Just Jane (22 page)

How kind of her. If only I could return a like favour.

*****

It’s my turn to accept Mrs. Bridges’s hospitality. Acquaintances warned that I would find Goodnestone dull. I wish when I had heard them say as much, they could have heard the son’s—Mr. Edward Bridges’s—solicitude and could have known all the amusements that were planned to prevent any hint of dullness.

On the first night of my visit, Edward Bridge, who was not expected to be at home, dined with us. He had been, strange to tell, too late for that day’s cricket match, too late at least to play himself, and, not being asked to dine with the players, had come home. It’s impossible to do justice to the hospitality of his attentions toward me; he made a point of ordering toasted cheese for supper entirely on my account.

The Bridges sisters—Harriot, Sophie, and Marianne—are quite delightful. Actually, the first two own that trait, while Marianne lies sick. During my visit, there is some drama about a ball in Deal and how the girls will get there and who was asked first and by whom, and on and on . . . . I feel in the way—for I have not been invited. They are all very kind and assure me I’m most welcome, but I’ve sent word for my brother to fetch me early next week. My clothes will run out by then, so it’s as good a time as any to make my exit.

Edward Bridges comes and goes. He dined at home yesterday; the day before he was at St. Albans; today he goes to Broome, and tomorrow to Mr. Hallett’s. He is a delightful young man who continues to be very kind—and handsome.

I see him now, coming down the front stairs, ready for Broome. He, in turn, sees me and smiles.

“Miss Jane, how nice—but surprising—to see you up so early this morning. It’s not e’en breakfast yet.”

“I arose on account of the sun streaming in the windows of my fine room. It was not my choice to rise between six and seven. Yet I used the time well. I’ve written to my sister.”

He raises a finger and goes to a drawer in one of the entry tables. “Knowing you are such an avid writer, I bought you a gift.” He pulls out some fine writing paper tied with a blue ribbon.

“You are too kind, Edward. My visit here has been filled with your kind attentiveness. You make a girl want to seek you out just to see what other kindness you have in store.”

Suddenly, Edward takes hold of my free hand. “I enjoy providing for your every need, Miss Jane. And I believe I would enjoy doing so on a permanent basis.”

I can only blink at him.

“Would you consider marrying me?”

I pull my hand away and laugh, then cover the offending sound with a hand. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean—”

He nods. “I know my proposal is surprising. I didn’t expect it myself when I came downstairs this morning. But to see you here . . .”

“My vision of loveliness caused all rational thought to be abandoned?”

He reddens. “Perhaps it was a bit hasty.”

“Perhaps.” I touch his hand, but only for a moment. “But it’s very flattering nonetheless.”

He finds his own laugh. “What
would
Mother have said if we had gone to awaken her with the news?”

“She would have just as soon gone back to sleep, assuming it was merely a dream.”

He takes my hand once more, his face sincere. “She would not object, you know.”

“So she is hoping you will marry a penniless girl?”

“Your character is priceless.”

I offer him a curtsy. “Now, Edward. Off with you to Broome. I will see you when you return and perhaps we will play some Sackree. Although I cannot afford to lose more than ten shillings on the game, I would just as soon lose to you as anyone else.”

He bows, takes his hat and riding crop, and is gone.

I stand in the foyer alone, quite glad there is no one else awake to witness this latest happenstance. I should have said yes to Edward, quite before he could find his reason, and become a legal part of this fine family.

But once again marriage and I have narrowly slid past each other, like two dancers, barely touching in the pass, ending on opposite sides of the line.

Why does it seem inevitable?

*****

I stand before the armoire in my room, about to chuse a dress for the day. My green flowered perhaps? But with hand poised to pull it from its peg, I remember the news of yesterday: Prince William Henry, the Duke of Gloucester, has died. As the brother of King George III, and far from the line of succession, his passing is not cause for elaborate nationwide mourning. Yet respect must be shown. Must we buy black lace, or will ribbon do?

My next thoughts are cold, and yet . . . his death does not move me, though it
will
cause the hearts of dozens to ache. The Bridges girls are not among that number, however, as they are very well pleased to be spared the trouble of preparation this ball has caused. For with a national mourning there can be no large balls, at least not for a time, so their previous perplexity as to the logistics is now moot. And I too can relax, knowing that I’m not in the way of their plans.

I heard that the Duke’s third child has taken over his title. Two older sisters, passed over. The only boy gets the lot of it. And the girls get nothing.

But by marriage.

Such it is, and there is not a thing any of us can do to change it. Royalty or peasant or somewhere in between.

And yet . . . knowing that doing well for myself is invariably attached to finding a husband . . .

I think of Edward Bridges. I think of Harris. Two proposals refused. That some women long for one proposal, while I’ve declined two—to fine men with much to commend them. Declined for different reasons. It’s as though two different Janes experienced the same event. But is that not appropriate? I’m not the same now with Edward as I was then, with Harris. The past years are enough to change every pore of my skin and every inkling of my mind. Which makes me wonder: What Jane will I be years from now?

And will I be married or still a spinster?

Yet here exists the larger question: Do I have a right to continue to refuse offers of marriage that would pull me (and my mother and sister) from the poverty of our current situation and place us within a condition of financial ease? Society would be appeased if I allowed myself this decision, for
it
has made the rules which hang above every opportunity.
It
imposes the penalty for not adhering to its wishes.

Guilt. How odd to suffer more guilt for this man-made wrongdoing against society than any guilt I suffer for wrongdoing against the Almighty. Guilt for wrongs against the Lord stem from an inner knowing of right and wrong added to the biblical guidance of a lifetime. The rules of our faith are wise and when followed allow all to benefit. When I break these rules, I feel guilt because I
know
I’ve done wrong. I acknowledge it and am forgiven. Then I try to do better.

But guilt for wrongdoing against society does not stem from any inner knowing. These rules that are forced upon us make little sense. So why should we feel guilty for ignoring them?

Perhaps it’s not guilt at all, but something darker. Perhaps what we feel is fear. God offers grace and forgiveness for a contrite heart. But society offers cruel consequences and never forgives.

Or forgets. Once crossed, there is no second chance to do better. Society remembers each sin and gleefully catalogues it, holding the new offense against us. If it could pin a sign upon us, to eternally declare our sin to the world, I believe it would. The depth and breadth of this injustice is appalling, unwavering, and unavoidable.

Does society have the right to impose this marital path which may bring unhappiness, e’en as it carries with it freedom from financial worries? Must a woman chuse her own counsel and poverty, or society’s counsel and means? Must stability and peace of mind be attained only by surrender to self?

I hope not, but fear it is so.

Until such time as I find true answers . . . unable to change society I will attempt to change myself.

Right now I seek a dress. I pull the green one from its peg. Black or no black, mourning or no mourning, in these things I will let others tell me what is proper.

As for the rest?

God help me. God help us all.

Humble Hope

I sit in Manydown, happy.

Hmm. I need to adjust my words.

Happily, I sit in Manydown?

I laugh at my private attempts to edit, as well as my concern. For it does not matter how it’s said; it matters only that there be truth within the words.

“You laugh.”

Cassandra gets dressed behind me. I simplify the cause for my laughter by saying, “I’m happy.” I turn from the chair by the window to face her. “We’ve had a delightful visit here at Manydown.”

“We have.”

“I’m so grateful the Biggs have forgiven the humiliation of my engagement to Harris.”

“Long ago, Jane. It has been nearly four years. And Harris is married elsewhere.”

“I do wish him happiness.”

“A commendable wish.”

She comes to me and shows me her back. I button her buttons. With no forethought, I whisper in her ear, “I don’t want to go back.”

Her dress secured, she faces me. “We cannot be gone from Bath forever, Jane. Ibthorpe, Godmersham, Goodnestone; a holiday with Edward in Worthing, then Steventon with James, and now Manydown . . . we have imposed on the hospitality of others long enough.”

I know she is right. It’s March. We have been gone since the previous June. Though nothing is ever directly stated between Mother, Cassandra, and me, none of us has spoken of our return home. Do we withhold all mention of it, for fear of breaking the spell of our jolly visits?

As Cassandra adjusts the sleeve of my dress, I state aloud what might not be pleasant to hear. “I had hoped one of our brothers would offer . . .”

She drops her hand and levels me with a look. “So you want more? Is the hospitality and generosity of our family and friends not enough?”

I’m ashamed. “I appreciate all that has been done. It’s just that . . . I know our time here is drawing to an end.”

“As must all things.”

I realize my happiness has dissipated, abandoning me to this other emotion. How dare happiness leave me so discourteously!

If I could catch it and hold it captive, I would.

Cassandra is at the door of our bedroom. “Are you coming? Are you ready to enjoy
this
day?”

I will try.

*****

We are home in Bath.

We must move.

Again.

What little we have at Gay Street must be trimmed e’en more to move to Trim Street. What an apt name. Years ago, when we first moved to this city, we had distinctly and determinedly avoided this neighbourhood, assuming Cassandra would express a fearful presentiment about moving here. We successfully avoided it then, but now . . .

Our situation is untenable, our choices few.

I sit in our Gay Street residence, at the table we eat upon, and wrap the few dishes Mother will let us move.
“It’s not as though we are going to have any grand dinners, Jane.”

Not as though we could, for we don’t rent a house now, but only a few rooms within someone else’s abode. When James found out, he had the audacity to say, “But what space do three women really need?”

I suppose a closet would suffice, though from what I’ve seen of our lodging at Trim Street, the exaggeration is not great.

To myself I complain aloud, making the walls aware of my displeasure. “The move to Bath was for nothing. We are nothing. We have nothing. These narrow circumstances are—”

Suddenly, Mother appears in the doorway. Her chin is set and her voice quivers as she says, “It has not been for nothing, Jane. Your father and I had three years here in Bath, three years to enjoy each other and have time for ourselves. That was worth everything to me. That was worth even these narrow circumstances.”

I put down the dish I’m wrapping and go to her. “I’m so sorry, Mother. I’m selfish.”

She does not argue with me.

*****

I walk the rooms of Trim Street, wrapping a shawl tighter against the chill of this new residence. The tour does not take long. Four rooms. A parlour with a small table to dine upon in the corner, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. I would venture outside to escape these inner spaces, yet the neighbourhood has little to commend. There is no garden. No open space to allow my thoughts room. I am trapped. The notion to curl into a ball and draw my shawl o’er my head offers itself for my consideration.

It is an option.

Mother comes from the kitchen after making herself a cup of tea. “What are you doing, Jane? You appear lost.”

It’s an apt term, yet a condition that will not benefit further exposure. Mother cannot improve our situation. She’s doing her best. She and Cassandra also suffer. The diminishment of our station is a shared falling from society’s grace. Although Uncle Perrot and Aunt have been kind and most solicitous, they can only do so much. And truth be told, we are not their responsibility. Society has a secret: the fate of widows and spinsters falls behind its screen; there, but unseen. And as we huddle in this frightening place, society’s largest hope is that we will remain hidden so they need not deal with us. We are a pesky fly that spoils the tranquil air of their existence. They would just as soon swat us as open a door and set us free.

Mother sits in her favorite chair, which
did
accomplish the move from Gay Street. “You don’t answer me, Jane.”

I must say something. “Perhaps I’m a bit lost. I don’t adapt to change easily.”

“So I’ve seen. You must learn to adapt, Jane. Especially now, when change has become our roommate.” She sips her tea. “I do my best to use our income wisely. Yet even with your brothers’ help, we must be careful with each farthing.”

“I know.” I know.

“Speaking of farthings . . . perhaps you should take up the pen, Jane. You sold one story . . . .”

“It has not been published, and it’s been nearly three years.”

Mother purses her lips and sighs. “At least you received pay for it.”

At least. But the least is not enough. My pride wishes for a book in my hand. For certainly with that book, other publishers would take note of my work. I would have a publishing history. As of now, I have nothing.

Although not privy to my thoughts, Mother disputes them. “You
do
have a trunk full of manuscripts that you insist on taking with us anywhere we go. They have become an additional traveler.”

“I dare not leave them behind.” I remember the time when they had been left in the coach and nearly ended up in the West Indies. Since that time, my work has never left my presence.

“Why
don’t
you write now, Jane?” Mother asks. “It might make you feel better.”

I shrug and say, “We shall see,” but I know I cannot write here, cannot write feeling as I do now.

For it’s not possible to enter the lives of my characters and fix their problems and crises when I cannot even fix my own.

*****

Summer has come, and Frank will wed Mary Gibson. Although tentative in our approval because of her youth and family standing, we now accept her. If Frank is happy . . .

He deserves happiness. And pride. Just last October, the naval superiority of the British navy was established at the Battle of Trafalgar. Frank carried Lord Nelson’s second-in-command aboard his ship, the
Canopus
, but alas, was at Gibraltar getting provisions when the battle occurred. Frank mourns he was not present when our fleet of twenty-seven ships encountered thirty-three Spanish and French ships. Our enemies lost twenty-two vessels. We lost none.

But we did lose Lord Nelson. He died late in the battle, assuring his hero status. He has become a demigod. And though I take nothing away from his character, I am not alone in growing weary of the mania which has swept the nation these past months. Everything is “Trafalgar.” It seems no polite gathering can avoid a replaying of the battle, with even women knowing details usually kept from their more delicate sensibilities. There is even a “Trafalgar stitch.” And according to this public aggrandizement, Lord Nelson saved us from Napoleon’s invasion, while in truth, Napoleon had backed away from such an idea months before. I find it interesting that human nature is so well disposed toward those who are in interesting situations that e’en a person who either marries or dies is sure of being spoken of kindly. The entire thing is quite the phenomenon and, though enjoyed at first, becomes tedious.

Victories notwithstanding, the war is not over, and I fear it will never be. Seventeen years and counting, it alters direction upon Napoleon’s whim. We have won the sea, but now he bothers Europe inland. How can one man impose so much turmoil upon so many nations? Once we are rid of him, I pray history never repeats itself.

In this lull before what will surely be another Napoleonic storm, Frank marries. Huzzah! Huzzah! And one more huzzah!

Indeed, my dear brother is the most courageous man I know—e’en beyond his naval career. For in the wake of his marriage he has brought forth the most splendid prospect. He has asked Mother, Cassandra, me, and even Martha Lloyd to come join him and his new bride in renting a house in Southampton! Situated there, he will await new orders and will be close to the port of Portsmouth. If any man claim bravery, I dare it to be lifted beside my brother’s bravery at volunteering to share a house with five women.

The fact that Mother has agreed so easily to take leave of Bath surprises me, but when I inquire after her reasons, she only says, “It’s time.”

Beyond time.

On October 10, 1806, we move into lodgings with Frank and his young bride, Mary Gibson—temporarily, while we search for a house to lease. Mary, married but three months, is already pregnant. Alas, my brothers are certainly doing their part in bringing new Austen children into the world. November brings Edward and Elizabeth’s tenth child. Her name is to be Cassandra Jane. In this—as in all things—I’m quite willing to let my dear sister take first billing. Soon after our move, Cassandra leaves us to visit Godmersham for Christmas, to offer aid as only she can. As she leaves I wish to call her back.
You cannot go! Not when we’ve just found a good place to be.

For Southampton is a good place, and I am happy. Happiness is such a flighty occasion that one cannot always discern its requirements nor its measure. For here we are in a cramped lodging that is no better than what we had left on Trim Street, and yet, here I am happy. Here I feel release and hope, like an escaped prisoner breathing deeply of fresh air after a long confinement.

I’m content and merely wish for everyone to stay in place so we can enjoy it. But alas, it’s not to be. Cassandra’s defection to Edward’s is followed by Martha’s visit to the Fowles’ through the holidays and into February. I’m left with Mother and her string of illnesses, perceived and real, and my new sister-in-law, little Mary Gibson. Mary suffers fainting fits that I notice usually occur after eating too much.

Hmm.

I say if one plus one equals a dislikable two, then stop the addition. But it’s awkward for me to offer such advice, for she doesn’t know us. Yet I vow to eventually bestow
all
my vast wisdom upon her. Fortunate girl.

In the absence of the two most able domestic mavens, and in the presence of two other women—one old and one young—who suffer various ailments and complaints, I am left to handle the household.

I do my best, which cannot be measured well by any lofty standard.

Unfortunately, we receive a visit from two who have no qualms about telling me my shortcomings.

We have a New Year’s visit from James, his Mary, and their newest child, Caroline. Where is my breath of free air? Where is my moment to bask in the sun of sanity and serenity?

Some place very far from here.

I love my brother. I love my niece, in her cuddly newness. And I  . . . I  . . .

I will not put words to my feelings about my other sister-in-law Mary. Two sisters-in-law named Mary . . . I wonder what I should call them in private. “Little Mary” for Mary Gibson, and “big Mary” . . . no. That is unkind. Perhaps “little Mary” would suffice for Frank’s bride and “the other Mary” for James’s. “The other Mary” is a well-suited name, saying more, and yet less, than I might imagine.

At any rate, they come and I do my best (though certainly not good enough) to entertain and offer every creature comfort.

Surprisingly, in the case of the other Mary, I do better supplying creature comforts than entertaining. During our evening readings, we suffer a misstep as
Alphonsine
proves unreadable. We are disgusted within twenty pages, as, independent of a bad translation, it has indelicacies which disgrace a pen hitherto so pure. So we change it for
The Female Quixote
, which now makes our evening amusement to me a very high one, as I find the work quite equal to what I remembered it. Little Mary, to whom the story is new, enjoys it as one could wish. The other Mary, I believe, has little pleasure from that or any other book.

What subject does intrigue the other Mary?

Money.

“It’s too bad you are forced to live like this,” she says one evening, scanning a disgusted eye over our lodging—our temporary lodging, which is not meant to hold three extra visitors.

“We are very happy here,” Frank says. “It’s a good arrange—”

“I’m so blessed to have a husband like James, whose provisions exceed any wife’s expectations.”

I don’t believe her. For though she has no trouble heralding her husband’s income, I cannot fathom it will ever exceed Mary’s expectations. I fear her expectations flow toward the Godmersham way of life more than the finest life available in the Steventon parsonage.

I soon find myself wishing that only James had come to visit, and yet . . . too soon I find that he is not as amiable a guest as I had imagined. The company of so good and so clever a man ought to be gratifying in itself; but his chat seems forced, his opinions on many points too much copied from his wife’s, and his time is spent walking about the house and banging the doors or ringing the bell for a glass of water.

Who is this man? Where is
my
James, who could entertain me with his great thoughts and humour? Where is this fine eldest son who emulated our father? Father would not have been so weak and ineffectual, nor as demanding, as this strange visitor I don’t know.