Just Jane (16 page)

He himself greets us at the door, his portly body capped by an abundance of white hair. His life is so useful, his character so respectable and worthy, that I’ve never met a more generous country squire. “Welcome, girls. Welcome! My own daughters have been waiting for you with bated breath.”

“And impatient hearts!” Alethea comes down the elegant staircase to embrace us. Dear Catherine comes right after. The foyer chitters with greetings.

There are six daughters in the Bigg family (there had been seven, and two sons, until a son and daughter died years ago). But we count the three oldest as our dear friends. The eldest of the three is Elizabeth Heathcote, who—like her father—is widowed, though her grief is quite new. Just last spring her husband died at age thirty. She lives at Manydown now with her son. They are not here to greet us, but I know we will often have the pleasure of their society.

Without anyone’s bidding our luggage is taken upstairs to our rooms—we each get our own, one next to the other. Our coats and bonnets vanish as if by a magician’s trick, and we are whisked away up the grand stairs to the elegant drawing room that affords a grand view of the estate’s fifteen hundred acres. The leaves of the trees have fallen, allowing us to see farther, between the branches.

As we continue our chatter, suddenly the brother Harris lifts up from the settee where he has been lying. He trips as he tries to stand and I can see that he has grown even taller. Although twenty-one, he moves like an adolescent, uncomfortable with his gawky frame.

“Harris!” I say. “You frightened me.”

Instead of verbally responding, he runs a hand through his blond hair and asks forgiveness through a bow. He is a man of few words by habit and necessity. In his youth he suffered horribly with a stutter and was sent to a special teacher to overcome it. Which he has. To some extent. I am of the opinion that with such consuming attention being given to his speech, he has never felt at ease and so either says the wrong thing rightly or the right thing wrongly. And yet there is a charm about him . . . in many ways he is a stumbling, fumbling puppy you wish to cuddle and comfort.

Catherine once intimated a story about him. On one occasion Harris had instructed a wine punch to be created—with awful results. When his guests made faces at the concoction, he reportedly said, “Gentlemen, my punch is like you. In your individual capacity you are all very good fellows, but in your corporate capacity you are very disagreeable.”

Although often too blunt, I do admire his wit as well as the content of his observation. For I too have witnessed such a phenomenon. People, by their very nature, offer diversity regarding whether their strength is shown in solitude or company. Eliza and Henry are the sort that prosper in a crowd. Cassandra and I prefer our own society—or the combined asset of simply being with each other. Neither penchant can be called all good or all bad. Full benefit can be accomplished by learning to find contentment in both situations. Father has often quoted St. Paul in the hopes of aspiring us to achieve such a goal:
I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.
I have heard the words often enough but find the application a challenge.

The Bigg-Wither family fills the room, and we feel completely welcomed.

Old friends are the best friends.

*****

Five women. In one bedroom. On one bed. We sit in our nightclothes with pillows in laps, shawls about shoulders, blankets askew to warm cold feet, and candles flickering with our movement and chatter. In the company of these women, I am content. They are family to me. Sisters. Confidantes. I often wonder if men bond in this way. I will never know.

There is a knock at the door, and Catherine climbs off the bed to answer it. It’s her room . . . . As we are not properly attired, she merely cracks the door.

Harris pushes the door wide with his foot. He carries a massive silver tray with teapot, cups, and cake upon it. “Food for the frivolous!”

“Harris! You cannot come in here,” Elizabeth says.

“It appears I can.”

He sets the tray on a chest, and I notice he wears a butler’s jacket—as well as he can, considering it’s many sizes too small.

He displays the cake plate. “Miss Jane asked for this. Pumpkin cake.”

“I did no such thing!” I say.

“Well, then . . .” He takes the cake toward the door.

“No! Don’t take it away!” I say.

He turns toward me. “So you
did
ask for the cake?”

“No, I didn’t. You know very well I didn’t, but . . .” I look at my friends. They are all smiling. This is not the first time in the past week that Harris has singled me out. “But I
will
eat it. We must not let it go to waste.”

He bows and brings the cake to me as I sit on the bed. Cassandra, Alethea, and I scramble to get ourselves more covered, but he seems not to notice. He simply places the whole of the cake in front of me upon the covers, then bows and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Catherine goes to the door, opens it, and yells into the hall, “You forgot the lemons for the tea!” She quickly closes the door and puts a chair in front of it. “There,” she says. “We are now safe from my brother.”

“I don’t believe one of us is safe from him,” Elizabeth says. She pours the tea and hands cups and saucers all around.

I pretend I don’t know what she is talking about. I get off the bed, go to the tray, and cut the cake to serve. “Does everyone want a piece?” I ask.

“You are evading the question,” Alethea says.

I serve the first piece and lick a crumb from my finger. “I heard no question.”

“We all have noticed his attention this week,” Catherine says as she takes the first piece.

I determine to feign ignorance and don’t respond.

“Jane . . .  ,” Elizabeth says.

“I still hear no question.”

They all moan at my evasion. “Fine,” Elizabeth says. “You force us to speak plainly.”

“It’s what I prefer,” I say. Actually, it’s what I desire. For I know of what they speak. I have seen Harris pay
me
particular attention. I’ve enjoyed it. But I wish for others to tell me what
they
have seen and what
their
interpretation might be.

Catherine takes the cake knife away. She holds me by the shoulders, her blue eyes intent on mine. “Harris shows great interest in you, Jane.”

“I would hope so. I’ve known him my entire life.”

She sighs with exasperation. “He prefers you above all others.”

“All other what?” I ask. Their faces reveal their frustration. I’ve taken the ruse far enough. I take Catherine’s hands in my own. “Forgive me. Yes, yes, I’ve noticed his attentions.”

“You’ve encouraged them,” Cassandra says. There is a hint of censure in her voice.

“I’ve merely been kind.”

“More than kind,” Elizabeth says, finishing the cake service. “I know my little brother. He has spoken more in the past week than he has spoken in mixed company in years.”

“Ever,” Alethea says.

Catherine leans forward, our foreheads close. “I would love to have you as a real sister,” she whispers.

The others hear and concur. “Oh yes!” Alethea says. “It would be the ultimate perfection.”

I look to Cassandra. She does not frown. She does not shake her head against the notion.

“He has not asked,” I say.

“He will—if we encourage him,” Elizabeth says. She sets her cake aside and heads toward the door.

I run after her, holding her back. “You will do no such thing.”

“Little brothers need sisterly encouragement. It’s a fact.”

“But not about this,” I say.

“’Twould be
so
perfect,” Catherine says. “Since our older brother died, and the rest of us are girls, Harris is due to inherit Manydown and all that it entails. As his wife, it would all be yours.”

Alethea raises a hand. “Would you let us stay until we find our own mates, O Jane, lofty mistress of the manor?”

“No, no,” Elizabeth says. “That will never do. Harris and Jane will need all the bedrooms for their many children.”

I feel myself blush, but the idea is not unpleasant—although but a few children would suffice. I never wish to be like Edward’s Elizabeth, having child after child to her own disintegration.

“You cannot make such plans for her, Elizabeth,” Catherine says. She turns to me. “How many children have you wanted, Jane?”

“Two or three would be fine, but—”

“That will not do!” Elizabeth says. “You come from a family of eight children, and we had nine. You must keep up, Jane!”

I look to Cassandra and find her smiling. “I would be happy to help care for them.”

I’m surrounded.

In a loving embrace.

*****

Catherine moves to the library doors and surprises me by shutting them as she leaves. “I must go see Father about something. If you will excuse me.”

It’s the poorest of excuses and so thinly veiled that both Harris and I can see through it.

For she has left us alone. All have left us alone.

Although no one has spoken of our nocturnal marriage discussion all day—at least not in my presence—I have heard whisperings and have witnessed Catherine and Elizabeth halting all talk when I came in the room. I suspect a conspiracy has been set in place. And now, alone with Harris, with all family safely tucked elsewhere (or with their ears to the door), I suspect what is coming.

And find that I accept the idea, if not embrace it.

I sit on the blue and gold brocaded settee and retrieve a book from a nearby table. I open it but don’t look at its pages. Harris stands by the fireplace, fingering a candlestick, making the lit candle jump and jerk. Although I’ve never felt awkward with him before, knowing what might transpire has changed my ease to dis-ease.

I wish for him to speak first. But by his nervous actions it appears he wishes the same of me.

I, who can write dialogue for characters with a lucidity and speed of water going over a falls, cannot think of a word to say. But finally, as the silence threatens to consume the very air in the room, I burst out, “I so enjoy being here at Manydown. Your family is—”

“Would you marry me?”

I steal a fresh breath, then let it out. And then I say, “Yes, I believe I will.”

To his merit, he removes his hand from the candlestick—thereby preventing any further topples—and comes to me. He sits beside me and takes my small hand in his large one. “Will you, r-r-really?”

His stammer makes him seem e’en younger than his twenty-one years but also endears. “I will. Really.”

He leans close, kisses my cheek, then stands. “We must tell the family!”

Hand in hand we leave the library, and the close proximity of my friends tells me they already know our news. “We are betrothed!” he says.

Hugs, kisses, and hearty congratulations abound.

So this is what it feels like.

*****

I snuggle into my bed, bringing the covers to my chin. “I am going to be married!” I tell the candlelight.

I spread my hands and feet to the four corners of the ample bed—which is far larger than my bed back in Bath—and wonder about the extent and decoration of our marriage room. Surely it will be even grander than this. And if it’s not to my liking? As the mistress of the house, the bride of the inheritor of the great estate of Manydown, surely I will be free to change it.

I throw off the covers and climb out of bed. A friendly fire warms the room. No more cold toes and rush to the covers as Cassandra and I have always been forced to suffer. When I am mistress of Manydown, I will make sure every room is as amiable and warm as this one, made cozy with the dance of firelight.

I walk to the windows and feel the weight of the heavy green jacquard. It’s a fine fabric but lacking in warmth because of its regal appearance. “I would prefer velvet,” I tell the room. A good compromise that will maintain the abundance of the room yet enhance its warmth.

I notice that in the recent moments “warmth” has shown itself to be of import to me, and I wonder (and quite correctly too, if the strength of my feelings can be trusted) that it’s not just physical warmth that makes itself essential to my preferences, but a warmth of spirit, as if God presides and approves. A warmth of atmosphere and setting. For as with people, a room, and nigh e’en an entire place, possesses character and spirit. A place can be inviting or repellant, engaging or abrasive. Freeing or confining.

I think of Bath, and a pall enshrouds me.

But . . . just as quickly, I’m able to throw it off, for that place will no longer be my home! All that I’ve endured may be pushed away, as a bad dream is shunned the next morning. For here I have awakened! Here, in the Hampshire I love, I can find release from my captivity. Here, I will find delight. Delight in a home, new sisters, future children, and a new . . .

Oddly, the word sticks in my throat and I let go of the drapery. I force myself to say it. “A new husband.”

Harris.

Gangly Harris, with his awkward presence of body and his even more awkward presence of words. Or lack thereof.

I do not hold his verbal impediment against him. He is improved and still young enough to improve more—though I do wish he would have found discretion of word choice during his treatment, as well as word pronunciation.

Unwittingly, my mind thinks of Mr. Darcy and Willoughby in my novels. Although Mr. Darcy does not speak often, when he does I have made him eloquent and wise. And though Willoughby is effusive, he is charming.

Harris is none of these.

The thought comes as a wee small voice and weakens my knees. I retire to the bench at the dressing table. I take up the comb and pull it through my hair. A tangle stops me, allowing blessed distraction.

But the thought returns:
Harris is none of these. He is neither eloquent, wise, effusive, nor charming.

“But his family is.”

You don’t marry his family.

In the mirror I see my head shake no. “But I am marrying them. I will be a Bigg-Wither. I will be embraced as a daughter and sister.”