Just Jane (31 page)

I read Frank’s words from a letter:
Fanny is a delightful character! You need not fear the publication being discreditable to the talents of its author.
Next to them I paste a note from Lady Robert Kerr:
Your novel was universally admired in Edinburgh, by all the wise ones.

Whoever they may be.

Next I write down what Anna has told me:
I cannot bear Fanny.

Anna makes me smile. Anna, who is the Niagara Falls of our lives, would
not
like the self-contained and self-controlled Fanny Price.

Enough of this. I close the book and move downstairs. This freedom to roam is quite delightful. As Henry is gone all day at the bank, I have the apartment to myself. It’s my retreat. My writer’s haven. I enter the room that opens onto a lovely garden. I love the ability to move in and out, letting my mind meander, as my thoughts coalesce.

For I am working on my newest book—one that is sure to cause a commotion of its own. I call it
Emma
, and once again I’ve chosen a heroine who is not completely likable and due the respect that Elinor and Elizabeth so aptly earned. Emma’s largest flaw is that she believes in herself too much. She stands above the world and directs it to her liking. And when people ignore her and do what they will, she is shocked at their ignorance and audacious behavior. Poor Harriet Smith, poor Mr. Elton, and especially poor Mr. Knightly. They are all sorely tested by Emma, and she by them. To see the error and hard truths in someone you love is difficult. Especially when they see no error in their ways, and in fact see themselves as unapproachable.

In all this lies the story. The story of a young woman saved from herself through difficult lessons learned . . .

I pinch a dead bloom from an aster, letting my concern for Emma meld into my concern for my niece Anna.

Her infatuation and desire to marry Mr. Terry is long since past. (She now compares him to my character Mr. Collins.) Yet that infatuation has been replaced with her passionate desire to marry Ben Lefroy—the son of my dear, departed Anne. They are, in fact, engaged.

It came upon us without much preparation, which is to be expected of my niece. There is something about her which keeps us in a constant preparation for . . . something. We are anxious the marriage goes well, there being quite as much in his favour as in any matrimonial connection. I believe he is sensible, certainly very religious, well connected, and with some independence. However, there is an unfortunate dissimilarity of taste between them in one large respect, which gives us some apprehensions: he hates company and she is very fond of it. This, along with some queerness of temper on his side and much unsteadiness on hers, is concerning.

James and Mary do not approve. It seems Ben was offered an ample curacy—and declined. Does he think himself too good? If so, he will have to fight for ownership of the feeling with Anna.

My old fear returns: I fear she longs to marry as a means to get away from a home that is uncomfortable. ’Tis an understandable reason but not a good one. Not one good enough. This, after all, is the girl who cut her hair before a ball just to elicit a response . . . .

To Anna’s merit (and our surprise), she has written a novel. Just the fact that she has completed
something
deserves our praise. Also to her merit, she asks my advice. I have sent her letters, offering suggestions for her tome, which is titled
Which Is the Heroine?
I only hope she has an open mind to take it . . . as she asks for criticisms, I would be lax in giving her less than my honest assessments. ’Tis a part of the writing life to hear what one does not want to hear.

To her credit, she writes in an amusing way. There is a great deal of respectable reading, though she
can
express in fewer words what might be expressed in fewer words. There are details about locale and distance, and some dialogue that is too formal. I try to help her in regard to her characters, for I know how they can seem right and yet be wrong. I’ve advised her not to let her story leave England. She wishes to let the Portmans go to Ireland, yet as she knows nothing of the manners there, she had better not go with them at the risk of giving false representations. It’s best she sticks with places she knows.

Cassandra is involved too, giving her opinion. She does not like aimless novels and is rather fearful Anna’s will be too much so that there will be too frequent a change from one set of people to another, and that circumstances will be introduced of apparent consequence, which will lead to nothing. It’s not so great an objection to me, if it does. I allow much more latitude than Cassandra and think nature and spirit cover many sins of a wandering story.

Anna describes a sweet place, but her descriptions are often more minute than will be liked. She gives too many particulars of right hand and left. She is collecting her people delightfully, getting them exactly into such a spot as is the joy of my life. Three or four families in a country village is the very thing to work on, and I hope she will write a great deal more and make full use of them while they are so favourably arranged.

She is now coming to the heart and beauty of her book; till the heroine grows up, the fun must be imperfect. Her character, Devereux Forester, being ruined by his vanity, is extremely good, but I wish she would not let him plunge into a “vortex of dissipation.” I don’t object to the thing, but I cannot bear the expression; it’s such thorough novel slang, and so old that I daresay Adam met with it in the first novel he opened.

I give her a more detailed accounting of the pros and cons than she probably seeks, but so be it. If Anna is old enough to be married, she is old enough to deal with hard truths.

Perhaps they will aid in her maturity.

Perhaps not.

*****

As news of my authoress identity spreads, I’m suddenly the expert in all things literary. And I’m suddenly inundated with the need for opinions from a bevy of budding authors in the Austen clan. For it’s not just Anna who has decided to dip her creative pen; now it’s James Edward and his sister Caroline and a few other nieces and nephews who have taken to writing stories—albeit blessedly short. I don’t begrudge them their attempts, but it can be wearying to be expected to be a teacher, editor, and aunt—as well as continue to do my own work.

It’s also wearying because, where they never have shown interest in my life before—in any way other than thinking of me as their aunt who made them laugh and listened to their problems—they are now interested in my writing: how I write, where, when . . .

What was a discreet and normal occurrence about Chawton Cottage is now studied by too many curious eyes.

I often like to write on a small mahogany table in the drawing room. There is a creaky door from that room to the offices, and I’ve resisted all attempts at getting it oiled, as the creak gives me warning that someone is coming. It’s then I can quickly put my pages beneath a book and pretend I’m doing nothing. Among Mother, Cassandra, and Martha, I hold no such ruse. They go about their work and leave me to mine, but with a bevy of nieces and nephews coming in and out, I have learned to play this hide-and-seek as a means of keeping what is mine, mine.

Yet one day Caroline spots me when I’m none too quick, having a particularly delicious sentence flowing between thought and pen.
Seldom, very seldom does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised, or a little mistaken.
I put the page away but find her standing before me, her brown eyes seeing too much and wanting to see more.

“What are those pages?” she asks.

“My work.”

“They are the size of a book. You fold them like that? Why?”

Too many questions. There is no way out but to order her away, and I cannot do that. Not and stay her favourite aunt.

I pull one of the pages free and unfold it. “I fold it in half so it appears as a book. Then I stitch the pages together.” I shrug. “It’s a folly. A habit.”

“You have a book right from the start,” she says.

“I do.”

With a nod she says, “I will do the very same with my books.”

“You do that.”

She skips away, and I return to the line I’ve barely born . . . something about truth disguised and a little mistaken . . . .

*****

Anna married Ben Lefroy today. My niece married into the family that had been denied to me. Tom Lefroy. My first love.

I suffer few regrets that Tom and I didn’t marry. He is off in Ireland now . . . . In retrospect and wisdom I see that our love was a young love—frivolous, spontaneous, and flighty. There were no firm roots. And yet there will always be that unknown question: could a union between Tom and Jane have endured and flourished?

It’s a moot query. The question at hand is: can a union between Ben and Anna endure and flourish?

They are two stubborn souls. I don’t doubt that Anna will force it to work, if only to peeve her parents, who are still against it.

Neither I, Cassandra, nor Mother attended the nuptials, but I heard an account of it from Anna’s half sister Caroline, who was a bridesmaid, along with another small Lefroy. The wedding day was dreary and the church in Steventon—my father’s old church—held tight to a November cold. There was no stove to give warmth or flowers to give colour or brightness, no friends, high or low, to offer their good wishes. Mr. Lefroy read the service, and James gave his daughter away.

Caroline informs me that she and little Anne wore white frocks and had a white ribband on their straw bonnets. She does not say what Anna wore.

There was a breakfast after, at the rectory. A festive breakfast in spite of the gray of the day: buttered toast, hot rolls, breads, tongue, ham and eggs. There was chocolate at the end of the table, along with a wedding cake. But the bride and groom left early due to a long day’s journey to Hendon. The Lefroys returned to Ashe, and it was done.

I only pray the grayness and solemnity of the ceremony don’t portend badly to their future.

Anna is very headstrong and I worry for her life.

*****

Henry is very ill, and I worry for
his
life. I’m in London to try to find a new publisher—as Egerton has decided
not
to do a second printing of
Mansfield Park
, e’en though the first has sold out. I will not proffer upon him my
Emma
. She deserves better.

Before taking ill, Henry gave me the name of another publisher, a John Murray. He is the publisher for Lord Byron and writes a letter of interest offering me four hundred fifty pounds—which could have made me dance about the street if he had not added that for that sum he expects to own the copyrights of
Emma
,
Sense and Sensibility
, and
Mansfield Park
. He is a rogue, of course, albeit a civil one.

Henry refused on my behalf, and now I must print
Emma
on a 10 percent commission to go to Mr. Murray. And yet, he will also republish
Mansfield Park
, so that is something.

But then Henry turned sick and did not get better. His fever and pain were so alarming that I sent for Edward and James, and James gathered Cassandra and made haste to our door.

For a week we feared the worst and prayed and worried and prayed some more.

But then . . . he was better. If I had not been sorely relieved, I would have chastised him for causing his siblings such alarm.

But as often happens, good comes from bad. While Henry was under the care of the delightful (and deliciously handsome) Charles Thomas Haden, I’m told by the good doctor that he is a close acquaintance with the Prince Regent’s physician. Because of this connection I hear that the Prince is a large fan of my work and, indeed, has a copy of my books in each of his homes. He has heard I’m in London and . . .

So I’m thrust into the land of royalty!

The prince sends me his librarian, James Stanier Clarke—who himself is an author, though one of more serious works:
The Progress of Maritime Discovery
for one. I cannot tell him I’ve read it, as I simply cannot get past the three pages of dedication to the Prince, and then the two hundred thirty pages of introduction before he announces the existence of Chapter One

But all that is of no consequence as he picks me up and takes me (at the Prince’s invitation) to Carleton House. The Prince is currently renovating it with much gold and French taste. I find it a bit overwhelming and am most impressed with its magnificent forty-foot library. I don’t meet the Prince—which is just fine—and I do enjoy the company of Reverend Clarke. It’s quite agreeable to spend time with a fellow author.

One who is absolutely, completely loyal and enamored with his Prince . . .

Upon leaving I’m told by the obsequious Clarke, “I’ve been instructed to inform you that the Prince Regent has given his permission for you to dedicate your next book,
Emma
, to him.”

I’m speechless. My condition is misconstrued, and Clarke says, “I know it’s a great honour.”

I say all the right words—sans giving my promise—and wisely do not detail my true feelings. Those, I keep for Henry.

I pace in front of the fire, with Henry my only witness. “How dare he give
me
permission to dedicate a book to
him
?”

“He can dare many things. He is the Prince Regent.”

“But I don’t like him. I don’t respect him. I don’t want his name attached to the book in any way. To dedicate it to him is to give him an honour I don’t believe he in any way deserves.”

Henry’s shrug infuriates me even more.

“Must I do it?”

“Is that how it was presented?”

I think back and am not certain. “He said it was an honour, but beyond that . . .”

“Mmm.”

He is no help. “Do you think it would be acceptable if I wrote to Reverend Clarke and ask him to stipulate?”

“Can’t you just do it, Jane? Give the dedication and be done with it?”

“I can. But I won’t like it.”