The dining room table was so long, in fact, that only five people at it seemed absurd. How hard would it have been for the Project Team to provide us with a few more fake letters of introduction, along with all the fake banknotes? We were new to London, but still—not a single cousin, friend of a friend, godparent? Yet I understood. Each contact increased the chances of running into someone actually from Jamaica, and our risk of exposure. We had to encroach on as little of this world as possible.
I folded my arms and thought. Dishes, silverware, linens—was the flatware sufficiently elegant? A dinner like this would take a lot of candles. I needed to order more.
Was it a good idea to reciprocate Henry Austen’s dinner with a dinner, or would tea suffice? Briefly I was tempted: tea in the drawing room, cake and fruit handed around, so much less to get wrong. But no. A dinner would prove beyond question that we knew how to behave, belonged in this sphere. Assuming we didn’t mess up.
I HAD INTENDED TO CALL ON MRS. TILSON, TO CONSOLIDATE OUR new friendship, but got so caught up in my planning that I lost track of time, and was both glad and mortified when Grace came in to announce that Mrs. Tilson instead had come to see me.
Sitting by the windows in the drawing room, she looked more fragile and pale than she had by candlelight, and I wondered if she was anemic, a common ailment among women who had given birth as much as she had. Probably she’d lost some teeth as well.
“I trust you and Mr. Tilson are well?” She nodded. “And your children. Did I understand that you have the good fortune to have a great many of them?”
“I am mother of eleven.”
“You hardly look old enough, madam, to be. They must be very young indeed.” She was lucky to be alive; giving birth in this era was like Russian roulette. Of Jane Austen’s five married brothers, three would lose a wife to childbirth complications, a tragic but not uncommon ratio.
I fingered the faint bump on my arm where the hormonal implant had gone in, shortly before Departure. I had insisted on the strongest version, preventing not just ovulation but menstruation entirely, which I could not face in a world of thin, light-colored clothing, tragically lacking in tampons. How did women manage it?
“My oldest, George, is sixteen, and little Caroline-Jane just two.”
“I give you joy of them. All healthy, I trust.”
“William, poor object, we lost to putrid fever when he was six.” That was diphtheria, which I had never seen a case of and would have loved to hear more about, but she was continuing: “And little Georgiana lived only a few days, the sweet angel.”
“I am truly sorry.”
Mrs. Tilson’s eyes were moist with tears she blinked back. “But the rest are cheerful things, and sturdy.”
“What a merry household it must be,” I said.
The conversation stalled. How could I steer it to Jane Austen? “You are long acquainted with Mr. Austen, I collect.”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Tilson has the bank with him. They have known each other forever.”
“And you are neighbors; how agreeable. Do you know his family as well?”
“His younger sister, to whom we are all very attached, comes to town quite often these days. After the death of his wife, she tries to keep his spirits up.” She paused. “Not that his spirits seem so low. His resilience is inspiring. Yet how he doted on Mrs. Austen! And they had no children; very sad.”
“Very sad indeed.”
We contemplated the sadness of this for a beat. “So this sister—I suppose her unmarried, that she is free to travel up to town as she wishes?”
“Yes. She and her mother and older sister live in Hampshire near another brother, a very wealthy man. It was he who gave them a cottage to live in, and a dear, cozy little place it is, or so I am told.”
“I am unfamiliar with the English customs—is that unusual? Ladies living on their own?”
Mrs. Tilson considered. “Not improper; but few have the means. And there is usually a bachelor or a widower in the family who needs someone to keep house, as with you and your brother.” She paused. “I think they enjoy their life as it is.”
“Indeed?” I tried to look politely interested, instead of madly curious, hoping she would enlarge on this. She didn’t. “What are they like? Are they charming, like Mr. Austen?”
Her keen look made me I realize I had said too much. “They are. Though the older sister is more reserved; the younger has something of Mr. Austen’s lightness. But you will meet her; she is coming to town soon. A neat little creature, very quick.”
“Quick in what sense?”
“In every sense. With a needle, or a pen, or her wit.” Mrs. Tilson continued more softly: “She writes novels, you know. It is supposed to be a great secret, and she does not publish them under her name, to be sure. But her brother tells everyone, so no harm telling you. I am no novel reader, but I enjoyed them.”
“I wonder if I have read any. How are they titled?”
Mrs. Tilson listed the three that had been published by then. I did not have to feign delight when I said they had found their way to Jamaica, and I had loved them all. “To think I may meet their authoress! Such a thing is more than I dared to dream of, when I resolved to come to London.”
“But you must not mention you know this, Miss Ravenswood, do not raise the subject; let her do so, if she chooses, that is my advice to you.”
“I quite understand. Is she, I wonder . . . An authoress! Oh, what is she like, madam?”
“Nothing of the scribbling bluestocking about her. She has a great elegance of mind. And is very good with children.” A pause. “Her sister, though I do not know her as well—she would be the one you might suspect of writing.”
“Why?”
“A more formidable sort” was all Mrs. Tilson offered. “Yet I admire her greatly, too; a very pious lady. Delightful family, all of them. Two brothers in the Navy, you know, another in the church. And the one adopted by his relations, to inherit a fortune.” Another pause, briefer, and she reached out and touched my hand. “Dear Miss Ravenswood! How glad I am to have made your acquaintance.” She had risen to her feet, bringing me to mine. As I walked her downstairs and out into the hall, I glanced at the clock and saw that twenty minutes had elapsed, the perfect amount of time for such a visit. Mrs. Tilson was turning away and nearly out the door before I remembered to ask her about the following Tuesday.
“DINNER?” LIAM PUT DOWN HIS TEACUP. “NEXT WEEK? ARE YOU sure?”
“Mrs. Tilson has already said she and her husband will come, so it has to be.”
“Short notice to plan a dinner.”
“That’s what Mrs. Smith said, too. But she came around.” I resisted observing that Mrs. Smith had to do the work, while Liam was merely raising objections. “We don’t have time to lose.” He did not reply, a silence I took as assent. “You know what we need, though? A footman. Can you work on that?”