Just Jane (14 page)

“Jane? Are you unwell?”

Completely. Absolutely.

Cassandra takes my arm. “Come. Let us get some air.”

She leads me outside, and after a few breaths I do feel better. Physically.

But emotionally?

“Are you all right now?” asks Cassandra.

I ignore her question for one of my own. “Three years? We are to be in this detestable place three years?”

Her look is quizzical. “Father is retiring here. You knew that, Jane. The lease should not be unexpected.”

And it isn’t. If only I will admit as much.

I take her arm and walk. “I, more than anyone, know of their commitment here. But hearing the words: three years . . . I am stifled already.”

“You feel stifled from being cooped up in Uncle’s house.”

“With old people.”

She nods once. “I’m here now. And we are to have our own home. We will manage, Jane.”

We have no choice.

Which, in itself, is the real problem.

*****

We are moved. As I meander between sitting room and bedroom, up stairs that creak (from some hidden damp, no doubt), I admit that our new residence on Sydney Place is elegant. And very fashionable.

The details of cleaning and unpacking distract me.

Momentarily.

*****

As we are now settled, I have no excuse.

I open my trunk of stories and take out
Susan
. Since the story is set in Bath and I am
in
Bath . . .

I untie the bundle and look down at the thousands of words lying in wait upon my lap.

In wait for what?

For me to diddle and piddle with them?

Toward what end?

Although I was isolated from any sort of publishing in Steventon, it seems a place closer to my aspirations than here, where real contacts might be made.

Odd.

I am diverted by a noise outside and look out the window as a young child screams. Yet I’m relieved to see he isn’t hurt, just willful. He wants a candy, and his mother has said no.

A cart goes by, loaded with wooden boxes. As the little boy bolts from his mother in front of the horse, it blessedly halts its forward movement but rises up with a fierce neighing, causing the cart to roll backward and two boxes to fall from its back.

Beautifully suited gentry give the accident a passing glance and do not offer the poor driver help. He jumps from the cart and tries to calm the horse. His eyes are on the fallen boxes. Does he fear some hooligan will snatch one?

Such commotion. Did those boxes contain something of value?

He manages to move the horse and cart to a post, where it’s tied. With great effort he gets the boxes back on board. He is on his way. The crisis is over.

Like the driver returned to his mission, I return my attention to the pages before me. I pick up the first page and begin to read. Yet after a few lines, I realize I have not retained a single word. My eyes skim across the alphabet but do not allow the scribbling to be formed into cognizant thought.

Cassandra comes into the room and, upon seeing the trunk open, and seeing the pages in my lap, says, “I’m sorry to disturb you. Carry on.”

She begins to leave but I call her back. “There’s no need to go,” I say. I retrieve the string and retie it around the stack of pages.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting it away.”

“But why? I think it’s a fine idea that you begin your work again.”

“A fine idea, to be sure, but a useless one.”

“Why do you say that?”

I gaze out the window at the people strolling by. They should be an inspiration to me. I should take the accident I’ve just witnessed and place it among the folds of my story. I
could
do that. I
have
done such a thing.

But I don’t want to.

“Jane? Tell me what you mean.”

It’s frightening to put the truth into words, but I will do it. For my sister’s sake.

“They don’t speak to me, Cass.”

She intuits who “they” are. “Not at all?” she asks.

I shake my head. “As my will has been silenced, so have theirs. They don’t wish to speak.”

“But can you not wake them? For surely they will give you comfort and companionship. They are family to you.”

At this moment, I’m not too keen on family.

“Perhaps one day, when it’s an extremely good day, when I feel energy instead of this dreadful lethargy . . .”

“You must awaken them, Jane. You must.”

I am not so sure.

We suffer the commotion of leaving Steventon and moving to Bath, yet near as soon as Father and Cassandra arrive, he wishes to be off again. “To the sea!” he proclaims as often as we let him.

I don’t argue with him. I love the seaside towns of Devon and Dorset. I love taking long walks, smelling the salt air, and watching the seagulls dive and dip. And the ships . . . If a man, I would have been a sailor like my brothers. I know it.

Mother
does
argue. “But we cannot leave Bath! We have only just arrived!”

She is right, of course, and I see her view with more logic than Father’s, but I don’t wish to stay
here
, and so I urge Father on, using my enthusiasm to aid him in achieving his way.

Which he does. Repeatedly, and as often as he can.

In these towns, many that we visited on holiday when we lived in Steventon, I can momentarily lift reality aside and pretend that the home we will return to is the rectory. It’s a silly game I play with myself, but if it aids me getting from one day to the next . . . I see no harm in it.

Today, as we do during as many days as possible, Cassandra and I go sea bathing. We stand on the edge of the ocean, the breeze making the curls around our caps dance.

A man signals us forward. “Come now, ladies. It’s your turn.”

Cassandra and I ascend the steps into the wood box of the bathing machine, our swimming clothes in hand. Two other women follow. The doors close and we begin to undress. It’s awkward to keep our balance, especially when the horse draws us into the sea until the surface of the water is on a level with the floor of the dressing room.

I feel the movement of the water against the cart and hear the attendant unhitching the horse and moving him to the other end to be ready when it’s time to be pulled to land again.

“I cannot see!” says one of the other women. “Why don’t they put a window in these things?”

“For privacy, silly,” says her companion.

Although the lack of a window makes perfect sense, I cannot help thinking a window in the top of the bathing box would be a logical solution. Until men can fly, there would be no threat of a voyeur.

But no one has inquired as to my opinion on the matter.

“There is no air! It’s unbearably hot,” complains the first woman again.

“Then hurry your change so we can go out!” says the second.

I agree. This transitional phase from street to sea is never pleasant. It’s no time to dally. Or complain, as there is no remedy but speed.

I feel a hand on my arm and assume it’s Cassandra. “Give me your dress. I’ll put it on the high shelf with mine.”

I do as I’m told and quickly put the bathing dress over my head. It’s made of linen. Other years we rented one, but since Father has informed us that he plans on much travel to coastal places, we have been allowed to purchase our own, ready-made. I much prefer this, as wearing what someone else has worn is in many ways disagreeable. The least of reasons being the deplorable fit. One size for everyone is not fashionable. Although, fashion has not a thing to do with sea bathing. After all, look at the great pains made to keep us from ever seeing anyone else but those in our cart. Vanity, thou art frivolous.

“Ouch!” says the first voice. “You stepped on my toes.”

“If you will be ready we can open the door.”

“I am, I am. You other two?” she says, implying us. “Are you ready?”

“We are,” I say.

The door is opened and I squint at the sudden sunlight. The other two women perch at the end of the box as if having second thoughts. Their discussion proves my impression.

“It will be cold. I know it will.”

“Of course it will. But it will be good for us. Three dips is the normal prescription.”

A robust woman comes into view, standing in the water by the back steps. She is the Dipper. I’ve seen her before. She is very strong.

She holds out her hand to the woman. “Come on now, dearie. Don’ hold up the lot by being timid.”

The swimmer-to-be shivers, yet the air is warm. “But I cannot swim,” says the woman.

“No need,” says the Dipper. “I’ll ’ave ’old a ya. One, two, three dunks, an’ you’re done.”

“I’ll go,” says the other woman.

“Thata girl.”

She descends the step with her companion watching after her, hand to mouth. Her fear is ridiculous. We are in but three feet of water, and though the waves come at a steady but unpredictable pace, they are not such to elicit fear. Neither Cassandra nor I know how to swim, but that does not stop us from traversing each afternoon to the shore, where we put our names on the list, hoping to get our turn. We don’t do so for medicinal reasons. We go for the sheer joy of it. There is something freeing in feeling the power of the waves crashing around my legs and the tide pushing, swirling, pulling. It’s a battle of sorts. I come so often because I’m not allowed to stay long enough on any one dipping to truly satisfy. And perhaps, just perhaps, it’s the fact that my two brothers have taken the sea as their lives that I enjoy it so. Somehow, so far away, we can share this common element.

After much dialogue, the companion is shamed into going and makes quite a squealing spectacle as she is dipped—only twice, because she begs for it to stop.

Finally, it’s our turn. I let Cassandra go first. She goes without a single squeal and with a dignified composure I cannot hope to match. For I find it difficult to come up from the dip and not sputter and rub my eyes. Although seawater may be medicinal, neither my sight nor my taste appreciate its saltiness.

Her dunking complete, Cassandra sits in the water as I take my turn.

“Take a deep ’un, dearie. Here we go.”

The Dipper does her thricely duty amid the waves. I am released. I don’t know where the prescribed three dips originates but cannot help but find a parallel between its restorative power and the early Christian baptisms where people were immersed in water and dipped under, thrice. Restored in body. Restored in soul. Restored in mind? Father, Son, and Holy Ghost?

As I come up I hear the second woman call to the first, “See, Abigail? I’m swimming.”

The swimming woman stands with one foot on the ground and does the arm stroke, getting quite a respectable distance by a series of little hops, yet deceiving no one.

“You pretend,” Abigail says.

The swimmer drops her arm, stands still, and says, “I challenge you to do better.”

The Dipper chimes in, “You’ll do no such thing. Come o’er ’ere where I can see ya. I don’ need no drownings today.”

I agree completely.

*****

“Hello.”

Cassandra and I, rejuvenated from our sea bathing and back in our street clothes, turn toward the masculine voice. A handsome face greets us. And a lovely smile.

He tips his hat. “I saw that you walked in from the seaside?”

I put a hand to the curls that peek out from my bonnet. The damp curls. “We have returned from sea bathing.”

He looks in that direction. “I’ve never indulged.”

“You should,” I say. “It’s very invigorating.”

“Does it heal one’s constitution, as they say?”

Cassandra answers. “I would think the results are variable. According to the degree of one’s illness—”

“And expectations,” I say, then risk adding one more word. “And gullibility.”

He laughs. “And how high are your levels of those . . . attributes?”

I feign a frown and shake my head. “Oh, low, very, very low.”

“So you are neither expectant nor gullible?”

“Nor ill,” Cassandra adds.

“Although we are quite healthy,” I say. “I will admit that we desire to
be
expectant and conspire to hold gullibility at bay.”

“A good plan to aspire to.”

“If we don’t
ex
pire first.”

We all laugh. How rare to find a gentleman who knows how to parlay language in such a witty fashion. How delightful.

He removes his hat and offers a bow. “William Jones, at your service, ladies.”

We curtsy, and Cassandra, being the eldest, offers introductions. “We are the Austen sisters: I am Cassandra, and this is Jane.”

“A pleasure.” He turns to his right. “Shall we walk?”

I can think of nothing better.

*****

The appeal of Sidmouth increases a hundredfold after meeting Mr. Jones. He is a clergyman, in town to visit his brother, who is a doctor here. We have met twice since that first happy happenstance—with Cassandra as our chaperone, of course. I’m glad to have her along, not because being in a gentleman’s presence makes me nervous, but because by her very presence I am relieved of having to remember what I said, what he said, and what I said again. This allows for our sisterly time alone to be utilized for discussions of his intentions and what he
really
might have meant by what he said after hearing what I said.

The whole affair makes me giggle. Cassandra too—which makes me very pleased. For I don’t wish to have feelings for anyone whom Cassandra dislikes.

She assures me William Jones is very amiable.

I stand before the mirror and attempt to tame my curls, for he is to call today. Call here, at our residence in Sidmouth.

“You look lovely,” Cassandra says, watching my flutterings.

“I can never claim that trait, but I’m grateful for your encouragement.”

“
He
needs no encouragement, you know.”

I turn away from the mirror to see her face. “Do you think . . . ?”

“I believe he is quite in love with you.”

“Has he said something?”

She points to her eyes. “With these. I can see by the way he looks at you.”

“Perhaps he partook of bad oysters.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Perhaps he feels the pangs of love.”

I put a hand to my midsection. “Is this what it feels like?”

“Only you can say.”

“But how do I know?”

Cassandra shrugs, which is not an answer I can fathom. “I have only loved one man and the love grew so gradually, from childhood to grown, that I’m not sure I can speak of love’s measure or absolute knowledge.” She twists a curl by my forehead, then steps back, obviously pleased. “Is this feeling the same as that which you had toward Tom Lefroy?”

I’m torn by her question. “I don’t know. That seems a lifetime ago. I was not the same Jane then as I am now. Should I feel the same?”

“You were very young then.”

“I was very ignorant of . . . life.”

Cassandra nods. She understands. For in the three years since Tom, I’ve felt a myriad of emotions hitherto unknown to me. I had been a happy young woman, nearly a child, who flirted and laughed at balls and whose largest dilemma was whom to dance with first. Now I’m older and have been introduced to disappointment, frustration, sorrow, anger . . . .

“Does a person love the same way twice?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t know.” She takes my hand and draws me to standing. “It’s time. He will be here soon.”

“So . . . what do I do?”

“You follow your heart.”

I remember a quote from Blaise Pascal that Father taught me:
The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.

I hope to prove the quotation wrong.

*****

Father and Mr. Jones engage in a rousing discussion regarding the simple fact that though men
appear
to be good, it does not mean they truly follow God’s decrees. William points out that we often judge people by their manners, when such manners can cover a multitude of flaws of what should be true, godly character. Father heartily agrees.

I am content to observe—and delight in their connection. Although I’ve little history of bringing suitors to meet my parents, what plays out between them fulfills my imagination.

Their discussion complete, William looks in my direction and smiles. Father smiles. Mother smiles. Cassandra smiles.

The world is good and right.

“I was wondering, Mr. Austen,” William says, “if I might be allowed to meet up with you again in the near future. Jane says you are traveling on to another coastal town?”

“We are,” Father says.

“Are
you
leaving Sidmouth soon, Mr. Jones?” I ask—with far too much panic in my voice.

“I must.” He looks at Father. “But with your permission, once my business is complete, I would like to come visit with you again. You name the city, and I will be there.”

Oh my.

My panic subsides and my heart follows Pascal’s quotation. I am a stranger to reason.

“I think that would be delightful,” Father says, shaking William’s hand. “Come, let me show you our itinerary.”

The men leave the room and Mother is immediately at my side, taking my hands in hers. “Oh, Jane, he is all I hoped for you! I’m so pleased.”

She hugs me tightly, more tightly than she has ever embraced me. I
am
glad to have finally pleased her.

I have pleasure on so many accounts.

God is good.

*****

“You daydream again,” Cassandra says as the carriage jostles us toward our next coastal destination.

“Mmm.”

“He will be there,” she whispers.

*****

As soon as we arrive at the inn, even before I remove my bonnet, I check with the owner. I’ve sent word through William’s brother as to our final schedule. He, in turn, is to leave word at the inn as to where he is staying. To see him! Soon, I will see him!

I must admit my affection has grown in his absence. I’m not naïve enough to call it true love. But with my imagination added to my memories, I have all hopes that love will evolve. And is that not the best kind of love? One that once born grows larger?

“Excuse me, sir?” I ask the owner. “Is there a message left for Miss Jane Austen?”

He nods and pulls a letter from a box. “Came two days ago.”

He has been here two days? My heart races. I must not keep William waiting a moment longer!

I rush to my room, where Cassandra unpacks. Immediately she sees it in my hand. “What does he say?”

“I have not opened it yet.” I toss off my bonnet and sit by the window to read. I break the seal and gaze for the first time upon William’s writing. He owns a lovely cursive. Very readable and neat.