Chapter Twenty
Caroline
Chawton, Hampshire
There was plenty of time to think about Cassy and Jane on the way home to Chawton, and the events that seemed more real than the life I was living, engrossed and fascinated me in a way I hadn’t felt before.
It was a shock to find myself in the twentieth century, and for the first time I realised I didn’t want to be back.
I wanted to stay there, even if I felt something of the despair that Cassy had about Mr Fowle.
I knew exactly how she was feeling. There was no way to describe the experience, except to record that when I was there in the past, Cassandra consumed me, taking over every thought, and every cell in my body.
I knew nothing else, and could not remember anything about myself, except that I was Miss Cassandra Austen of Steventon, Hampshire.
When I returned, the feelings subsided, and I became my own self again, but every time it happened it took longer to recover.
My mind lingered in that slower time and I couldn’t adjust quickly to the fast pace of modern life.
I would have to learn to let go of her more easily, I thought, but then I realised that being back at home, it would not happen again.
I’d left Cassy and Jane behind and would have to learn to get on with my life.
And it wasn’t just those delightful sisters I would miss - I thought of Harry and the lovely times we’d shared - his kisses remained with me, as if he were just there moments ago.
I hoped that he’d write to me every day, and though I might be selfishly thinking of my own desires, I hoped I wouldn’t have to wait too long to hear from him.
Fitzrovia, London
March 1976
It’s been three months since I picked up my journal, and I find myself in the middle of March in a mood for contemplation and picking up where I left off.
I haven’t felt like writing, and trying to adjust to my old life has been more difficult than I thought it would be.
I’m trying to work out what on earth happened to me when I was in Bath, and can only come to the conclusion that the combination of being ill, of being obsessed with my favourite author and the experience of falling in love for the first time all had the most peculiar effect on me.
My “experiences in the past” I’ve put down to the fact, as Jane Austen would say, that “I was in a very interesting state” - my mind and sick body colluded to make me feel I’d had some kind of supernatural experience.
I decided just a couple of days before Christmas that I didn’t want to read any more of Jane’s journal because of the strange dreams I’d been having, and I’ve decided to put my interest in the author aside while I try and get back into my work.
The journal is locked up safely in the writing box, which now has a place on the bookshelves in my room.
I feel much happier and safer now my mind is not deluding itself, and I’m learning to leave everything that happened in Bath behind - even if Harry still has a way of creeping into my dreams when I least expect it.
We had a lovely Christmas, just Mum and me.
She managed to bat off several well-meaning relatives who offered to invite us for Christmas dinner, in favour of spending it by ourselves.
I’d missed her so much, and I realised I’d missed home very much too.
I loved returning to find the Christmas tree waiting to be decorated, and all the traditions I love - wrapping up presents, carol singing at midnight mass, opening presents, stuffing ourselves with turkey and all the trimmings before falling asleep in front of the television.
Ellen and Roger invited us over on Boxing Day, and I wore my locket with a black jersey dress that Mum made for me when I was away.
We had a fun time with the Applebys and some of their friends, and in typical fashion everything was luxurious and sparkling, from the sumptuous furnishings and chandeliers in the drawing room to the champagne flutes and porcelain in the dining room.
There were expensive table presents for everyone.
Mine was a beautiful bracelet, not Georgian this time, but Victorian, in heavy silver, and chased with leaves and flowers.
I thanked them again for the wonderful trip they’d given me, and Ellen said she hoped we’d have many more together.
My painting was lovingly displayed in the drawing room and everyone made such lovely remarks I felt very embarrassed.
When we were going home, Ellen had tears in her eyes and said how much she was going to miss me when I returned to my flat in Fitzrovia.
I suggested we should meet up regularly in town, and she seemed very happy with that.
It’s been difficult trying to catch up on all the work I’ve missed, but I’ve loved being with my friends again, and living a more independent life.
To have a flat in Fitzrovia sounds really glamorous, I know, but though the house is vast, and looks out across the square and its beautiful gardens, for which we’re not allowed a key, my rooms are up in the attic space where skylights give me no views except that of other rooftops, and the criss-cross of wooden beams take up far too much space.
It’s freezing in winter, and stiflingly hot in summer, but it’s a good size for being creative in, and the dressmaker’s dummy I call Nelly, has already had several changes of costume this term.
I haven’t heard from Harry - call me old-fashioned, but I decided I wouldn’t write to him unless he wrote to me.
I’ve thought about every excuse for him that I can possibly think of from the postal service in Wales not being very good at Christmas to there being some sort of postal strike in Bath, but the fact remains I have not had a letter.
He’s probably been working hard too, like me, or maybe he’s simply forgotten my existence.
I’ve seen Piers a few times, and we went to see Simon in his show, which was fantastic, and such a treat because I hardly ever get a chance to go to the theatre.
He’s invited me round to his flat tomorrow for a party, and he’s said Simon and lots of his theatrical friends will be there.
My friend Imogen from art school, has been invited too, so we’re looking forward to getting dressed up and going out - a rare occurrence while I’ve been trying to catch up with my work.
I never thought I’d do it, but I’m almost back on track.
My tutors are very kind, and have given me an extension on the handing-in date.
I may just get it all done and finish the year successfully.
***
I knew as soon as I walked into the large drawing room overlooking Hyde Park, that it was going to be a lovely evening, and almost instantly when Piers introduced me to his friend Dante, that I’d been set up.
Tall and dark, Dante was the very image his Pre-Raphaelite name conjured up with flowing curls waving back from a tanned face and divine features - an aquiline nose, generous mouth smiling in obvious amusement at the tactics of his friends, and striking green eyes.
Bohemian, yet expensively dressed, I couldn’t imagine he’d be interested in me for a moment.
He was in his late twenties and seemed so sophisticated, that I immediately became a bundle of nerves and lost my tongue.
Piers and Simon had even found Imogen a man too, all cheekbones and slicked back blonde hair with more than a hint of Rudolf Nureyev about him - though he immediately apologised for his inability to dance, so any romantic notions of him moving balletically in a performance of Giselle quickly evaporated.
We later found out he was nothing short of being a real prince, related to one of the aristocratic families mentioned in Tolstoy’s War and Peace.
‘Dante is a fashion photographer,’ Piers said, and I realised just why he thought we’d get on.
Piers held my gaze with such a look of encouragement, as he handed over two glasses of champagne and told Dante what a marvellous fashion designer I was going to be, that I hadn’t the heart to be cross with him.
I was tongue-tied at first, but Dante seemed genuinely interested in finding out about me.
He reminded me of Harry in so many ways I couldn’t help thinking about him or comparing the two of them.
It’s so rare to find any guy who isn’t self-obsessed, chauvinist or both, I’ve found, and while he couldn’t match Harry in every way, I liked talking to him.
He listened attentively to everything I said, asking question after question about my life and passions, that we talked for almost an hour before I found out anything about Dante or what his work involved.
‘Have you been a photographer long?’ I asked at last.
‘Seven years now … I started doing the usual portraits and weddings, but managed to get introduced to some incredibly talented fashion people and the rest is history. I’ve been very lucky; some of my clients have included Zandra Rhodes, Bill Gibb and Barbara Hulanicki, though I’m as happy to find new talent.
An up and coming designer is just as exciting to me as a seasoned one. ’
He smiled, and I was aware he’d stopped talking and was really studying my face. His green eyes were kind and twinkling in the soft light, and for the first time in three months I felt a flicker of feeling, as my heart beat just a little faster. He put his hand out to touch my arm briefly.
‘Piers suggested I might like to take you under my wing. I’d be very happy to show you a slice of life in the fashion world.
As a matter of fact, I’m photographing a collection for a brand new designer tomorrow.
There’s a lot of sitting around, and it’s not all glamorous by any means, but I’d love you to join me. ’