The vicar performed the benediction over Maggie. “I hereby baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Jane smiled; her father had said the same words many times.
“Amen,” Fred replied.
The vicar poured water over Maggie’s forehead. A boy soprano sang “Amazing Grace,” as they did in Jane’s time. Afterward, the vicar invited the party to the altar to pose for what Jane now knew were called photographs. Fred asked Jane to join him, and she took her place by his side.
Maggie awoke from her slumber at the shock of the talking and fussing. She grizzled like a baby bear, then threatened to cry. The congregation tensed. The sacred mood so carefully engineered by the singing, the chants, the words threatened to crack with the unscheduled wail of tears. Fred looked panicked. Jane took the baby from him, held her, and rocked her on instinct.
The child sensed the motion and waited. Jane played her best hand, smiling down at the child. Jane had a round and pink-cheeked face babies loved. She could elicit a smile from the fussiest, most colicky child. She was Naughty Aunt Jane, beloved by infants. This twenty-first-century specimen reacted no differently.
The child played her hand back. She looked up at Jane and gurgled and smiled, suddenly entranced by Jane and perched on the verge of laughing. Jane heard herself inhale as the baby offered up little smiling gasps of chubby breath, the sweetest sound she ever heard.
Something stirred deep within Jane. A pang of love in the depths of her soul, an unstoppable force beyond cognition. Did a trick in Nature exist more beguiling than this?
Jane had often felt a pang of jealousy when her mother wrote her recipes in verse. Mrs. Austen wrote lines that delighted all with their wit. Her mother loved to read but did so late at night and only if all the socks were darned and the letters replied to. Most nights it didn’t happen. Mama had read half the books Jane had, despite owning twice the age. This made sense, as Jane had quadruple the time. Jane shook her head at her mother’s obsession with her children’s concerns. Mrs. Austen slaved to help Henry find the right curtains for his bank and listened for hours to James’s terrible sermons. Jane saw now the reason: a smile from one’s child becomes the only thing.
She imagined having one of her own, and the child gorgeously sucking Jane dry. She would feed it, wake when it woke, and feel pride in being the only one able to soothe it. This pride would hypnotize her and occupy her time. The little life would swallow up everything, murdering the whim to nurture anything but itself.
“You’re a natural,” Fred said to her. She nodded.
Jane handed the baby back to Fred. He gave her a quizzical look, seeming unsure why she returned the child when they enjoyed such a time together. The congregation smiled and cooed at how Jane had calmed the child, and Fred gazed upon her with love and awe. The perfume of church incense, at first spiced and mystical, now turned Jane’s stomach. She forced her face into a smile and swallowed to push back down the bile that crept into her throat.
THE NEXT MORNING, Sofia greeted Jane with an excited declaration. “Today, we’re trying on wedding dresses.”
Jane protested and shook her head, laughing. “No, thank you,” she said.
“Why not, Jane? It will be fun!” Sofia said. “This is the best thing about getting engaged.”
“Sofia. I was only engaged two days ago,” Jane said. “I don’t need wedding clothes just yet.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Jane. This is exactly the time. Wedding dresses take months, and these women are the gatekeepers to our dreams. You have to get in early with these people or you will be left behind.” She drained her coffee and grabbed her giant reticule. “This is going to happen, Jane. It’s better if you don’t resist.” She pulled Jane out the front door and they walked into town.
An agreeable-looking man waved to them as they arrived in the center of the village. “This is Derek, my consigliere,” Sofia said. “He will help us find the best gowns on the planet.”
The man held out his hand with a smile. Jane shook it.
“Now, Derek, when we get inside and try things on, if we look hideous, do not hold back your commentary,” Sofia commanded him.
“Yes, Ms. Wentworth. Though I am sure you will look beautiful.”
They toured five dress shops in six hours and emerged empty-handed. Jane felt exhausted. Jane tried on dozens of gowns, all beautiful, but none of them met Sofia’s standards. “We’ve been to every rag shop in Bath,” Sofia said with dismay. “I say we jump on the Eurostar and hit Paris. I have friends there.”
Jane begged instead to be allowed to return home to rest her feet, but Sofia remembered one final shop in the village. “An older place.” She dragged Jane and Derek down the lane, ignoring their protests and rounding a corner onto Westgate Street. Sofia halted and pointed at the shop’s facade. “Here it is.”
Jane gasped at the sight of the shopfront. “I have been here before.” The sign had changed but the name remained the same: Maison Du Bois, the shop in which Mrs. Austen had bought Jane her dress. The Royal Warrant still sat on a brass crest by the door.
“Shall we go inside?”
Jane nodded earnestly and they went in.
It looked as it did before. The white plaster roses still lined the ceiling, the brass cornices still gilded every surface, the glass cabinets still sparkled with a recent polish. The gowns had changed, but the room of two hundred years ago remained as Jane remembered. The attendants still wore red cravats, though they were women now. Sofia ordered one
