Just Jane (17 page)

And a wife.

I watch myself shudder.

I gasp at the observation. Why should I shudder? A woman fresh from a proposal does not shudder. A woman with the congratulations, embraces, and kisses of her new family still palpable in her memory does not shudder.

And yet I did.

I did.

I whisper aloud, “God, help me understand! Let me know what to do.”

I shudder again—and realize perhaps the Almighty has already answered.

I cover my face with my hands, my head shaking of its own accord.

What have I done?

*****

I knock softly on the door to Cassandra’s room. Surely she is in bed, perhaps asleep.

It cannot be helped. My need cannot wait.

I hear soft rustling. She cracks the door, then seeing me, opens it wide. “Jane?”

I brush past her, closing the door behind me. “I must talk.”

She moves to the chairs by the fire. “There is much to talk about. I’m not surprised you cannot sleep.”

I wait until she is seated to tell her the substance of my insomnia. She points to the tea tray nearby. “It’s cold, but—”

“No,” I say. “I don’t wish for tea.”

The discord in my voice makes her look at me closely. “There is something wrong.”

“Completely.”

“Are you afraid of being a wife?”

I hesitate a moment, then understand her concern. “Not that. I understand
that
.” My married friends have spoken of such things. On occasion.

She continues. “I know being the mistress of such a large estate will be daunting. It’s a large leap from rectory to mansion.”

“I—”

“But you will have help here. Beyond the servants are Elizabeth and Alethea and Catherine, and though I expect they will also marry, they will always be ready to help you—”

“No!” She blinks at my interruption. I breathe deeply and reach across the space between us to touch her knee. “What you fear . . . that is not the problem.”

She searches my eyes, and I see hers grow wide. She touches my hand. “Oh, Jane . . .”

I withdraw to the safety of my chair, now requiring the space between us. If only it were larger, if only I could retreat to the dark corners and tell her my awful thoughts from there. But I cannot. I must stay here and tell her the truth—she, above all others, will allow its say.

“Jane, tell me.”

I must. I must say it plain. “I have second thoughts.”

“But why?”

I rise from the chair, unable to be still as the words tumble from my lips. “I’m not sure. There are a dozen reasons to indicate this is a blessing from heaven itself. For my fortune will be my family’s fortune. Father will not need to worry about our fates after his passing—nor Mother’s. I will be able to take care of us all here at Manydown.”

“If Harris would agree.”

“He would agree. I would make him agree. I am the one to gain. That he even shows interest in me . . .”

“Don’t belittle your attributes, Sister.”

“You know I will not, and I don’t, but the world can attest to my age. In two short weeks I will be seven and twenty. Harris is over five years younger.”

She shrugs. “Such a small disparity across a lifetime . . .”

Silence settles and I take refuge behind my chair. “I would be free from Bath. I would be home in Hampshire.”

“A definitive joy.”

“He is a nice enough man. And his family is dear. A closer association would be pleasing to all.”

Cassandra shakes her head. “Jane . . . I only hear points that validate your previous agreement, and yet you say you have—”

“Second thoughts.” I return to my chair, leaning my elbows on my knees. “I cannot do it. I cannot marry him.”

I wait for her reply; I wait for the words
But you must! You gave your consent.

The words don’t come. Instead, Cassandra says, “You don’t love him.”

It’s a statement, nay a question. “He’s a nice man.”

“You don’t love him.”

“Love need not be a prerequisite. Love may grow and—”

“You’re a romantic, Jane.”

I don’t understand how this pertains.

She explains. “I too was swept up in the moment of last evening, and I too felt true joy for your betrothal, but as I sit with you now . . . I know you could never marry without love. Nor could I.”

“This past week I’ve tried to think of Harris all the time, think about him more than myself.”

“I don’t ever imagine you lovesick, pining away, wishing to know a man’s every move and mood.”

“But surely that’s the way it is, the way love is. Didn’t you think of your Tom in such a way?”

She hesitates, then nods. “I did. Many times a day I wondered what he was doing so many, many miles across the ocean. At such times I often wondered if he was thinking of me, two minds with but a single purpose.”

“That is the stuff of love! Two becoming one in every way.”

“I fear it’s a rarity among marriages.”

“Mother and Father feel that way. I know they do. And our brothers . . . I believe they truly love. They have found the mates of their souls.”

“And Harris is not yours?”

It is time to say it. “He is not. And I fear he can never be.”

“Then . . .”

She waits for me to offer action. “Then . . . I must refuse.” I lean back in the chair with a weighty sigh. “How do I do such a thing? I have no wish to hurt Harris or his dear family.” I think of something else. “Will they remain our friends after such an offense?”

“I’m sure they will.”

I bolt upright as a new thought surfaces. “And Mother and Father . . . am I being selfish by retracting our arrangement? My marriage to Harris would give them great security and peace of mind. The benefits are immense, and my cost small in comparison. Perhaps I should let it stand. Marry and bring benefit to our parents. And to you, Cassandra. To you too!”

She rushes to my chair, kneeling beside me. “Stop that! I will not have you raise material gain as a reason for marriage. Yes, it’s done—far too often, as you and I have oft discussed. But our parents are content where they are. They are not wealthy, but they eat and drink and find happiness in each and every day. They don’t need more, especially the
more
that would come at the expense of their daughter’s happiness. You say your sacrifice is small. That is a lie. To relinquish your hope to marry for love as a means of putting a fancier roof over our heads or eating better cuts of meat . . . such an exchange is neither desirable nor commendable. In fact, it’s loathsome and despicable.”

I smile and applaud her monologue. “Bravo, dear Sister. With an eloquent fervor such as yours, Parliament would stand and take notice.”

She blushes and returns to her chair. “By arresting me for lunacy.”

“The truth is never lunacy,” I say. And I mean it. For though the list of reasons in favour of marrying Harris are lengthy and convincing, my sister’s reasons for breaking the engagement have their own authority.

“I should not marry Harris,” I say.

“You should not marry Harris.”

My breath leaves me. “Whatever I do tomorrow is wrong.”

“But must be done.”

“But how . . . ?”

“We wait until morning and then you just . . . do it.”

God help me. God help us all.

*****

The seating does not suit his frame.

It’s an odd thought to entertain at such a life-changing moment. I should be concerned with the colour of his eyes, the wave of his hair, even the cut of his waistcoat. Not the fact that Harris looks ridiculous poised on a blue silk settee with delicately turned legs.

The existence of such petty trivialities does not speak well for my character. I hope they are merely an indication of my extreme discord and sadness over what has transpired, and yea, e’en fear over what I must do. Never, in all my years, have I ever imagined myself in such a position.

Although I would rather stand across the room or sit in a chair at some distance, I know I cannot. I sit beside him on the settee, my body angled to create the greatest separation.

It’s obvious he holds no suspicion as to the reason I called him here alone, for he bridges the gap I created and kisses my cheek. I don’t draw back and immediately wonder if I should have. Shunning his kiss would have been one way to broach the subject before us.

’Tis too late now.

He takes my hand and smiles. “We have many plans to make, Jane. I wish my dear mother . . . but my sisters . . .” He lets me fill in the words, and I recognize this habit as one I would have had to live with.

I withdraw my hand. “Harris . . . the wedding . . .” I chastise myself for giving him incomplete sentences and hasten to state the truth. “I cannot marry you.”

His head pulls back. “Pardon me?”

I must say it again. “I cannot marry you.”

He blinks. “Why not?”

“It’s not you. You are the best and kindest of men. And your family is as dear to me as my own.”

“Then why?”

Presented with such a direct question, I’m mute. My reasons slip into hiding and will not venture out.

“I can give you much,” he says.

I touch his hand. “But I can give you little.” An answer to his
why?
question surfaces. “You deserve a wife who will adore you. I am not that woman.”

“I can do with less,” he says.

“I . . . cannot.”

I rise. There is nothing else I can say.

To him.

But there are others . . .

*****

Cassandra and I are in the Manydown carriage on our way to Steventon. My sister sits across from me, studying me in that way she does.

“Don’t stare,” I say, for after telling the Bigg sisters of my disgrace, I’m in no mood for scrutiny.

“I’m proud of you.”

I allow my jaw to drop. “Proud for hurting a family I love?”

She nods once. “I’m proud of you for letting your heart rule your mind.”

I’m confused. “Most would be chastised for such a thing.”

“And in most events the chastisement would be deserved.”

“But not in this case?”

“Your heart does not love him, Jane. And though every material element pointed toward your union, you didn’t let such practical matters sway your instincts.”

I laugh. “Practical matters help pay the bills. Instincts own no practical worth.”

“That’s not true. Instincts are given to us by God to guide us. It takes a strong woman to listen to those instincts and ignore what the world says to do.”

“Because of my instinctive decision I’ve doomed us all to a life of penury.”

My sister shrugs. “God provides. He always has and always will.”

“Your faith is much stronger than mine, Sister.”

“It’s not a contest, Jane.”

“Good. Because I would lose.”

*****

The carriage approaches the Steventon rectory, and my stomach adds new knots to the old. “Don’t say a thing to Mary. Not a word.”

Cassandra adjusts a glove. “I’ve already agreed, Jane. You know you can trust me.”

I can trust Cassandra. With my life. But I cannot trust my sister-in-law Mary. Material matters rule James’s wife, and I cannot bear the tongue-lashing I will receive if she finds out why we are returning from Manydown early.
You stupid, stupid girl! To give up Manydown and all that it entails? What were you thinking?

The carriage pulls up front and as we exit, James appears at the rectory door, his face replete with questions. He accepts our luggage, but as he begins to take it inside, I intervene with the next portion of our plan.

“Will you please take us to Bath, James?”

“Now?”

Cassandra straightens our luggage into two neat lines. “Now, please.”

“But why?”

I see Mary hovering in the hall. James sees the direction of my gaze and steps outside into the cold December air, closing the door behind him.

“But why?” he asks again.

“I cannot say—now,” I explain. “But if you will get your carriage . . .”

“Trust us, Brother,” Cassandra says. “We need you to do this.”

He looks at each of us in turn, his dark eyes searching ours. His perusal complete, he says, “Then I will do it.”

We each kiss his cheek.

“Come inside while I get the carriage ready.”

I hesitate. I don’t want to enter the house and deal with Mary’s questions, and yet I can think of no way to avoid it. With a shared look of despair between Cassandra and me, we enter the rectory.

Mary is there to meet us, hands clasped in front.

“So. You come and force my husband to get the carriage—when he has a sermon to write?”

“We are sorry, Mary,” Cassandra says. “It cannot be helped.”

“And why not?”

My mind swims with lies about Father or Mother being ill and needing us in Bath. Or Uncle Perrot . . . he is often not well. But I cannot share the lies lest I cause James more worry than I already have. “There has been a disagreement,” I say. I hope but know it will not be enough of an explanation.

“About what? And with whom?” Mary asks.

“I prefer not to say—at this time.” Perhaps the hope of someday hearing the details will defer further questioning.

My hope is dashed as Mary asks, “Whom did you offend? Mr. Bigg-Wither? Catherine? Elizabeth? Alethea?”

She does not mention Harris, probably because he has been away at school. Yet even though, I can honestly answer that I have offended them all.

“We have simply had a change of plans,” Cassandra says.

“Because you caused problems at Manydown,” Mary says.

James saves me by coming inside. “The carriage is ready.”

Cassandra and I say quick good-byes to Mary and withdraw. James kisses her cheek and follows.

Mary stands at the door and her questions attempt to reach us as we pull away.

Miles. We need many, many miles between us and all that has happened.

*****

Once the horses find their rhythm, James asks, “Now. I deserve an explanation.”

He does. And I have to be the one to tell him. “Harris proposed last night.”

“Young Harris? Proposed to you?”

I take offense. “I’m not that much older than he.”

James shrugs. “I had heard he is in search of a wife.”