“The poor lambkin. And she never even raised a cry for help. Not so much as a whimper. Do you think she’s a mute, Sir Samuel?” The birdlike woman glanced anxiously at her companion. The gentleman extended a gloved hand to C.J., who shakily placed her palm in it, allowing him to lift her to her feet.
“Th-thank you, sir,” C.J. stammered, groping for her best British accent. “I shall be all right in a moment or two.”
“You suffered quite a dreadful panic, miss,” the good Samaritan said. “Will you allow us to fetch you anything?”
“No, thank you, sir. You are too kind.”
The Samaritan’s lady whispered something in his ear, to which the gentleman nodded and smiled. “Here you go, miss,” he said, drawing a silver flask from the deep pocket of his coat.
“What is it?” C.J. asked hesitantly, inspecting the container.
“Just a dram or two of brandy to set you on your feet all right.” The man offered the opened flask to C.J., who brushed her nostrils over the top, tentatively inhaling the spirits. The stinging aroma was so pungent it nearly made her eyes water.
“It’s no trouble. Just take a big swallow,” the man encouraged. “It’ll set everything to rights. Go ahead now, dearie. There’s naught to fear; it’ll not harm you.”
C.J. put the flask to her lips and took a huge swig of the alcohol. Not having anticipated its degree of potency, she coughed and spluttered as soon as it reached her tongue, practically releasing all of it into her gloved hand. “Holy—good God!” she exclaimed. The brandy was undoubtedly the strongest stuff she had ever ingested. What little she had actually swallowed seared her throat as it made its journey toward her innards. “Thank you, kind sir. And you too, madam,” she said hoarsely, managing a faint smile as she returned the silver flask to its owner.
After insisting that C.J. demonstrate to them that she was steady enough on her feet to require no further assistance, the Samaritan couple bid her a happy Easter, leaving C.J. to continue the exploration of her new and strange surroundings.
She continued to walk the length of Great Pulteney Street, her steps taking her to Sydney Place, at the apex of the road, just across from where the formal gardens began. Finding herself in front of number four, C.J. stopped and stared at its façade with the reverence of a pilgrim who has reached his destination. Recalling the research she’d done on Jane Austen before her By a Lady auditions, C.J. knew that the Austens had moved to this address sometime in 1801. The house seemed dark and still. Perhaps the novelist was still a guest of her aunt and uncle, the Leigh-Perrots, in the Paragon.
Hoping for a glimpse of her idol, she decided to locate the town house at One Paragon, but realized she hadn’t the faintest idea where it was. C.J.’s memories of modern Bath provided a familiarity with some of the most famous locations and streets, but she could not remember ever having come across the Paragon, except in biographies of Jane Austen and Sarah Siddons. But by the time she reached the Royal Crescent, she was exhausted and equally unsuccessful in her attempts to find the Paragon, not even certain whether she was hunting for a street, a square, a close, or a crescent.
It was dusk when she returned to the main square by the Abbey and the Pump Room. The lamplighters in their dun-colored coats and black knee-length breeches had begun the swift completion of their appointed rounds, their illuminations lending the night air a strangely pungent and unfamiliar odor. Here, now, in 1801, Bath was ahead of London in civil engineering. As the mecca for the ton, the influential Georgian glitterati, the spa city’s streets were fully paved and illuminated, and the sewers had all been placed underground, owing to the tremendous volume of pedestrian traffic in such a small area.
C.J.’s feet felt brutalized after spending so many hours navigating unforgiving stone walkways in her fragile slippers. A stinging pain accompanied each subsequent step she assayed. Her back ached and she felt grimy and exhausted. If the opportunity had made itself known to her, she would have seriously considered bartering her body for a soft bed and a hot bath.
By now the streets were quiet, save for the occasional rumble of a carriage. There was no open coffeehouse or shop in which to seek shelter, no bench on which to rest, and she had not realized until that moment just how hungry she was. C.J. reached into her reticule, half hoping again that some miracle of fate would have placed an English coin or two in the small drawstring purse so that she could purchase something to eat; but of course she found only the comb and handkerchief. She slid to the ground in the shadow of the Ionic colonnade by the Pump Room, wondering how—or if—or when—she might ever be able to return to her own century. It had been an extraordinary day trip, but the novelty was now wearing thin. She was tired, scared, and alone.
Tightly wrapped in her coquelicot shawl, C.J. huddled against the base of the stone colonnade, the magnitude of her predicament resulting in a flood of hot and baleful tears. She was hungry. She was hopelessly broke. And she was homeless.
Chapter Three
In which an act of desperation leads to dire consequences resulting in a taste of English justice, whereupon our heroine is delivered into the hands of a crafty rescuer.
C.J. WAS ABRUPTLY AWAKENED by the rustle of vendors wheeling
