Just Jane (15 page)

Dear Miss Austen . . .

I had hoped for
Dear Jane
.

But as I read the words, the importance of the salutation evaporates.

I regret to inform you that William has had an accident and has been killed. Please know that his thoughts were upon you. He was so excited about seeing you again . . . .

“Jane?”

My head shakes back and forth of its own volition. The letter falls from my hand, its words too heavy to hold.

Cassandra picks it up and reads. Her shaking head joins rhythm with mine. “No! No! It cannot be!”

I press my hands against my face, covering my eyes. Surely they didn’t just see the words, read the words, accept the words.

Surely, they did.

*****

I feel Cassandra slip into my bed, beside me. My back is to her, and we do not speak, but I move over as best I can. She puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I know what you suffer.”

And for the first time since hearing of William’s death, I realize she does. I turn toward her and adjust our two frames in the space meant for one. Even in the moonlight I can see her face. “You know.”

She nods.

“What am I to do?”

“You hurt.”

I begin to cry and she touches her forehead to mine. There is comfort there, but I move on to another emotion and pull back. “But why, Cass? Why would God take him? We had just found each other. Why, when I finally found a man I might truly love?”

“Why did God take my Tom?”

“It’s like we are doomed to be two old spinster women.”

“I’m accepting of that,” she says.

I sit up, throwing the cover against her. “But I’m not! I know you want no one but Tom, but I’ve not made such a choice. I’m willing—if I find the right one. I’m open to the idea of love and marriage and family and—”

“Then it will happen.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

“But why would God bring this man into my life, tease me with his charm and amiability, please Father and Mother with hopes of our future, and then take him from me?”

“I don’t know.”

I dislike her answers. “Who
does
know?”

She opens her mouth to speak, and I know the same three words perch on its edge. She wisely does not let them loose.

I lean against the wall at the side of the bed and draw my knees to my chest, pulling my gown around them. “Do you ever wonder if we are a disappointment to our parents?”

“Because we aren’t married?”

I shrug, for that is a part of it. But there is more. “All their sons have done well and prospered. But we . . . we . . .”

“What would you have us do? The avenues of accomplishment open to women are narrow.”

“We
could
marry. Have children. Stop being a burden. Give them some true time alone.”

“They know my view of it.”

“But Mother made it clear that moving to Bath would open marital possibilities.”

“For you, Jane. Not for me. There will be none but Tom for me.”

She frustrates me, for of the two of us it’s Cassandra who has more to offer a man than I. She is adept at all things domestic; she is intelligent, calm in the face of calamity, constant, versed in child rearing, and loves far beyond herself. I’m a gray, dusty moth to her lovely butterfly.

We allow silence to fill the space between us. It’s not awkward, as it might be in the presence of others. We accept each other’s silence as a part of our dialogue. Words are not the only thing that speak.

“If I do ever marry, you will live with me,” I say. I didn’t plan to say it, but the words move unbidden from thought to fruition.

“Your husband may not approve.”

“Then he will not be my husband.” I hold out my hand. “Shake on it, Cass. Make a pact of it.”

She hesitates, but only for a moment. We shake hands. Though others may come and go, live and die, satisfy and disappoint, the two Austen sisters will remain united.

Forever.

We have returned to Bath. I’m as pleased as I expect to be.

And yet . . . I
have
decided there are little rubs and disappointments everywhere. We are all apt to expect too much. If one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better. We find comfort somewhere.

We must. It’s our never-ending quest.

I try to hold on to, but not dwell on, the lovely months in the west country at the shore, nor dwell on what could have been with my William. (Was he ever
my
William? I ponder this.) Yet I know what good such dwelling achieves.

Our lives attempt to find a rhythm here, but I find the rhythm of my left hand does not match that of my right. I work against myself, yet cannot seem to come to a complete stop so that I may get a better start at things, in good time, in even time.

I have many excuses, some worn by overuse. But just to keep things interesting I add new complaints to my list: the house at Sydney Place has an odd smell that one gets used to once inside but that assails the senses anew each time one returns. And the new furniture we have procured here is right enough but will always be wrong because it’s not our old furniture. Plus, I grieve over the lack of a piano. Yes, I can visit Aunt Leigh-Perrot and play hers, but that is not the same as spending time each day in a private communion with music before others are about. There is a place I visit while playing—a place that I miss.

Privacy is an issue here, as Mother and Father, with no cares or responsibilities, have taken it upon themselves to be social flutter-bees, going out, coming in, having others in, going out—none soon enough. That they insist Cassandra and I meet and greet annoys me. We are not wallflowers nor hermits, but the obvious intent behind the meetings embarrasses. “We are like flowers in a stall, ready for picking,” I tell Cassandra.

She responds with, “They fear we will wilt.”

Their fear is unfounded. On my part, I have no plans to wilt. But to be presented with such desperation, as though we are a bargain because of some flaw . . .
Come see, come buy. They are not so terribly out of season!

Not yet.

Age is our flaw. Time, that endless taskmaster, ever moving, unrelenting . . .

Were it not for the marriage issue, I would find my age quite pleasant. At twenty-six I’m old enough to know something of the world and young enough to hope for something better. Wise, yet naïve? If there can be such a state, it is mine.

I sit near the window and work on my needlework. I do more of it now, as it is something that occupies me when unamusing people come to call. Too often have I been caught thinking:
I wish I had a piece of work handy so my time would not be a total loss.
So now, ever wiser, when we have visitors, I take up my work with an eagerness which it does not often command. Although I have socks to darn, I’ve been informed
that
is not proper. And so I make a pretty case for a pillow, ivory with yellow and pink flowers. Father reads the paper, and Cassandra sits nearby putting embroidery on a moss green reticule to match her newest dress.

She displays it for my perusal. “Do you think this is enough? Or should I put another row along the open—?”

Mother rushes into the room, causing me to prick my finger. She waves a letter. “Young Hastings is dead!”

Eliza’s son, by her first husband, the French count. Poor little Hastings!

Cassandra takes the letter from her. “It was the fits. They had come more frequently of late.”

“He has not been well,” Father adds. “Never been well.”

It was a truth we none could argue. Ever since the chubby little boy had come into our lives to be our special pet to pamper and play with, we recognized he was unlike other children. His speech never developed correctly, and he took to repeating very formal phrases such as calling someone “My very valuable friend.” Yet as lofty as the words sounded, they seemed said from memory, as if he had learned the sounds but knew not the meaning.

Mother pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve and sits by the fireplace. “He has been in much pain. For years,” Mother says. “Fifteen long years of agonizing existence.”

Whenever I think of Hastings, I’m reminded of my older brother, George, who is also not
right
. Second born, and nine years older than I, he was sent away as a child. It has been years since I’ve seen him, but I
have
heard he is well. Well enough. Unlike dear Hastings, George can function.

Cassandra finishes reading the letter and tells us the rest of its contents. “The boy has been buried in Hampstead beside his maternal grandmother. Eliza is going to Godmersham for a few weeks.”

I nod. “She and Henry will find solace at Edward’s. Henry so enjoys it there.”

With a glance to Mother, Cassandra says, “Henry is not going. He is staying in London to attend to business with his new banking position.”

Mother shakes her head. “They are apart far too often.”

I’ve noticed this quirk in their relationship but have accepted it as an agreed upon situation for two very independent spirits. Although Henry is my favourite brother, I do acknowledge—at least in private—his many faults.

“He had better behave himself,” Father says.

“Meaning?” I ask.

Mother receives another glance, this time from Father. “He had just better, that is all. Life is hard work, not all pleasure.”

“They should be having their own children,” Mother says. “Especially now . . .”

“But Eliza is ten years older,” I say. There is no need to offer details. Eliza is forty years old. The fact that she and Henry have not already had a child warrants speculation that she is unable. For surely, they
do
share affection to its fullest extent.

“It’s none of our business,” Cassandra says. “We must each write, offering our condolences, and let them handle the grieving as they will.”

She is right. As always.

Death is part of life. And accepting that fact as quickly as possible is the Austen way.

*****

Yes, indeed. The Austen way has its merits.

The next year Henry and Eliza come to visit. I wonder if being in Bath will be bittersweet for Eliza, bringing back memories of her son, who sought help here. But if that is so, she does not mention it.

The two of them are as vibrant as ever. The air moves when they enter a room; the light brightens and colours enrich. And once they have entered, the four corners, the ceiling, and the floor, all come to attention.

Henry falls into a chair in the parlor. Eliza gracefully takes command of a settee next to Father. Oddly, he reddens at the very nearness of her. I’m not surprised. Eliza has that effect on men of all ages. She seems to make them more aware that they are men.

And she, a woman.

Mother, Cassandra, and I sit on various chairs, drawing them close to hear the news. Henry has intimated that there is an adventure to tell, which, considering the players, does not surprise.

“So,” Father begins, looking at lovely Eliza. “Henry says your trip to France was eventful?”

Henry leans forward and lowers his voice. “We barely made it out with our lives!”

Eliza rolls her eyes. “Your son exaggerates—although we did have to resort to subterfuge to escape.”

Mother pulls in a breath. “Escape? So you did have to escape?”

Eliza quells her concern with her hands. “No story should be told from back to front.” She flashes Henry a look.

He tips an imaginary hat and sits back, giving her free reign. “I ask extreme forgiveness and defer,” he says.

“As you should.” Eliza sets her hands in her lap and begins. “Since the peace with Napoleon was declared last year, Henry and I thought it would be the proper time to return to the home I held with my late husband and claim the lands and the de Feuillide assets. It’s only fitting that such properties be released now that our countries are not at war.”

“You would think,” Henry adds.

“It didn’t go well?” Mother asks.

Eliza glares at her husband. “See? They guess the ending because of your intrusion. Now, hush!”

I offer encouragement. “Please tell. Tell all of it, in any order.”

Eliza begins again. “Once in France, we discovered that since my dear husband died as a confessed murderer—though he was completely innocent, I assure you—”

“He was beheaded for those crimes,” Mother says.

“Mother!” Cassandra says.

“But he was.”

Eliza raises a finger to make a point. “Many innocent people were executed during the horrors of the Revolution. It was not always guilt that led to death, but proximity, breeding, and bad luck.”

“We know that, my dear,” Father says, patting her knee. “Please continue.”

“So . . . as my husband was treated with injustice, so was I. My claims as his wife were null. Our house, our land, our accounts are all gone, eaten up by the greed of those who took what was not theirs.”

“I’m so sorry,” Cassandra says.

Eliza shrugs.
“C’est la vie.”

“We could have used the money, my dear,” Henry says.

“That is a universal statement, dear one, and as such, not worth stating.”

I have heard that Henry’s banking venture in London is not going as well as he had hoped . . . . For his sake, I try to get the story backed away from finances. “You mentioned escape?”

“Oh yes, indeed,” Eliza says. “For once the French disappointed us with the news, they took no time in informing us that, as we were British subjects, they had a right to intern us in Verdun. As prisoners!”

“No!” Mother says.

“Yes,” Eliza says.

“And so we made our escape,” Henry says.

“Henry, be quiet,” Father says. “Let Eliza tell it.”

Henry harrumphs and pretends offense, but I see the glimmer of humor in his eye. I imagine they have perfected the bantering in many tellings of this story.

“Although Henry’s use of the term
escape
is overly dramatic, there was the essence of danger in our returning home. I took charge. We agreed that Henry should be relegated to an invalid role under the cover of our traveling carriage. No one at the posting stations could detect my nationality, as I have a perfect command of French. I speak as those at Napoleon’s court and disarmed all suspicion.”

“Bravo!” Father says, clapping.

“Soldiers stopped you?”

“Of course. The country is still in upheaval,” Eliza says. “And let me tell you how pained I am to see the tricolour flags waving in place of the beloved fleur-de-lis.”

“Talk like that could get
you
beheaded, my love,” Henry says.

“I will say what I wish.”

“In England,” I say. “Say what you wish in England.”

She does not argue.

“At least you are home!” Mother says.

Eliza looks at me. “You have my permission to use this, Jane. If you ever need such a scene in one of your books.”

“Actually, you have much in your life that is worthy of a novel’s plot,” I say.

Henry laughs. “That
belies
the believability of a novel’s plot.”

Eliza pretends to be offended. “
You
married me.”

He blows her a kiss. “And you married me.”

They are a pair. That is
not
fiction.

*****

I sit at my writing desk. It has been far too long. I credit—or blame—Eliza’s words for my position:
You have my permission to use this, Jane. If you ever need such a scene in one of your books.

Intrigue in France after a war, a masquerade for one’s life, deception, lost fortunes . . .

I place my pen on the page and will my mind to engage.

It does not.

Certainly I can build a story on this scenario. Two impulsive lovers risking all to raise their station in life?

I think of Eliza’s true background.

A woman ten years her husband’s senior.

With a disabled child—who, in spite of her best efforts, dies.

A woman whose father was not the man her mother married but most likely Warren Hastings, a ranking official in the far-off land of India.

A woman who married a Frenchman she didn’t love—for money.

A husband who cared little for his imperfect son.

A revolution.

Flight to a safe land.

The husband returns to regain his property.

He is caught, tried for murder, and beheaded.

In a far-off land, the wife woos one brother, yet marries another . . .  .

I cannot write this. No one would believe it.

In truth, I cannot write anything.

I put the blank page away.

*****

I am exhilarated as the carriage leaves Godmersham and heads to Steventon. Cassandra and I have just spent time at Edward’s. With seven children and an eighth on the way, we helped Elizabeth rather than let her play weary hostess. On our part I will complain and say the pleasure and fun usually present in our visits was set aside for more practical occupations.

In Elizabeth’s defense . . . the poor woman. Her time between pregnancies shortens. I wish I could talk to my brother about such things, but I cannot. Anyone can see she is being worn out. A woman’s place may include birthing babies, but receiving a deep breath between them seems the least of fair.

Cassandra sits across from me and taps her toe against mine. “You glow.”

“I am happy with the prospect of seeing Hampshire again.”

“And James and Mary?”

I smile. “Hampshire has much to anticipate.”

“Ah. You think ahead to our visit to the Biggs in Manydown, do you not?”

I raise a hand. “I confess.”

“I have missed Catherine and Alethea.”

“I have missed
everything
.”

But not for long. Soon, soon, I will be home, among true friends.

*****

Manydown is an estate that breathes history. The Bigg-Wither family and their ancestors are listed in the legendary Domesday Book, that book commissioned by William the Conqueror in 1086 to appraise the depth and breadth of England’s land and resources. Since 1679 Manydown has only had three owners, including the present lord of the manor, Lovelace Bigg-Wither.