and damp November afternoon, and the light was beginning to fade as we pushed open the revolving door.
The room seemed to steam with the freezing air brought in on coats and gloves, and everyone inside seemed excited to be there, talking at the tops of their voices, glad to have found a seat in the warm.
I sat down, fascinated by the hustle and bustle.
I’d only ever seen a glimpse inside before, and never been for tea.
The scene couldn’t be much changed from the one Jane Austen might have known, I thought, and looking at all the faces, I fancied I could see several resemblances of the characters Jane loved to write about.
There was Isabella Thorpe, a young lady with an eye for the young men who was tossing her hair over her shoulder and staring at a man on an adjacent table until she gained his attention.
Even the arrogant looking man sitting beside her looked just as I imagined her brother, John Thorpe.
I saw his slicked back hair, his leather driving gloves, and an ostentatious key ring informing the world he owned a luxury car.
I spotted Mrs Allen in a fur coat not too dissimilar to Ellen’s, and Mr Allen sitting opposite her, a plaster cast on his leg, rather than a bandaged gouty leg.
But, try as I might I couldn’t see Henry Tilney, which was a real disappointment.
I’ve always had a problem with Henry - I’m blinded by love, I suppose, but I can’t see his face.
I can visualise so much - his wavy hair brushing the top of his starched white shirt, an arched brow, and a quizzical smile, but there isn’t a complete picture.
His coat of sober black presents no problems, the covert strength hiding beneath the satin waistcoat, and the breeches smoothed tautly over his thighs are as clear as if I’ve always known him …
intimately … but his face continues to elude me.
At that precise daydreaming moment, the silhouette of a young man’s profile fell in shadow on the white tablecloth.
It startled me, not least because there was something quite diabolical in the pointed beard, and the way his hair was styled, which made me think of two horns until I looked up and saw that my imagination had run away, as usual.
A young waiter was asking for our order.
Ellen gave precise instructions while I stared, at his goat-like beard, curling moustache, and the wavy hair, stuck up here and there in unruly tufts.
I’m not a fan of either beards or moustaches, and I couldn’t help thinking he should get a razor.
I think he must have caught me staring because his hand went up to his chin, and he stroked the dark hair thoughtfully.
‘Which would you prefer, Caroline … Earl Grey or Darjeeling?’ Ellen was asking.
‘Oh, Earl Grey, please,’ I said, aware that the young man was staring at me. I looked up, and caught his glance. He smiled in a friendly way, and I felt myself blush.
‘Is this your first time in Bath?’ he asked, and I saw Ellen smile as she looked from him to me and back again.
‘No,’ I said, and was going to leave it at that, but I knew Ellen would think me rude if I didn’t answer more politely. ‘I’ve been to Bath once before, but this is my first time at the Pump Rooms for tea.’
‘An excellent choice, though I would say that, of course. The sandwiches are delicious, and the cakes guaranteed to add inches where you don’t want them, though I’m sure you ladies don’t need to worry about that. Let me know what you think of the chocolate éclairs … they’re my favourite.’
He left then with our order, and I stared down at my place, fiddling nervously with my cutlery, determined not to look at his retreating back. Ellen was still watching me, and I knew what she was thinking.
‘What a very charming young man,’ she said looking at me intently, ‘and quite handsome too, though perhaps a little too beatnik for my tastes.’
‘He’d be better looking if he brushed that unruly mop on the top of his head … or had a shave,’ I said, suppressing the urge not to giggle at Ellen’s comments.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘I don’t know why men like growing facial hair so much. I’m sure if they were kissed with wire wool every morning, they would stop it, immediately.’
I laughed, especially when I thought about Roger’s bushy beard, and before we’d both stopped giggling the waiter was back with a tray of teapots and china.
I watched him take Ellen’s napkin and flick it out with a flourish before placing it on her knee, and then waited in dread for him to do the same to me.
He seemed to bend right over until I was staring at his ear and the sideburns that melded into his beard.
He straightened, and I caught his fragrance, a hint of Bergamot, but sharper than the scent of the tea that he proceeded to pour into delicate china teacups.
‘Would you like me to pour the milk?’ he asked.
Ellen declined his offer, and said we should prefer to do it ourselves.
‘Have you been here long?’ he said, placing the jug before her.
‘We’ve just arrived this morning,’ said Ellen, pouring a spot of milk into her tea, ‘and as you see, we’ve been shopping already.’
‘Ah yes, ladies love shopping in Bath, and there’s lots to be done before Christmas. Have you got much planned while you’re here?’
‘We haven’t made exact plans yet, but I’m sure I shall be doing a lot of shopping,’ Ellen replied, beaming up at him.
‘I meant have you many activities planned … are you going to the Christmas ball, for instance?’
He was looking at me now, and I had no idea of the answer.
‘I shall certainly see about tickets,’ Ellen said, ‘and I’m sure Caroline would love to go dancing.’
‘Well, everybody in Bath will be there … it’s always a very grand affair … black tie and ball gowns, and lots of people jigging about who don’t know how to do the old dances. Though none of that matters, there are dances for everybody, and they all jump up to do “the twist” after a few drinks.’
‘Oh, Caroline, doesn’t that sound wonderful? And it would give you a chance to wear your new frock.’
I smiled weakly, thinking that my idea of fun was very far removed from the kind of ball he was describing, and wished the young man would hurry up and go and get our food. I think he sensed what I was thinking and left us, not before he’d winked and grinned at me.
‘He looks a bit like that Swedish singer, only not as filled out, don’t you think?’ Ellen said. ‘You know, the one from Abba … is it Bjorn?’