Just Jane (11 page)

But that does not mean Martha and I cannot enjoy our visit. I find her so unlike her sister Mary. Although through her marriage to James, Mary is my relation, I find my true sister’s heart connected to Martha.

Our best times are had after Mrs. Lloyd is set to sleep for the night. We retire to Martha’s cozy room and feel the freedom of a closed door. We speak freely and at great length. That our hours of sleep are adversely affected does not matter. I would not trade such times for all of Uncle Debarie’s riches.

We dress for bed but wrap ourselves in quilts as we sit in two ratted but comfortable chairs by the fire. I bring my feet up to the chair’s cushion and tuck the quilt beneath them. “I finished another story,” I proclaim. Martha is the only one outside the family who is privy to my attempts.

Her eyes light up, a true sign of friendship. “Does this book contain a Mr. Darcy in it?”

“Of course not.”

“Another
like
Mr. Darcy?”

I shake my head. “Are you smitten?”

“You know I am. ‘My good opinion once lost is lost forever.’”

I laugh. “You know his words better than I!”

“If you would let me read
First Impressions
one more time,
I
will have it published. By memory.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A promise,” Martha says. Her eyes flash with a combination of firelight and sincerity. “It’s a good book, Jane. Very good.”

“’Tis not a book yet.”

“But it will be. It must be.”

Her words are a balm. And yet . . . “I have no avenue to get it published. Mr. Cadell and Davies sent back a letter regarding—”

“Unopened. I know. They sent back a
letter
.”

“They didn’t deem the story readable.”

“They didn’t
read
the story. They read a letter about the story.
That
is what they returned.”

I offer a shrug, though it is a true point I’ve oft wanted to embrace.

She reaches across the space that separates our chairs and waits until I let myself loose from the guilt and take her hand. She squeezes. Hard. “You must try, Jane. You must not let your work remain hidden. Its light must shine for all the world to see.”

“It’s not worthy of the world’s eyes.”

She lets my hand go with emphasis. “
That
is a lie.” She sits back. “You have spent countless hours creating stories for your own amusement?”

“They do amuse me.”

Martha pulls her own blanket close. “If this is true, then you, Jane Austen, are the most selfish of all beings.”

I am shocked by her words. And hurt. “I’m not selfish. You’ve read them. My family—’’

“Four or five people have been so honoured?” She shook her head. “’Tis deplorable, Jane. Hundreds, yea even thousands, must enjoy your work.”

The idea ignites me with excitement. And fear. “But . . . how?”

“You try. If you don’t ask the question, the answer is no.”

Her words hang in the air between us as if they own substance beyond their sound.

Martha wisely allows a bit of silence. Finally she asks, “You will do this, Jane?”

I find my answer honest. “Yes. I will.”

“You offer a promise?”

With a deep breath, I say, “I do.”

*****

My joy continues. I have much to be joyful about. My time with Martha has invigorated me, as has the occurrence of my birthday. I am now five and twenty, and though some would suffer fear and frustration at that fact (considering my unmarried state) I refuse to allow myself such an ungrateful opinion. I have prospects—though neither they nor I know it. After all, ’tis I who danced nearly every dance at the balls this season. I am not a wallflower but a flower yet to fully bloom.

And professionally . . . though ’tis true I’ve not been published, I have three satisfactory manuscripts complete and in my proud possession. I am poised with promise. I will not falter in my determination to continue my writing
and
pursue publication. I have no thought as to how this latter will come about, but I trust some divine plan will aid its completion—or no.

But that is all the future, a shaded place that offers few glimpses and allows no regret.

The regret will come later.

I don’t dwell in that place of maybes or possibilities. I am happy now, and now is what sustains me. After nearly two weeks at Ibthorpe, I have the continuation of pleasure in Martha’s company, for she accompanies me the fourteen miles to home, and I find that any distance has little meaning when in good company. We tease that our initial plan was to have a nice black frost for walking to Whitchurch, and there throw ourselves into a post chaise, one upon the other, our heads hanging out at one door and our feet at the opposite. What a stir we would have made!

As I near home, I make note that my parents have been alone during my absence. Have they missed me as they have missed Cassandra? I cannot imagine what they do alone in only each other’s presence. In their thirty-six years of marriage, through eight children and a bevy of Father’s pupils in residence, they have not oft suffered a silent house.

Like it or not, they are soon to have that silence disturbed. We pull up front.

I see by a carriage that James is here. I mention it to Martha. Her face lights. “My sister! What a delighted happenstance if Mary is also here.”

I hold less delight at the possibility but do not dispute my friend’s happiness.

We make our entrance, letting the driver bring in our bags. Martha spies Mary sitting in the parlour and the sisters embrace. I remove my hat and see Mother and Father standing to greet me. They exchange an odd glance, but then Mother comes forward with an embrace.

“How are you feeling, Mother?” I ask. I feel a bit guilty for not wondering more after her health during my visit at Ibthorpe.

She takes a small step back, then says, “Well, girls, it’s all settled. We have decided to leave Steventon and go to Bath.”

I am in no mood to visit my aunt and uncle. I look forward to some time at home with Martha. “Can we not wait for a visit?” I ask.

Mother looks at Father, who steps forward. “’Tis not a visit we speak of, Jane. We will move to Bath. We will reside there.”

One word screams through my mind.
No!

I remember nothing else.

*****

“She awakens.” It’s Martha’s voice.

I open my eyes and find myself on the settee in the parlour. Martha holds my hand and looks upon me with worried countenance.

So it was not a dream.

“Water,” Father says. “Give her some water.”

A glass is held to my lips, but I push it away. I sit and gaze upon those gathered.

Mother sits in a chair nearby. “See? She is better. I was not mistaken in telling her.”

“You spoke too plain, my dear,” Father says. “Too plain too quickly. Jane was barely in the door when you accosted her with the news.”

“I thought it best to let her know posthaste. There is much to be done.”

My muddled mind attempts to grasp the subject behind their bickering. “I don’t understand,” I say. “I must have heard you incorrectly. Surely, I heard—”

“You heard correctly,” Mother says. “While you girls were gone, your father and I decided we have had enough of Steventon and wish to—”

Father suppresses her words with a hand to her arm. “Not so harsh, my dear. We cannot expect Jane to comprehend our reasoning when we ourselves took many days to meld the factors into a decision.”

I set my feet upon the floor, needing its solidity. I rub my hands over my face, accepting the pain as a measure of this moment’s reality in time.

“You have questions?” Mother asks.

I remove my hands and stare at her. A bitter laugh escapes. “We are to move? To Bath?”

“Yes, yes,” Mother says. “It will be ever so grand. We have always enjoyed Bath.”

They
have enjoyed Bath.

Mother continues. “With Uncle and Aunt there and so many acquaintances coming and going at all times of year, why, we shall have a merry parade of friends come to see us.”

“We have friends here. A lifetime of friends.”

“Well, yes . . . but . . .” Mother has no answer.

Father takes over. He sits beside me on the settee and takes my hand in his. “I’m seventy years old, Jane. My health is less than it once was, and I . . . I am weary. The farm didn’t gross well and . . . I wish to retire.”

Silent until now, Mary raises a hand. “James will take over the parish. We will move here and—”

“Yes, yes,” Father says. “Let us get Jane acclimated to the idea before we express the details.”

But it was too late. By the satisfaction on Mary’s face, and with full knowledge of her eternal desire for
more
, I wonder about her influence.

“Four decades,” Mother says. “Four decades your father and I have slaved for this parish, giving our all to bring life and light to our neighbours and—”

“Pleasant years that have brought us much joy,” Father says.

Mother acquiesces with a shrug. “Of course. But now—”

“Now, your mother and I are entering a new season of our lives.”

“It can be a new season for you and Cassandra too,” Mother says. “There are many eligible men in Bath and—”

I spring from the settee. “I do not care for eligible men!”

“Enough of that, young lady!” Mother says. “You must care. Your father’s provision for us is barely enough to take care of myself, much less
two
unmarried—”

She stops short and reddens. She looks at Father and says, “I am sorry, George. You have been a fine provider. I don’t mean to degrade or offend or—”

“I’m too old to be offended by facts,” he says. “And what your mother says is the truth.” The fresh breath he takes is ragged. “I know this is hard, Jane, but think of this: from Bath we can more easily take holiday in Devon and Wales. You would like that, would you not?”

“Of course, but—”

“Never mind that,” Mother says. “Once I get settled in Bath I shall be very content to remain forever. I see no need to travel farther.”

I wait for Father to contradict her, to hold fast to his travel plans that
would
please me and be of some consolation.

But he offers only a shrug and, with that one act, relegates holidays in Devon and Wales to oblivion. Then he reaches once again for my hand. I have no choice but to give it to him. “What we do, we do for all. You do understand that, don’t you, Jane?”

I look down at his eyes, pleading with me to ease his guilt.

I will not.

I cannot.

I do not—and go to my room.

*****

I sit at my desk and write a letter to Cassandra. I don’t know if my parents have sent word to Godmersham of this crisis, this tragedy, and I’m not about to reenter their presence to ask.
I
must tell Cassandra the awful news, whether first-heard, second, or tenth.

Martha has kindly left me alone to do this deed. I don’t wish for her to behold the scrape of my angry pen against the paper nor witness the heat in my cheeks and the stone of my chin. I don’t want her to hear the words I press to the page being spoken aloud. I don’t usually speak as I write but find no other venue for the appalling discourse that threads through my being. I believe that the true art of letter writing is to express on paper exactly what one would say to the same person by word of mouth, and I know I will now talk to Cassandra almost as fast as I could if she graced the room before me.

They cannot do this to us! Their selfishness knows no bounds. Do they not think of our friendships here? Steventon is the connective tissue that holds us firmly to this life. It is borne in deep roots that rise through our bones and vessels and burst through the air unto the stars. This tissue cannot be severed lest our very hearts stop beating and we fall to the ground, our lives unused.

I find I am without breath and allow myself a moment to catch some air. I dip my pen and continue my tirade.

How dare they make such a decision without our contribution! Like two naughty children, scheming when left alone, they throw common sense aside and do what they desire, with no thought or inclination to the consequences nor to the wishes or needs of others. Such actions are unconscionable, despicable, and with no evidence of the love that supposedly is present between parent and child. As the youngest daughter, I realize I am the lowest of the low, but since it is my life that is affected as much as theirs, should I not be consulted? Should my very existence not be recognized as viable and worthy of opinion? Must I be ignored?

Apparently yes.

My hand shakes as I make a closing.

I await your words, which surely will match mine in their intensity and utter despair. In them, I hope to read of a solution to our awful predicament. Save us, dear sister! Find a way to save us.

I sign my name, blot the ink, and fold the letter, sealing it with blue wax. I take it downstairs and only relinquish it long enough to put on my coat.

Mother looks up from her embroidery. “Surely you’re not going out, Jane. Not in this cold.”

What does she care? “Surely I am.”

Martha stands. “Would you like me to go with you?”

“No,” I say, though I appreciate the kindness of her offer. “I will return shortly.”

I go outside. Although I usually let one of the servants take the outgoing letters, I cannot risk delay in posting this particular brief. Nor can I risk the chance that I will calm myself and have second thoughts.

This letter must reach Cassandra in all its fervid glory. Although she may chuse to consign its burning words to the fire, I will not regret writing them. For I had to write them.

Write them or die.

I pass by my bedroom and am taken aback, as I find my brother’s wife, Mary, inside. She stands before two French agricultural prints above our dresser, perusing them with hand to face, as if they hang at a museum.

I can
see
the possessive look in her eye as she assesses how these will look above her own dresser, in this very room, when she and James move in.

“Mary.” I allow my voice to hold a hint of sternness. She has tested me once too often these past months.

She starts like a child stealing a candy. “Jane.”

Yes, yes, we know our names . . . .

“May I be of assistance?” I ask.

It’s her turn to be taken aback. Her face fumbles for control, but then she waves a hand toward the pictures. “These are lovely.”

“Yes,” I say. “They are.” I wait. I will not make this easy for her if she has the gumption to—

“I was wondering if they are staying?”

Her audacity astounds. “They are not. Edward gave them to Cassandra and me. As a gift. They belong to
us
.”

She blinks. “There is no need to be peeved, Jane. Your parents have told James and me to peruse the contents of the house for items we may desire.”

Desire? Has anyone inquired of my desire? In this? In anything?

I move to the door and point downstairs. “You have already put your mark on other pictures: the battle piece, the Mr. Nibbs and Sir William East, not to mention all the assorted manuscripts and writing instruments dispersed over the house.”

“I have not put a mark on anything, Jane. Nor ’tis there much value in the things we
have
chosen.”

As expected, Mary’s sense of value relates to pence and pounds and her ability to look to herself first. Does she not realize that these pictures possess great value to me? For in their brushstrokes and shade, outline and perspective, they enfold the lot of my memories as distinctly as the Pembroke table conjures images of Mother locking away her valuables in its drawer, and Father’s desk elicits the memory of his smile in the moment he looks up from his work when I enter the room. Does she not realize the intrinsic and sentimental value in familiar things that are as much a part of a life as skin and sinew?

Already Father’s churchly flock is deserting him to pay court to his son. E’en the brown mare, which, as well as the black mare, is to devolve on James at our removal, has not had patience to wait for that and has settled herself even now at Deane. I suppose that everything else will be seized by degrees in the same manner.

“I know your parents wish to keep the moving expenses to a minimum, so—”

I will not be distracted. “Your eagerness at the expense of others is not admirable, Mary.”

She offers a not-too-convincing rendition of “appalled” before saying, “I am not taking what has not been freely given.”

I wish to add that nothing is free but know I’ve gone too far already. There will be repercussions for my angry torrent.

I move deeper into the room. “If you will excuse me, I have a letter to write.”

She is as eager to be relieved of my company as I am of hers.

I look at my writing desk, where I
will
write a letter. Poor Cassandra. She will soon be privy to yet another outpouring of my ungracious heart.

*****

There are times when one must create a victory—even if it is as unacknowledged as it is unaccommodating and unacceptable. To others.

To me, the victory is embraced as a necessity, a bit of salve to ease my distended nerves.

Our family has been invited to an anniversary fete for Mary and James. Martha, as Mary’s sister, is, of course, going. As are Mother and Father.

I, however, have declined. The image of well wishes, and hearing the outpouring of “May you have many more happy years” would be vinegar on open sores.

Distressingly, as the rest leave for the celebration, no one asks my reason for staying behind. Do they fear the answer? Or do they truly not care? My utmost hope is that they
know
e’en though they do not acknowledge.

Yet why should they know of
that
distress when they seem oblivious to all other? The tears I cry over our move are worthy of the most tragic actress, in the most tragic and sorrowful scene. That my parents are unmoved, that they have yet to ask my true opinion . . .

I am nothing to them. And in Bath, I will be less than that.

Steventon holds my life. Every moment, every life-breath, every emotion, laudable and not, has a root here. I am who I am because of this place, this house, this garden, this town, these neighbours.

Who will I be in Bath? In that place that prides itself on providing roots to few, that thrives on commotion, noise, and the flighty visits of strangers hoping to take more than they give?

I look out the window as the carriage moves toward the party. Mother waves. I stand erect. And still. Another attempt at rebellion that will be unappeased.

It’s all I have.

And
that
frightens me more than anything else.

*****

I pull a volume from the shelves in Father’s office. It’s a collection of William Cowper’s poems. I hold it to my chest. Just two years ago we purchased his complete works.

Martha looks at me from across the room. “Another ‘dear friend’ you cannot part with?”

I close my eyes and recite from my favourite,
The Task
: “‘God made the country, and man made the town. What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts that can alone make sweet the bitter draught that life holds out to all, should most abound and least be threaten’d in the fields and groves?’”

“It will be all right, Jane. There is health and virtue to be found in Bath too.”

“Health, perhaps, but virtue?” I harrumph, knowing I’m unfair, but not caring. Of late, each task is a step closer to the precipice.

Martha finishes straightening a stack of books on the floor. “This stack to sell is small—compared to the rest.” She nods at the commodious shelves that hold over five hundred volumes. “Your father wants to move as few as possible.”

In a fit of drama I go to the shelves and spread my arms wide across them, barring them from the possession of others. “These are as few as possible. Surely these are a part of me that cannot be sold.”

“But there are so many, Jane. The expense of moving—”

I whisk myself round to face her. “Father and Mother should have thought of that and included it as key to their decision.”

“Jane . . .”

I run a hand along the titles. These are not all great books, but they are my books, and I have read every one. “In part I write because of these.”

“What did you say?”

I realize I have whispered the words. “Nothing. Let us continue our inventory. Perhaps James will buy a few so at least they remain on family shelves. Yet I suppose Mary will want them gratis.”

“Jane . . .”

I accept her admonition but do not embrace it.

*****

“Father, no!”

He puts his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry, Jane. But we cannot bring the pianoforte to Bath. We cannot bring our new tables either. Only the beds will go, for those are of personal comfort. I don’t think it will be worthwhile to remove any of our chests of drawers either. We shall be able to get some of a much more commodious form, made of deal and painted to look very neat. Your mother and I have thought at times of removing the sideboard, or the Pembroke table, or some other piece of furniture, but upon the whole we have ended in thinking that the trouble and frisk of the removal would be more than the advantage of having them at a place where everything may be purchased, so—”

“But my piano?”

He blinks as though his last recitation was for his own benefit, not mine. “It must be sold with the rest.”

I resist throwing myself across its keys as I had done last week against the bookshelves. I resist but still am tempted.

I stand tall, knowing Father responds best to strength and logic. “It is
my
piano, Father. I am the only one who uses it.”

“Which is a point in favor of selling it.”

Oh dear. I had not meant it that way.

I step toward him. “So much of what is mine is being discarded and—”

“Discarded, Jane?”

“Appropriated, then,” I say. “Can I not keep something that provides me so much joy?” I quickly add, “And also provides the family with joy as they listen to my musical attempts?” I dare him to say otherwise.

“Of course, Jane. We always appreciate your music.”

“Then let the music continue in Bath,” I say. “There, Aunt and Uncle will be able to appreciate it too.”

“Your aunt has her own pianoforte, and I am sure she will allow you to use it whenever you wish.”

Now I know what Charles and Frank feel in the final moments of a battle. It’s time to take a final stand. “I wish to take the piano, Father. I will pay for its removal, if needed.”

“You have no money, Jane.”

“I have a bit. Enough.” I don’t know if this is true.

Father walks toward me, and I know by the sallow look in his eyes that I’m defeated. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I am sorry, Jane. But it cannot be. I must say no.”

I manage to look him clear in the eyes. “To me, Father. You must say no to me. Again.” I step back, causing his arm to fall. “But fear not, for I am well used to it.”

I leave him before I say even more.

*****

A letter has come from Cassandra. I remove myself to my room—our room. Of late it’s the sole place where I partake of my sister’s correspondence. No more reading the pages in the parlour, where others can intrude. They take everything else away from me; they will not take my sturdy boat on a rough sea. Cassandra is the one person who will
not
tell me how I must do what is asked without complaint, implementing my duty as a good daughter.

She has been three months absent, and my tolerance of others having her in
their
presence is tested to breaking. I can be a very loving relation and a very excellent correspondent, but when pushed I degenerate into negligence and indifference. I have done all but beg,
Come home to me, Cassandra. You are my only relief.

I sit and open the letter. My habit is to peruse it once quickly, then go back and savor every word.

But at the second paragraph my perusal is halted:

Perhaps you could consider giving your small cabinet to Anna. Mary has written me saying she would enjoy it very much. Mother has also written, saying she approves. Apparently, they want to move very little.

The rest of the letter can wait. How can my sister betray me? I know her suggestion to give a cabinet to my niece is made with good intent—as well as with Mother’s and Mary’s prodding—but have I not had enough stripped from my possession?

I pull out fresh paper.

Dearest Cassandra,

You are very kind in planning presents for me to make, even though my mother has shown me exactly the same attention, but as I do not chuse to have generosity dictated to me, I shall not resolve on giving my cabinet to Anna till the first thought of it has been my own.

I sit back in my chair, my heart pounding. I don’t oft speak to my sister in this manner. Yet I don’t oft find myself in this deplorable position of losing the foundation of my very life.

I look upon the harsh words. Should I toss the paper to the fire? Or should I allow myself the fire of the words?

I decide on the latter. Cassandra will understand I don’t blame her. I will make it known by the tone of the rest of my missive. But she must also be made aware of the injustices being done in her absence. Done to her as well as to me.

I look across the sitting room where the cabinet in question sits unawares. It has always been mine. As a child I used the bottom drawer as a bed for my doll. My niece will not have it. No one will.

Mother appears at the door. “Jane, I have decided to have two maids in Bath. A steady cook and a housemaid.”

“Isn’t Nanny coming with us?”

“Nanny’s husband is decidedly against her quitting service in such times as these and, I believe, would be very glad to have her continue with us. But you know, Jane, in some respects she would be a great comfort, and in some we should wish for a different sort of servant. Nothing is settled at present with her, but I should think it would be as well for all parties if she could suit herself somewhere nearer her husband and child than Bath. Mrs. Rice’s place would very likely do for her. Yet, as she herself is aware, she’s not qualified for many houses.”

So we have dispensed of dear Nanny too—though it does appear Mother has at least given more thought to her disposal than that of my cabinet.

“Does Father know of your idea of servants?” I ask.

“Not as yet.”

“I assume there will be a manservant also, of middle age,” I say. “Someone who can undertake the double office of husband to the former and sweetheart to the latter. No children to be allowed on either side.”

Mother rolls her eyes. “This is not one of your novels, Jane.”

It could be.

Thankfully—for her sake—Mother is called away before I can mention my cabinet
not
being assigned to Anna.

The battle is not over. But it will be won.

Hopefully, in my favor.

*****

I hug Martha close, her bonnet to my ear. “Don’t go.”

“I must. Mother isn’t well.”

I know this to be true, but it does not lighten my sorrow. “You leave me alone.”

She is wise enough not to say, “But your parents are here.” As a bosom friend she discerns my meaning.

Martha approaches the carriage. “Cassandra will be home soon.”

“Not soon enough. And Mother wants me to travel with
her
to Bath to look at rental properties.”

“But surely Cassandra will come too?”

“Yes, if I am consulted.”

Sadly, we both know the probability of that.

*****

Cassandra is home!

We meet her at the door with a strong embrace. “Welcome!” Father says.

“I’m ever so glad to be home,” she says.