Just Jane (10 page)

By whatever excuse, I am more than ready to return home to the rectory, which has the blessing of owning a place in neither the high nor the low of society.

The middle ground is far good enough for me.

*****

Father bursts in the front door as Cassandra and I set the table. Mother helps him off with his coat. “Gracious, George, what’s wrong? You’re flushed.”

Coat removed, he faces us. “She is innocent!”

We don’t need an explanation of who “she” is.

“Aunt’s trial is over?” Cassandra asks.

“James and Mary are back from the trial. I passed them coming home from the church.”

“Why didn’t they stop?” Mother asks.

“James is exhausted. For him to travel with a broken leg to support Aunt Leigh-Perrot . . . he said he will come call tomorrow.”

Mother pouts. “I would have liked to hear from him directly.”

Father cocks his head. “Would you rather wait, then?”

We all exclaim, “No!”

Father is appeased and continues. “The jury was only out ten minutes.”

Mother leads him to a chair. “Details. We need more details.”

We all sit as Father’s audience.

“Even though Aunt Leigh-Perrot had counsel—”

“Mr. Jekyll, who speaks against her,” I add.

Father sends me a look to be silent. “Mr. Jekyll was not allowed to argue in her defense.”

“Then, what role did he—?” Mother asks.

Father raises a hand. “At first. He was not allowed at first. It started with Miss Gregory of the store, who had brought the charges. She gave her account, stating how Aunt stole the lace, how she trembled from fright when she was confronted, how her face turned red.”

“I would be frightened too if accosted in such a way,” Mother says. “Falsely accused by some crazed woman on the street?”

Father sighs, and it’s obvious he desires our silence but has resigned himself to our commentary.

“Then it was brought to the court’s attention that the shop’s clerk, Charles Filby, had been bankrupted three times, and there is evidence that seven other customers have found extra items in their purchase bundle—luckily all returned before they were stopped and accused. That is when the tide changed.” He nods once with satisfaction. “Aunt Leigh-Perrot was allowed to speak in her own defense.”

Having witnessed many speeches by my aunt, I guess the implication of this statement. “She was eloquent, no doubt?”

“Indeed she was. According to James, before her discourse was complete, there were many tears in the room—from men as well as women.”

Mother puts a hand to her bosom. “Whatever did she say?”

“She spoke of her lifelong reputation and how she would neither risk it nor bring pain to her devoted, loving husband—who apparently sobbed during her monologue. He had to cover his face with a handkerchief so she could continue.”

The thought of Uncle Leigh-Perrot with a cloth over his face nearly brought a smile. Nearly.

“Then she brought many witnesses to defend her honour.” Father shrugs. “And that was that.”

Mother takes a deep breath. “That is quite enough, I would say.”

Father stands. “I am sorely hungry.”

We get back to our tasks. And as I place the plates, my thoughts apply themselves to the fact that the deplorable situation just visited by my aunt and uncle has done nothing to dispel my opinion regarding the littleness of Bath.

To live here, in sane and reasonable Hampshire, is a blessing beyond measure.

*****

Summer goes on, as summers do, and I am happy with visits from family—until Edward takes Cassandra home with him. Elizabeth has born herself a namesake and needs help. To the rescue, Cassandra! But the Elizabeths’ gain is my loss, and at the end of October, I pretend to be happy that the weather is fine for my sister’s journey, but only for her sake, not mine. The sun may be shining, but my heart is overcast.

I wander the rectory with the need to once again gauge and measure this home as it holds one fewer Austen. Where the walls should feel expanded with extra room, they lean close. I know it will take days to push them back again, yet I’ve done it before. It seems Cassandra is perpetually needed somewhere not here; her ability to be calm in the face of chaos, to partake of the what-needs-to-be-done items of any household, makes her presence worth more than gold or fine silver. I, owning no such attributes, am left behind. To fend. To make do. To suffer at her absence.

After my inventory of leaning walls, I find Father in his study, his elbows on his desk, his hands covering his face. Is he also mourning Cassandra’s departure?

“Father?”

He removes his hands, pulls in a breath, and sits upright. “Oh. Yes. Jane.”

I’ve pulled him from another place. “Are you unwell?”

I watch his eyes and see he is chusing an answer. Although I never rush to bad news, I don’t want him to scuttle around the truth.

“Tell me true, Father. What troubles you?”

He lets out the breath he has been saving and sweeps an open hand across the papers on his desk. “’Twas a bad year. Money is tight.”

“How tight?”

He puts a hand on a paper and hesitates. I realize I am not a son, but he
can
tell me. I try again. “Father? How tight?”

“Half.”

I don’t understand. “Half what?”

“Our best year was six hundred pounds, but this year . . . we have only cleared three hundred.”

I realized the yield of the crops was less, but not by this amount.

He sighs and adds, “And the war taxes have trebled, and horse taxes too . . . we must sell the carriage.”

I move to stand behind him and lean low to wrap my arms about him, my head next to his. “I’m so sorry, Father. I—” My eye is caught by the sight outside of Mr. Harker speaking with Mother regarding planting new trees on the right-hand side of the elm walk. Mother has been fretting about whether it would be better to make a little orchard of it by planting apples, pears, and cherries, or whether it should be larch, mountain ash, and acacia. She frets so much and with such alacrity that I’ve said nothing and am ready to agree with anybody.

But now, seeing them proceed, I question the wisdom. “Should we be going to the expense of planting new trees when—?”

He takes my hand. “A few trees cost little and offer hope for the future.”

I shrug, only supposing it is so for his benefit. I’m not one to worry much about money. To have enough is enough. But now, the thought that there is not enough is disconcerting.

Father offers a smile. “Don’t worry, dear Jane. I have traversed many a trouble in my sixty-nine years and will no doubt traverse many more.”

I kiss his cheek and leave him, closing the door quietly behind me.

My last glimpse shows him staring down at the papers with furrowed brow.

*****

During a horrendous storm, we lost two great elms in the garden and four trees in the grove. And we were not the only ones who suffered damage. The Lefroys at Ashe lost their dining room chimney, making quite a mess within that room. I give thanks that our storm raged without, not within. The rectory remained safely intact.

Although the storm is all that has been talked about for weeks, we recover and do not dwell on the loss. Father won’t allow it. In fact, he has insisted that we go about to neighbourhood gatherings and balls.

I happily comply. Monday last, the three of us and James had a very pleasant day at Ashe. We sat down fourteen to dinner in the study, the dining room with its crumbled chimney being uninhabitable. Mrs. Bramston talked a good deal of nonsense, which Mr. Bramston and Mr. Clerk seemed almost equally to enjoy. There was whist and a casino table, and six outsiders. Rice and Lucy made love with their avid flirtation, Matthew Robinson fell asleep, James and Mrs. Augusta alternately read Dr. Finnis’s pamphlet on the cowpox, and I bestowed my company by turns to all.

And tonight there is a ball. Just yesterday it was settled that Mrs. Harwood, Mary, and I should go together, but shortly afterwards a very civil note of invitation for me came from Mrs. Bramston. I might likewise have gone with my dear friend Anne Lefroy. How delightful to be given three methods of going. I will be more
at
the ball than anyone else.

I dine and sleep at James’s home in Deane, where I have help with my hair, which I fancy looks very indifferent. I hope nobody abuses it so I can retire delighted with my success. Hair has never been my crowning glory, and I would just as soon cut it off than be consistently mundane. It would surely be a way to put myself into every conversation—something I’m
not
wont to do.

We arrive to the ball on time, as James is ever punctual. As I enter I count nearly sixty people. Though some will not dance—by choice or lack of partner—I still imagine a good brace of couples. Fifteen or sixteen perhaps. A jolly lot, to be sure.

I begin to take stock of those present, making mental notes I will share with Cassandra in my letters. I see the Portsmouths, Dorchesters, Boltons, Portals, and Clerks, though there is a scarcity of men in general and a still greater scarcity of any that are good for much. There are very few beauties, and such as there are, are not very handsome. Miss Iremonger does not look well, and Mrs. Blount appears to be the only one much admired. She has a broad face, diamond bandeau, white shoes, pink husband, and fat neck. The two Miss Coxes are here: I trace in one the remains of the vulgar, broad-featured girl who danced at Enham eight years ago; the other is refined into a nice, composed-looking girl.

I cross the room and see Sir Thomas Champneys. I spot his daughter and think her a queer animal with a white neck. Mrs. Warren, I am constrained to think, is a very fine young woman, which I much regret. I hear she is with child, but as the music starts, she dances away with great activity, looking by no means very large. Her husband is ugly enough, uglier even than his cousin John; but he does not look so
very
old.

I nod to the Miss Maitlands, who are both prettyish, with brown skin, large dark eyes, and a good deal of nose. The general has got the gout, and Mrs. Maitland the jaundice. Miss Debarie, Susan, and Sally are all in black but do not carry off such severity well. I’m as civil to them as their bad breath allows.

As I get a cup of punch I chastise myself for being so biting in my assessment but diminish my mental punishment by the fact that I must find something of interest to share with Cassandra. As she consoles and advises me, I amuse and entertain her. ’Tis our lot and obligation to each other.

James Digweed approaches and I apply a smile.

“Miss Jane.” He bows.

I curtsy. “Mr. Digweed.”

“How nice to see you tonight,” he says, his eyes scanning the room. “But where is your lovely sister?”

“In Kent, at my brother’s.”

His face is genuinely sad—something else I can relate to Cassandra. “I’m sorry to hear that. Please send her my best.”

“I will.”

He puts his hands behind his back, showing his fine blue waistcoat and brocade vest to full advantage. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss of trees. Those two great elms . . .” He shakes his head, then blinks as if the recipient of a fresh thought. “Surely they fell from utter grief at your sister’s absence.”

He is so serious and gallant that it’s only with difficulty I retain my smile. “Surely ’tis true.”

At the lack of my sister, he asks me to dance. I comply. It’s the least I can do for his sorrow.

By the end of the evening, I have partnered with Stephen Terry, Tom Chute, and James Digweed, as well as my dear friend, Catherine Bigg. There were commonly a couple of ladies standing up together, but not often any so amiable as ourselves.

I return to Deane exhausted, yet refreshed. Dancing will do that. As will enjoying good company.

I am well content.

*****

To add to my state of contentment, I go to Ibthorpe to visit Martha Lloyd. Her mother is not well, and as I have experience in that regard—knowing how it strains the nurse e’en more than the nursed—I come to offer diversion. And help, if asked.

Three of the endless Debaries come to call within hours of my arrival. As they had recently visited us at Steventon, I endure a recount of their great uncle’s passing in London (
great
in their assessment of him, not in regard to a familial title). They persist in being afflicted. I find these stories of their love and attention to such uncle, who was unknown thitherto by us, to be directly linked to his death. He was obviously a man who owned enough riches to cause the entire Debarie clan to proclaim sudden interest. I do wish the whole thing settled soon so we can be spared further mention of his laudable traits. And I do hope for the Debaries’ sake, generosity was one of them.

Upon leaving, the Debarie sisters urge a visit from Martha and me to their nearby parsonage. We say we will try and close the door. I quickly bar it with my body.

“What are you doing?” Martha asks.

“Barring further entry against all persons in order that I might have you to myself for at least an hour.”

She giggles and gives me a curtsy. “But what about our return visit to the Debaries’?”

I shake my head with vigor. “We cannot go.”

“Whyever not?”

I approach her confidentially. “Don’t you know that it’s common circumstance in this parish to have the road from Ibthorpe to the parsonage much dirtier and more impracticable for walking than the road from the parsonage to Ibthorpe?”

As my bosom friend she wastes no time in agreeing with me. “Yes, yes, I do believe you’re right.”

“To further our cause, shall we pray for rain?”

“Absolutely,” Martha says. She raises praying hands at her chin and bows her head.

I do the same and pronounce, “Amen!”

What Martha does not know is that e’en though my prayer appeared short, it had another purpose unconnected to the Debaries. For its content contained no mention of roads but was filled with gratitude for having such a friend as she.

*****

I will admit Mrs. Lloyd is sincerely ill. I’ve been so long in the presence of my mother’s phantom complaints, and also in Bath where illness is embraced and thought about at every minute, that I find myself suspect of all
her
symptoms. I silently offer apologies and help Martha’s duties of care the best I can. Although I find the best cure is to be busy and ignore all illness, in Mrs. Lloyd’s case such action—no matter how determined—is not available.