Chapter Six
Caroline
Bath, Somerset
When I woke up I realised I must have dropped off with the journal still in my hand.
It’s a sad fact that my illness still seems to make me very sleepy and sometimes I drift off without being aware that I’m really doing it.
For a moment I didn’t know where I was and felt so disorientated I could have sworn that the room I woke up in was completely changed.
I saw a canopy of fabric above my head; four posts on my bed dressed in flowered chintz, but as soon as I blinked it all disappeared.
I’ve decided I must have been half asleep - I’ve had the strangest dreams, and feel as if I’ve lived another life in another time.
Perhaps it’s reading Jenny’s journal so late at night, but I know I must record it - dreams have such a way of disappearing into thin air, and so I’m writing it all down as rapidly as I can.
As I write, I have the strangest feelings as I recall everything.
I can’t explain it, but I know I’ve experienced vivid visions of all that I’ve read in Jenny’s journal.
But, it’s more than that, and I sense it isn’t just my imagination working overtime - it’s as if I’m seeing life through her eyes.
I can visualise everything - the house she is staying in, the gardens where she walks, and even her sister.
My senses are heightened - I can smell the bowls of overblown summer roses in every room, feel the sun on my face beaming through the window, and I’m aware of the soft folds of muslin clinging against my legs as I walk downstairs in my best black slippers.
There is a very strong image of a dining table set in a room where the lowering sun sparkles on fine china, and where everyone seated round it are chatting happily.
I know as I look at the scene as the observer, I am not feeling the same as everyone else.
And I know it has to do with the girl sitting opposite me - the girl called Philly who wears rouge on her cheeks and has her hair piled in a towering powdered confection on top of her head, with ribbons and lace running through her curls.
I write it all down, as fast as I can, but even as I do so the dream is fading.
The images are disappearing from my head, but strongest of all are the emotions.
I know that I don’t like the girl who stares with contempt in her eyes, and that her undisguised dislike of me is showing on her features.
All I can feel is sympathy for Jenny - I sense it can only be her feelings, and her thoughts I am experiencing, and I know it is making her behave differently, as if she wants to prove that she couldn’t care less that she is being despised across the table.
That’s all I can remember, and though I know there must be more, I just can’t bring it back.
I am left with the same feelings of being just a little put out for being disliked, but with a steely determination not to mind.
Picking up Jenny’s journal, I read the paragraph she devoted to the dinner with their relations, and discover I was right.
Philly looked at me as if she’d just discovered a piece of old cheese, and was unable to look at me without sneering.
It made me very bold at dinner as I tried to prove how sophisticated her country cousins are, but I fear everything I said just came out in such a way as to have quite the opposite effect.
She and my cousin Eliza are as thick as thieves, and when the latter receives a report, as she will undoubtedly do so, it will not be in my favour, and I cannot bear the thought of being laughed at.
I feel the hairs on my arms prickle as if I’ve been touched by a ghostly presence, then realise just how stupid I’m being.
I probably read it before I dropped off to sleep, and my mind has conjured up everything in my dreams. And it’s no wonder I think I can feel Jenny’s emotions - I’ve been reading them, after all.
She’s writing in the first person, and has a way with words that makes it possible to picture her world with very little description.
I’d better stop writing and get out of bed. It’s becoming clear that all this reading isn’t good for my overactive imagination.
***
Since writing the above I’ve had a busy week, and what seemed so stark in reality has now faded and settled back into its proper place.
I think perhaps I ought to keep the journal hidden away for the time being - it’s had such a haunting effect on me that is quite unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, and I’m not sure what to think about it.
Fortunately, the Applebys seem anxious to keep me busy and entertained so I haven’t really had a moment to look at it, let alone read the diary.
Last Friday we went to the Holburne Museum, on Saturday I went with the Applebys to the Roman Baths, and Sunday was taken up with going to church, and walking off our lunch with a long trek down the Kennet and Avon canal.
We’ve been shopping again today, but I don’t mind because the day has turned out to be such an exciting one.
This morning alone has been quite extraordinary, on several counts, but I’ll start at the beginning before I carry on in a muddle.
We ate breakfast first - thankfully, my request for some black cherry Ski yoghurt has come to fruition - sorry for the awful pun, but I’m definitely feeling fitter on it than black pudding and bacon, though I gave in on Sunday when faced with the idea of morning service in Bath Abbey on a less than full stomach.
There has been a change in the weather, and when we stepped outside, it felt as if winter had really arrived with keen winds, sharp as knives, blowing across the river as we crossed Pulteney Bridge.
Ellen seemed even more determined to shop as if her life depended upon it, and we were soon laden down with purchases.
We were walking up Milsom Street for the umpteenth time when a lady handed us a flyer for a book fair, and when Ellen saw how keen I was to go, she said I ought to carry on and see it.
‘It will do you good to explore Bath a little by yourself,’ she said.
‘Roger and I will take the shopping home and see you later. The Assembly Rooms are only a little further … just cross over George Street and on up Bartlett Street … you’ll soon see it when you get to the top.
I know how much you love a book … you go and treat yourself. ’
With that, she pulled a pound note out of her purse, and thrust it towards me saying she wouldn’t hear of any refusal.
I was beginning to get used to Ellen’s firm ways and knew it was useless to argue.
We said goodbye, and with the sense of freedom I hadn’t felt in a long time I started the uphill climb.
I’d never been to the Assembly Rooms and it struck me that this was a place that Jane Austen knew well and wrote about in her novels.
The book fair was taking place in the ballroom, an exquisitely lofty room painted in pale Regency blue with plaster work up in the ceiling like a wedding cake, crisp and white, where three sparkling chandeliers were suspended.
I could just picture Catherine Morland and Mrs Allen entering the rooms through a crush of people and trying to find a seat where they could watch the dancing.
The room was full today, and with the sounds of people chatting, discussing books or meeting old friends, it was easy to imagine another time where the same people might have been dressed in ball gowns and evening dress.
There were so many book stalls, I didn’t know where to start, but found myself following the crowd round to the left, and luckily I didn’t have to go far before I found a stall dedicated to Jane’s books.
There was a beautiful copy of Northanger Abbey, with illustrations by Hugh Thomson, but a quick look inside the flap told me it was too expensive, and I put it back on the wooden shelf erected on the cloth-covered table, wondering why I’d even picked it up.
It was bound to be out of my price range.
‘Is it Northanger Abbey you particularly wanted to buy?’ said a voice close by. I recognised it immediately as belonging to Harry, and when I turned round both he and Elsa were standing before me with beaming smiles on their faces as if happy to catch me unawares.
‘What a lovely surprise to see you both,’ I said, looking particularly at Elsa. I didn’t want to explore the reasons I found I couldn’t even meet Harry’s gaze, perhaps because I felt him studying my features, which made me feel very self-conscious.
‘Harry will never pass up on a book fair, and he’s always looking for a copy of a book he hasn’t got,’ said Elsa. ‘We don’t share quite the same tastes, but we both love old books.’
‘I’ve been looking for a Peacock edition of Pride and Prejudice for my collection,’ said Harry, ‘but I’m not having any luck this afternoon.’
‘Oh, you like Jane Austen,’ I said, knowing I’d betrayed myself once more with a high-pitched squeal of surprise. I really must learn to speak only when I’ve thought about what may come out of my mouth.
Harry was smiling again, but one eyebrow was twitching up and down, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was talking to someone who was so obviously judgemental. ‘Yes, I believe many men do, though some people think she’s an author just for girls, I suppose.’
‘Unbelievable,’ I said. ‘Who on earth would think like that?’
When he winked I knew he’d seen through me yet again, and then I could only turn the same puce shade as the carpet protecting the dance floor, and felt I might expire with heat, as a trickle of liquid ran down my spine. The jumper I was wearing felt clammy and prickly, all at once.