Just Jane (5 page)

Mother appears from the parlour, where she had gone to ask after dinner. “What is all the commotion?”

I cannot explain. It is my turn to feel ill.

The innkeeper does it for me. “Her boxes got picked up by another carriage. Your man is going after it.”

She sighs. “Well, then. It’s taken care of.”

My breath leaves me and I offer her a look I know is unkind.

“Well,” she says, looking away. “It is.”

“Now, now, my dear,” says Father. “You must understand how distraught Jane is.”

My anger gives me renewed strength and I stand. “If you will excuse me, I will watch for the horseman’s return at the window.” Mother wisely does not follow.

My thoughts are not generous. That Mother only acknowledges crises if they are her own . . . that she can pass off the tragedy that would ensue—that might still ensue if the man does not catch up with the coach . . .

It makes me wonder. Although she listens when Father and Cassandra implore me to read my stories aloud, I wonder—and this, not for the first time—if she really cares for what I write, or merely endures it, suffering the time as a disagreeable distraction from a more preferred activity.

I hear her talking to the innkeeper. “Some boiled chicken would be nice. And beef. Might you have beef for dinner?”

That she can eat—that she can always eat . . .

I have no words.

*****

Praise God! My prayers are answered.

The coach heading for the West Indies was only three miles away and was intercepted by the horseman. My possessions are returned. After offering profuse thanks to the horseman and Mr. Nottley, after personally seeing my belongings brought to my room, I close the door and assess the tragedy that was thwarted. I kneel on the floor and open the box that holds my manuscripts, old and new. Hours and hours, days and days of work.
First Impressions
is tied with a blue ribbon,
Susan
with green. And
Elinor and Marianne
—the book I work on even now, which I’ve renamed
Sense and Sensibility
—is in two stacks tied with red. One already edited and one yet to be.

I slide a page from under the red ribbon and read.

Elinor, this eldest daughter whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counselor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellent heart—her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn, and which one of her sisters had resolved never to learn
.

I read the last sentence again. It’s not quite right. Two
learn
s too close together . . .

I take the page to a desk by the window, get out my quill and ink, and change the last few words . . .
had resolved never to be taught
.

Yes, yes. Much better.

Since I’m seated and since my work lies before me, I chuse to continue my editing. Perhaps Mother will sit with Father by the fire for hours, allowing me some time to—

There is a knock on the door. “Yes?”

Father peers in, his eyes finding the lost boxes. “You have them.”

“I have them.”

“A happy ending, then?”

“Indeed.”

“Come down to dinner. Your mother has ordered quite a feast to celebrate your goods being returned safely.”

I know my mother’s intent has little to do with the longing to celebrate and everything to do with the desire to appease her appetite.

I glance at the page before me. “I would rather work . . . .”

“All well and good, Jane, but you must eat. Eat first. Then I promise I will keep your mother occupied so you will have your time alone. Agreed?”

Father is so dear. What would I do without him?

*****

Mother is ill. Heat in the throat and that particular kind of evacuation which has generally preceded her other illnesses. On the last leg of our journey, we have stopped just miles from home, in Basingstoke. Mother has insisted on seeing Dr. Lyford, and yet, as she sits with him, they discuss the merits of dandelion tea with as much ease as if we were visiting as friends, not patients. In addition, we hear all the news about King George, whom we had apparently just missed as he passed through town on his way back to Windsor. The King is not well either, but we hear it’s a problem of the mind more than the body. Although I don’t voice it to anyone else, I sometimes wonder about his ability to govern. Especially now with most of Europe under the thumb of the French. We stand alone against the revolutionary Republic. I would not worry even this much if not for Frank and Charles off in the navy and Henry connected to the army.

I digress. Mother. The focus is on my mother and her sickness. Sicknesses.

As I listen to her laugh and chat I find myself questioning . . . I should not think such thoughts. I’m not a doctor. And Dr. Lyford
did
prescribe twelve drops of laudanum at bedtime.

We finish our visit and finally continue home. Home. There is no sweeter word. I could fill a page with but that word and it would still not collect the credit it’s due.

Once there, Mother goes right to bed, leaving Father and me to unpack. Yet when James stops by from Deane to greet us, Mother rallies and has a good visit before returning to bed.

I’ve been put in charge of her laudanum, which somehow pleases me . . . . I administer the twelve drops and she sleeps.

As do I, though I need no medicine to attain that welcome state of peace.

*****

I look at the clock. “But it’s three-thirty and she still sleeps,” I say to Father. The dinner sits on the table before us—set for three.

Father puts a finger to his lips and with a glance upstairs says, “Don’t wake her. She must need the rest. Let’s you and I sup, just the two of us.” Although I feel a twinge of guilt, I accept his offer and even let him hold out my chair. He moves Mother’s dishes to the settee, making the table look right and complete for just us two.

He sits. “There,” he says. “Now it’s a proper dinner.”

Cook has watched all this from the doorway, a platter in her hands. Her face expresses her nervousness, as if she is unsure what to do without the lady of the house in attendance.

“Come, now. Serve Jane and me your offerings. The mutton smells delicious.”

So delicious I fear Mother will smell the aroma even in her stupor and come to join us. That I hope against this disturbs but does not stop the sentiment.

Although Father and I have supped together before—when Mother and Cassandra visited relatives and family—it’s a rare treat, especially at this time, having just returned from many weeks of familial togetherness at Godmersham. To eat a meal, just two . . .’tis a luxury.

“Well, then, Jane. Let us discuss the books we have read lately.”

The
highest
luxury.

*****

I am fickle. I admit this as a fault.

I return from Godmersham, put Mother to bed with her laudanum, and congratulate myself in the silence. With Mother abed, and Cassandra gone, I’m in control of the household—in control of my own time.

But then Nanny Littlewart, our scrub, takes ill, so we have to hire two charwomen. We also hire a new maid who cooks well and sews well but knows nothing about helping Father with the dairy. She shall learn her new duties.

As shall I.

The control which I embraced with such glee after returning from Godmersham becomes tedious. Finding time to work on my stories? After writing to Cassandra, Mrs. Birch, my brothers . . . I am tolerably tired of letter writing. I miss the Dashwood women and dashing Willoughby and the quite amiable Edward Ferras. Even sharing company with the selfish, greedy Fanny holds an appeal. At this moment they pique my interest and vie for my companionship far more than any being of flesh and blood.

’Tis rude, but ’tis the truth.

I’ve come to hope (strange but also true) that Mother will have more spurts of healthfulness than time in bed. Yet alas, so far it’s an idle wish. Mother has developed amazing symptoms, complaining of asthma, dropsy, water in her chest, liver disorder, and unsettled bowels. Poor Dr. Lyford. I fear he is quite perplexed, as the symptoms don’t match any known illness and change with distressing regularity. I make every attempt to be a good daughter, compassionate and kind, and for the largest part, I manage. As Mother comes up with ever more elaborate symptoms, there
is
humor in it, if one takes measure to seek it out.

And so, as the only child at home, the only woman in charge, I indulge in an ample sigh, give orders in the kitchen, make the menu, oversee the cleaning, and make purchases usually left to Mother. The Overton Scotchman was kind enough to rid me of some of my money in exchange for six shifts and four pairs of stockings. The Irish is not so fine as I should like it, but as I gave as much money as I intended, I have no reason to complain. It cost me three shillings and six per yard. However, it is rather finer than our last, being not so harsh a cloth.

Also with Mother indisposed, I am privy to Father’s dealings. Apparently he gave twenty-five shillings apiece for his last lot of sheep and is wanting to get some of Edward’s pigs—to which he was enamored on our visit to Godmersham.

Yet it’s Father who saves me from total domestic oblivion. He has recently purchased
Fitz-Albini
, actually bought it against my private wishes, for it does not quite feel appropriate that we should purchase the only one of Egerton’s works of which his family is ashamed. That these scruples do not interfere with my reading can be easily believed. We have neither of us finished the first volume. Father is disappointed—
I
am not, for I expected nothing better. Never did any book carry more internal evidence of its author. Every sentiment is completely Egerton’s. There is very little story, and what there is, is told in a strange, unconnected way. There are many characters introduced, apparently merely to be delineated. We have not been able to recognize any of them hitherto, except Dr. and Mrs. Hey and Mr. Oxenden, who is not very tenderly treated.

We have also bought Boswell’s
Tour to the Hebrides
and are to have his
Life of Johnson
; and, as some money will yet remain in the bookseller’s hands, it’s to be laid out toward the purchase of Cowper’s works. I look forward to that.

So, in lieu of being allowed time to work on my own stories, I am privy to the stories of others. Whether they are worthy of my time, and whether I feel my own stories have as much merit as they . . . I cannot say the latter without boast, yet I do make the statement with fullest hope. One day. One day people may read my stories by the fireside after tea. And one day (I must acknowledge this next), they may complain and deprecate my attempts with as much vehemence, glee, and assumed superiority as is exhibited during literary discussion in our humble—but very opinionated—home.

A bell rings from upstairs. It was Father’s idea to supply Mother with such a cruel instrument. One evening, when particularly tired, I plan to ask him, “What were you thinking?”

Until then, I head for the stairs. “Coming, Mother.”

I put the breakfast dishes in the cupboard. Nanny usually does this, but she is busy at the back door talking to a peddler. I’m glad she is finally well and able to ease my domestic burden. How I wish Mother would follow her example. Although I
can
excel at all things domestic, I’m not sure I would chuse to on a regular basis. It makes me wonder if I would make an acceptable mother and wife, taking care of family as well as house
and
keep up my writing. ’Twould be a challenge, no doubt. I take solace in knowing that since Tom has been called to the bar, he will be able to provide the servants needed to make a household run well.

I hear Nanny talking, and the peddler stop, and the door close. I expect to see her come with the rest of the dishes. She does not.

I call to her. “Nanny? Will you bring the teacups, please?”

I hear the clinking of china. She appears in the doorway but, instead of entering, stops, as if venturing into the dining room would be painful.

I feel my impatience rise. I have much to do. “Come, now. Bring them here.”

She blinks, as if remembering the dishes in her hands. She brings them to the cupboard.

“Did you make a purchase?” I ask.

“No. We have no need for tin right now.”

I nod. The conversation feels wrong. Nanny’s face is active, as if she has much more to say but the words cannot find exit. “Is there something else?”

She draws in a breath, then lets it out.

I set the last bowl in place and face her. “Nanny? Is something wrong?”

Her eyes meet mine but for a second. “I heard news.”

“From the peddler?”

She nods. “He travels the county. Extensively.”

I know this. Peddlers travel so we don’t have to. Better they battle the November chill than us. “And . . . ?”

Her next sigh is one of surrender. “And he was at the Lefroys’ last week and your Tom was there at Ashe, visiting, but now he is gone and . . . well . . .”

She didn’t need to finish.

Tom was home and didn’t come the scant two miles here? To see me? Nor did he send word so I could go there, to see him?

Nanny offers excuses. “Perhaps he was called away suddenly. Perhaps he had to go back to London to do . . . something.”

“Perhaps,” I say. I glance at the teacups. “Will you finish?”

“Of course.”

I exit the room and find myself at the foot of the stairs. I turn full circle, unsure where to go. Father is in his office, the parlour is too open to whoever might walk by, the garden is cold and can be seen from the house, and my room upstairs passes by Mother’s room . . . .

I need escape but have nowhere to go.

My heart pounds in my chest. My throat is tight. Tears threaten.

Needing solitude more than warmth, I grab my coat and bonnet and flee through the front door. To the left lies Steventon. I turn right. I turn away.

I run down the lane.

*****

I refuse to let my mind grasp the news. And thankfully, it doesn’t fight my will. It thinks of nothing as I button my coat and tie my bonnet, as I dig my gloves from my pocket, as my lungs gasp for air, unused to movement beyond a stroll.

A path leads to the left, off the lane. Fallen leaves try in vain to hide its existence. But I know this path. Since returning from Godmersham, I know many of the paths around Steventon that had previously been unknown to me. Who would suspect (not I) that I would discover the joys of walking alone at the age of twenty-three?

Perhaps those walks were but a preamble to today’s excursion, a subtle gift from God, preparing me for my present need for escape by showing me the way . . . away.

But no. Surely God could not be involved in this awful day.

Suddenly, my mind tosses aside inane busyness and grabs on to the awful news, forcing me to stop my walk and seek the stump of a tree for support.

I sit heavily, as if the news has added weight to my being. Tom was here and did not seek me out. Did not send a message. Did not send an invitation.

Did not want to see me.

“But I’ve been waiting.”

My plaintive words assail the air in awful desperation. And truth.

For I have been waiting—nearly three years waiting.

I shake my head, finding the ideas unacceptable. As Nanny said, there has to be a reason. A good reason. What Tom and I experienced that Christmas season at the balls . . . it was not nothing. It was special. It was meaningful. We had exchanged much more than simple pleasantries. The way he looked at me—really looked at me—far more intently than any man had ever done. He made me blush, feel beautiful, and feel loved.

Were those feelings misguided? Am I completely ignorant of what is real and what is false?

No. I cannot be so naïve. I write about love every day. I recognize what it is and how it comes about. I cannot be mistaken about this. I cannot.

There has to be good reason Tom did not come to call.

I stand and head back home. Somehow, I will find out why.

*****

I sit at my desk, paper and quill in hand, ready to write to whoever is capable of ending my pain and offering me the happiness I seek.

Yet I have no idea how to find the truth. I cannot write to my dear friend Anne Lefroy—who is Tom’s aunt—and blatantly ask her about Tom. The very fact she has not contacted me . . .

And though I’m tempted, I cannot lower my dignity and spill my heart to Nanny and ask her to tap into the servants’ grapevine. I will not become a morsel of Hampshire gossip.

Mother is enraptured within her own play, enjoying her part as the invalid. And Father, though dear in his own right, is not one I can go to about issues of love.

I need Cassandra. I need her here. Hasn’t Elizabeth had her in Godmersham long enough? William is a month old and by all accounts hale and hearty. Surely, with all their servants, with the help of the governess, with the help of the other children, and Edward, and Mrs. Knight, Elizabeth can relinquish the one person I have to turn to for comfort. Cassandra is my confidante, my life’s constant, my sister, my friend, and alas, in many ways, my mother. Only she knows my true heart. Only she is aware of my true love for Tom and how I’ve waited. She knows every detail of what transpired between us that Christmas and has agreed we are engaged in all ways but public declaration. If she had not believed it so, I trust with my true heart she would have set me right by now. Sisters do such things for each other. Sisters help each other see the truth, no matter how painful.

The fact she has not set me right means I
am
correct in my thinking. Tom and I are to be married.

Aren’t we?

Nanny knocks on my door with a letter. “It come by courier, Miss Jane.”

I recognize the hand. It’s from Anne Lefroy. “Thank you, Nanny.”

She does not leave. “The courier says he’s to wait for a reply.”

I nearly tear the page undoing the seal. The note is short:
I would love to come call, tomorrow at ten? Send word with the courier. I so long to see you, dear Jane.

“Tell the courier I look forward to Mrs. Lefroy’s visit tomorrow at ten.”

Nanny’s eyebrows rise; she dips a quick curtsy and leaves the room.

I read the note again. My heart is light. All will be well.

*****

Anne takes my hands and kisses my cheek. “Dearest Jane. How have you been?”

I help her remove her coat and brush off the snow, and lead her to the parlour. “I’ve been tolerably well—but chilly. Come sit by the fire and warm yourself. I’ve asked for some hot chocolate, for I know how much you enjoy it.”

“I do. How special.” She sits in the wing chair by the fire, leaning close, extending her cold hands.

For her to come visit, in spite of the snow . . . she must deem the task most important to risk cold feet and hands. I have high hopes for the visit. Since she befriended me when I was only a child, our relationship has been special. To me, Anne embodies the ideal woman: wise, compassionate, witty, courageous, and utterly at ease with herself and everyone else. Anne, from the well-placed Brydges family, is as much at ease with me, a lowly parson’s daughter, as I imagine she is with the King. There is no pretension within her, no tension about her. Beyond Cassandra, she is my dearest friend.

A friend who is here to tell me about Tom?

I am quick to mentally say,
I hope so
, yet I immediately withdraw from the bravado. To know . . . in mere moments I might be drawn to the highest heights.

Or plunged to the lowest depths.

A frightening thing, to
know
.

Suddenly, I want to flee, to leave my guest, run upstairs, slam shut my door, and dive under the covers where nothing ill can reach me. I feel the child again, afraid of the dark, of unseen monsters, and of any truth that dare threaten my happiness.

“Jane?”

I’ve not been listening. “Yes. Sorry.”

“I asked after your mother. Is she doing better?”

Talk of family was a good tack. Talk of family would open the door to talk of her nephew  . . . “She has her good days and bad, often according to the weather or what I’ve cooked for dinner.”

“Ah,” says Anne. “And Cassandra? When will she return?”

“Not soon enough. I miss her terribly.”

“For your sake, I also wish she were here. I know she is such a comfort to you.”

Her words take me aback. And why will I need comfort? When I next look at her, she quickly averts her eyes. My stomach clenches.

She is your dearest friend. Just ask what she means.

My heart beats at a higher rhythm as I seek courage. Three words. All I need say are three words:
How is Tom?
Yet to say them could open a floodgate of other words, other questions:
Where is Tom? Why didn’t he come to see me? Please tell me a reason why he could be so close, yet not seek me out. Please make the world all right.

“My husband and I are planning a trip to Italy,” Anne says. “I’ve always wanted to see Rome. Remember that book we looked at when you were small? The one with the drawings of the Colosseum and St. Peter’s?”

I nod and realize the conversation has moved on from inquiries after our family’s health and activities to things far removed from Steventon and Ashe. Far removed from Jane and Tom. From love. From engagements. From marriage.

I realize I’ve been distracted again when Anne repeats, “Remember, Jane? Remember the wonderful visits we’ve had?”

“I remember them all.”

She reaches across the space between us and touches my knee. “You have always been very special to me and I love and cherish you as a daughter—as more than a daughter. As a friend.”

Her eyes are intensely blue and full of sincerity. But something else. There’s a desperation there, a request, a plea . . . for me to understand something beyond her words? The very fact she is
not
speaking of Tom when he has so recently visited is telling. The normal aside, “And we had the most delightful visit from Tom,” is absent, the natural sharing of visits past giving way to future travels.

A diversion. An act of mercy?

I pull from a store deep inside. “When do you leave?”

“Soon, soon,” she says, leaning back, looking at the fire again. She is more relaxed. My response has given her indication that the conversation has been successfully turned. “None too soon.” She offers me the quickest glance. “I am weary of family right now, of wishing they would . . . or would not . . .”

Ah.

She pulls out a letter. “But here. I have news from a mutual friend, Samuel Blackall.”

I cringe. Last January, people tried to pair me with this man—who made it very clear that he was in want of a wife because he was getting his own parish. He much liked the sound of his own voice and blessedly did not seem in dire need of hearing mine. Yet he made it very clear that I should be greatly honoured at his attention—and intention.

I was not, although I did find our meeting profitable. My Mr. Collins in
First Impressions
benefited much from the flaws and foibles of the forward Mr. Blackall. And though I did not find myself affronted with such a direct proposal as my poor Lizzy, I allowed her to say what I would have said if Mr. Blackall had been given the chance.

Which he was not.

And now, for Anne to want to read to me any letter containing a single one of his words . . .

Yet as she continues, I recognize the letter for what it is—another distraction. And so I accept it as such.

Anne adjusts the letter to the light. “Here it is. Mr. Blackall says, ‘I am very sorry to hear of Mrs. Austen’s illness. It would give me particular pleasure to have an opportunity of improving my acquaintance with that family—with a hope of creating a nearer interest. But at present I cannot indulge any expectation of it.”

I feel my eyebrows rise. This is good news. I had expected to hear Mr. Blackall’s entreaty for a deeper bond, the thought of which had the power to send me abed next to Mother. “Ah,” I say.

“You are not distressed?” asks Anne.

“I will survive the disappointment. It’s most probable that our indifference will soon be mutual, unless his regard, which appeared to spring from knowing nothing of me at first, is best supported by never seeing me.”

She smiles, and through her smile I distinguish her true motive. Although I have been spurned by two men today, one was by choice, and that knowledge offers some—however small—satisfaction.

Father chuses this moment to come into the room, carrying a book. “Well, well,” he says upon seeing Anne. “What a delight! Jane told me you were coming to visit, but I had forgot. Forgive me, dear Anne, for not welcoming you sooner.” They exchange kisses to their cheeks. “And how is the family? I hear your nephew Tom was at Ashe. Is he well? How are his studies progressing?”

I must have gasped because both Anne and Father look at me before returning to their dialogue.

“He is well,” says Anne.

She avoids my eyes; I know she does.

She continues. “He has finished his studies, and after his visit, he returned to London. From there he is going back to Ireland to begin his career in law.”