“And I suppose I should dress for my promenade with Miss Austen,” C.J. proposed. She beamed in anticipation of her adventure.
C.J. REGARDED HER reflection in the gilt-framed mirror as she remade her toilette. She was accustomed to wearing considerably more makeup than was thought appropriate for young ladies, particularly in this era of naturalism where women were expected to resemble either country lasses or classical statues, neither of which were known for their overuse of powder and paint. The cosmetics now available to her were lead based anyway, so it was probably a good thing to avoid them as much as possible. But oh, my kingdom for a few modern tubes of lipstick and mascara! she thought. Pinching her cheeks as a substitute for a pot of rouge had thus far resulted in more bruises than blushes. As she studied her image, she replayed the morning’s events. “Heavens!” to quote Lady Dalrymple’s outspoken parrot. She went to her writing table, unable to resist the temptation to see what “Cassandra Jane Percival, Lady Darlington” would look like in print, then sanded the signature to hasten the drying of the ink and prevent its smudging. Smiling, she noted that her penmanship had vastly improved. Would that she could flaunt it under Lady Wickham’s nasty beak.
“MY IDEA OF GOOD COMPANY is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation,” Miss Austen sighed extravagantly, as she walked arm in arm with C.J. under a bright sky punctuated with fluffy, cumulus clouds. They strolled past Sydney House, a hotel within the beautiful Sydney Gardens boasting a ballroom, card rooms, coffee and tea rooms, as well as a taproom in the cellar where weary chair carriers and coachmen could while away a spare hour in leisurely pursuits. How many trusting souls, C.J. wondered, had imperiled their lives at the shaky hands of chauffeurs who had been tippling away the afternoon?
Miss Austen was enjoying her first outing in her newly made round gown, which she fancied so well that she was considering having the same pattern made up in a lighter color. C.J. was amused to discover what an eye for fashion her companion displayed. She empathized completely when Jane lamented that her financial constraints ill afforded the opportunity to present herself to the world in as stylish a fashion as she would have preferred, still owning, for example, an outmoded accessory she was now loath to wear in public: a three-year-old coquelicot shawl!
C.J. unsuccessfully suppressed a grin. This afternoon was the fulfillment of one of her lifelong fantasies. To be alone in the company of Jane Austen (and, of all things, talking with her about shopping on a budget!) and, better still, to form a part of the novelist’s circle of relations, friends, and acquaintances! It was sheer, unalloyed ecstasy.
On observing the amber cross that C.J. wore about her neck, Jane was given to remark that she had just received a letter from her brother Charles, who, as a naval lieutenant on the Endymion, was entitled to a financial share of the prize money from the capture of La Furie, a French privateer. She expressed the hope of conveying this information in a letter to her sister, who, she remarked, shared the same Christian name with Miss Welles.
They strolled past the maze, a labyrinthine construction of hedges, which, for C.J.’s edification, Jane identified as one of Bath’s most notorious spots for assignations, illicit or otherwise. C.J. wondered if an assignation could be anything but illicit. “I confess that the merest mention of the word illicit makes me desire to venture forth,” C.J. confided, and elected to explore it immediately. Jane declined to join her, preferring to sit quietly on a nearby bench, as she wished to make some notes to herself and perhaps compose that letter to her sister.
C.J. entered the web of foliage and journeyed deeper and deeper toward its center. The hedges were so high that one could not see over them, reminding her of the mazes at Hampton Court and Leeds Castle; and within a matter of minutes, she had completely lost her way. As everything looked the same, her sense of direction had become entirely unbalanced. Frustrated, she released a vocally trained cry for help that could no doubt be heard well beyond the confines of the leafy configuration.
“Miss Welles, is that you?” a voice called.
“Yes. Your lordship?”
“Stay where you are. I shall come and find you,” Darlington announced; and it could not have been more than two or three minutes, though it felt like an eternity, before his arm protectively encircled her waist. “I have always been rather an ace with puzzles,” he confided with a twinkle in his eye.
“Miss Austen informed me that this was quite a popular place for romantic assignations,” C.J. said, tilting her chin up at the nobleman. “Did you deliberately arrange this with her? I thought she was above such complicity.”
“I hope you have no quarrel with my cousin, Miss Welles. The blame rests entirely with me. I merely suggested to Miss Austen that you might enjoy the maze.”
“Perhaps it is not the custom for ladies of quality to demonstrate such wanton behavior, but I prefer a good romp to maidenly reserve any day, your lordship.”
“I suppose that means you wish me to kiss you.”
Actually, C.J. was ready to be tumbled on the ground, right then and there. “If you did not enjoy last night’s encounter at my aunt’s doorstep, I should be loath to force you to repeat it, your lordship.”
Decorum mattered very little to either of them right now. How could she possibly be expected to conservatively revert to a nonsensical modesty? If God had not wanted men and women to desire one another, C.J. reasoned, the world would literally be a barren landscape.
Darlington needed very little encouragement. One look from C.J. gave license to his hands to explore every curve of her until she felt she would burst the confines of her diaphanous white dress. The sensations
