Just Jane (24 page)

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Authors: Nancy Moser

Tags: #Regency, #Becoming Jane, #England, #Historical, #Bath, #Steventon, #English literature, #Sense and Sensibility, #Fiction, #Romance, #Authors, #pride and prejudice, #london, #love-story, #Jane Austen, #Christian, #bio-novel, #Persuasion, #novelist, #Biography, #Cassandra

BOOK: Just Jane
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I release a sigh, and Mrs. Knight laughs. Which allows me to laugh. “How do you do it?” I ask.

“All any person wants is an ear, Jane.”

“Mary offers too much for my ear.”

“She does offer an . . . abundance.”

Before I can say more, Mrs. Knight glances at the doorway as if to see if Mary has returned. She leans toward me, her mature face still strikingly beautiful. She presses a small pouch into my hand. “For your use, my dear.”

By its weight I know there are coins inside. She has done this before, given me an allowance. And, alas, I’m not too proud to take it. “You are too kind,” I say.

“Nonsense. I’m only kind enough.”

Without her generosity, I would have no income to call my own. I take it because her kindness releases a portion of my burden from others. I tuck the pouch into the reticule I’ve brought with me.

“There. Now that that is taken care of . . . I want you to tell me how you are, Jane.”

“I’m fine.”

She shakes her head. “Triteness does not become you. Again I ask: How
are
you? How are you living in Southampton, holed up with your brother and his wife? Five women . . .’tis the makings of a . . . a complicated life.”

“We get along admirably,” I say.

“So you like Frank’s wife?”

“She is a sweet girl.”

“Hmm. And now, with a child.”

“It’s good we are there with her and little Mary Jane. Frank is long at sea.”

“You are a good sister.”

I feel my cheeks flush, for I know I’m not. At least not all of the—

“You disagree?”

I laugh. “You miss little.”

She nods with satisfaction. “The perks of age are few, but the attributes that one
can
collect along the way . . . often come to good use.” She gazes at me, waiting. “So? Why are you not a good sister?”

I hesitate only a moment. In truth, I don’t mind sharing my failings with such a woman. I only wish to do so before Mary returns. “I complain.”

“About . . . ?”

“Too much.” I expand for the sake of time. “The house is very nice, there is a garden, the town is lovely, but it does not feel . . . I’m not sure it’s possible for it to feel . . . I would like it to feel—”

“Like home?”

I let out an expansive sigh. “Yes.”

“The feeling of home is often built upon the indistinct.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. Although the placement of walls, lushness of carpets, and the pleasure of fine prospects are pleasing accoutrements, the true delineations that make a house a home are ephemeral. ’Tis like explaining the depth and breadth of the wind—one can best explain its effects more than its substance.”

Mrs. Knight claps softly. “Bravo! You are steeped in prose. So . . . how goes your writing?”

Oh dear. “It . . . I think about it often.”

She gives me a chastening look. “Jane, you know very well that thinking is not doing.”

“I do know. And I mean to do it, but the time never seems right and . . .” I shrug. “I should not offer excuses. If I am a writer, I should write.”

“But a writer needs more than accoutrements.”

I blink, astonished. She understands! “I fear the intangibles that make a home are intertwined with those that provide inspiration.”

“If the former existed, the latter would follow forth?”

She makes my mind race. “If I say yes, and yet at some future point it proves not to be so, I’ve taken away my last excuse.”

“So be it.”

I press my hands in my lap with determination. “I promise you that once back in Southampton, I will try my very utmost to write. I should not—I will not—let the lack of intangibles keep me from it.”

She smiles a sly smile and taps a ringed finger against her cheek. “I have an idea about this . . . .”

“What sort—?”

“Not yet,” she says. “But know that I don’t forget you, Jane. Nor your mother or sister.”

“And Martha Lloyd.” I look to the doorway, expecting Mary back by now. “She is Mary’s sister but is nothing at all like her; not nearly so . . . abundant.”

Mrs. Knight laughs, then looks up. “Ah, Mrs. Austen. Welcome back. Can I pour you some more tea?”

*****

Our visit at Godmersham was ever delightful, but I’m ready to return to Southampton. The Bigg sisters are coming to visit, and Mother is going to be in Steventon to bring little Anna home, and little Mary is still at her family’s in Ramsgate, leaving Cassandra and me to entertain alone. What joy! It will be a snug fortnight for four dear friends.

But first I must get there. My initial plan was to ride back with James and Mary, but they have already left, and now I’m told that there is no one else to escort me home until Henry visits in two months!

I cannot stay here while this chance to see Alethea and Catherine evaporates. Catherine is soon to be married. This will be our last chance to visit as four singles.

One day in late June we discuss it at breakfast. Elizabeth declares, “I don’t see why you are making such a thing of this, Jane. Is our society so tedious that you cannot endure it a moment longer?”

“Oh, Aunt Jane, please stay longer,” Fanny says. “We still have a thousand things to do together.”

Her plea is flattering and heartfelt but is overshadowed by my need for companionship beyond her sweet adolescence.

I look to the head of the table, to Edward. I’ve already told them about the Biggs’ presence in Southampton and my desire not to miss them, but they see it as a frivolous desire for girl-talk.

Which it is.

But a greater reason
can
be given. One they don’t know. One that no sibling knows but Cassandra and James. One I never wanted any of my family to know . . .

Yet if I tell it, I will surely be set free. I believe the gain is worth the loss.

“The scenery will be ever so lovely in September,” Edward says. “Besides, at that time Henry can do us a favour by bringing Cassandra here to us, for Elizabeth’s confinement.”

The next child is due in early October.

“You would not have us be inconvenienced, would you, Jane?” Elizabeth’s voice has an undertone of frustration that I would even dare imagine going against their schedule. For what do my wishes matter? I have no important life that must be attended.

And yet . . . I am willing to accept their subtle disparagement if only to spend some special time with the Biggs and Cassandra. I’m not one to press, and certainly not one to go against any of my brothers’ wishes, but in this . . .

It’s hard to explain, this intense desire to have time alone with my sister and our two friends. And I realize as Edward dabs his lips with his napkin, very near the end of our morning repast, that I must press my point. In payment for their kind hospitality, I owe them the truth—or at least a part of it.

“May I speak with both of you?” I ask. “Privately?”

Husband and wife exchange a glance but agree.

Elizabeth gives the servants instructions, warns the children of their manners, and the three of us leave the table. We enter Edward’s paneled study, where my brother takes his position behind the massive desk. Elizabeth stands at his shoulder, forming a distinct two against one.

“So what reason can be so important that you take us away from our meal?” Elizabeth asks.

I’m embarrassed by the entire situation but have come too far to retreat. I stand with my hands clasped in front and raise my chin, hoping my stance will offer some much-needed courage. “It’s very important that I have time with Alethea and Catherine Bigg, because I . . . I was engaged to their brother Harris.”

Elizabeth’s face shows her aghast. “When was this?”

Edward has a different tack: “You
were
engaged to Harris?”

“I was.” I look to Elizabeth to answer her query. “Six years ago.”

It’s Edward’s turn to look aghast. “And you never told us?”

“I did not, because by the next morning I had changed my mind. I broke the engagement.”

“But why?” Elizabeth asks. “He is rich; he is handsome; he comes from a good family. Why would
you
turn him down?”

My answer will sound trite, and yet . . . considering my audience . . . “I didn’t love him.” I hasten to say, “You and Edward loved each other when you married. I’ve always been inspired by your love and want such a marriage for myself. Surely I cannot be faulted in that.”

I can tell by the look that passes between them that the point is well taken, and yet . . . the fact I’m not from wealth—as the two of them had been—still hangs heavy.

To their credit they don’t say it. Don’t say any of it. And for that I commend them. Edward knows that his place in the Knight family is a blessing. I’m certain he often looks at the financial trials of his siblings and thinks,
There, but for the grace of God, go I.

In order to solidify my case, I proceed with a half-truth. “Because of my disgrace, I feel the need to repair the damage my actions have caused. I cherish my friends and wish to mend the past so we can continue our dear friendship.” I don’t mention that the bonds have long been mended, nor that I’ve been to Manydown since and know that all is forgiven. Yet I
do
know this special time will increase the strength of our sisterhood. And that is always a good and rightful thing.

“Please, Edward,” I say. “Please help me make things right.”

Edward stands and with a sigh says, “I will arrange it.”

*****

It’s not surprising that my broken engagement is not spoken of. For it’s old news. The four of us—Cassandra, Catherine, Alethea, and I—slip into an easy amity as though the event were but a dream.

It’s not possible we are women in our thirties. Women of our age don’t giggle and carry on. Yet, alone in our home in Southampton, that is exactly what occurs between us. The years rush away, once again making us hopeful ingénues brimming over with frantic talk of dances and men and gossip and the upcoming nuptial as if we had no cares in the world.

But I admit as Catherine speaks of her autumn wedding, I don’t envy her. Herbert Hill is not my first choice as a partner for my friend. For anyone. Without forethought I hear myself asking aloud, “And how old is he?” I know very well the answer.

Catherine’s chin rises. “He is not yet sixty.”

“Which means he is twenty-four years your elder.”

“He is a kind man.”

“I would hope so,” I say.

“He is a reverend.”

“The former does not of necessity go with the latter, although it should,” I say.

Cassandra nudges at my knee. “We are very happy for you, Catherine. To find a man who—”

“I will miss her at Manydown,” Alethea tells us.

“I will visit,” Catherine says. “You know I will. Herbert has assured as much.”

“It will not be the same,” Alethea says.

Catherine looks about and adds, “Herbert is the uncle to Robert Southey. The poet.”

We all nod in appreciation of family ties, but I find myself thinking that I would rather have Catherine marry the nephew—who is sooner our age—than the fatherly uncle.

No one speaks.

I am guilty of lessening the mood. I must make amends.

I stand and retrieve a gift I had planned to give Catherine upon her leaving. My inexcusable dampening of our gathering makes now a better time.

I hand her a cambric handkerchief I’ve embroidered. “For your wedding day,” I say.

“Oh, Jane, it’s beautiful.”

“You may not think as much when I combine it with this poem.” I clear my throat and read from the page I will give her:

   
“Cambrick! With grateful blessings would I pay

   
The pleasure given me in sweet employ.

   
Long may’st thou serve my Friend without decay,

   
And have no tears to wipe, but tears of joy!”

She comes to me with a hug and kiss. “Oh, Jane, that is lovely. I will cherish both forever.”

It is what I wish her. For all of us. A lovely forever.

If only I knew exactly what that entailed.

*****

“You wish to move where?” I ask Frank.

He pulls Mary under his arm as she cuddles baby Mary Jane and repeats himself. “We wish to move into our own home on the Isle of Wight, where I’m to be stationed. ’Tis not that far, Jane. Just a ferry ride across from Portsmouth.”

I know my geography.

“It’s not that we don’t enjoy your company,” Mary says.

“’Twould seem just so,” Mother says. She crosses her arms in her peeved mode.

Frank moves away from his family to console her. “Our Yarmouth Division has nice lodgings, and with fish costing almost nothing, plenty of engagements and plenty of each other, we will be very happy.”

Mother shrugs.

Cassandra steps forward and kisses Mary on the cheek; then her brother receives the same. “We are very happy for you. You deserve a house of your own.”

Frank’s sigh reveals his relief. “Thank you, Cass. We knew we could count on your blessings.”

“And mine,” I say, offering my own kisses.

We all look to Mother, who begrudgingly says, “I suppose I could cure a ham for you.”

We laugh. A ham. Of all things. But Frank is ever gracious. “Thank you, Mother. That would be splendid.”

The happy family leaves us alone in the parlour. We each look to the other.

Mother speaks first. “Well? Now what?”

“Between the three of us—four, with Martha—we have enough income to stay.”

“Not without frugalities,” Mother says.

“No,” Cassandra concedes. “Not without those.”

Vulgar, vulgar economy.

*****

“Surely you don’t pout like Mother,” Cassandra says as we ready for bed.

Before I answer, I assess the truth of my response—and adjust. “I do so only in that I don’t like upheaval. I am a woman of roots. To be plucked once again . . .”

“We can stay here, Jane,” she says, pulling back the covers of her bed.

I nod and climb between my own covers. “I try to see the good of it. After visiting Godmersham and being amongst all those children—dear as they may be—and then coming home to little Mary Jane, and I’m sure there will be an increase of children on Frank and Mary’s account . . .”

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