Just Jane (25 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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Cassandra nestles into her bed, pulling the coverlet to her chin against the autumn coolness. “It
will
be nice to own silence and the simplicity of adults.”

“Adults not with child.”

She laughs and turns her face to the wall. “’Twill be all right, Jane. You will see.”

*****

Our sister-in-law Elizabeth is no longer with child but most certainly has her new child
with
her. Brook John was born just before Cassandra arrived at Godmersham to give her usual laying-in assistance.

An eleventh child. Although I don’t deny a single niece or nephew their existence, I do wonder as to the wisdom in it. Not that Edward doesn’t have the resources to raise his children in an apt, proper, and prosperous manner, but surely, the wear upon poor Elizabeth . . .

She never complains.

Perhaps she should complain more. Insist on separate bedrooms. Tell my dear brother, “Enough, I say! I’ve had enough!” Yet for her to employ the gumption to show such pluck would go against the very reason she and I have never got on. She does not appreciate my pluck, and I don’t appreciate her lack of it.

Martha comes in with the post. She has just returned to us from
her
travels, and I find it very fine to have her back.

“Is there another from Cassandra?” I ask. I always ask, for it’s my sister’s words that please me beyond all others.

“There is,” she says, handing it to me.

I break the seal with enthusiasm, eager for news of Godmersham. How is baby Brook John? How goes the weary Elizabeth? I am sure my sister offers more than simple comfort as she—

I stop my mind’s meandering and reread the words on the page. The awful words on the page. “No,” I say. “No. No. No. No . . .”

Alarmed, Martha comes to me. “What’s wrong?”

I clasp a hand over my mouth, unable to say the words aloud. Martha takes the letter and reads for herself. She looks up, aghast. “Elizabeth is dead?”

I run from the room.

*****

More news has come. Details we hate but need to hear. Apparently, Elizabeth seemed quite well after the birth. Just a week later, she had even arisen for dinner, and Edward had felt assured enough to attend to estate business. Yet on the tenth of October, after eating a hearty meal just thirty minutes previous, Elizabeth was dead. The doctor offered no explanation as to why a thirty-five-year-old woman of good health, good breeding, and good attention should pass away in the blinking of an eye.

I try to find rationalization in the fact that death related to childbirth is not a stranger to us. I’ve witnessed other families suffer this cruel fate. Just a decade ago, during the same week when James’s son James Edward was born, two women in tiny Steventon died giving birth. That our Austen family has never lost a child to infancy, nor lost a mother during her confinement, is a miracle attributed only to God. That we would eventually face a break in this string of grace is tragic but nearly expected.

I write to Cassandra, hoping through my words to make atonement for my peevish comments against dear Elizabeth.

Castle Square, October 13, 1808

My dearest Cassandra,

I have received your letter. We have felt, we do feel, for you all—as you will not need to be told—for you, for Fanny, for Henry, for Lady Bridges, and for dearest Edward, whose loss and whose sufferings seem to make those of every other person nothing. God be praised that you can say what you do of him, that he has a religious mind to bear him up and a disposition that will gradually lead him to comfort.

My dear, dear Fanny! I am so thankful that she has you with her! You will be everything to her; you will give her all the consolation that human aid can give. May the Almighty sustain you all and keep you, my dearest Cassandra, well. But for the present I daresay you are equal to everything. You will know that Edward’s poor boys are at Steventon, fetched from school by James. And perhaps it is best for them, as they will have more means of exercise and amusement there than they could have with us, but I own myself disappointed by the arrangement. I should have loved to have them with me at such a time. I shall write to Edward by this post. With what true sympathy our feelings are shared by Martha, you need not be told; she is the friend and sister under every circumstance. We need not enter into a Panegyric on the Departed, but it is sweet to think of her great worth, of her solid principles, her true devotion, her excellence in every relation of life. It is also consolatory to reflect on the shortness of the sufferings which led her from this world to a better.

Farewell for the present, my dearest sister. Tell Edward that we feel for him and pray for him.

I sign the letter and seal it, wishing more could be said but knowing there are no words.

No more words for paper but . . .

I hold the letter to my chest and bow my head. There are many words to be said, but not for any mere mortal’s ears.

Dear heavenly Father . . .

*****

I feel most for Fanny.

I know such a declaration might raise more than one eyebrow (considering ten other children, dear Edward, and all the Bridges at Goodnestone who have lost a sister and daughter), yet I cannot change the statement in any well-meaned preference to give it to another.

Edward’s loss is terrible and must be felt as such, and it’s too soon to think of moderation in grief, either in him or his afflicted daughter. But we may hope that our dear Fanny’s sense of duty to that beloved father will rouse her to exertion. For his sake, and as the most acceptable proof of love to the spirit of her departed mother, she will try to be tranquil and resigned in her new role as woman of the household. I hope she finds consolation in Cassandra, and yet I worry she is too much overpowered for anything but solitude.

I vow to be there for her, and yet, what do I truly know of large households and children? Other than offering my respect by wearing bombazine and crepe, I can only offer my presence—either from near or far—along with the occasional hand with some of the children.

The two eldest boys are staying with us now. They behave extremely well in every respect, showing quite as much feeling as one wishes to see, and on every occasion speaking of their father with the liveliest affection. His letter was read over by each of them yesterday and with many tears; thirteen-year-old George sobbed aloud, but at a year older, Edward’s tears don’t flow so easily.

I try to distract them with childish joys and comfort them through their faith. Sunday, I took them both to church and saw fourteen-year-old Edward much affected by the sermon, which, indeed, I could have thought purposely addressed to the afflicted: “All that are in danger, necessity, or tribulation” was the subject of it. Afterwards, the weather did not allow us to get farther than the quay, where George was very happy as long as we could stay, flying about from one side to the other and skipping on board a collier.

In the evening we share the Psalms and lessons and a sermon at home, to which the boys are very attentive; and yet, in their youth, they have had enough. I’m certain God, in His goodness, forgives their inattention and need for normalcy.

We don’t want for amusement: bilbocatch, at which George is indefatigable, spillikins, riddles, conundrums, and cards, while watching the flow and ebb of the river, and now and then a stroll, keep us well employed.

Yesterday we had a complete outing. We had not proposed doing more than cross the Itchen River, but it proved so pleasant, and so much to the satisfaction of all, that when we reached the middle of the stream we agreed to be rowed up the river. Both the boys rowed a great part of the way, and their questions and remarks, as well as their enjoyment, were very amusing. George’s inquiries were endless, and his eagerness in everything reminds me often of his uncle Henry. My “itty Dordy” is growing up . . . .

We now sit in the parlour, where George is most industriously making and naming paper ships, at which he purposes to shoot with horse chestnuts. Young Edward is equally intent over Porter’s
Lake of Killarney
, twisting himself about in one of our great chairs with book in hand.

Watching them then and now, I feel an odd gratitude that somehow, in some small way, Aunt Jane is able to help.

And yet, as effectively and often as I allow myself to forget our grief . . . my thoughts are at Godmersham. I see the mournful party in my mind’s eye under every varying circumstance of the day; and in the evening especially, figure to myself its sad gloom: the efforts to talk, the frequent summons to melancholy orders and cares, and dear Edward, restless in misery, going from one room to the other, and perhaps not seldom upstairs, to see all that remains of his Elizabeth. Dearest Fanny must now look upon herself as his prime source of comfort, his dearest friend, as the being who is gradually to supply to him, to the extent that is possible, what he has lost. This consideration will elevate and cheer her.

Eventually.

For I have learned, as she will learn, that life is ever changing, and the roles we play within it also. Whether we play them well or not is a conundrum even the brightest of minds cannot predict.

*****

The letters fly about the Austen clan, everyone offering their condolences while trying to be strong and merry when appropriate. I dislike that Elizabeth’s death is the impetus for gaining so many letters, but I relish every one.

Upon receiving the post, I close the door against the frightful wind. I read through Cassandra’s post where she asks a question that confuses me:
What say you in response to Edward’s proposal? I find it most interesting.

“What proposal?” I ask the parlour.

Mother looks up from her rug making. “Who is getting married?” she asks.

Considering the subject is Edward, I know it’s not
that
kind of proposal. “The letters must be out of order. I have Edward’s yet to read. I will read it next and find out the mystery.”

“Aloud,” Mother says. “Read it aloud.”

I do just that.

“Forgive my tardiness. I should have made thus an offer far sooner, and in my defense I did think it, but there were extraneous circumstances that did not coincide . . . . I wish to offer you women the use of a house on the Chawton estate. The bailiff at Chawton has recently died and his home is vacant and available. Does this prove intriguing?”

I lower the letter. “Does it?”

Mother has stopped her work. “It does. Of course it does. I’ve been looking for a home for us. There is one at Wye—”

I shake my head. “But this . . .”

“Does seem more ideal.” She removes her glasses to look at me across the room. “I did like Edward’s estate there. If the cottage is of the same merit as Chawton House . . .”

“It cannot be nearly as grand, Mother. The estate’s bailiff lived there.”

She shrugs. “Be that as it may, I did find the surrounding country most amiable.”

I realize my heart beats faster. “Chawton is only fifteen miles from Steventon, and its proximity in dear Hampshire . . .”

“I wonder what Cassandra thinks of this.”

I pick up her last letter, again reading the words
I find it most interesting
.

As do I.

*****

Cassandra, Mother, Martha, and I are of like mind: Chawton Cottage will be ours! We learn that there are six bedchambers—which is just what we wished. Henry wrote to us on Edward’s behalf, speaking of garrets for storage places, one of which Mother immediately plans to fit up for a manservant. The difficulty of doing without one had been thought of before. We discover his name shall be Robert.

I don’t much care whether his name be Robert, Percival, or Eggplant if it means we move to Chawton.

I don’t know why this place intrigues.

Yet it does.

How can I feel so right about such a place I don’t know? One I’ve never seen?

Yet I do.

I ask God to give me an answer but receive only silence.

And yet it’s a peaceful silence that implores me to accept this gift in spite of what is uncertain or unknown.

To go forth, on faith.

And so, we shall move to Chawton.

*****

If I could move immediately, I would. Yet Chawton Cottage demands fix-its and fix-ums before we can reside there, and so we wait in Southampton. ’Twill be months and months, but let them fly by, I say! For I am happy. The anticipation of living in the countryside again sustains me. Like a child holding her breath for Christmas Day, I do the same for Moving Day.

Until then . . . I find myself inexplicably immersed in the joy of celebration. And until Cassandra returns from Godmersham, Martha is my able companion.

“A ball, Jane?” Martha says, pinning her hair into a bun. “I have not been to a ball in—”

“In far too long.” I hold my hand in midair as though a gentleman might kiss it as we honour each other before the dance begins. I curtsy—and assume he bows with perfect grace. “But I’m not the least bit tired, kind sir,” I tell him. “Of course I will dance another with you. And another too, if you but ask.”

Martha laughs. “But what if no one asks us to dance?”

I take her by the hand and swirl her under my arm. “Then
we
shall dance together, Miss Lloyd. We shall dance and dance and dance.”

*****

We dance and dance and dance.

Our first ball is more amusing than I expect. Martha likes it very much, and I don’t gape in energy till the last quarter of an hour. The room is tolerably full, and there are thirty couples in the dance.

We pay an additional shilling for our tea, which we take in an adjoining and very comfortable room.

No one (not even I) expected that I would be asked to dance, but I am asked by a gentleman whom we met on a previous Sunday outing. We have sustained a bowing acquaintance since, and being pleased with his black eyes, I spoke to him at the ball, which brought about this civility; but I don’t know his name, and he seems so little at home in the English language that I believe his black eyes may be the best of him.

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