She wished to wait longer, but the case seemed quite hopeless. Fred had clearly departed already to the next destination without her. On top of this, the hour by then must have reached a hideous number, and Mama likely tore hairs from her head. Eventually, she sighed and realized she must give up the cause. It was time to return home to face the scandalous fate that awaited her. If she saw Fred again at another assembly, she would force out an apology and attempt to sound sincere.
Jane walked down the lane toward town and sought her bearings. The black iron spire of St. Swithin’s rose up into the sky in the distance. Jane walked toward the landmark. She arrived at the brick steps to the church and looked around. A cobblestoned road led to Pulteney Bridge. She followed it, then turned left and crossed the bridge. The Avon rushed below her in a soft current. She scurried down Great Pulteney Street. The grand houses of the row loomed above her in shadows of blue and black. She reached Sydney Place and turned left again and walked toward her house. She sighed with relief. The crowd of concerned townsfolk had dispersed from Sydney House, at least. No one walked in the street.
Jane knocked on the main door. No one answered. “Margaret,” she called up to the first-floor window. The housemaid did not come, but a man opened a window.
“What do you want?” he called down to her, startling Jane. He wore nothing but underclothes, and from the window he stood at, he seemed to be standing in her bedroom.
She scratched her head. “I am Jane Austen, sir,” she called up to him. “I live in this house. Please let me in.”
“Please leave,” he called down to her. “I’ve told you groupies before, if you come around here at night, I’ll call the police.”
“I don’t understand,” Jane said to him. “I’m cold. Won’t you please let me in? Or fetch Margaret, at least—she will open the door for me.” She felt her face make a forlorn look.
The man sighed. “Look. While I applaud your passion for her—and I think your costume is spot-on, by the way—I’m trying to run a hotel here, and if you keep shouting, you’ll wake up my guests.” He shut the window and pulled down the blind. Jane knocked on the door again. “I’m calling them now!” the man shouted.
Jane stepped backward onto the street and shook her head. Her mind raced with confusion. She waited outside Sydney House. An hour passed, but no one came or went. The temperature dropped. Jane shivered in the darkness; she needed to find shelter lest she transform into an ice sculpture. She gave up on Sydney House for now and walked back over Pulteney Bridge, returning to St. Swithin’s, a church her father occasionally performed services at even though he’d formally retired. She climbed through the loose iron-glass window toward the rear and jumped down inside. She located a stash of red velvet prayer pillows and lay them on the floor. The cold marble made her shiver but as soon as she rested her head, the nervous energy of the day drained away and exhaustion gripped her. She closed her eyes and soon fell asleep.
Chapter Twelve
Jane woke to a blunt object prodding her shoulder. She opened her eyes. An old man wearing a clergyman’s collar was poking her with a walking stick.
“Do you need some crack, dear?” he whispered.
Jane rubbed her eyes. Next to the parson stood an old woman.
“Enough with the crack chat. You’re obsessed,” the old woman said to him. From the way she squinted at him, with decades’ worth of resignation, Jane figured the woman was his wife. “You think everyone is on crack.”
The parson shrugged. “She looks like she could do with some.” He turned back to Jane. “There’s a funny-looking fellow by the stop for the thirty-nine bus. Name’s Scab. He’s reasonable, I hear. He’ll do you a deal,” he said.
“Do you know George Austen?” asked Jane. “He sometimes performs services here, when other curates fall ill. He’s my father.”
The parson shook his head. “Never heard of him. I don’t mean to be un-Christlike, but I called the police.”
Jane sat up, horrified. “For me? Why did you do such a thing?”
“I’m sorry,” said the parson. “I saw you sleeping here, and I panicked! That’s why I’m telling you about Scab and the crack. I feel bad about the whole calling-the-police thing. I thought maybe a nice bit of crack would make up for it. Do you like crack?”
Jane squinted. “I am unsure.”
“See, Bill,” exclaimed the old woman, “she’s not a drug addict!” She shook his arm. She wore a dress painted with sunflowers. The fabric rippled in the morning breeze that blew through the window Jane had left open.
“Yes, Pert. Thank you,” said the parson, pulling the window shut with a grimace. “I see that now. But what was I supposed to think with her sleeping on the floor?” He placed a hand on Jane’s shoulder. “To recap. I’ve called the police. That may have been rash. But let’s look on the bright side. Now you know, you’ve got a head start. I wouldn’t dawdle.”
The oak front doors crashed open. Two men dressed in black entered the church and paused, looking around. “That was quick,” said the parson.
Jane sprang to her feet. “Are those the constables?”
“I think one is a sergeant, to be fair,” the parson said. He squinted at the two men as they walked down the aisle. “But yes.”
“What should I do?” Jane pleaded.
“Make a run for it!” said the parson. “You can escape out the back.”
Jane ran for the altar. She darted into the transept to exit through the back door. The wall of the transept held a brass plate.
