Page 10 of Searching for Mr Tilney

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.

‘I saw a copy in a Basingstoke bookshop once,’ I answered, trying to get the conversation back on track, ‘it really was the most beautiful book with its tooled gilded cover, but I’d never be able to save up enough money, and when I went again it was gone, and I’ve never come across another. I must admit I love an illustrated book - I have paperback copies of Austen’s novels, but I’ve always loved the paintings of Hugh Thomson and the Brock brothers. Sadly, they always seem to be more than I can afford.’

I always talk too much when I’m nervous and all I could think was that they would both soon find an excuse to go and leave me, but instead Harry turned his blue eyes on mine and spoke in a low voice so I had to move nearer to hear him.

‘I think I’ll be able to help you out a little … there’s a stall just over on the other side that has an edition of an illustrated Northanger, but what makes it a bit more affordable is the fact that it’s lost its dust jacket. And you can always haggle to get a little more off the price.’

I finally met his expression to see Harry’s friendly face, and realised just how daft I was being. He had the kindest eyes, and a warm smile.

‘Will you come with me?’ I asked. ‘I must admit, I’ve never haggled for anything in my life, and I feel a bit nervous about doing so.’

‘Of course.’ Harry reached out and touched my arm to reassure me. It set me tingling, and I was sorry when he took his hand away. ‘Let’s go together, and I’ll do the talking, if you like.’

I watched Harry take out the book, look through its pages with a frown before placing it back on the shelf.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the bookseller. ‘That’s a lovely example of Hugh Thomson’s work, a 1950s edition of an old classic.’

‘Though it’s missing its cover,’ said Harry picking up the book again, and his brows knitted together in another frown. ‘The corners are a little bumped too, and there’s a piece of tissue missing from the frontispiece. I’d take it if you were to let me have it half price.’

I felt myself catch my breath at his nerve, and hoped the bookseller hadn’t noticed. He took the book off Harry and I watched as he examined it, peering over his glasses and squinting at the pages.

‘Well, there’s a little bit of foxing too, here and there … it’s clearly suffered from a damp garage. I think I could match the reduction you’d like,’ came the good-natured reply, ‘especially if it’s a gift for the young lady.’

And before I could get my purse out Harry had his wallet in his hand and was handing over the money as the bookseller wrapped the book in a striped paper bag.