Just Jane (13 page)

We walk three paces in silence. Then she says, “Mr. Chamberlayne seems to think it strange that I should absent myself from him for four and twenty hours when he is home, tho’ it appears in the natural order of things that he should quit me for business or pleasure. Such is the difference between husbands and wives. The latter are tame animals whom the men always expect to find at home ready to receive them; the former are lords of the creation, free to go where they please.”

I know not what to say. For I have known such women and e’en placed such a situation in
First Impressions
, when Charlotte marries Mr. Collins and admits to Lizzy that she much prefers solitude to his company.

“So you see, Miss Jane, I—”

“I am sorry for you.” The words are presumptuous, and I wish I could take them back. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no,” Mrs. Chamberlayne says. “Sympathy and compassion soothe the inequity just a little.” She stops and takes a new breath. “Well, then. Shall we walk back through this park? It’s a shorter way.”

We walk in silence, each in our own thoughts and contemplations of the strange society of love and marriage.

After seeing what she is equal to, I cannot help feeling a regard for her.

As to agreeableness? She is much like other people.

And I—be it good or bad—am not.

*****

Mother is in heaven, her boredom summarily dismissed.

Between house hunting, Aunt’s entertaining, and going out, Mother lives in a state of anticipation. That it’s May and therefore
not
the true season frightens me, for my memories of more-to-do daunt me. Such excitement entices when one is on holiday but overwhelms when such frivolities happen with great occurrence near one’s residence. Plenty much is often too much.

This morning I go with Mother to help look at some houses in New King Street, but they are smaller than I expected to find them. One in particular out of the two is quite monstrously little. The best of the sitting rooms not so large as the little parlour at Steventon, and the second room in every floor only capacious enough to admit a very small single bed.

Our views on the Green Park Buildings seem at an end as we observe dampness still remaining in a house which has been only vacated a week, with reports of discontented families and putrid fevers being the
coup de grâce.
We now have nothing to view. When Cassandra and Father arrive, we will at least have the pleasure of examining some of these putrefying houses again. They are so very desirable in size and situation that there is some satisfaction in spending ten minutes within them.

We correspond with Father, reporting our findings, but Father in particular—who was very well inclined toward the Row before—has now ceased to think of it entirely. At present the environs of Laura Place seem to be his choice. His views on the subject are much advanced; he grows quite ambitious and actually now requires a comfortable and a creditable-looking house.

Then let him come find one.

It’s discouraging. In such a large place, one would think acceptable housing could be found. Yet . . . perhaps we will find none and go home to Steventon!

I cannot allow such thoughts. The door is closed. I’ve no recourse but to walk away . . . .

To add to our distress, news from home does not inspire confidence in our pilgrimage here. Father is not pleased with the money that has been raised through the selling of our possessions. Mr. Bent seems bent upon being very detestable, for he values the books at only seventy pounds. Sixty-one guineas and a half for the three cows gives one some support under the blow of only eleven guineas for the dining tables—which are nearly new. Eight for my pianoforte is, alas, about what I expected to get. But ten shillings for Dodsley’s poems pleases me to the quick, and I don’t care how often I sell them for as much. When Mrs. Bramston has read them through, I will sell them again! Mary is more minute in her account of their own gains than in ours. I sigh to consider that the whole world is in a conspiracy to enrich one part of our family at the expense of another.

There is no quarrel as to which part is which.

I walk.

A great deal.

It’s my only sanctuary and escape while I wait for Father and Cassandra to join us here. In this place. This awful place.

As I walk the streets I walked previously as a visitor, I’m struck by the metamorphosis of my outlook. How could I have viewed this regal place with pleasure on one hand, only to view it with utter disdain on the other?

’Tis not a hard question. As a visitor I’d had Steventon to return to. I’d had a home. Here, I have only Aunt and Uncle’s house as an abode, with viewings of all others a poor comparison to the comfort and familial ambiance of Steventon. How can any home replace it?

I fear it cannot.

How can any town replace the village of my youth? The country roads, the gardens, the people I knew—and who knew me. People from poor to wealthy, servant to gentry. I was known by them. I spoke with them. I knew of their lives. Our lives intertwined. The strands were neither perfectly made nor always tightly woven, but the bond was attempted and accepted in its attempt.

There seems to be no attempt to interweave here. I walk among grand new buildings, quickly built to fill the need of incoming residents and visitors. As we have seen in old
and
new, the quality is often poor. Slipshod. Many have a veneer of all things fine. Yet upon closer inspection . . . there are cracks in the veneer. Shaky foundations.

So it is with the people.

There is no Wilson family with six babes I can help with bread and blankets. Actually, this is not true. I know the poor must be here, but they are handily shoved in some dark corner where we don’t have to be bothered with them and where they don’t disturb the pristine ambiance of our fantasy world.

There is no mingling of classes as in Steventon. There is no glue of daily contact to bind us together as one entity. Yet e’en as the classes go to great lengths to keep separate, I feel a fragility surrounding me, as if the town holds its breath. As if it’s built as a house of cards, susceptible to a careless expulsion of one breath.

I pass a baker opening the door of his shop for business. He smiles and we exchange a “Good morning.” His amiable greeting reminds me that I am being harsh. There are good people in Bath. Good aspects. And to many—like my aunt and uncle and my parents—appealing aspects. Perhaps it’s only I who don’t appreciate what is here. Perhaps I’m ungrateful. Perhaps I see wrongly. Feel wrongly. Judge wrongly.

I hesitate in my walk and consider returning to the Paragon.

But before my mind can make such a distinction, my feet take up their pace once again and continue away.

I accept their dictate. It’s as good as any other.

*****

“You should not go out alone, Jane,” Aunt tells me as I untie my bonnet.

“Whyever not?”

She adjusts a footstool for my uncle’s aching legs. “Tell her, Perrot.”

He gives her a look, as if trying to discern what
she
would like him to say. I hear her whisper, “Big city . . .”

“Ah yes,” he says. “This is not Steventon, Jane. This is a big city with people from all over Europe.”

“Good people,” Aunt adds.

He gives her a quizzical look because I sense he was going to warn me about bad people—which her comment has sorely quashed. “There are certainly good people,” he says. “Bath has been quite victorious in quelling the petty crimes for which other cities of thirty-four thousand must endure. But the fact remains it’s a cosmopolitan city, Jane. And you, who are used to tiny Steventon . . .”

I am still unsure what they are trying to warn me about: the stray criminal or the cosmopolitan dandy who lies in wait for a wandering Hampshire maiden?

“You should have friends, Jane,” Aunt says. “It’s odd you go out on your own with such frequency.”

Ah. Here is the genuine reason for their disapproval. I am not social enough; I’ve found neither husband nor bosom friend within the city boundaries.

“Make some inquiries, Jane,” Aunt says. “And accept kind invitations.”

Is there such a thing as an unkind invitation?

Aunt tucks a blanket around Uncle’s legs and stands erect. “If you have trouble in such respects, I can do it for you.”

It seems I am doomed to trouble on all accounts.

*****

My morning begins as best it can, for I find a letter from my little brother on the table. I do so love hearing from Charles, as well as Frank—my sailor brothers.

I devour its content. Charles has received thirty pounds for his share of a privateer’s spoils and expects ten more. He says he is buying gold chains and topaz crosses for Cassandra and me. But of what avail is it to take prizes if he spends his profit in presents for his sisters? He must be well scolded.

His current ship, the
Endymion
, has received orders to take troops to Egypt—which I should not like at all if I didn’t have hope of Charles’s being removed from her, somehow or other, before she sails. He is uncertain of his own destination but desires me to write directly, as the
Endymion
will probably sail in three or four days. I shall write today to thank him, reproach him, and extend my continued prayers for his safety.

As I take out paper on which to make my reply, the servant Albert brings in a note. “For you, Miss Jane.”

It’s from Mrs. Chamberlayne. She wishes to walk this afternoon. I don’t wish to go, but then I hear Aunt and Uncle in the next room . . . .

“Have Jane take you up to the waters,” Aunt says. “She doesn’t mind and she has nothing better to do.”

Nothing better to do than sit in a house of my elders.

I call Albert back and write a quick note to be brought to Mrs. Chamberlayne, accepting her offer.

At least I will be
out
.

*****

On our walk, I am prepared to wind myself in order to stay abreast of Mrs. Chamberlayne’s hearty pace but find that today her rate is not quite so magnificent. It’s nothing more than I can keep up with without effort, and for many, many yards together on a raised narrow footpath I lead the way.

Our discussion today is less insightful and of little interest though plenty agreeable, as every time I say, “Isn’t that tree beautiful?” or “What a lovely day it is,” she agrees. I attempt more enlightening conversation, even offering some gossip about Charles’s ship.

“Would you like to hear a bit of royal intrigue?” I ask.

“If it’s interesting.”

Would I be sharing it if it were not? I continue. “This February, my brother Charles, who is on the frigate
Endymion
, had the King’s son, Prince Augustus Frederick, come aboard.”

“The Duke of Sussex?”

“The very one.” We turn past a row of yellow houses. “The ship was visiting Lisbon as apparently the climate there is a balm to His Majesty’s asthma. His presence was special enough, but interest was added in regard to the Prince’s companion.” I wait for her to ask.

She does not.

I consider halting my discourse but continue on, hoping she will spark to life at some point in its telling. “His companion was his wife, Lady Augusta Murray.”

“That’s nice.”

I shake my head. She does not understand the ramifications. “She is the woman he married without asking the approval of the King or the Privy Council. The marriage was annulled soon after—even though they had a baby son.”

“My son is two next week.”

My pace slows from the shock of her transition. It’s my turn to give the dull answer. “That’s nice.”

We walk on in silence. Apparently she has no interest in the true love shown by the Prince in living on with his “amiable Goosey” in spite of government decree. I find such dedication romantic.

“We are leaving Bath in two days.”

I say what I’m expected to say. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Yet, in truth, I’m content to end our friendship, which ends as most friendships in Bath must end—with a departure. As such, these friendships, and all others I attempt here in Bath, pale with my true friendships with Martha or Anne Lefroy or Catherine Bigg.

It’s not that I expect a discussion of world events or life-and-death matters, but there must be a connection that delves into the open—open not closed—recesses of one’s thoughts and heart. I’ve seen my dearest friends at their best and worst, and they have also seen me and love me still.

And yet, I don’t fault Mrs. Chamberlayne for our lack of connection merely because of a dearth of meaningful conversation. Martha and I also banter about nothing quite successfully. The difference lies in our ability, and yea, even our shared anticipation of deeper dialogue. To have no chance of such give and take is as of little worth as a drop of rain fallen on the sea.

Our walk nears its end, and as we part and say our adieus, there is no regret or desire for another meeting.

There is no feeling at all.

*****

I am in a mood. A mood that the arrival of my sister will correct.
Soon, Cass. Come soon and keep me from my wickedness.

I find it harder and harder to play nice with visitors, or to even wish for their presence. I am content to escape to my high room and bar the door from all who would call and interrupt my . . .

What do I do up here?

Pout.

I pout.

And conspire regarding how to bring justice to my plight. Perhaps if I run away, back to Steventon, and put a herb in the tea of the new tenant to the farm, Mr. Holder . . . with Martha’s knowledge of medicinal preparations, she could offer advice for something that would make him ill. Not deathly, just ill enough to find that taking on the trials and tribulations of a new farm is beyond his bearing.

To relieve him of his plight, he would beg my father to return.

Oh, the satisfaction I will have moving Mary’s possessions from the rectory and onto the road. Once they are cleared, I will march inside, give her the smallest curtsy as my farewell, and shut the door.

Actually, Father and Mother don’t need to come back with me. I will live there alone. Or with Cassandra. The two of us could make do. Somehow.

I know it’s folly and a waste of time and energy. I should be writing.

I peer at my trunk of manuscripts but cannot bring myself to open its lid and take them out. I’m not sure why I’m so restrained. Is it because my thoughts are disjointed, flitting from this to that without lighting for more than a moment? Is it because my emotions are raw and as variable as my mother’s taste in real estate? Is it because I feel inept at creating a satisfactory story for my characters when I cannot even create a satisfactory story for myself? Is it because I’ve no confidence in my own desires? After all, my desire to stay at Steventon meant nothing to the world. Why should I believe my desire to be published carries any more weight or is any more valid?

I know the answer lies in all those reasons, and their overhanging presence is a cloud that threatens to push me lower and lower into a place . . .

From which I dearly hope I can recover.

*****

I’m bad. Very bad.

Mother has just told me the news that Marianne Mapleton has died. When we last visited Bath, I privately disparaged the girl, saying she was not one I wished to nourish as a dear friend.

And now she is gone.

“How?” I ask.

“She had a bilious fever. She was believed out of danger on Sunday, but a sudden relapse carried her off the next day.” Mother shakes her head. “Such a kind girl. The most beautiful. Intelligent. And charitable too, I hear.”

“It seems you have all manner of attribute covered.”

“You wish to dispute me?”

“No, no, Mother. It’s just that . . . I find it interesting that on early death, many a girl has been praised into an angel. Many on slighter pretensions to beauty, sense, and merit than Marianne.”

At first, she does not respond. Then she says, “Bitterness does not suit you, Jane.”

I pull within an extended breath, knowing she is right and wondering why this new, bitter Jane has emerged.

But I know the answer to that.

*****

They have arrived! My loneliness is over!

I hug Father and smell the musk of his travel that is accentuated by the warm days of June. But it’s Cassandra I
need
to embrace, and I go to her and cling to her as a drowning woman clings to a buoy in the water.

“I’m so glad you are here,” I whisper in her ear.

“As am I,” she whispers back.

Mother waves a handkerchief at the door. “Yes, yes, my turn now.”

She embraces the travelers and leads them inside her brother’s home—which will certainly be filled to capacity with the number of guests suddenly doubled. Secretly I hope Mother
and
Aunt feel the tightness of the air. Perhaps it will be instrumental in nudging our removal from this place to a place of our own. I do so desperately wish for such a place in hopes that somehow, once settled, I will regain a notion of my former contentment.

I fear I will not.

But hope I will.

*****

We have found lodging!

It’s more expensive than what Father originally wanted to spend, but at least it’s not too cramped. Nor too damp. But I worry. He embraces optimism again, yet our finances seem to state he should be holding on to what he can, buttoned tight within an inside pocket.

No. 4 Sydney Place is only nine years old and faces Sydney Gardens. Our rental stands in a row of terraced houses that are four stories tall. The city, with its Pump Room and commerce, stands close across Mr. Pulteney’s bridge along the wide Great Pulteney Street.

Out the back is land that is (so far) undeveloped, offering us at least a glimpse of green country vistas. Like those we left behind in Steventon? Far from it. Perhaps if I squint my eyes when taking perusal of the green, I can imagine and remember . . . .

“There!” Father signs the papers in Uncle’s study with the solicitor. “Three years accounted for.”

“Accounted for?” I ask as he comes into the hallway.

“Leased. We are leased for three years.”

My legs are weak. I lean against the wall, making a painting of St. Paul’s Cathedral go askew.