Just Jane (4 page)

“They must get dozens of such letters every week. It’s not a personal affront. They don’t know you, Jane. They don’t know your work.”

I laugh softly. “They will never know. No one will. And why should they be interested? I am nobody. Even if someone were to publish a book, who would purchase it?” I offer a smile. “Besides you and Henry.”

Cassandra snaps a pillowcase before folding it. “So you write for fame?”

“Of course. I write only for fame and without any view to pecuniary emolument.”

“Fame and fortune are beyond our control. Yet our inability to move the pieces about the board does not mean you should not try to be a part of the game.”

“Well said, Sister. Perhaps it’s you who should be the writer.”

I pick up a bedsheet to fold it, but she grabs it from my hands. “You must write, Jane. You. As Father must preach, Henry must joke, and Mother must complain. You must write.”

Her eyes are intense.

“And what must you do, Cass?”

She hesitates but for a second. “I must encourage.” She points to the trunk. “Work on something. Or write something new. I don’t care, only that you write.”

I nod but reach for the sheet. She slaps my hand away and points to my desk. “Write.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

She is frozen in place, her finger directing my way.

I move to the desk but at the last moment detour to the trunk. It’s as if I need to see evidence that what she has said is true. I must write. And I
have
written.

I open its lid and see Father’s letter mocking me from atop
First Impressions
. I feel no compunction to retrieve that story. Not now. Not yet.

But then I see another I have put away so long . . . it’s almost as if I hear Marianne calling to me, “Here, here, Jane! Chuse me! Chuse us! Fix our story. Make it better. Elinor and I have been waiting far too long.”

As have I.

I remove the pages of
Elinor and Marianne
and untie the ribbon that binds them together. I begin to read. The book is in letter form and, within pages, annoys me.

“This is not right,” I say aloud.

Cassandra smooths a folded sheet to the pile. “What is not right?”

“These letters. This form. The story doesn’t flow.”

“Then change it,” my sister says.

I take fresh paper, a deep breath, and begin to do just that. For I am a writer. And writers write.

*****

Although the act of receiving mail in a small village can test one’s patience, the speed with which gossip flies from house to house to house impresses.

I am in the front room when Mother bursts into the house. Her basket—which she had intended to fill with meat from the butcher—is empty, but her face is not. It’s brimming with emotions.

“George! Cassandra! Jane, go get your sister. And be quick about it.”

I don’t have to leave the room because Father and Cassandra appear in the doorway. Mother removes her cape and I take it from her, draping it over a chair near the fire. I notice the rug is spotted with snow from her feet. I move to stoke the fire to warm her, but she says, “No. None of that now. I have news.”

She is in such a flurry, her hand to her chest, her bosom heaving, her bonnet askew, that Father goes to her side. “My dear, calm yourself.”

“I cannot calm myself! I have news.” But she does sit in the chair he offers.

Cassandra takes a step toward the doorway. “I will get you some tea.”

“I do not want tea! I want you to listen.”

With a glance between us, Father, Cassandra, and I gather close, set ourselves in place, hopeful she will begin. And yet fearful too. For by her agitated state, the news cannot be good.

Mother tugs at the ribbons of her bonnet but pulls the wrong end, creating a knot. I reach out to help her, but she shoos my hands away and shoves the bonnet behind her head, knot or no knot. In spite of the cold outside, the curls around her face are flattened with perspiration.

It must be very bad news indeed.

“My dear, you must tell us immediately,” says Father. “Enough delay.”

“But that is what I’m trying to do!” She takes a deep breath and rubs her hands together as if to warm them. “I was walking to the butcher’s when I came upon Mrs. Newcombe sweeping the newest snow from her doorway. ‘Ah, Mrs. Austen, your ears must have been burning. Is that why you are out on such a cold day?’ Of course I asked for details and she said that her husband’s cousin, who lives in Greenwich, has a son who is a soldier. He was injured—”

“Was he on a ship with Frank or Charles?” asks Cassandra.

Mother blinks, and I can see the progression of her thoughts dissipate. “No. Yes.” She tosses her hands in the air. “Please!”

“Pardon me,” says Cassandra.

Mother takes another deep breath and resumes her story. “Actually, the soldier is a friend of our Henry and he was injured and—”

“Henry has been injured?” I gasp.

“No, no. Please let me finish!”

If only she would . . . .

“The soldier was injured and went to the hospital to be treated by Sir Richard Pearson.”

“Mary’s father?” our father asks.

“The very same.”

I try to arrange the facts without interrupting. Mother was talking about the father of our Henry’s fiancée, Mary Pearson?

Mother continues. “The soldier heard Mary’s father say that his daughter was no longer engaged to our Henry.”

“What?”

Mother raises a hand, stopping our questions. “In fact, Henry has married someone else.”

This time, she pauses and allows our questions.

“Who, Mother, who?” asks Cassandra.

She shakes her head. “You will never believe it.”

“Mother!”

Father takes a step toward her. “Yes, my dear. Enough playing with our emotions.”

“Eliza!” she says. “Henry has married our Eliza!”

The next few moments hang in silence but are soon filled with questions.

“But Eliza spurned Henry years ago, and then she spurned James, and—”

“Yes, yes, but now they are married! At Marylebone Church on December thirty-first.”

Cassandra takes a seat on the settee and I join her. “Oh, poor Mary. She must be crushed.”

Mother shrugs. “I made the same comment to Mrs. Newcombe, but apparently, Sir Richard implied that it was accomplished with fairly little distress.”

“And Eliza does have her own income,” says Father. “I used to be trustee of her wealth, but just six months ago she had her assets put directly into her control.”

“Was she planning this even then?” I ask.

“I would not doubt it,” says Mother. “Although we love Eliza, we are all aware of her penchant for taking control.”

I think of my brother, think of his having such a wife. “How will she adjust to having Henry control—?”

Mother laughs. “Our Henry does not control his own life well, much less the life of a wife with a son. I believe he may do best with a wife who takes control.”

Eliza, our independent, headstrong cousin . . . used to getting her own way. How did she manage this? “But Henry is stationed in Yarmouth, and Eliza lives in London. How did they—?”

“Apparently Eliza took little Hastings to Lowestoft for his health.”

I must laugh. “And for her own purposes.”

Another shrug from Mother. And truth tell, perhaps she is right. Does it matter if Eliza set her store on Henry and pursued him? Perhaps she heard about his engagement to Mary and the thought of losing him to another . . . Yes, yes, that would motivate Eliza to action. Plus the fact that Henry has given up all thoughts of joining the church and is now earning a good income as a Captain Paymaster. His income combined with hers . . . and Eliza still holds hope that she will someday receive her proper inheritance from France should that country ever return to normalcy. Yes, indeed, together they can lead the high life which is their preference.

“But why didn’t he tell us?” asks Cassandra.

I also admit my hurt, for Henry is my favourite brother, and the bond we have . . . I thought he would have told me.

“They are probably on a wedding trip,” says Mother. “He will tell us. I know he will.”

“And we will be happy,” Father says. It is not a question.

With the slightest hesitation, we all nod. Yes, we will be happy. We are happy. And though surprised, not shocked. Of all the people in our lives, such actions might be expected of Eliza and Henry.

Now . . . if only my Tom would be so bold . . . .

*****

I must thank Eliza and Henry for their help. Although they don’t realize they have helped me by simply being themselves, they have.

I am working on
Elinor and Marianne
and have been inspired by the real-life intrigue of Eliza’s courtship of Henry, then James, then Henry again. In my story I have a character named Lucy Steele. What if she were engaged to one man—to Edward Ferras—yet ended up marrying his brother?

I dip my quill in the ink. Yes indeed. Thank you, Eliza and Henry.

Off to Godmersham to witness my brother’s bounty!

’Tis the essence of convenience to have a brother who was made rich through inheritance, though admittedly odd that he has gained his wealth, not from his blood family, but through the family who adopted him. Edward Knight-Austen is his legal name, though I expect the Austen moniker will fall away when he eventually takes on his father’s title. No mere “mister” for my brother. Master.

My brother Edward—adopted at twelve by the childless Knights in Kent—also helped his pocketbook by marrying well, for Elizabeth owned her own fortune and property. (That the rich become richer is a perplexing feat, one they have perfected over centuries of practice.) Since their marriage six years ago, Edward and his wife have lived in one of her family’s homes, called Rowling, on her parents’ Goodnestone estate.

But now all that has changed. Edward’s adoptive father died four years ago. Since then, his mother has lived alone in the mansion of Godmersham but has recently decided having so many rooms to wander in by herself is a bore and has offered it to Edward, Elizabeth, and their four—soon to be five—children. Five children in six years. Perhaps in their new manor home my brother and his wife should consider separate bedrooms.

I hear the elder Mrs. Knight has just purchased a home in Canterbury. I can only imagine its palatial qualities. I
cannot
imagine she is used to anything humdrum or mundane.

Edward has invited my parents, Cassandra, and me for a summer visit to Kent. ’Twill be a chance for Edward to show off, though I expect Elizabeth will do the crowing for both of them. To his credit, my brother has never flaunted his wealth, though he readily enjoys it. He realizes how the fates have smiled on him through no merit of his own (but by being a sweet, agreeable boy who captured the Knights’ fancy) and acknowledges that he is where he is due to the sacrifice of our parents. To relinquish a son for his own betterment is a true act of love. After seeing Godmersham, perhaps I will wish the Knights had wanted a daughter.

But no. I am suited to Steventon, to the rectory, and to the quiet life we lead. Although I may show wit to family and close friends, among strangers I have been called standoffish and dull—two traits highly unacceptable in high society. So be it. I see no reason to play a part for others’ sake. To pretend to be that which one is not . . . I leave such drama for my characters: Mr. Collins and Lucy Steele aspire to impress. In regard to my own dealings with the upper set, I cannot say I’ve met any who would make me regret my position, nor any who would inspire me to step up the charm for their benefit—or my own. And if my sister-in-law Elizabeth—now the lady of a great manor—has some of her priggish friends come to call (and if she is appalled by my diffident manner) then I shall declare my mission complete.

I can be quite evil, in a loving sort of way. Yet as everyone knows, Kent is the only place for happiness. Everyone is rich there. Back in Steventon people get so horridly poor and economical that I have no patience with them.

My evil shortcomings are mercifully interrupted by Mother looking out the window of the carriage and exclaiming, “There it is!”

In spite of my stubborn vow to remain unimpressed, I am stunned. How can I be otherwise? The house is set alone on a hill so all can be astonished by its stateliness and offer the proper reaction. It is surrounded by lush parks with groupings of trees planted just so. The entire park is enclosed by a stone wall, a sure way to serve two purposes: show the world the extent of one’s holdings, as well as keep those same people in their proper place—outside.

The carriage stops at the wall and a man unlocks the gate. I admit to feeling a surge of pride that
we
are allowed inside, which proves my ego is not as faultless as I would like to believe.

“Our son has done well,” Mother says to Father.

Father answers with an understated “Indeed,” although I do notice a slight catch in his voice. Will he ever feel such pride in me?

I dispel the self-pity. Such feelings are not allowed on this day.

Perhaps tomorrow.

*****

Despite my best intentions to remain aloof, I stand in awe of the Roman friezes, the intricate carvings at ceiling and fireplace, and the elegance of the Yellow and Chintz rooms. I hear that when Edward travels to his other house at Chawton, the governess and nineteen servants accompany him. He has much responsibility to manage his large estate and to see to it that the people who live and work here live well and work hard. I would not want such responsibility. Just a small house with Tom, one or two children, and a quiet garden will suffice.

My favourite room at Godmersham is not surprising. It’s the library. As I find myself there, alone, I’m in awe that I stand in a room that possesses five tables, eight and twenty chairs, and two fires. I sit in a red velvet-upholstered chair with a book and decide that my largest goal during my visit will be to chuse a different chair each day until all are conquered.

I should not be in here alone. Elizabeth invited some of her friends to call and they—along with Mother and Cassandra—are in the parlour having tea. I shall pay for my absence by receiving a tongue-lashing from Mother, a soft chide from Cassandra, and a cold shoulder from Elizabeth. And yet, am I not doing her a favour? She has made it quite clear that I disappoint in such gatherings because I don’t fawn and smile and chatter idle nothings for no reason. I know very well that both Elizabeth and her friends see us as the poor relations, and if Mother and Cassandra are willing to accept that role, I would rather be known as the eccentric Jane, off in her own little world. I don’t wish to be a part of this elite who come. And sit. Then go. I know I annoy Elizabeth in my refusal to defer. So it is. My world is more desirable than theirs. At least that is my opinion—albeit unsolicited.

This is not the first time I have placed myself in this position. When we visit Mother’s brother in Bath, Uncle Perrot, and take the medicinal waters, we come in contact with the upper crust who run in my uncle and aunt’s circle. I find that enough of them is too much. Although their ways
have
been useful. I used some of their haughty solicitudes for Darcy’s sisters in
First Impressions
. If only people realized that everything they do, everything they say, is fodder for my stories. And for every slight, every double entendre, every bit of keen wit (or lack of it), my pen extends its thanks. I may not
be
one of them, but I
see
all of them. And write them. I dare not use any acquaintance through and through, but I do shop from their actions and character as if at the most extensive store in the land. If I ever do have one of my stories published, and if one of these acquaintances does happen to recognize a certain quality . . . Actually, knowing the unique workings of the human mind, they will probably be more apt to find themselves in places they have not been put. People are odd beings, seeing meaning where there is nothing to be seen and being blind to the obvious.

My sister-in-law Elizabeth sees herself as lady of the manor. Although admittedly she does hold that title, I find it of interest that those with power and money do not always possess equal portions of intellect and good sense. Elizabeth is a very lovely woman, educated, though not, I imagine, the possessor of much natural talent. Her tastes are domestic, her affections strong, though exclusive. But she does not
think
to any great advantage. In the evenings, when grand discussions can be had, Elizabeth allows us to read to her—without comment—and Edward goes to sleep. If it were not for Father, I would die of inane conversation.

And yet, there is also the opposite occurrence . . . to find a person pleasing when one does not expect to do so, when one has resigned oneself to desiring
not
to find a person pleasing . . .

My admission of this sin applies to Mrs. Catherine Knight, the adoptive mother of my brother Edward. Before her husband’s death, she was the lady of Godmersham, and though she could have stayed on in that title, she stepped aside to allow Edward and Elizabeth free rein. She remains during our visit now but will take to her house in Canterbury as soon as it’s ready.

I admit having apprehension in meeting her, assuming that she, having had more years practice as lady of the manor, would own a loftier air than our own Elizabeth. In that I am proven wrong. If ever there be a woman who deserves every elevation of status and position, it is Mrs. Knight.

I experienced this firsthand this morning when I walked in the rose garden. I didn’t expect to find company there but turned a corner to see Mrs. Knight bending over a rosebush, snipping a pink bud.

“Oh,” I said, all eloquence eluding me.

“Miss Jane, how nice to see you this morning.” She motioned to the flowers. “Do you take to gardening?”

“Only a little. It’s my mother who has the gift.”

“Ah,” she said. “But you have other gifts, I hear.”

I felt myself blush, hoping, but dare not assuming, she meant my writing.

“Have you been published as yet?”

I thought of the letter regarding
First Impressions
being returned to sender. “Not as yet.”

“You must continue to try. It’s important for a young person to use their gifts. And it’s a parent’s responsibility to encourage the transaction.” She snipped another bud. “That is why I move.”

I didn’t understand.

At my silence, she gazed at me. “Your brother Edward must assume his rightful place as the head of Godmersham and all that that entails.”

“He will do a good job of it,” I said.

“He will do a better job of it with me absent. If I remain at Godmersham . . . although I would not mean to interfere, it would be a temptation. Yet a son must rise or fall on his own merits and does so best when unencumbered by the status quo—or by its mistress.”

Her smile was delightful. As was her philosophy.

“You are very generous,” I said. “And very wise.”

She shrugged. “I seek to be both but assume to be neither. And I
have
arranged to be amply provided for from the estate. So you see my generosity is not without self-service.”

Her honesty was disarming. “I stand by my statement.”

She offered a little bow. “Thank you, my dear.” She scanned the garden. “Now. Which rose should we chuse next?”

Yes indeed, my sister-in-law Elizabeth has much she can learn from this lady.

As do I.

*****

Elizabeth gave birth to a child on the tenth of October. Her fifth child in six years, her fourth son. William. A good name. Full of history.

Two weeks have passed since that happy occasion and it’s time to leave. I’m ready but for one point—Cassandra is staying behind to help with the new babe. And so I will return to Steventon alone, as my parents’ only company.

And they as mine.

Mother is not feeling well at the start of the trip. I suspect her glee at the endless pork, dumplings, and oyster sauce caused her to imbibe too freely—with bad results. I admit to my own temptation. When one is offered all form of succulent things . . . and it was not just at mealtime. Edward made it clear that whenever we wanted to eat or drink, we had only to ask a servant, who brought the item forthwith. One can easily get spoiled.

But with our trip imminent, Mother rises to the occasion. Perhaps the anticipation of arriving home has heartened her indisposition. Although she insists on bitters and asks for bread to settle her stomach, they do their work and she survives and revives.

We stop the first night at the Dartford Inn, and I half expect Mother to take to bed, but she does not. Although she
does
decide that she and I should share a room, leaving Father to have his own. I don’t object, as I suppose a man does need his space here and there. As it has been a happy trip so far, I will share the room without protest.

I go up to settle in. Perhaps if it’s a quiet night, I can take some time to write. I enter the room and look for my writing box. It’s not there.

And neither are the boxes of my clothes.

I run down the stairs and find the innkeeper. “Sir, my boxes—two leather ones of clothes and papers, and a small writing desk—are not in my room.”

He looks over my shoulder at the door leading to the street. “Hmm. They ain’t there neither,” he says.

“Then, where are they?”

He calls to a boy of about thirteen. “Joseph. Did you bring a wood writing desk and two leather boxes to the room at the top of the stairs?”

It seems a stupid question. I have searched the room. They are not there.

“Uh . . . no,” says the boy.

The innkeeper shrugs. “Must still be in the carriage, then.”

Good. They are found. “Can Joseph please fetch them and bring them up—”

Mr. Nottley, our driver, overhears. “There are none left in the carriage, Miss Jane.”

“Then, where . . . ?”

The innkeeper points to the right. “Another carriage just left. When they was packing, maybe your boxes got mixed in.”

My heart stops and I stare at him in utter incomprehension. “Left? Where is it going?”

He rubs the stubble on his chin. “Gravesend, I think. The people what got on are sailing for the West Indies.”

I feel faint, my head spinning. The man extends a hand, but Mr. Nottley steadies me first. He calls out for Father. “Mr. Austen! Your daughter! Sir!”

Father comes running from up the stairs and helps me to a chair.

“My writing, my desk, my work . . .” It’s all I can manage.

“Her things are on a carriage heading to Gravesend,” says Mr. Nottley.

“The West Indies,” I add. I find it hard to breathe. All my life’s work, galloping away, sailing away . . .

“West Indies?” repeats Father. To the men he says, “You must apprehend that carriage at once!”

“I can’na leave,” says the innkeeper.

Mr. Nottley takes over. “I will send a man on horseback. We
will
retrieve them.”

He leaves to save my worldly possessions. Although the clothing only counts for six or seven pounds, the work . . .’tis priceless to me.