Chapter 33. Miss Austen Entertains
There followed the happiest, most relaxed afternoon Scarlet could recall since – well, girlhood!
With the baby in a shawl-sling they explored Jane’s old house in the company of a large, friendly group of Japanese tourists all oohing and ahing and picture-taking.
“I didn’t know she was only forty-one when she died,” said Scarlet, feeling sadder than she’d felt since her own separation, “She seemed so mature.”
“Luckily, she left sufficient books to delight us,” said Pom. “Not just tantalizing glimpses, the way it is with most artists who died young.”
“I think you’re agreeing with me,” said Scarlet.
“I suppose I am. She seemed fully formed.”
They gazed in awe at Jane’s “writing table,” a small, round, unremarkable piece of wooden furniture.
“Looks uncomfortable,” commented Scarlet. “Where would she put the finished pages?”
“She must have broken each novel down into small, manageable bits,” Pom suggested. “Just the opposite of the way I work, as you have seen. I like to mess up every part of the studio, as well as the canvas.”
Scarlet, who had always aspired to work at a beautiful desk, said, “I always end up doing my best writing on my lap. In the train, or a café, or somewhere.”
“Poets are lucky,” Pom said. “You can give yourself to inspiration. In my case it’s a hard, disgusting slog – usually for nothing. First you must commit to some physical piece of canvas – prime it and so forth. Too bad for me that I hate drawing, watercolor – nothing easy for the Bronfens.”
“I do wonder what I may be getting into in my new job.”
“The editing doesn’t sound as difficult to me as the old-lady wrangling.”
“That’s just what my husband said.”
Pom sniffed. “Well I certainly don’t want to be like HIM.”
“You’ll meet my employer if she’s in residence. And I don’t know why she wouldn’t be.”
Pom was suitably impressed by her new home’s location, but Scarlet began to worry as she inserted her new key for the first time in the bright green front door. Esmé Hope Bottomley stood on the other side.
“I’m sorry,” gasped Scarlet, “I was hoping not to startle you. Should I have rung?”
“Not at all. I saw you drive up. I was just beginning to think I’d imagined you – a stitch in time, as they say, so long desired.”
“Allow me to present Mr. Pomeroy Bronfen,” said Scarlet, “A neighbor who offered to help. He’s a painter.”
“I’m accustomed to wrestling vast canvases upstairs, so I’d hoped I could be of moving assistance,” said Pom, as he took Miss Bottomley’s hand.
“Any extra pair of willing. manly arms is always welcome at our vast estate,” said Miss Bottomley, blushing like a girl. Handsome Pom was having his effect. “Scarlet – may I call you Scarlet? will show you round.”
“You’re a lucky girl,” he commented appreciatively as he helped her move her trunks to the upper floor.
“I do seem to fall on my feet,” Scarlet agreed. But she warned, “Remember, it’s just for three months. A try-out for us both.”
Her few items were soon moved in. Miss Bottomley had prepared tea downstairs, offering a carefully segmented orange and a sadly stale wholemeal loaf.
“Thank you,” Scarlet sighed as they sat down, “This is very welcome. It reminds me I’ll need to get to the grocer’s.”
“And you do have a nice big car,” said Pom. “If Miss Bottomley needs anything.”
Miss Bottomley positively flirted with him. “Scarlet is fortunate to have such uncommonly attractive errand boy, Mr. Bronfen,” she said.
“I am an errand man,” insisted Pom. “And please call me Pom.”
It turned out that Miss Bottomley had her small weekly allotment of groceries delivered by Sawditch & Sawditch – her bacon, apples, oranges and cheese barely took up one drawer of the vast refrigerator. She offered to “watch” Nick, napping peacefully in his carrycot.
“Simply rock him if he wakes up,” Scarlet suggested. And when she was alone with Pom remarked,
“I think we must buy some fresh vegetables. I worry Miss Bottomley isn’t getting her nutrients.”
Pom’s fond comment sounded indulgent rather than censorious, as it would have been had Ian phrased it. “More Americanisms. I must say I like it. Too many old people subsist on spam and tinned peaches.”
“And that’s only the most fortunate,” said Scarlet. “We’ll see what they’ve got.”
When he insisted on taking the wheel even although the grocers were right around the corner Scarlet teased, “Why Mr. Bronfen, how very American you are becoming.”
Alysse Aallyn 
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