Just Jane (18 page)

“As are all young men due to inherit,” Cassandra says.

“But more than that. He and his father have had words, though in Harris’s case they are few and often rude. I have heard tales of one evening when Harris had some wines poorly mixed and was quite offensive to—”

“We heard of that too,” Cassandra says.

“He could not tolerate his father’s chastisement, so he moved to Wymering, where he could do as he pleased.”

“But he is still due to inherit Manydown,” Cassandra says.

“He is. But father and son often clash.”

As my visits at Manydown have always been spent with the Bigg girls, I’m surprised at the news, yet not at the fact I’m unaware.

James clicks at the horses, then continues. “I don’t say this to disparage your new husband, Jane. I’m very happy for—”

“I accepted. Then changed my mind.”

“This morning she told him,” Cassandra says. “Told the family.”

James turns to see my face. “You broke your engagement?”

I try to think of a way to couch my answer but end up saying a simple “Yes.”

“An engagement is a contract between two families. The Biggs have a famous lawyer and judge in their family, Sir William Blackstone. He could make trouble if they pursue it.”

I had not thought of that. “Surely, they will not. They cannot. They would not want that.”

“No,” James says. “I don’t believe they will. But they could.”

Cassandra defends me. “She feels guilty enough, James. Don’t add to her pain.”

I want to make him understand that I
do
grieve my behaviour. “My motives were wrong and I find them heavy in their awful burden. I’m the first to admit I was tempted by the idea of wealth and position, as well as the love I have for the Bigg girls. I was caught in the moment and said yes. Although I was immediately swept into a celebration of our union, I think even before I left the room I knew it was wrong. And I deeply regret hurting so many because of my one moment of weakness.”

Cassandra slips her hand through my arm as her seal of approval.

James nods but once. But it’s enough. “We are all imperfect beings, Jane. We all make mistakes. I commend you on amending yours so quickly. A bit of pain now is better than a bushel of pain in the future.”

“You are too good to me, Brother.”

“And wise,” Cassandra adds.

In spite of the cold, I see James blush. “Do you think Harris truly cares for you?”

I’m shocked by the question, because I have not asked it myself. “No, I don’t believe he does.”

“Well, then,” James says. “Although love
can
grow after the vows, it’s best to have some deep affection at the onset.”

Yes, indeed. My brother is wise.

And forgiving.

I pray the rest of the world is as generous.

*****

I am a coward.

I return to Bath with my tail between my legs. No, that’s not correct. I don’t come cowed but rather, embarrassed. There is a difference.

Mother and Father wait in the sitting room for us to explain why we have returned so early. With James driving us, unscheduled, and him with a sermon to write.

We defer the answer until we freshen ourselves, but finally it comes time for them to hear of my folly. I’ve informed Cassandra she does not have to subject herself to this discourse, but she, being the dearest sister, will not have me face it alone. If only I could make time retreat two days. Three or four would be better, for I call myself guilty of leading Harris toward the proposal. Women
do
have that power. I had that power and wielded it with glee at Manydown, flirting and cajoling Harris into a submission to the will of our female conspiracy. If bitter, I could blame the Bigg sisters, but I don’t. In the end, right or wrong, I hold my own counsel.

Although I don’t believe women can move a man who has no intention to propose, if there is a little affection, a little interest, and a little openness to marriage, I know a woman
can
make the
little
seem
enough
. My largest hope is that Harris joins me in feeling relief at the dissolution of our engagement. Oddly, in such matters it’s the woman who has the upper hand. It makes me think of one of my stories, sitting in my trunk upstairs. It’s nearly impossible for a gentleman to break an engagement without bringing shame to the lady. Edward Ferras was willing to marry the simpering Lucy Steele rather than cause her shame. Of course, I took care of that situation by making Lucy fall for his equally simpering brother. (Stupid, stupid girl! Did she not know what she’d left behind?) Elinor can thank
me
for her happiness with Edward.

As I can thank myself?

Time will tell.

Actually, that I’m the one who mended the mistake of our own betrothal is a blessing for all. I spared Harris the pain of discovering our incompatibility too late or, if caught in time, the choice of whether to break the engagement himself and cause me pain. It’s discouraging that the right thing is not often the easy thing.

Lost in my own musings, I find myself at the door to the sitting room. Cassandra takes my hand and we enter. Will I be as eloquent in front of my parents? I fear both Cassandra and I are a disappointment to them.

But again, time will tell.

“So,” Mother says, taking charge. “You are home early and obviously swore James to secrecy. It was most unpropitious for him to have to rush off home again with nary a word.”

Father stands behind and touches her shoulders. “Now, now, dear. Give the girls time to explain before you expect the worst.” He looks at me—not Cassandra—as if knowing I’m the culprit. “I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure our worried imaginings far outweigh the circumstances.” He looks hopeful.

I must dash that hope.

As Mother has procured the settee for her own use, Cassandra and I have no choice but to sit apart, our united front physically challenged.

“Jane?” Mother asks. “We have been kept waiting long enough.”

The telling will be no easier one minute from now . . . . “I broke an engagement.”

“Engagement?” Mother asks. “Since when were you engaged?”

“Since last night.” Was it only last night? Surely it was months ago.

Mother stares at me. She has no words. Or too many.

Father takes over. “More, Jane. We obviously need more.”

With a look to Cassandra, drawing on the constancy of her support, I tell the story in its entirety.

Mother releases her posture and falls back against the cushion of the settee. “You had him and you threw him away?”

Although she makes it sound like a fish story, I nod. “I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry to disappoint you, and I know it may be hard for you to understand but—”

Father circumvents Mother’s chair and comes toward me. I search his face for his intent. Will he scold or . . .

He stops in front of me and holds out his hands. I take them and he urges me to standing. Beneath his grayed eyebrows, his eyes are kind. “It takes courage to chuse integrity over circumstance.”

“Integrity!” Mother says. “Stupidity is more like it!”

Father ignores her and continues. “Although my practical nature grieves the easement in our position that the marriage would ensure, my paternal nature accepts your decision as wise, at least in your own eyes. And in the end, we all must live with our own decisions. Allowing others to decide for us does not guarantee a better decision but almost always guarantees a fuller regret, and regret is a poison I wish on no one.”

I fall against his chest, needing his arms around me. He complies, and I thank God for such a man.

Such a father.

Know thyself.

To thine own self be true.

I thank my father for urging me to read through his library as a child. For where else would I have harvested these wise words? Whether it be the wisdom of Thales or Shakespeare, I embrace their assurance that my existence is not without merit, and my choices are not without some level of worthy insight. For who would I be if I tried to be someone besides Jane? The posers of the world try so hard to be what they are not, and yet . . . how fatigued they must be. Perhaps I’m not smart enough to be one of them. Nor strong enough in constitution.

Thank God.

And so, after returning to the prison of Bath, after rejecting a chance to break free via Manydown and marriage, I hold on to the meager strength of being . . . just Jane.

I will admit that “just Jane” seems to gain insight from hard times. I wish to ask the Almighty about this, for why do we learn more from struggles than victories?

I’m certain He has His reasons.

I don’t think of reasons. I merely try to live rightly. Yet I’ve never chosen struggles for the sake of gaining wisdom. I am not so bold.

So. I am . . . home. After nearly two years in residence I must bestow to Bath its lawful title (if not its emotional one). The rest of December slogged by—in all ways. I managed Christmas, managed the New Year, and can admit to allowing myself some pleasure in them both. Life went on. One can either go with it or let it leave you behind.

I don’t cry about the could-be’s anymore. For what good are tears but for making my already-full cheeks more pronounced with blush and swelling. That my family (yea, e’en Mother) allowed me this decision is enough to send me forward, not back. Plus, the letters I’ve received from Catherine, Elizabeth, and Alethea, assuring me that our friendship is indelibly signed by all involved, mercifully relieve that burden and imply that, all in all, my choice was the right one. Can it be that sisterhood carries more lasting fortitude than marriage?

I don’t know. Yet. But I’m willing to believe it, if need be.

One member of the family is still intent on marrying me off—to most anyone who holds a half inch of breeding. Although Aunt Leigh-Perrot knows nothing of Harris—I thank God that Mother has been able to keep the secret; surely shame is a factor—Aunt continues her matchmaking assault with all cannons blazing. She continues to find fault with me, but I’m learning to accept her discontent and disapproval of all things
Jane
as a matter of permanent residency.

Considering I am so lacking in any attribute she deems worthy and marketable, it astonishes that she finds any suitors willing to take me.

Yet, somehow, she does.

Today she has asked to tea a young man she and Uncle met at cards last weekend. According to my aunt, my past absences from card playing are socially suicidal.

She means to rectify my error this very afternoon.

In his defense, Reginald Clemmons is handsome enough, nice enough, and even on occasion witty enough to meet any woman’s standards of courting. And perhaps at another time, with a few more months between Manydown and the present, I could have found a way to be charming to him—though I will never be charming enough, according to my aunt.

As I stand in the doorway of the sitting room at the Paragon, watching Aunt show Mr. Clemmons the door, Cassandra comes up behind me. She has been witness to this afternoon’s foray, a second fiddle if Mr. Clemmons was not impressed with my first violin.

“Brace yourself,” she says.

I’m a little surprised by her warning. “I did well. I smiled. I was polite.”

“But you didn’t elicit a proposal, on the spot, in Aunt’s presence.” She giggles softly. “That would have been preferred.”

I know she is more right than wrong.

Aunt closes the door and turns on me. “Jane, I can count the words you said to Mr. Clemmons.”

I stifle a shrug that would surely send her into an even longer lecture. “I’m sorry, Aunt Perrot. I attempted to speak well to him.”

“Well to him? Well is not enough, young lady! You need to speak brilliantly in new company. To capture a man, a woman must sparkle. You, my dear, are too often a dull stone.”

Unsuspected fury overtakes me. I don’t deserve such a comment. And why does she not speak of Cassandra’s reticence? Not that I would wish my sister to endure such a complaint, but . . .

Words well to the surface and I let them out, even as I know I should not. “Perhaps I do not wish to sparkle, Aunt. Sparkle falsely. I say what comes to mind. I will not waste energy creating idle chatter meant only to impress.”

Cassandra comes to my defense. “Your characters sparkle, Jane.”

I grab on to the diversion. “Which is even more reason why I personally cannot. For I only have so much sparkle within me, and I chuse to save it for them.”

Aunt Perrot stands in the foyer, her head wagging in utter disgust. “What are we to do with you two?”

Leave us alone
is not an acceptable answer.

Instead I think of one better, one I can blame on others wiser than I, men who have gone before us all.

“Know thyself, Aunt Perrot. To thine own self be true.”

She appears confused and thankfully has no more words—at least none that bear stronger wisdom than that which I offered.

I allow her condition and make advantage of it by quickly taking my leave.

*****

My brother Henry falls into a chair in my bedroom and slings a leg over its arm. He has always sat thus, as though having two feet on the floor at the same time constitutes some measure of surrender.

Surrender to what?

Convention, society, and the ever-present risk that life might dare turn boring.

So far, he has done a good job defeating all three. Between Henry and Eliza . . . I admire their gusto, their
zeste pendant la vie
. Although they do not shun the boundaries of society, they bend them and refuse to be broken by them.

If only I possessed such strength.

“So, Sister. How have you been? What are you doing with your life?”

He does not know of Harris. Although I can easily call Henry my favourite brother, I know his limitations in regard to discretion and secrecy. According to his knowledge, I have suffered no intrigue and no humiliation.

I point to my writing desk. “I have copied out
Susan
. I’m not sure why, but—”

“Is Father going to pursue its sale?”

I don’t want to complain but . . . “Father has not pursued any publication of my work since the letter regarding
First Impressions
was rejected.”

He allows both feet to hit the floor. “Whyever not?”

“It
is
a poor prospect.”

He stands, ready to fight. “It’s no such thing!”

“I’m no one, dear Brother. I have no recognition, no—”

“You have no recognition because you have not let yourself be recognized. Your writing is good, Jane. Excellent. Engaging. Fresh.”

I laugh at his exuberance. “You have always been a good brother, but—”

“But nothing! I know I often don’t act as though I have a brain in my head, but I do. A good one. One good enough to recognize talent and know when it’s wasted.”

My spirit, recently tested, tried, and tired, ignites with his words of confidence. But I’m wary. To try and to fail seems impossible, even though I know what should be done, even though I know that failure, though painful, is not fatal.

He goes to my writing desk and finds the stack of pages, all neatly transcribed. He reads aloud the first line: “‘No one who had ever seen Susan Morland in her infancy would have supposed her born to be a heroine. Her situation in life, the character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all equally against her.’” He looks up at me. “No one ever supposed you to be a heroine either, Jane. But you are, or rather you
can
be.”

His exuberance fills me up. “I don’t wish to be a heroine, but . . . I would like others to know the ones I’ve created.”

“Exactly!” Suddenly, he gathers the pages. “Is this complete? All copied?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then I will take it with me. I am now your agent.”

“But, Father—”

“Has not done his job. Besides, he is retired, yes? And another
besides
, you need a young, virile, delectably charming man to be your champion.” He tucks the manuscript under his arm and gives me a sharp bow. “Henry Thomas Austen, at your service.”

I surprise myself by rushing toward him, wrapping my arms round his neck, nearly causing the pages to topple. “Thank you, Henry! You will never know—”

“Exactly.” He pulls back to look at my eyes. “You will never know what you can be until you try. Even the Bible speaks of the shame in keeping a light hidden under a basket. We must let the world see you shine, Jane. And I will do my best to make that happen.”

*****

Cassandra and I return from a walk. The day, though still cold, is sunny enough to have lured us outside. Too much indoor air constrains me. I must breathe free—even if the day is brisk and my toes grow cold.

As we approach our lodging, Mother pops out the door, looking left, then right, directly at us. “There you are! I paid no attention to which direction you had gone.”

We hurry to the entrance, not wanting Mother to catch her death. “What’s wrong?” Cassandra asks.

As soon as the door is closed, Mother answers, breathless. “Not a thing is wrong, not a single thing.”

Father comes into the foyer as we remove our coats and bonnets. “Indeed, girls. Come in by the fire, and let us tell you what has transpired since you have been gone.”

Gone? The clock on the mantel indicates only forty minutes have passed. What could have charged our parents with such effusions?

We are seated by the fire, in our parents’ chairs (yes, indeed, something is about!). Father takes a letter from the table behind the settee. It’s obvious this is the source of the happiness.

“We have received good news?” Cassandra asks.

Father smiles—at me. “We shall let Jane read it. It’s a message from your brother.”

“Sent by special messenger,” Mother adds.

With difficulty I breathe. My heartbeat takes exception and vies for a place of equal importance. I take the letter in hand and recognize Henry’s messy cursive.

“I hope you don’t mind we opened it ahead of you,” Father says. “Though it was addressed to you alone, with the special courier . . . .”

I shake my head at his disclaimer. I read aloud:

“Dearest Sister,

I have the best of news. I assigned one of my business partners, William Seymour, to offer your book Susan to an acquaintance, a publisher in London, Richard Crosby. Mr. Crosby has agreed to publish it and will pay ten pounds.”

“Ten pounds, Jane,” Mother says. “A fair amount, to be sure.”

I’m not counting my purchases, but I am pleased. Any income of my own represents freedom for myself, as well as freedom for my parents. I will be ten pounds less a burden to them now.

“Is there more?” Cassandra asks. “Read more.”

There is more, and I return to the letter. “‘He’—I believe Henry means Mr. Crosby—‘promises early publication and intends on advertising the book as “in the Press” in a brochure called
Flowers of Literature
.’”

“Advertisement, Jane,” Father says. “Actual advertisement. It appears Mr. Crosby is genuine.”

“Of course he is,” Mother says. “Our Henry would not elicit the help of a charlatan.”

“Let her finish,” Cassandra says.

“That is about all,” I say, scanning the short rest. “Henry will get me the payment as soon as possible and will keep me informed.” I read the last line, then look up from the letter. “He says he loves me and is proud of me.”

“Of course he is,” Father says. “As are we all.” He comes to me and lifts me into an embrace. Mother follows, and then Cassandra.

I feel as if the very world has embraced me.

It’s a beginning.

*****

Cassandra sits on her bed, brushing her hair.

I do the same from the window seat. “Ten pounds, Cass. What I can do with ten pounds!” I tap my chin, then pretend to get an idea. “I know! With such great wealth, I will buy a cake. You know how interesting the purchase of a sponge cake is to me.”

She gains a mischievous look, gets off the bed, and opens a drawer of her dresser. “This proves what you really think of money.”

She holds something behind her back. “What do you have there?” I ask.

“You may remember a certain letter you sent me that mentions your true heart in regard to payment for your work?”

“I remember no such letter.”

She laughs, pulls a letter from behind her back, and shoves it under my nose. “Here. True evidence of your greed.”

I glance at the letter’s date. “This is dated January 16, 1796.”

“I was visiting Tom and his family in Kintbury. You were at home.”

“You kept this?”

“I keep all your letters.”

At first hearing, I’m impressed and then fearful. “All my letters? E’en the ones where . . .”

“You are completely honest?”

“Where I am distressingly honest.”

“I have them, Jane. But fear not. I will not ever let others read those of a more intimate and . . . emotional nature. I will not let you suffer shame or embarrassment. Ever. I promise.”

I believe her but still feel a bit nervous that my letters still exist. Then I have a thought. “I have not kept yours.”

She shrugs. “There would be no reason. I am not the writer. I am not witty. My letters don’t entertain.”

“Of course they do. They entertain me greatly.”

“Then their mission is complete.” She waves away this discussion and points at the letter from seven years previous. “Read at the bottom of the first page.”

I scan to the place and immediately know what has caused her interest—and teasing.

“Read it aloud, Jane. Let the whole world hear your views on publishing fame and fortune.”

I clear my throat and begin. “‘I write only for fame and without any view to pecuniary emolument.’” I lower the letter to my lap. “I will not refuse the ten pounds, if that is what you are trying to get me to do.”