Just Jane (23 page)

Or particularly like.

I blame the other Mary for his new deficits, though if I admit a larger fact, I know there is plenty of blame for James to share. A man does not grow browbeaten and tetchy without assent.

I wish I could say their parting comes too soon. But I’m greatly comforted that it will not come later, especially after having witnessed the full extent of their house-guest shortcomings. As it is, I hope my memories will fail by the next time they develop an inclination to come call.

Upon our good-byes, I lean against the door. Relief tops the exhaustion of my bones—and soul. I take solace in knowing I have been left to the comfortable disposal of my own time. There will be no more torments of rice puddings and apple dumplings. And perhaps—upon a length of time—I will even come to regret that I didn’t take more pains to please them.

“’Tis none too soon,” Mother says. “James didn’t seem to mind the expense their visit produced—and me, on a short income.”

“James didn’t mind it, and his Mary encouraged it.”

She shrugs, which, all in all, is the limit of what one can do at such times.

“I do manage—with the finances,” she says. “Would you like to see?”

“Of course.” That Mother has been forced to deal with numbers when they were never within her vocabulary is a sad fact of widowhood. She leads me to a small table, which she has confiscated as a desk, and pulls out a booklet of paper.

“See here? I began 1806 with 681 pounds and begin 1807 with 991. All this after spending 321 to purchase stock. Frank has also been settling his accounts and making calculations, and we both feel quite equal to our present expenses; but much increase of house rent would not do for either of us. Frank limits himself, I believe, to four hundred a year.”

I nod, having little knowledge about such things, yet wise enough to know Mother’s increase in income (in spite of having to entertain James and company) is a fine hope for our future.

If only I had something to offer.

*****

We find a house to let in Castle Square. The landlord is the Marquis of Lansdowne. His own home has been newly built alongside. It looks to be a mock-Gothic castle. I leave him to his home and gladly take his leftovers. Our space includes a pretty walled garden where we can grow fruit and vegetables. And we are near the sea. Second to the rolling green of Hampshire, I do love the sea.

I miss Cassandra and want her home again. I try to cajole her return by telling her that Frank and Mary wish her home in time to help them with their choices for the house, and that they desire me to say that if she is not home straightaway they shall be as spiteful as possible and chuse everything in the style most likely to vex her: knives that will not cut, glasses that will not hold, a sofa without a seat, and a bookcase without shelves. All teasing aside, we do want her here to help chuse the final details of our home.

Beyond the house, we are very much pleased at the prospect of having a garden. To be privy to our own green just out the door will be a salve to all our constitutions. The garden is being put in order by a man who bears a remarkably good character, has a very fine complexion, and asks something less than the first man we asked. He informs us that the shrubs which border the gravel walk are sweetbriar and roses, but the latter of an indifferent sort. We mean to get a few of a better kind, and at my own particular desire, he procures us some syringas. I could not do without a syringa. We talk also of a labumum . . . to have the mix of the lilac and yellow sprays . . . I can think of nothing lovelier. The border under the terrace wall is being cleared away to receive currants and gooseberry bushes, and a spot has been found that should prove very proper for raspberries. Fine prospects and fine berries. With such I shall surely find contentment.

The alterations and improvements within doors also advance very properly. The garret beds are made, and Cassandra’s and mine will be finished today. I should like all the five beds completed by the end of this week. There will then be the window curtains, sofa cover, and a carpet to be altered. Martha’s rug is just finished and looks well, tho’ not quite so well as I had hoped. I see no fault in the border, but the middle is dingy. Mother plans to knit one for Cassandra as soon as she returns to chuse the colours and pattern—another incentive for her to find no more delay in leaving Godmersham.

Finally, our dressing table is being constructed on the spot out of a large kitchen table belonging to the house. We do so with the permission of Mr. Husket, Lord Lansdowne’s painter—domestic painter, I should call him, for he lives in the castle. Domestic chaplains have given way to this more necessary office, and I suppose whenever the walls want no touching up, he is employed painting the face of m’Lady. ’Tis common knowledge that she was the Marquis’s mistress before she became his wife, and all know the extent such women embrace to showcase their wares.

I’m being petty. I have no cause to disparage the Lady of the castle, for she is nice enough and regularly drives by in a phaeton drawn by eight very small ponies, which greatly delights the children of the neighbourhood. Surely the ability to delight children makes up for past, less seemly, habits of delight.

There are many acquaintances to be made here. In fact, such acquaintances increase too fast. Although we previously lived in the world of rectories and rectors, socialites and hopeful wannabes, in Southampton we find yet another environ, for we are in Frank’s world. The world of the navy.

They are, all in all, an enjoyable and gracious lot, and by our relation with Frank our lowly status is elevated. In most eyes at least . . .

I enjoy being around people who are my opposite. People who replace my reserve with exuberance. People who have the ability to make everyone feel at ease, to make everyone feel as if their place in society, as well as their temperament, is something to be accepted. It’s a gift not many people (young or old) possess. Such people are genuine in who they are and allow others like me to be the same. There is no playacting. Only gracious acceptance.

To such people I sing high praises. To the few who make me feel as though their friendship is but charity, I am mute.

Regarding my muteness? It’s to their benefit.

*****

We sit together in the evening. We always sit together. For there is no recourse. When he is home Frank sits with us, one stallion amongst five mares. Little Mary embroiders some nit-nat for the baby, Mother dozes, and the rest of us read
Clarentine
, by some relative of Fanny Burney.

The relative does not succeed, and I suffer quite enough. I stop my reading and hold the opened book as evidence. “I must say I’m surprised by how foolish this book turns out to be. I liked it much less on the second day of reading than at the first, and it does not bear a third day at all. It’s full of unnatural conduct and forced difficulties, without striking merit of any kind.”

I wait for someone to argue with me, to fight for the merits of
Clarentine
, but Mother barely opens one eye, Mary rethreads her needle, Cassandra picks another book from the table nearby, and Martha yawns.

Another rousing evening in Southampton.

I close the book with a snap. If truth be known, I think we are all of us too full of merit, which if pressed can be found to be the most unnatural conduct of all. We are too polite, too full of sisterly accommodation. There is never a raised voice or, heaven forbid, full-out hysterics. Although I have often witnessed as much from Mother or me or even occasionally Cassandra (when sorely vexed), in the presence of these two new sisters, we contain ourselves.

Contain ourselves too tightly. If cordiality could maim. Or kill . . .

I know Martha would forgive me if I were to push decorum aside and reveal my true self—for she has seen glimpses of that horrid creature in past visits, but little Mary . . . we are still too new in our acquaintance, and her condition too delicate, and her breadth of experience too shallow, to accost her with any full display of feeling—sincere or not.

And then there is Frank. My dear, dear brother who is so different from the stodgy James, the vivacious Henry, the businessman Edward, and the adventurous Charles. Frank is . . . constant. Looking across the room at him now, I can nearly see the cogs of his mind working as he sits with one leg crossed, one foot bobbing slightly to its own rhythm. His gaze is toward the window, which is dark in the winter night. It’s as though he sees beyond it. To the sea. The constant sea, that comes and goes without bidding or direction.

Yet Frank is completely unlike the sea in that he does not storm. I’ve heard the tale of Frank at sea, where another seaman was swimming in the ocean and my brother calmly said, “Mr. Pakenham, you are in danger of a shark—a shark of the blue species.” His words were so calmly stated that the man thought Frank made a joke. He did not.

I watch him change the direction of his gaze from the window to the fire grate. Ah! I see a bit of kindling has escaped to the carpet.

I gasp and stand, ready to act, but Frank acts first—I cannot use the term
swifter
, because he simply strides across the room and shoves it back to the grate with the toe of his boot, not e’en missing a footfall as he continues his gait to the bookshelf, where he peruses the shelves.

To the surprise of all, Frank—of the frigates, blue sharks, and navy—is also in the process of making a very nice fringe for the drawing room curtains. He is too perfect.

We are all too perfect. Every company needs one person to hate, one who appalls others by their selfish ways, their candid remarks, or their bad taste in bonnet or boot. To have no one who offends vexes my nerves. I’m not one to demand adventurous agitation, but I could sorely use a dose of domestic animation.

Yet what right do I have to complain about decency and decorum? No right. And yet I do.

Will I ever be satisfied?

*****

See what happens when one complains?

My perfect brother of the even temper left us: Frank received a command on the
St. Albans
, taking convoy duty to the Cape of Good Hope and traveling on from there to China! While he is gone making preparations . . .

Little Mary of the shallow experiences has her child—and not by easy birth. It’s a girl born on April 27, 1807. Her name is Mary Jane, an honour I take with a good deal of humility and self-chastisement for everything ill I’ve thought (though, with God’s blessings, have not spoken aloud).

And then, to make my humiliation complete, Mary does not recover well. She falls into bad fainting fits (having nothing whatsoever to do with what she had for dinner), causing us to rant and worry. And pray. Frank has left Mary in our care. Surely four women can be trusted to keep her ever safe.

I hold the child, watching her tiny lips move in a sleeping suckle. Like her weakened mother, she is delicate. And fine. “Dear little Mary Jane. You have many here to love you.”

God is good and merciful to us all, in spite of our faults. For little Mary recovers, and I am saved the pinnacle of regret that would have been mine had she and the child incurred any permanent suffering and harm.

We are thrilled when Frank comes home for the christening in May and is with us through June, when he sails for the Cape.

An additional blessing is, that when little Mary leaves for a summer visit to her Ramsgate family, I can honestly say I will miss her.

When does one truly grow up? At age thirty-one, I would like to know.

Edward has invited all of us to join him for a visit at his other estate, Chawton House in Hampshire. What a joyous event to see all of them at a location that is so close. For Chawton House is only twenty-nine miles from Southampton, not the one hundred thirty-three miles to Godmersham. In addition, Chawton House is only fifteen miles from Steventon, so James (and company) will join us. What a festive time indeed.

We have never been to Chawton House, and though it’s not as grand as Godmersham, it holds our entire family with little effort. It has huge fireplaces, a great hall, and a gallery. The house is heavy with history and the continuity of family.

After our visit, all of Edward’s (which of the children only include Fanny and William) will come back to Southampton so we can show them our home on Castle Square. And to our delight, Henry has come down from London. What a jolly time. We go to the theatre and see John Bannister in
The Way to Keep Him
. It’s a fine play, most enjoyable, exhibiting a biting merriment toward wives who stop pleasing their husbands after marriage. We go on a boat trip to Hythe, and then another to the ruins of Netley Abbey. Dear Fanny, at age fourteen, is most impressed and declares, “I am struck dumb with admiration, and I wish I could say anything that would come near to the sublimity of it.”

The sublime. Ah yes. For it’s all sublime. The family, the laughter, the picnics, and walking with Fanny along Southampton’s stores on High Street until late. I enjoy every minute and thank God for one and all.

And yet . . .

Even while I enjoy their company, I wish them gone. Why do I possess this trait? Why can I not be like Henry, who is invigorated by lively company? Why can I enjoy such camaraderie only so long before my spirit rebels and demands quiet attention? I love my family but find rejuvenation in solitude.

Is that wrong?

Wrong or no, it seems I can do nothing to change it. And so, when Henry hires a sociable and takes everyone for a ride in the New Forest, I decline.

“Now, Jane,” he says. “Come with us. You can e’en sit on my lap and take the reins.”

“If I did such a thing your knees would scream within a mile, and we would surely end in the ditch. No, no, I’m fine. Off with you now, before William and Fanny go without you.”

I wave as they drive away and enter the house alone. The door closes, capturing the silence and letting it reverberate from ceiling to wall.

I hold my breath, not wanting to disturb the hallowness of the moment. For it does feel holy to me. As holy as any moment in church . . . a moment to be worshipped.

I tiptoe to a chair in the parlour and sit. I lean my head against its back and close my eyes. I expel the breath I’ve been saving.

And I relax.

*****

“Jane?”

Someone says my name. Someone shakes my shoulder.

I open my eyes to see Cassandra. I’m still in the parlour, having fallen asleep in the chair. I sit erect and press at my hair. “You have all returned, then?”

Cassandra removes her bonnet. “Just me. They wished to stop at the Old Bowling Green and I did not. I was worried about you.”

I feel badly for causing her to end her day prematurely. “You don’t need to worry. I have enjoyed the . . .” I don’t know how to say it without sounding rude.

“Total silence devoid of human noisiness and movement?”

I stand and busy myself setting some stray books in the shelves. “I adore the company of my brothers and the children.” There is a
but
unspoken at the end of my sentence. Blessedly, Cassandra does not fill it in. But she knows. She knows me fair well.

“You need to write, Jane. I was hoping you would use this time alone in such a manner.”

“I will. But since moving to Southampton, there is always someone coming or going. We have become quite popular.”

She is relentless. “You need to write.”

“I will. When the time is right.”

“When the conditions are right.”

I feel my cheeks redden. “It’s lovely here. Such a reprieve from our
other
. . .”

“But it’s still not right.”

I don’t know what she means—exactly what she means. “It’s a fine house, in a fine city, with fine company. I have no right to com—”

“Then I will complain for you.” She moves to stand before me. “I know what you need, Jane. What you need is—”

I attempt a laugh. “Talent?”

Her face is serious. “Stop that! You possess great talent, but a talent unused is a talent wasted.”

“I have written,” I say.

“But you must write more. Write anew.”

I look about the room where we spend so much of our time. There is nothing to suggest an oppressive quality that would prevent the creative process. So why have I not written? Why is inspiration so elusive? And who am I to be so particular? I’m not some bastion of literary genius who must have conditions just so to create a masterpiece. I’m but a spinster who dabbles with writing when life affords her the time, inclination, and inspiration.

Cassandra has removed her coat and folds it over her arm. “I will do my best to make it work, Jane. To make life work so you can work.”

“I don’t deserve special attention or considera—”

“You do. And I will do my best to see you have it.”

“But—”

She points at me with a slender digit. “I will do my part, but you must do yours. Agreed?”

“I will try.”

*****

It’s my turn to visit Godmersham. My dear niece Fanny, who at age fifteen writes letters full of passionate entreaty, has begged me to come. And so, in the summer of 1808, I begin my journey to fulfill her
greatest wish
.

Along the way I stop to see Henry and Eliza. I’ve oft seen my brother—who frequently travels alone—but have not seen Eliza for far too long. Our initial greeting is replete with hugs and kisses. Once stepped apart, I find her older in countenance (she
is
forty-seven) yet still vibrant in spirit. “It’s about time you come to see me!” she says.

And it is.

Their home at Brompton (well east of London) is small and made to feel more so (in a most delightful way) because it’s always filled with friends. Oh, the many actors and artists I meet! My brother and his wife are the ultimate host and hostess, and my two months as their guest are filled with dinner parties and numerous outings to see concerts and plays. But beyond the social events, I marvel that there is always time to sit and talk, with never a moment wasted thinking of to-do’s or should-do’s. At Brompton a guest suffers no cares and my every need is met before its full inception. Eliza knows how to make me feel as if I am the most important person in the world. ’Tis a great talent.

I mean to ask Henry about the publication of
Susan
, which he arranged with Richard Crosby four years ago, but can never find a proper time when such a discussion would not quell some special merriment. Henry
did
deem himself my agent, but I can see he now has little time for such a Herculean task.

Besides, other than offering old stories, long dusty in my trunk, what have I done of late to advance my craft?

Nothing.

And so I leave the subject untested. It’s for the best. Life moves on. In most ways I feel incredibly blessed.

Yet even the delights of Henry’s must find an end. James, Mary, and their two youngest, James Edward, age ten, and little Caroline, only three, have just collected me. We are off to Godmersham.

We leave at five in the morning. Our first eight miles are hot, but after Blackheath we suffer nothing, and as the day advances it grows quite cool for June. We are crowded, and the children are rowdy. I try to remember it’s natural for a child of three to be so fidgety.

At Dartford, which we reach within two hours and three-quarters, we go to the Bull, the same inn at which Cassandra and I breakfasted on a previous journey. It has the same bad butter.

At half past ten we are again off and, traveling on without any adventure, reach Sittingbourne by three. The innkeeper is watching for us at the door of the George, and I am acknowledged very kindly by Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. I chat with the latter while Mary goes out to buy some gloves. A few minutes, of course, did for Sittingbourne, and off we drive, drive, drive, and by six o’clock are at Godmersham.

Edward and James immediately walk away together, as natural as life. My two nieces, Fanny and Lizzy, meet us in the Hall with a great deal of pleasant joy. A few minutes later we proceed into the breakfast parlour and then to our rooms. Mary has the Hall chamber. I’m in the Yellow Room and immediately write a letter to Cassandra. It seems odd to have such a great place all to myself
and
to be at Godmersham without her.

There is a knock upon my door and I open it to find Fanny. “I came as soon as I saw Aunt Mary to her room. May I stay?”

“Of course.” We chatter on while I change from my travel attire. She is as dramatic as usual, stating her longing for Cassandra’s company. She is grown both in height and size since last year (but not immoderately), looks very well, and seems as to conduct and manner just what she was and what one could wish her to continue to be.

My sister-in-law Elizabeth, who was dressing when we arrived, comes to me for a short moment, attended by some of the other children. She gives me a very affectionate welcome.

I cannot praise Elizabeth’s looks, but they are probably affected by a cold. Her little namesake has gained in beauty in the last three years, though not more than Marianne has lost. Charles is not quite so lovely as he was. Louisa is much as I expected, and I’m told little Cassandra is suffering a violent breaking-out so severe, she will not come down after dinner.

We go downstairs and I notice how their Steventon cousin, James Edward, finds instant friendship, yet shy little Caroline . . . she is left out. Her cousins are too much for her. A lonely poor cousin in a large mansion . . .

Elizabeth, though expecting her eleventh child, does well enough, and the older children help with the younger. Yet the way she looks at me . . . as if she disapproves. Because I’m not married? Because I’m childless? Because I have few responsibilities beyond myself?

Perhaps. And in these liabilities, I find myself accused and convicted.

Fanny takes my hand and pulls me toward the front door. “Come walk with me. I’ve much to tell you.”

I set my liabilities aside and assume the role Elizabeth must approve: Aunt Jane.

*****

“I don’t see why we must go all the way to Canterbury,” Mary tells me.

“It’s but seven miles,” I say.

Mary huffs and folds her arms. She is full of prejudice today, and I nearly regret taking her with me to visit Edward’s adoptive mother, Mrs. Knight. That I would even consider chusing her company on this journey looms as a large question in my mind.

She continues her complaints—about all but herself. “I don’t approve of Harriot Bridges marrying that oily George Moore. I don’t like him. I just don’t.”

“I’ve not met him,” I say. To my own discredit I add to her vexation. “I heard they are all coming to dinner tomorrow tonight.”

She shudders as though I have stated the devil himself will grace the Godmersham table. “If Elizabeth will allow it, I will chuse the far end of the table. I will, I tell you.”

Her dislike of George Moore—whom none of us has met—only piques my interest of him, for whoever upsets Mary might be a friend of mine.

I ask silent forgiveness for my cruel thoughts.

“And your sister . . .  ,” she continues.

I brace myself, for though I may accept hearing the slights of others, toward Cassandra I’m protective. But I don’t bite.

“Your sister . . .  ,” she repeats.

Ah me. I know she will not be satisfied till I respond. Toward the hope of eventually changing the subject I open the floodgates with two words: “My sister?”

“Did you know she had tea with a sister of James’s first wife?”

“How nice of her.”

“Nice?”

I try to think of a more appropriate description. “Cassandra is kind to all relatives, past and present. The woman in question is Anna’s—is your stepdaughter’s—aunt.”

“That woman is not a relative of any kind. Her sister died. I am the mistress of Steventon now.”

“No one implies you are not.” Feeling a bit put upon, I take the opportunity to add, “Why didn’t you bring Anna with you to Godmersham, with the other children?”

“Do your mother and Cassandra wish her to be gone?”

“No, no,” I hasten to say. For that is not the issue at all. Yet I’m not certain Mary will acknowledge the true concern. “Occasionally the youngest children
are
left behind, but rarely the eld—”

“Anna prefers being with her grandmother and aunt in Southampton.”

Although I know Anna enjoys our company—and we, hers—I also know from direct correspondence that the fifteen-year-old keenly feels her stepchild status. And there is no denying she would have enjoyed the company of her cousin Fanny at Godmersham.

If only she had been brought along.

Mary peers out the carriage window. “Oh, when
will
we ever be there?”

Subject suitably changed.

I’m certain it’s for the best.

*****

Mrs. Knight greets both of us warmly, and my opinion of her genteel, intelligent nature is not changed. Even Mary seems thoroughly charmed, a victory attributed to the generous manner of our hostess.

We have tea and biscuits and chat about family. I take a lesson by the fact Mrs. Knight allows Mary to ramble quite incessantly about the merits of her life, her children (there is no mention of Anna), her fine home, and a new set of dishes that now graces the rectory table. As
my
nerves grow brittle at the monologue, Mrs. Knight simply nods and smiles and offers an occasional “How nice,” which, from her lips and by her countenance, sounds genuinely effusive.

Take a lesson, Jane.

Mary excuses herself to use the facilities. I find her exit a relief. Obviously, any lesson on graciousness has not taken root.