I felt her track my gaze to the boots and back. When our eyes met again, hers danced with laughter.
“Aren’t they marvelous? I was crossing from the side garden when I saw your car.” She pulled her hand from a gardening glove and stretched it toward me. “Welcome to Braithwaite House. I’m the manager, Gertrude. You must be Miss Dwyer.”
“I am.” Isabel stepped fully in front of me and captured her hand. “Isabel Dwyer. It’s nice to meet you, and this is my friend, Mary Davies.”
Gertrude nodded at the rushed introduction and peered at me over Isabel’s head.
“It’s lovely to meet you as well, Miss Davies.” She cast her gaze beyond us to the driver. A single flick of her fingers conveyed he was to bring our bags in a side door somewhere to the left. She then retreated into the house and wiggled the same fingers to beckon us to follow.
“You are the third academic group to stay with us this year. You are the professor?”
“Doctoral candidate.”
Gertrude continued. “First your Jane Austen Society of North America came to town last spring, then we hosted Harvard’s English department in July.”
“The entire English department?” Isabel’s mouth dropped open.
I suspected the rest of her thought had fallen out. I bumped her. “UT’s endowment is big too. Get tenure, then make a plug for this.”
“Shh . . .”
Gertrude’s pink boots squelched across the marble floor. “Come through to the Day Room—that’s what I like to call it. I had Duncan lay a fire there to chase away the damp.”
I lagged behind, not wanting to miss a single detail—the black-and-white checkerboard pattern on the hallway’s marble floor; the oil paintings, landscapes and portraiture, that covered the hallway walls beyond the high arched front foyer; the door and window frames, with their unpainted wood polished to a deep high-gloss brown. The play of light was beautiful across the different colors and textures. A bevel in one of the windows caught an errant sunbeam and shot a rainbow across the floor.
Gertrude waited for me at the doorway of the small sitting room. Entering, I understood why it spilled green light across the hall. Its walls were covered in pale-lime wallpaper with white sprays of flowers. There was a single seating arrangement situated by the fire, composed of two delicate and feminine-looking chairs and a love seat. A small writing desk sat under the window, its chair set at an angle as if someone had been writing letters and had just left the room—maybe to check today’s menu with Cook.
The Day Room, as Gertrude called it, faced the back of the house, where the gardens spread the expanse of a football field before dropping, perhaps into a valley, beyond our vision.
“The Stanleys decorated this as a lady’s sitting room, as it would have been fashioned in the early nineteenth century. They used only historical papers and fabrics. It would have been called a drawing room, and back then one might find the lady of the house writing her correspondence at that desk in the mornings or painting screens near the fire with friends in the afternoon.”
She seemed pleased with our rapt expressions—at least I assumed I looked as hypnotized as Isabel.
Gertrude continued. “The Stanleys are only the second owners in the house’s history. Upon purchase in 2004, they put the house through a full five-year restoration. All work was completely in keeping with the Secretary of the Interior’s Standards for Historic Preservation. And while these Austen offerings focus upon the Regency period, spanning from 1811 to 1820, or the Regency era, which encompasses a larger time period from 1795 to 1837, the main section of the house dates slightly older than that.” She glanced to Isabel and broke into a self-conscious smile. “I get so used to that introduction I sometimes forget. You likely know all that.”
“Not about this house.”
Isabel’s eagerness called forth a more relaxed smile in our host.
“Well, the house is older. Construction began in 1760, but it wasn’t finished and situated with the Duke of Walsham’s family until 1780, which puts it right at the doorstep to the Regency era. And in Bath, Regency is good for business.” Her smile turned yet again. This one felt laced with cynicism.
I tapped off the years on my fingers. “Only the second owner in 258 years? It must have been hard for the Walshams to sell.”
“Braithwaite was the family name and yes, I expect change of any kind is hard.” She spread her hands flat as if offering us the house. “Today you’ll find every service and amenity you can imagine . . . and tea. I’ll send Sonia in with the tray while I register you.”
Gertrude left us to ourselves, and I joined Isabel by the fireplace. I dropped into the blue-and-green armchair across from her and sank into its cushions. “Have you ever?”
“No.”
We sat grinning at each other. I felt just as I did the first day we met in second grade—struck with awe and expectancy. Something new was about to begin.
“Thanks for inviting me. Really, Isabel, I mean that, and I’m sorry I pushed back. It was beyond generous of you.”
She held up her hand. “We both know you pushing back was long overdue. Don’t say any more.”
I opened my mouth, but stopped at her whispered, “Later, Mary. There’s a lot I need to say, but please, not right now.”
I closed my mouth. Something new had already begun. “Later then . . . I wish my mom could see this.”
Isabel nodded. “Me too. She’d love it . . . So would your dad.”
“I’ll need to take lots of pictures.”
Gertrude returned with a young woman carrying a large silver tea tray. The scent of sugar and orange enveloped us. On the tray were balanced a small plate of sandwiches, another with slices of glazed orange cake, two teacups, and a beautiful teapot covered in butterflies.
My stomach growled before I could slam my fist into it. “Excuse me. That was rude.”
“Not at all. You must be starved. But this might sit better than a heavy lunch.” Gertrude reached to unload the tray before it was set down and gave a quick round of introductions.
Sonia, it seemed, was the young woman assigned to us. While she helped with serving, cleaning, and everything else, she was also available at any time of any day for anything we might need.
I felt my eyes widen. This was a role I hadn’t anticipated: mistress with a maid. Was I expected to know what Sonia should do? She was only a few years younger than we were, and I certainly hadn’t expected to say things like “Please arrange my hair” or “Please brush out my skirts” to a woman I might call a friend. I pushed out a weak, “Thank you. I’m Mary.”
Isabel threw me a wry glance, as if I was already messing up the fiction.