Cassandra's Sister (18 page)

She did not close the book, nor did she find the current page again. She stood there, in her bonnet and gloves, and the black silk jacket which had once belonged to Anne and did not fit Mary, thinking, thinking…

Did Tom Lefroy remember that on their very first meeting he had asked her to call him Tom, and called her Jane? She had never met a gentleman who had shown anything approaching such intimacy with her. For over a year now she had nursed the memory of those three meetings: the first at that Christmas ball, the second the next day, when he had visited the Rectory with George Lefroy. She could still see Tom, nervously clutching his hat, asking her for the first dance at the forthcoming ball at his aunt and uncle's house, the scene of that third and final encounter.

She could still feel Mama's pearls around her neck, and hear the rustle of the hem of Cassandra's pink dress. She saw Tom's ravishing smile, which bore out what she had heard about the charm of the Irish, since his father had something of it too. She felt the pressure of his hand through her glove when he had led her to the floor for the last dance, and recalled everyone in the room looking at them. The room itself – every candelabra, every garland of winter greenery, the position of every musician, every footman – was fixed timelessly in her memory.

Had he forgotten it all? Or did he, like Jane, permit himself the occasional fantasy that opposition to their match would somehow fall away, and he would send the tenderest letter ever written by a man to a woman, hoping that her affections remained as warm as his? Of course, she would reply that they did, and within days he would arrive at Steventon, not quite on a white horse, but in a carriage, and march straight into the study to speak to Papa.

Jane turned back to 1797 and put the ribbon in place. The fantasy was as impossible as the dreams of the sixteen-year-old and her Mr Fitzwilliam. Without a backward glance she walked out of the registry, along the aisle and out of the door. In the churchyard she put up her parasol against the midday glare. It threw a black shadow, and, since the Rectory garden was no more than a few steps away, she was glad to hide her face.

Martha Lloyd had come over from Ibthorpe for a week's stay with her sister at Deane Parsonage. The day after her arrival Jane and Cass took the lane to Deane, a walk more familiar than any other, to visit their friend. Seated upon a hard chair at the parlour fireside with Martha, Cass and Mary, Jane almost felt as if recent trying events had never occurred, and the four of them were carefree girls again. Martha, eager to hear about Jane's latest work, had absorbed the plot of
First Impressions
with her usual keenness, and was now ready to question it.

“Would
you
accept a man whom you had refused before?” she asked Jane. “If someone insulted
me
as deeply as Mr Darcy insults Elizabeth, I should never speak to him again.”

“But Elizabeth is prejudiced against Darcy long before that,” put in Cassandra loyally. “And after her conclusions are proved too hasty, she realizes that she wants to marry him after all.”

“And he is rich, and handsome,” added Mary with a smile.

“I still think she would not do it,” insisted Martha, “though I am prepared to wager, ladies, that our clever Jane will write it in such a way as to make it the most natural thing in the world.”

“May I speak?” asked Jane meekly. “As Elizabeth's creator, I feel my knowledge of her to be somewhat more profound than anyone else's.”

“There you are, Martha!” cried Mary. “That is politeness itself, but of course it really means, ‘Martha Lloyd, you do not know what you are talking about'.”

“Not at all,” Jane assured Martha. “All observations are useful. And I confess, I am unsure whether I
can
make the second proposal convincing. What must Darcy say that will excuse his former conduct, capture Elizabeth
and
satisfy the reader?”

“Oh, that is easy!” cried Martha. “I suggest that he says, ‘Miss Bennet, my passion for you has made me as noble in character as I am in rank, and if you do not marry me I shall quit Pemberley for ever and live as a beggar on Cheapside.'”

During the ensuing laughter Mary stood up and smoothed her skirt. “Jane, dear, I wish you the very best with your story, but writing it appears very complicated. I am very glad I am only the mistress of a parsonage, and do not have to consider such things. Now, shall I bring tea? Or wine? And some cake?”

When she had gone Martha reached across and patted Jane's hand. “The book is going to be wonderful. What shall become of it when it is finished?”

Jane kicked the edge of the hearthrug gently. “It will join its predecessors in a box, I predict.”

“No, it will not!” protested Cassandra. “This one
must
be sent to a publisher, I insist.”

“Have your parents read any of it?” enquired Martha.

“Yes,” Jane told her, glancing at Cassandra. “Perhaps, when it is completed, Papa may decide if it is good enough. Will that satisfy you, Cass? I shall do nothing without his permission.”

“Very well,” returned Cassandra. “But he will give it willingly. He is so proud of you.”

“He is a representative of the Church, however, and some of the clergy consider novels immoral, or at best unscholarly.”

“You are a very good daughter,” said Martha with approval. “I confess if I had written a novel I would be so pleased with myself such scruples would not deter me from publication.” Her eyes brightened. “If you did publish
First Impressions
, Jane, would it bear your real name?”

“I have not considered the question,” said Jane uncertainly.

“Perhaps to confound disapproving clergymen, you could pretend to be a man,” suggested Martha with glee. “Mr Janus Austentatious!”

Jane laughed, but her heart was heavy. She knew that
First Impressions
had promise, and some scenes were undoubtedly among the best things she had ever written. When she had read the opening chapter to Henry, he had protested that Mr and Mrs Bennet were so comic they should have a whole book of their own, or better still, a play. But good though the book was, Jane was convinced it was not yet good enough for a public airing, and perhaps never would be.

She resolved to review it that very evening. If Papa were to approve of it, it must be light, and bright, and sparkling, but enforce the moral described by the title: first impressions are not always the correct ones. Elizabeth and her sisters must be exuberant, but over-exuberance must be punished, and virtue rewarded. And what if Martha's misgivings were correct, and nobody would believe that Mr Darcy would risk a second proposal to Elizabeth after she had refused him so vehemently? What could she do to
make
them believe it?

On the walk home, she was silent.

“If I were Catherine Bigg, I would say ‘A penny for your thoughts, Miss Jane?'” said Cassandra eventually.

“Thank goodness you are not,” replied Jane. “It is to you, not Catherine, that I will admit freely my concern about the ending of
First Impressions
. I do not wish a lapse in credibility to spoil the story.”

“It is only Martha's opinion that there
is
a lapse,” said Cass. “She may be wrong.”

“No, she is right,” insisted Jane. “And I am grateful to her for pointing it out. But what can I do?”

“Do nothing,” advised Cassandra as they came within sight of the Rectory. She waved to Mama, who was waiting for Dick to bring the trap round. “Something will suggest itself to you when you least expect it. Where do you think Mama is going?”

She did not have to ask. “Girls, I am going to call upon Madam Lefroy,” called their mother. “Do you have any message I can take to her?”

“Only our love, as usual,” returned Cassandra.

“Mama might ask her if she has any opinions upon the endings of novels,” added Jane, aside to her sister, “since she has an opinion upon everything else.”

“Observe, my dear,” Papa said to Mama as they and their daughters entered the Rectory one winter evening after a visit to the Biggs. “I believe this is Henry's hand.”

Picking up a letter from the hall table, he showed it to his wife.

“Indeed it is,” she confirmed, busy with her cloak-strings.

Cass went to her father's side. “Open it quickly, Papa. Henry almost never writes.”

“Exactly,” said Papa. “The occasion must be momentous. Or perhaps he wants to borrow money.”

“Let us go into the drawing-room to hear it, whatever it is,” suggested Mama. “My feet are ready to drop off from cold.”

The candles had not been lit in the drawing-room. Kitty was with her mother in the village, as always on a Saturday night, and Travers was probably asleep by the kitchen fire. Dick would have been found in the tavern at Deane, if anyone had cared to look for him. The fire threw across the room the mobile half-light that was one of Jane's favourite wintertime sights.

The room seemed smaller than usual, with its farther reaches in darkness. The family sat down in a circle around the hearth, Jane seizing the opportunity to take her childhood place on the footstool. Papa, adjusting his spectacles, held the opened letter before the glowing logs and read the first words.

“My goodness!” he exclaimed. “Henry is to be married!”

Mama let out a small shriek. “
Not
that red-haired baggage who has been following him about for the last six months? George, tell me immediately who is to be my next daughter-in-law!”

Papa's face, lit by the full blaze of the fire, was full of astonishment and relief. “My dear, he is to marry Eliza!”

“Eliza?”
repeated Mama, astonished. “Do you mean
our
Eliza?”

Cassandra was sitting in the chair nearest to Jane's footstool. Her hand crept out from under her skirt, where she had been keeping it warm, and rested upon Jane's shoulder. Jane looked at her. She was smiling joyfully.

“I do indeed,” said Papa, consulting the letter. His surprise had quickly given way to smiling approval. “They are to be married in London next month. It is all settled.”

“But Henry is ten years younger than she is!” protested Mama.

“If he were ten years
older
than his bride, Mama, you would not even mention it,” interjected Jane.

“Do not be impertinent,” said Mama. She looked suspiciously from Jane to Cassandra. “Has Henry ever spoken to either of you of his intention to court Eliza?”

“No,” answered Jane truthfully. It was, after all,
Eliza
who had spoken of it. “We are as surprised as you.”

“But we are sure it will be a happy match,” said Cassandra warmly. “Is it not delightful when two people already related, and beloved by their family, join together in marriage?”

“Indeed it is,” agreed Papa, looking very satisfied. “You will accustom yourself to the news, I have no doubt,” he said to Mama, rising. “I shall fetch a bottle of wine, so that we may drink the health of the engaged couple. Then we shall compose a reply, congratulating Henry on his good fortune. This is a very happy outcome, after Eliza's sufferings. The Lord has worked his wonders, you see.”

When he had gone, and Mama was busily reading Henry's letter for herself, Jane pulled Cass's hand. Her sister bent down to hear her.

“Do you see?” whispered Jane gleefully. “I had nothing to be anxious about. Men
do
propose a second time, and women
do
change their minds!”

When Jane had made a fair copy of
First Impressions
, placed all the pages on top of one another and tied them up with string, she was surprised at the height of the pile.

“But when it is printed, you know,” reflected Cassandra, inspecting the bundle, “it will be a normal-sized book.”

“It looks like the food parcels Mama sends to Frank and Charles,” said Jane doubtfully. “I cannot believe it will ever be a book, normal-sized or otherwise.”

“Papa insists upon writing to a publisher about it, though,” Cass reminded her, “and when Papa insists upon something it always comes to pass, as you have probably noticed.”

“Indeed.”

Cass, who had picked up her sewing again, glanced at her sister knowingly before she made the next stitch. “You are nervous about Papa's plan.”

“I confess I am,” said Jane, fingering the string around the first volume. “I want my work to be seen, and yet I fear ridicule.”

“That is understandable.”

“Only to you, because
you
always understand me. To other people it seems fanciful, even absurd. I can hear Mary, for instance, saying, ‘but if you write it, Jane, surely you want people to read it. Otherwise, you have wasted your time.'”

“And Mary's opinion is the only one worth listening to, of course,” said Cassandra.

Jane hung her head.

“And as for ‘other people' in general,” said Cass, “when they produce novels as accomplished as this one, then let them regard your reticence as absurd. Now, take your precious parcel down to Papa and rejoice in your imminent appearance among the literary lions.”

Jane picked up the manuscript. “However many books I publish, I shall never, ever be a lion. I am quite content to be a literary lamb, if there is such a thing.”

In the study Papa handled the tied-up papers as tenderly as if they might crumble at his touch. “I have decided, my dear,” he told Jane, “to write an introductory letter to Messrs Thomas Cadell & Company, a publisher in London. I understand that is the correct way to approach this matter, rather than send the whole manuscript.”

Jane tried not to show her disappointment. “When shall you send it, then?”

“When I receive a reply inviting me to do so. I am told that if one sends the work without an introductory letter, the publisher merely sends it straight back, and I do not wish to risk your novel
twice
in the post for nothing.”