Just Jane (27 page)

I didn’t lie to my sister. For I
am
writing. It started the first evening after we entered this cottage. I retired early to my new room, feigning exhaustion. For though my body was tired, my mind was not.

For the first time in the eight long years of exile, I was free, fortified, and full to overflowing.

I left my clothes unpacked. Chemises, stockings, and dresses did not deserve to see this room first.

I went to the trunk that was a patient constant in my life, that had made every journey by my side, ever faithful, ever watchful for the right moment to demand release.

This was that time.

I opened the trunk and gazed upon the work of my life: pages and pages of words carefully chosen, drawing images of people who were as real to me as flesh and blood, who lived lives that had been put on hold while I muddled through my own struggles and disappointments.

Now all that was over, and they could be set free—as free as I myself.

But which should be the first to experience emancipation?

It was not a hard choice. The one about two sisters, Elinor and Marianne—two sisters forced to live with their mother in a country cottage due to the inequities of the inheritance system . . . .

It is time I address the issue at hand: sense and sensibility.

Which serves a life best?

We shall see.

If Chawton is my liberation, Cassandra is my liberator. She gives me the time I need to write, and if she would let me, I would lie prostrate at her feet in thanksgiving.

I am not the only one who is willing to let Cassandra handle the household. For Mother has declared herself retired. At seventy, she is quite willing to let the house run as it will and concentrate on her needlework and her beloved garden. She clips and cuts and directs the willing hands of the villagers, who respectfully accept us as the kin of their patron, Edward Knight. The garden is no idle pastime, no mere cutting of roses and tying up of flowers. She digs her own potatoes and plants them, for the kitchen garden is as much her delight as the flower borders. She has even taken to wearing a green round frock like a day labourer.

And I, from the bedroom window, enjoy the irregular mixture of hedgerow and grass, gravel walk and long grass for mowing, as well as the orchard, which I imagine arose from two or three little enclosures having been thrown together and arranged as best might be, for some ladies’ occupation.

With Mother so occupied and happy, Cassandra and Martha have set their stores in all things domestic. Although I have offered to do more, they refuse, and joined to the possession of much good sense, they are both blessed with sweet temper, amiable dispositions, and what is of far greater importance, minds deeply impressed with the truth of Christianity. They live “Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself” with their entire being.

And so, with their generous natures firmly in place, I am free to . . . to be Jane. Day to day, day after day, just Jane.

It sounds too simple to be of import, but to me, it’s the gift of a life returned.

My life seems effortless and I revel in its simplicity.

I get up first and start each day by playing my newly acquired piano in the drawing room, far away from their ears. To have an instrument again after mine was so sorely sold back in Steventon . . .

Music calms me, and I improve, though I feel no need to use this talent to entertain others. I don’t deserve, nor seek, that approbation. ’Tis enough for my ears to hear the notes. And God. Hopefully He is pleased by my offering.

Next, the maid makes a fire in the dining room, setting water on to heat, and I prepare a nine-o’clock breakfast for the rest—merely tea and toast. It’s no trouble whatsoever and I almost feel guilty in calling it a duty. I oft feel like a man must feel, with all my daily needs cared for, in some way, somehow, by the sweet women of the house.

Except for my laying the meager breakfast and keeping charge of the tea, sugar, and wine stores, Martha and Cassandra take responsibility for all else: the morning snack and the late-afternoon dinner. And though we employ a cook, these sisters of mine are kept quite busy with tasks to make sure all is right. Martha takes pride in her book of recipes and home remedies and regularly makes new, meticulous entries within its pages.

As I do in my own “book.”

I’m nearly finished with the edits of
Sense and Sensibility
and actually found little to change. I’ve read it aloud to the females assembled here, and all appreciate its story, though Mother regrets that Marianne does not end with a passionate love match. Colonel Brandon is too safe for her tastes. And yet, I will not change it. For I like that respect and an amiable affection are the basis for the match. Must everything be passion and fireworks? I think not. And as Marianne’s combustive nature revealed, perhaps it’s in her best interest to live a life more prone to calm and contentment over fervor and free feeling. As I have learned these eight long years, true black and white rarely exists, and as such, I see no harm in letting Marianne live in a land of gray—as we all must do on occasion. There can be beauty in gray. Calm in gray.

I know arguments can be made, and I don’t mind them. To induce the reader to discussion—whether their opinion post yay or nay—is an author’s victory. I don’t wish to write a story where all is completely as it should be. At least not without a good bit of trials, travails, and travels along the way.

I finish with my music this morning, and as I play the final chord, I rise and move eagerly to those who call upon my attention.

Not Mother or Cassandra or Martha.

But Elinor and Marianne.

*****

“But he is not for you, Anna. You must not marry him.” Even as I say them, I realize my words to my niece will have the consequence of a raindrop on a rushing waterfall. I’ve often teased that dear Anna can be accused of doing or feeling too little or too much. Finding the middle ground is not her forte.

Anna picks at a wilted rose in the table vase. “He’s a clergyman like Father and Grandfather,” Anna says. “I would think that would please everyone.”

“But he is far over thirty, and you but sixteen.”

“I am a woman,” she declares, then looks away.

She is a child. A child who seeks escape from her parents’ home, from a father who has mellowed to middle age and a stepmother who much prefers her own issue.

She continues her defense. “Mr. Terry is a fine man, and now that he is related to the Steventon Digweeds through his sister’s marriage, there can be no concern about his family.”

“I’m certain he
is
a very fine man,” I say. “But what makes you believe he is your man?”

She ignores the question. “Father has given his permission.”

“His reluctant permission, or so I’ve heard.”

She removes the offending rose and throws it in the fire. “Father is not capable of great enthusiasm. For anything. But his sermons.”

I cannot argue with her. Dear James, the brother who once wrote rousing plays, has used his literary talents to write less-than-rousing epistles. In private I blame Mary. She has overpowered him and drowned the James I once knew. And yet . . . they seem happy. In their own way.

Although never married, I’ve witnessed enough unions to know that “in their own way” is an obvious preferable alternative to “never at all.” Any union between two souls is difficult, at best, and complicated, for certain. But for Anna to chuse a man simply because of his proximity and his ability to remove her from a home in which she finds no solace or nurture?

“I’m going to Godmersham, and Mr. Terry is going to visit me there. Does that not say something about his commitment?”

It does, but I will not encourage her in this. “You go,” I say. “Time to think is always agreeable.”

“I go for pleasure, not to think.”

The statement holds meaning—and implication—far beyond her intent.

With a new breath she continues, “I want Cousin Fanny to share in my happiness. Which she will, with her whole heart.” With that said, she turns on her heel and leaves me to worry after her.

Which I will do with great intensity and propensity.

*****

“Even after meeting Mr. Terry, Edward and Fanny approved?”

Anna has been to Godmersham and is back again. She flits about the drawing room in the same manner as she did before her travels. “They did, but I’ve decided against it.”

“Against the engagement,” I say.

“He is not the one for me.” She looks at me, daring me with my own words. “You were against it, Aunt Jane. In this very room you spoke against it.”

I run my hands across my face, roughly trying to shock myself into this new reality. “I cannot keep up with you, Anna. You beg to wed Mr. Terry, and now you say it’s over?”

“It is,” she says, trimming a candlewick with the pinch of her fingers. “I don’t expect anyone to understand it.”

“Good, because we don’t.”

“I simply cannot marry him. Surely
you
can understand such a change of mind, Aunt Jane.”

The way she looks at me implies she knows about Harris. And yet but for a few choice family members I’d assumed it secret.

Secret or not, I’m pleased her interest in Mr. Terry is over. She is young. She is pretty and vivacious—albeit a touch flighty. There is plenty of time for her to find another.

“Surely you understand?” she says again.

Although I will never understand this girl, I do approve. “What can I say?” I finally manage.

“Nothing,” says Anna with a smile of victory. “Now tell me, what are you writing on? Aunt Cassandra tells me you write every day.”

“I do. I currently work on an old story with a new title.”

“Which one is it?”

“It was called by
First Impressions
, but now I call it
Pride and Prejudice
.”

Her eyes light up. “You’ve read me a part of that one! It was most capital.”

“But now ’tis far different, for I have made many radical alterations and contractions. It has been quite freely lopt and cropt. Do you know it has been sixteen years since I first wrote it? It was truly full of
my
‘first impressions’ about life.”

“Is Mr. Darfield still in it?”

It took me a moment. “Mr. Darcy?”

“Yes, him. I like him.”

“Oh yes,” I say. “He’s still there, as proud as ever.”

“Do he and Lizzy marry? You never read me the ending.”

I smile an author’s secret smile. “I won’t tell you. You will have to read it once it’s published.”

“Published? You’re getting it published? Really published? Like a real book?”

I’ve said too much, for nothing is certain. Although I have given my full heart to
Pride and Prejudice
, I wish to hold this manuscript off just a bit and pave its way with another. “Your uncle Henry is working on my behalf for
Sense and Sensibility
.”

“Has it been accepted?”

“’Tis not so simple. We have to make the decision whether to sell it outright—which I’m wary to do considering my past experience—or find a publisher to print it and give me a portion of the profit, or—”

“The second sounds the better way.”

“But the most difficult,” I say. “Henry has a friend interested, a distant cousin on the Leigh side, Thomas Egerton, but he has said he is unwilling to take the risk, cousin or no. The last option is the one we have chosen. To publish it through Mr. Egerton but at my own expense. Our own expense. At least for this first one. For I have two other books near ready to publish. But first, I need to get one accomplished. And Mr. Egerton is not alone in his reticence. No one is eager to publish an unknown. Nor a woman.”

“So you are putting up the money from your own—”

“I . . . I have no money to risk. But Henry, as my most vocal and enthusiastic supporter, has done it for me. I’m in his debt—unless, of course, the book belies the odds and makes a few pence in profit.”

Anna takes my hands in her own, her eyes bright. “Oh, it will, Aunt Jane! I know it will. ’Tis a wonderful story. And Uncle Henry is ever so right in backing it.”

Henry, with the help of Eliza’s money. Although I hadn’t been completely supportive of the match so many years ago and had wanted Henry to become a clergyman, I’ve come to realize that Eliza, and London, and his career as a banker, and the vivacity of a life filled with entertainment and society, are perfect for my brother.

And now, perfect for me. For as a clergyman, he would not have had the contacts nor the income to aid me now. Providence is wise even as people only ponder. How ironic, though comforting, to realize that God knows what He’s doing.

As—I hope—does my brother.

*****

“Well?”

Mary stands before us with James proudly at her side. He holds a portrait they have had painted. Of her.

She looks at each of our faces in turn, waiting for effusive compliments. We are not an effusive family—when the compliments would prove false. Father always taught us that honesty . . .

Is not always the best policy?

Mother, being the matriarch and more and more beyond overly caring what others think, takes a step forward, her eyes moving back and forth between Mary and her painted image. She is to comment first.

I admire her courage.

“Well, Mary . . . I cannot say it affords me pleasure. The upper part of the face is like you, and so is the mouth, but the nose . . . the feature that strikes me . . . is so
unlike
you that it spoils the whole and moreover makes you look very cross and sour.”

Mary and James stand agape.

I don’t know whether to laugh, cry—or flee.

Mary juts out her chin (making the portrait appear more true) and says, “At least I have a portrait. I think it’s absolutely deplorable that the Austen men have all had their portraits painted and yet you three women have not. Elizabeth and Eliza have had their portraits taken.”

Neither Elizabeth nor Eliza was the wife or daughter of a clergyman.

Mary looks to Martha, her sister. “Surely you, Martha . . .”

“It’s a good likeness,” manages Martha.

After what Mother has said, this is not necessarily a compliment.

Mary looks at her husband. “James? I believe it’s time to leave.”

James has not said a word but offers us a quick bow to his head, then follows his wife outside.

“Mother, that was a bit unkind,” says Cassandra.

“She asked for our opinion, did she not?”

“She did,” I say.

Martha moves to the window and watches her sister ride away. “Mary needs to accept that we Lloyd women are not beautiful. It’s this nose,” she says, running a finger along the hook of it.

“’Tis an aquiline nose,” says Mother. “I too possess such a gift.” She huffs out.

The three of us look to each other and laugh. “But alas, I possess no such gift.” I trace the line of my nose, which Mother has always disparaged for its lack of curve. I set myself between Martha and Cassandra and whisper, “I think our greatest blessing is that the portrait will hang at Steventon.”

*****

That very afternoon, Cassandra comes into our room, points to the book I’ve been reading, and says, “Put that down.”

“This?” I say, holding up
Ida of Athens
by Miss Owenson. “’Tis no great loss. Nobody ever heard of it before and perhaps never may again. And yet I began my perusal with the hopes that it must be very clever because it was written—as the authoress says—in three months. I’m afraid her Irish girl does not make me expect much. If the warmth of her language could affect the body, it might be worth reading in our chilly weath—”