Just Jane (26 page)

As for others . . . Captain d’Auvergne’s friend appears in regimentals, Caroline Maitland has an officer to flirt with, and Mr. John Harrison is deputed by Captain Smith (being himself absent) to ask me to dance. Everything goes well, especially after we tuck Mrs. Lance’s neckhandkerf in behind and fasten it with a pin. The melancholy part is seeing so many dozens of young women standing by without partners, and each of them with two ugly naked shoulders. It’s the same room in which we danced fifteen years ago . . . .

I think much about this and, in spite of the shame of being much older, feel thankful that I am quite as happy now as then.

In the carriage home, I laugh aloud at the memory, causing Martha to ask, “What amuses?”

“Dark eyes,” I say. “Fine eyes.” I remember a line Mr. Darcy utters in
First Impressions
and I repeat it with some semblance of the rich baritone I imagine him to have. “‘I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes can bestow.’”

Martha, who knows my work too well, recognizes it. “’Tis a good line, Jane.”

“All Mr. Darcy’s lines are good lines,” I say. “He would not accept anything less.”

We laugh in complete agreement.

Extraordinary Endowments

I will not miss this closet. This wet, bereft closet.

Nor will I miss the cold winds that blow in from the sea.

People in Southampton say they don’t remember such a severe winter as this. For my own opinion, it’s bad, but we don’t suffer as we did last year, because the wind has been more northeast than northwest. For a day or two last week, Mother was very poorly, with a return of one of her old complaints. But it didn’t last long and seems to have left nothing bad behind it. She began to talk of a serious illness, her last two having been preceded by the same symptoms; but thank heaven she is now quite as well as one can expect her to be in weather which deprives her of exercise.

I press the cloth into the closet wetness and squeeze it damp into the bucket. Over and over. Our battle of the closet began last November when we had some very blowing weather and so much rain that it forced its way into this store closet. Tho’ the evil was comparatively slight, and the mischief nothing, I had some employment the next day in drying parcels.

Now the January wetness offers an encore. We have been in two or three dreadful states within the last week, this time from the melting of the snow. The contest between us and the closet has ended in our defeat, and I am obliged to move everything out of it and leave it to splash itself as it likes. Could my ideas flow as fast as the rain it collects, I might be quite eloquent.

And yet, even as I dip and damp and wring, I do so with a joy far beyond what is due such a moment.
Drip, O house! Apply your worst! Our spirit ’twill not be dampened. For soon, you will be ours no more, and all your vice forsaken!

’Tis not a laudable verse but the best I can do while wearing soggy shoes.

On April third—Easter Monday—we plan to quit this place and rise anew, to a new life.

An apt and fitting date.

Alleluia!

*****

I don’t know what has got into me, because I’m usually not assertive. I’m not demanding. I’m not . . . a man.

Yet as I awaken this morning, the fifth of April, still in Southampton, still holding fast to the promise of Chawton, I get out pen and ink and begin a letter.

A letter that will change my life.

I only hope.

And so, with the deepest of breaths to fuel me, and the quickest of prayers to give me wisdom, I write to Mr. Richard Crosby:

Gentlemen:

In the spring of the year 1803 a MS. Novel in 2 vol. entitled Susan was sold to you by a Gentleman of the name of Seymour, & the purchase money 10£ recd at the same time. Six years have since passed, & this work of which I am myself the Authoress, has never to the best of my knowledge, appeared in print, tho’ an early publication was stipulated for at the time of sale. I can only account for such an extraordinary circumstance by supposing the Ms. by some carelessness to have been lost; & if that was the case, am willing to supply you with another copy if you are disposed to avail yourselves of it, & will engage for no farther delay when it comes into your hands. It will not be in my power from particular circumstances to command this copy before the Month of August, but then, if you accept my proposal, you may depend on receiving it. Be so good as to send me a Line in answer as soon as possible, as my stay in this place will not exceed a few days. Should no notice be taken of this address, I shall feel myself at liberty to secure the publication of my work, by applying elsewhere. I am Gentlemen & c. & c.

M.A.D.

Direct to Mrs. Ashton Dennis

April 5 1809

Post Office, Southampton

I have held my breath throughout the writing and expel it loudly before taking another. I smile at the initials, as well as the persona I created for such a letter. If Crosby is a bright man, he should understand the implication.

For I
am
mad. I have waited six years for them to fulfill their promise. That I have not written sooner—nor employed Henry or his lawyer Seymour to do so in my stead—is due to familial circumstances beyond my control. And cowardice. I’ve been too consumed with surviving like a heroine to truly become one by embracing the heroine’s attributes of strength, intelligence, and wisdom in the ways of the world.

That I now pretend to own those laudable attributes is more playacting than sincere, and yet, with the strength sparked by our upcoming move, I will take the chance.
I
will take it and not assign it to others to do for me.

For ignited within my breast is a new fire. I have set aside my manuscripts too long. It’s time they are brought forward and given a fresh start.

Like the one that is being given to me.

*****

I hold the letter in my hand and see the notation of its sender:
Messers Crosby & Co
. “It didn’t take him long,” I say aloud.

’Tis luck there is no one round to hear me.

In my hand lies my future.

With a racing heart I break the seal.

And read the words. And read the words again.

“He will not do it?” I ask the air. “He implies there was no promise? No stipulation? No contract to publish immediately—at all? He lies! And what is this about suing if anyone else publishes it?”

As if a masochist, I go over his final words once more:
If you would care of the retrieval of said manuscript, company agrees to sell it back to Mrs. Ashton Dennis, in its entirety for £10—its original amount.

I toss the letter on a chair. “It might as well be one hundred pounds as ten. For I don’t have it.” My usual income—derived a bit here and there from many sources and gifts—is not more than fifty pounds a year. I don’t have the ten just sitting about, waiting for this . . . this cretin to grab it back.

I snatch up the letter and head toward the friendly fire. “So much for that,” I say. But as I’m poised to consign the letter to the flame, I pull it to safety. Most likely Mr. Crosby would appreciate his words being destroyed, all evidence of his deceit and cunning erased.

No indeed. I will not burn these horrid words away. I will keep them close to my heart, fueling my own fire within.

*****

The time has come!

Our exit from Southampton reminds me of another day two and a half years before . . . in leaving Bath I felt release and escape. If running alongside the horses would have hastened our departure, I would have done it.

But this parting is far different, and as our carriage takes us away from Southampton, I peer out the window with fondness. Yes, I’m glad to go, but not for any want of Southampton. It has treated me well, and I set it upon a gentle chair in my memories.

As city turns to country, I sit back in the carriage. I look across to Mother, then get an idea. “Will you change with me?”

“What, you say?”

“Change seats with me.”

“Whatever for? I can assure you mine here is no more comfortable than yours there.”

“Please, Mother?”

With a gruff and grumble she complies. I settle in, feeling oddly triumphant. For ’tis only appropriate that I show Southampton—and my past—my back.

And welcome Chawton—and my future—face forward.

*****

It’s all I hoped for. Dreamed of. All that I need.

Mother and I arrive first. Martha will come after a London visit, and Cassandra will arrive from Godmersham. And though I yearn for the arrival of my sisters, though I am eager to share this happy time with them, I’m content to be here, just a little, alone. All the better to drink it in.

Mother has rushed ahead through the house, chattering with a servant who has made things ready. I slip behind to see the house on my own terms, to notice what
I
notice and linger over what demands me to linger.

The cottage is L-shaped and was once a posting inn. It has been here near forever—at least one hundred years e’en now. It stands red brick, a tall two storeys, with two attic dormers peeking out beneath the tiled roof. From the road, the house looks larger than it is, because the L is not seen. And yet I don’t mind the illusion, for inside, it’s far large enough.

The house sits on a busy cross of three roads: one leading to Winchester to the southwest, London, just fifty miles northeast, and Portsmouth and Gosport to the south. The church and Edward’s Chawton House—which we have visited—are but a ten-minute walk along the Gosport road. And the village of Alton, where Henry has a branch of his bank, is but a mile away toward London. Edward has informed us that Chawton itself has 64 houses, 65 families, 171 males, and 201 females—205 now . . . . Many of the men work in agriculture, most for Edward, with many others labouring at the looms at Alton. It is said the calicos and fine worsteds make their way to America. I have yet to test their quality but surely will.

Edward’s efforts to make the cottage suitable are very amiable. Because of the busyness of the intersection, he bricked a window on the front side and opened another window to the garden. There is plenty of space to dine and relax in the sitting room. He has renewed the plumbing by improvements to the outer pump and privy.

I climb six steps to a landing, then eight steps more to reach the bedchambers. I’m immediately drawn to the one on my left, for it’s farthest from the main road and overlooks the green garden. It has its own fireplace and, though the room is small, would be enough for Cassandra and me. Although I’ve been told there are enough rooms for each to have her own, Cassandra has already made it known she is agreeable to leave the extra room as the best bedroom for guests and continue to share with me. We are a pair, the two of us. Our niece Anna even chides that we dress too much alike, and seeing us walk up the lane together with matching caps—she cannot tell us one from the other. But the truth be that I know Cassandra’s starched notions, and she is well aware of my queer meanderings. She is the quiet one, while I am full of fool and folly. We complement each other and perhaps together make a proper whole. The family knows this, and there will be no argument. So . . . although I will allow Cassandra an opinion of this room or another, I know her well enough to be assured that I now stand in
our
room.

I take the deepest breath manageable, drinking the sweet air. The open window brings in wafts of lilac and lavender. The gentle rustle of the beech trees provides the softest accompaniment to the moment. I breathe again. Freely. Easily.

I spread my arms wide and turn full circle.

This is the time. My time. For finally I am completely, positively at home.

*****

Cassandra is here! After a nine-month stay at Godmersham, we are together again. And though I don’t begrudge my brother’s family her companionship and wise services—especially during their bereavement—I greedily accept her presence as mine, all mine.

I help her unpack, placing items in the dresser drawers I have kept empty for her use. “So?” I ask, unable to restrain myself. “Do you like it? Do you approve?”

She stands erect and arches her back with a groan. “I would like and approve of anything that is not moving right now. Four days in a carriage . . .”

“Cass . . .”

She holds a pelisse against her chest. “It’s delightful, Jane. You know that.”

“I know that.”

We hear the clatter of hoofs upon the road. “It is rather busier than I expected,” she says.

“It’s no bother. In fact, I quite like the commotion.”

She gapes at me, with good reason. “And here I always thought you required complete country solitude.”

I sit on the bed, shake my head, and try to explain. “’Tis what I thought too. I often imagined being a hermit might be best for my writing. Merely find me a cave with a flat rock as a table and I would be content.”

“A flat rock, but a soft bed.”

I shrug. “But here at Chawton, I have the green prospects that fulfill me, as well as the incitement of the world buzzing about. ’Tis like I am the hub of a wheel, set to observe the spokes radiating away from me. Radiating toward me. I’m at the best place, Cassandra. Rooted in green solitude, with long branches reaching out to touch the world.” I sigh. “I don’t know if I say it rightly.”

“You say it well enough.”

“I now realize that I don’t write about pastoral fields and flowers. I write about people, and so to see them, yet be able to step away from them . . . it’s the ideal.”

She tosses away the stockings she has been rolling and faces me. “Writing? You are writing again?”

My cheeks grow warm. “I am.”

Cassandra sits beside me, setting a hand upon mine. “Oh, Jane. Nothing could make me happier than to have you feel settled enough to write. I’ve seen your torment and have agonized over how to make things just right so you could feel at liberty to create. I’m so glad Edward listened and—”

She stops talking. I withdraw my hand. “Did
you
ask Edward to give us Chawton?”

“I may have mentioned it. But there were others more influential than I who thought it a grand solution.”

I have only to think a moment. “Mrs. Knight?”

“She is a wise woman and a good mother to all who heed her.”

I rise to my feet. “I will write to her this very minute!” I say. “I must thank her for—”

Cassandra puts a calming hand on my arm. “You will do no such thing. It proved to be a delicate procedure putting the idea of this place in Edward’s conscience while allowing him to think he was the one who came up with it. Mrs. Knight and I have agreed to never speak of our part. ’Tis Edward who must receive your gratitude and praise.”

Ah. So that is how it is. “Yet I
may
write Mrs. Knight to tell her how delightful it is here?”

“I know you will word it just so.”

I give Cassandra a kiss to her forehead. “Thank
you
, Sister. This verse is truly yours: ‘Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies.’”

“Oh, Jane . . .”

I shake a scolding finger at her. “You may not argue with me. I forbid it.”

She wisely holds her tongue, her ruby blush a fine accessory to my compliment.

*****