“I could find it in my heart to believe you, my dear, Eliza said comfortably, “did not the wind blow to our backs at present.”

I HAD REASON TO PONDER ELIZA'S WORDS WHEN ONCE I HAD SEEN her safely into the care of her devoted maid, Manon, and her little dog, Pug, in the rooms Henry had engaged at the Golden Lion. I was returned once more to the street, and only steps from my cottage gate, when a brief scene unfolding near a shopfront opposite, drew my curious eye. A flash of a scarlet cloak, a stream of unbound blond hair, and the angelic features of Seraphine — and behind her, Mr. Sidmouth, his brows drawn down in an expression of angry contempt. Another man — a common labourer, and quite astoundingly tipsy, by his wavering appearance — was lounging in the shop doorway, an unattractive leer upon his face. That he had only just unburdened himself of a phrase of abuse, I read in his countenance; and knew Sidmouth's anger to be the result. Seraphine, to her credit, appeared unmoved. Her noble head was high, and her carriage graceful; she moved, as always, as though possessed of wings. I bent my head, much intrigued by what had passed, but desirous of drawing no attention from their quarter; and in a moment I had gained the safety of the cottage door. One further glance sufficed to tell me that the intimates of High Down were turned the corner; and I breathed a sigh of relief. But why? Why this emotion at the sight of him, and in her company? A man of whom I know next to nothing, and have even less reason to think well of; a man so little likely to prove congenial to my sensibility or expectations? The ways of the mind and heart are sometimes past all understanding.

Except, I am reminded, for the Elizas of this world.

6 September 1804

CASSANDRA AND I WERE ROUSED FROM SLEEP AT DAWN BY THE HUE and cry of a large party of men; and when I had stumbled to the window, and o'erlooked the lightening Cobb[17], I found them to be racing back along its length in an attitude of urgency. I might have spared a thought, in my fuddled state, to wonder at such a noise; but, in truth, I merely felt all the strength of honest resentment, in being roused so early by a party of brawling flsherfolk. Though I have lived more than three years in Bath, and must be accustomed to the sounds of a city's daybreak, I have not yet forgot the felicity of early-morning birdsong, and the gender down of the country. And so I gaped, and glared once more upon the beach, in the direction from which the men were running — and started where I stood.

For the first rays of a rising sun had picked out the end of the stone pier, to reveal erected there a scaffolding ominous in its outlines, even from the distance at which I beheld it; and depending from its crossbar, what appeared to be a bundle of clothing, swaying dejectedly in the stiff breeze off the sea. It must — it could not be other — than a parody of a man; a straw form, perhaps, for burning in effigy — or so my bewildered thoughts insisted, as I gazed with palpitating heart. For if it were truly a man, then he could not be otherwise than hanged. And how a man should meet his end in so extraordinary a manner— in a place I well knew to have been free of a gibbet only the previous afternoon — was past all understanding.

As I watched, a wave rose up and broke whitely against the rocks, drenching the crossbar's nerveless form, and the cries of the fleeing fishermen drew nearer.

“What is it, Jane?” came Cassandra's sleepy voice behind me. “A fire?”

“Nothing so general in its destruction,” I said slowly, “though perhaps as inexplicable.”

WHEN I HAD DRESSED, AND BADE THE HOUSEMAID, JENNY, TO SUPPLY Cassandra with tea and toast, I slipped on my bonnet— which was Leghorn straw, quite new, with an upturned brim and violet ribbons — and ventured out of doors. I had told my mother I wished to purchase a pair of gloves, my own being unhappily spotted from the effects of Monday night's rain; but, in truth, I intended to find what the townsfolk might tell me, of the body at the end of the Cobb.

I opened the picket gate, and turned onto Broad Street, making my way with care towards the linendraper's on Pound. Harding and Powell's is a bow-fronted building with a cheerful entry, much frequented by the Austens the previous year; indeed, the fifteen yards required for Cassandra's pink muslin, which I should wear this very evening, were purchased in the shop. But beyond the delights of its lengths of silk and lawn, its ravishing soutaches and braids, its pretty little bunches of purple grapes, ideally suited for the adorning of a straw hat with violet ribbons — the shop was the centre of gossip, according to the temper of its principal clerk, a fellow by the name of Mr. Milsop.

A bell tinkled prettily as I thrust open Harding's bottle-green door and stepped inside. The interior was pervaded with a peculiar mixture of scents, of the sneeze-inducing variety — part camphor, part dried roses, part good new cloth. I glanced quickly about, and found my eye drawn to a sprigged muslin exactly the colour of clotted cream, a shade I may pass off with a fair measure of success; but turned away with some regret, mindful of my errand.

A group of three very fine ladies was gathered at the counter, desirous of service — or perhaps of conversation; for I perceived the very Milsop, waspishly thin, and resplendent in a sky-blue tailcoat, striped breeches, and stiff white cravat, one elegant hand at rest upon the counter's edge, and the other holding high a quizzing glass[18], the better to study his fair audience — with the occasional glint of sunlight, in catching the glass unawares, completing the dazzling effect.

And thus we have the caricature of our age — a gentleman of weak understanding, who apes the form of gentility in an effort to supply his want of substance. But I was not to be afforded further moments for contemplation, or assays of philosophy; the bell had drawn notice; I was seen and — to my great surprise — remembered. The paragon stiffened; the quizzing glass dropped on its silken cord; and condescension gave way to beatific pleasure.

“Can it be? Is heaven so benevolent? Do I see before me the very Miss Austen — Miss Jane Austen — who brightened the tedious hours of an endless September past; whose delicate step, and dulcet voice, could lift my heart with her every visit — whose taste remains so far above Lyme, that I wonder at her repairing once more to these sadly dismal shores; whose understanding, penetration, and cunning ways with hat-trimming are not to be equalled? Or should I say,” — with a sudden recollection of the aforementioned audience — “equalled only by the ladies who stand before me now? And by her own sister as well, the lovely Miss Austen — but can it be?”

To stem a further efflorescence of this kind, I hastened forward, the embodiment of womanly virtue, and extended a gloved hand to Mr. Milsop. It was decidedly spotted, and a delicate frown twitched about the draper's eyes as he bowed gallantly low.

“I am come, as you see, Mr. Milsop,” I began, with a nod to the ladies, whose company had parted coolly for my admittance, “under the direst necessity of a new pair of gloves. I was incommoded by a dreadful storm Monday last; and my things were all quite ruined with rain and mud. But I trust you shall have something that will answer.”

“Answer? Answer? I have gloves that are ravishing, Miss Austen, gloves whose charms could never be denied. Silk gloves, in lilac and peach blossom; doeskin gloves, in day and evening lengths; knitted silk, or knitted cotton— Ah!” he cried, bending low over a counter and pulling open the glass, “these, perhaps? Or would silk serve better?”