But Jane refused to leave her friend in such a state and the young women continued to wend their way along Milsom Street.
“If a man truly loves, then money should be no object. How many love affairs have been terminated because one party or the other has insufficient funds to make a match?” C.J. bemoaned as they paused outside the window of Moore’s Universal Toy Shop.
“Poverty is a great evil.” Miss Austen was focused on the middle distance and not on her walking companion. Was she thinking of Tom Lefroy? C.J. wondered.
After purchasing a vegetable wash ball from Moore’s, which the proprietor assured his customers would prevent the hands from chapping, remove freckles, and whiten the skin, and “was of superior quality to any ball yet sold in this kingdom,” the ladies continued their morning progress up Milsom Street.
Madame Delacroix’s small salon was crowded with patrons. The Miss Fairfaxes and their mother could be seen through the large window, attempting to bargain with her mercer over the price of a subtly striped silk that would have done little for the coloring of either daughter. Upon seeing Miss Welles and Miss Austen, however, Mrs. Fairfax raised her double chin and ushered her brood out of the shop as though she had no wish at present to be within spitting distance of Miss Welles.
Jane went into raptures and excitedly clutched her friend’s arm when they came to the brand-new bow window of Travers’s. She insisted that Miss Welles accompany her inside the emporium while she indulged her passion for bonnets. Confessing under her breath to her companion that she had not the means to afford such extravagances as the outlandish creations on display, she nonetheless spent a good five or ten minutes trying this hat and that, all with a terribly sober expression on her face, as though she wished the proprietor to believe that she was a truly serious customer.
After finally settling on two particular bonnets and modeling first one, then the other in increasingly rapid succession, she placed a hand inside the crown of each, and holding the elaborate concoctions before her in outstretched arms—the better for Miss Welles to arrive at a proper determination on which was the more suitable of the two—Miss Austen remarked with what C.J. could only describe as absolute deadpan, “I cannot help thinking that it is more natural to have flowers grow out of the head than fruit.” At which point both young ladies were overcome with such fits of laughter that they could not contain themselves, much to the chagrin and disapproval of Travers’s elegant clientele.
The two young women had not been in the milliner’s for very long when the door chime sounded and in walked Mrs. Leigh-Perrot.
“What a happy surprise!” she exclaimed upon seeing her niece. She greeted her in the Continental fashion, placing a kiss on each of Jane’s cheeks.
“Aunt, you remember Miss Welles,” Jane said, and C.J. received the same cordial salutation.
“I must look at the lace,” declared Mrs. Leigh-Perrot as she eyed several different options in the case before her. “I hear Mr. Travers has just gotten a new pattern from Belgium that will be just the thing to spruce up one of my caps. And perhaps there will be a yard or two to spare, to add to an old tea gown.”
The young women placed their reticules on the counter while they continued to try various bonnets, posing in front of the cheval mirror while they simultaneously wielded a handheld glass to afford the fullest view. Jane then found herself enticed by the different varieties of French perfume atomizers, handblown into exotic shapes that resembled genies’ bottles. “I cannot say when I have more enjoyed a shopping excursion,” Miss Austen remarked, enviously eyeing an ivory satin evening reticule. One day, she hoped, when all of England was reading Elinor and Marianne and First Impressions, she would be able to afford any of the luxuries Mr. Travers so temptingly displayed. If only she could overcome the writer’s block that had plagued her since her family had been compelled to retrench. She had found nothing to recommend Bath until she had made the acquaintance of Miss Welles. Perhaps now she might begin to regain her passion for storytelling.
“I must dash; your uncle is expecting me,” Mrs. Leigh-Perrot told her niece as she moved swiftly to the door. But she had barely grasped the brass handle when Mr. Travers halted her progress. “If you will forgive me, madam, please approach the counter.”
The middle-aged woman looked behind her.
“No, madam, it was you I was addressing,” the shopkeeper said, motioning for Mrs. Leigh-Perrot to return to the counter. “My deepest apologies if I am incorrect,” the snooty Mr. Travers added, reaching for Mrs. Leigh-Perrot’s reticule, “but I believe that one of your purchases was . . . not accounted for . . . in our ledger.” C.J. detected a slight twitch at the corner of the woman’s lower lip. “Would you please pass me your reticule,” Travers asked, leaving Jane’s aunt little choice in the matter. He opened the drawstring and found a small brown paper parcel that contained two yards of Mechlin lace and an additional, unwrapped ecru-colored yard that had been stuffed into an inner pocket of the lining. The milliner narrowed his eyes and looked at Mrs. Leigh-Perrot. “Bartholomew,” he called to his runner, “fetch the constable.” The small blond boy darted like a sprinter off the block and dashed out the door, leaving the bells above it jangling madly.
“You will be so good as to wait here, madam,” the shopkeeper told Mrs. Leigh-Perrot.
The older woman was deathly pale, all color drained from her complexion. No doubt the
