Just Jane (8 page)

I was eager to hear Mother’s reply. I’ve been made aware of the deficiency of my own small nose my entire life.

“’Tis only one sign of aristocracy. There are many others, of course.”

“Of course.”

“If only Jane was more . . . full. She is so spare.”

Mother’s words are discreet, but I know their meaning. I cannot help my frame. Unless I eat and eat and eat and become fat and filled out in that fashion, there is no means by which I can ever—

“And her colour is a bit too flushed,” Aunt says. “She has the cheeks of a doll.”

“At least she doesn’t need to worry about rouge,” Mother says.

“And she is nearly too tall.”

“Indeed.”

Too tall for what? And yet, even as I pretend not to know their intent, I know that my height makes me see eye to eye with most young men.

My aunt sighs. “Does she paint and play the piano well?”

“She is very accomplished at the pianoforte but has no eye for art. Cassandra owns that talent—but alas, no talent for music.”

“Hmm,” Aunt says. “It appears your girls must be sold as a pair to get a whole.”

I nearly gasp but am saved from such a reaction by the women’s soft laughter. And though my aunt’s comment was said in jest, it owns much truth within its edges. In many ways Cassandra and I complement each other. We are better together than apart. We are a truer whole as two, not one.

“There is the concert tonight in Sydney Gardens. Perhaps we can arrange for Jane to sit where it’s advantageous,” Aunt says.

“I will do all that I can to help.”

“As is our duty.”

I slip away from the doorway, wishing I could argue with them. But I cannot. Older women framing the romantic pairings of those who are younger?

’Tis been this way since time began, and no amount of
my
disdain or disgust can change it.

*****

The concert entertains and I sit where my aunt and mother have placed me—next to a Mr. Clark, who has high colour such as I, but to an even greater degree. I don’t know whether it’s caused by his delight at meeting me, his panic for said meeting, embarrassment for being thrust into the matchmaking clutches of my relatives (and surely his), a rash for which he should seek an ointment, or a flush caused by the heat of the evening.

At any rate, it’s not attractive. Nor are his teeth, which look as bad as Uncle Perrot’s. I try to draw him into conversation, but his yes-and-no answers, offered without adornment, leave me weary. I can never be interested in a man who is not witty with words, and the idea of spending even an evening at his side, with Mother’s and Aunt’s conspiratorial glances in our direction . . .

I stand and tell Mr. Clark, “If you will excuse me.”

By the look on Mother’s face, the way she grips my aunt’s wrist . . . you would think France had just attacked England.

With great courage I do not surrender and sit down again. I walk between the rows of chairs and away, receiving fewer and fewer looks from concertgoers, as I move past the circle of my acquaintance.

Once through the crowds that linger at the back, I can breathe free and do so with great alacrity. I take the direction that leads me into the greenery. Lavender hydrangeas tease me on the right with pink nasturtiums bowing to my left. They welcome me, and I know
their
high colour is cause for pleasure, not alarm or discomfort.

As I walk away from the concert area I find myself pleased at the music, once removed. Perhaps I’m the recipient of too much fine noise of late. My obvious enjoyment of its lack is telling. I wonder if we can return home soon. I miss Steventon. I miss Cassandra and Father. I miss the solitude of our own garden.

I’m looking down at the path and suddenly see two feet—not mine—and feel two strong arms taking mine, holding me back.

“Oh!” I say at the near collision.

“Pardon me, miss,” says the young man. “It appears our thoughts have taken us places our feet have not.”

I laugh. “And where were your thoughts taking you?”

He looks to the air, then laughs again. “I cannot remember. And you?”

I don’t know this man so I don’t wish to reveal too much. But I do like his spectacles. They make him appear thoughtful, an attribute that currently appeals. “I too am devoid of memory,” I say. “But I do know that I wished to capture a breeze.”

He looks toward the concert. “And less drum.”

“Ah,” I say. “We also share the vocation of music critic.”

His face reddens, but in a nice way. He bows. “Forgive me. My name is Arthur Gould.”

I curtsy. “Jane Austen.”

“Shall we walk?”

I nod. He is polite enough to head in my previous direction.

“I should not complain about Bath,” he says. “My cousins have been very kind to take me in for a visit these past weeks and show me the sights during my summer holiday.”

“Holiday from what?”

“I attend Oxford. I study history. And naval history interests me very much.”

I smile. “I enjoy history also. I have two brothers at sea at present. The younger is a lieutenant on a frigate, and the elder is a commander in the Mediterranean. And one brother, Henry, has just left the militia and is currently seeking opportunities in Dublin.”

“Really? What do they think of the problem of the French, the Revolution, and Bonaparte?”

I spot a bench. “Shall we sit?”

And though I don’t care much for politics and war, what ensues is a wonderful discussion about my brothers and their views—of those two subjects I can talk for hours.

That Mr. Gould does not mind is definitely in his favour.

*****

I am surrounded.

Midmorning, on the day after the gala evening at Sydney Gardens, I am called from my room to the parlour. Aunt Leigh-Perrot has come to visit and sits stiffly in a chair, her hands in her lap. Mother sits nearby as I enter. “Come, Jane. We must speak to you.”

My mind skitters across any indiscretions I might have visited since they saw me last, and can think of nothing. Yet it’s evident I have done something to offend.

I stand before them, my hands clasped in front. I make no preamble, more than willing to let them speak first.

My aunt does the honours. “I’ve heard that you went walking alone, with a stranger.”

“While you should have been at the concert with us,” Mother adds.

“I went walking alone and met a stranger by happenstance.”

“You spoke?”

They make the word sound scandalous. “We did.”

“Did you walk with him?”

“As we spoke.”

“Did you sit with him?”

“On a public bench, for all to see.” My words, said to clarify and amend their concern, sound slightly wrong and nearly confrontational. I rush to remedy anything misconstrued. “We rested a moment. He spoke of his studies at Oxford. He is studying history and has an interest in all things naval. We spoke of Charles and Frank.” Surely the presence of my brothers—albeit in subject if not in true presence—would appease them.

My mother and aunt exchange a glance as if conceding this point. And yet they are not through.

“We hear he is not well  . . . not well appointed,” Mother says.

“He is poor,” Aunt says. “He is here strictly on the grace of some odd cousins.” She nods her head at this and adds, “Odd in many ways, I’ve heard.”

I realize it’s not the best of times to bring up my aunt’s opinion of us lesser, odd Austens.

“Are his cousins female?” Aunt asks.

Her question confuses, but I answer. “I don’t know.”

“Is he the eldest son?”

Again, “I don’t know.”

She shrugs. “At least in that way he might have the chance of inheriting the uncle’s estate. As will your James.”

Aunt and Uncle are childless, so my oldest brother, James, is due to inherit when the time comes, a fact that surely makes his mercenary wife, Mary, quite gleeful.

Mother’s eyes perk up. “Is he the eldest male in his generation? Because then . . . my objection might be lessened if he was due to inherit and be able to give you—”

I raise my hands in protest. “Mother, I’m not engaged to this man. I simply spoke with him in friendly conversation for a short time, during which I did not procure either family or financial information.”

She looks shocked. “But was he not amiable?”

“He was very amiable, but—”

“I could make inquiries,” Aunt says. “Mrs. Fellowes might know, or the Mapletons.”

“The latter, I would think,” Mother says. “You like the Miss Mapletons, don’t you, Jane?”

I spent Friday evening with the Mapleton women and am obliged to submit to being pleased in spite of my inclination. Together we took a very charming walk up Beacon Hill and across some fields to the village of Charlecombe, which is sweetly situated in a little green valley, as a village with such a name ought to be.

My mother awaits my answer.

“I find Marianne sensible and intelligent, and even Jane, considering how fair she is, is not unpleasant. I don’t see them very often, but just as often as I like. I’ve heard that their father, Dr. Mapleton, is quite a success here. No other physician writes so many prescriptions as he does. Whether that be good or bad, I dare not fathom.”

My aunt cocks her head. “A rather biting assessment from such an acquaintance as yourself.”

I feel myself redden. I realize my comments are too honest and reveal far too much for the ears of my aunt and mother. Such bits of sarcasm are best kept for Cassandra’s ears alone.

“I don’t mean to offend, Aunt, but merely mean that I don’t think you should bother them with questions about—”

Aunt waves away my concern. “’Twill be no bother. Your uncle and I know everyone in Bath, and all are glad to tell me what I need to know.”

I don’t mention that Aunt didn’t know Mr. Gould . . .

“How old are you now, Jane?”

“Twenty-three.”

Aunt Leigh-Perrot shudders. “Too old, too old. If not Mr. Gould . . . I’m disappointed no other young man has caught your fancy during your time here.”

“And Edward speaks of leaving soon,” Mother adds.

Aunt drops her hands to her lap. “Well, then. I must expedite my inquiries regarding your young man.”

“He is not my young man!”

Mother and Aunt are visibly aghast at my declaration. I admit my words were too forceful. I take a breath to calm myself. “Forgive me. It’s just that I have no real interest in Mr. Gould, and were we not seen together, I would not have mentioned him—so short and without meaning was our acquaintance.”

The brows of both women furrow, making them look their age. “You cannot be so choosy, Niece,” Aunt says. “You and Cassandra—older than yourself by two—must make efforts to find a mate and a proper situation.”

Mother leans toward Aunt confidentially. “Since Tom Fowle died, Cassandra shows no interest in finding another. We all have tried to get her to dance at balls and to make it known that she
is
available, haven’t we, Jane?”

She has spoken the truth. “Yes, we have, but . . .” I cannot say more without breaking a confidence. Only I know that my sister has no intention of ever marrying.

“At least she had a fiancé,” Aunt says. “But you, Jane . . . you have not done your duty in eliciting male interest.”

Her words cut deeply. First, by bringing to mind my sorrow in regard to my Tom and a marriage that is not to be, and second, by reminding me that my sorrow has to be borne alone. Aunt speaks from an ignorance that cannot be remedied.

She stands, ready to leave. “In spite of your objections, I will make inquiries. It’s my duty.”

I cannot argue. My aunt’s domination is not something I can battle alone. Mother rises to see her out.

I pity poor Mr. Gould.

*****

“He is gone,” Mother tells me.

It takes me a moment to realize the “he” is Mr. Gould.

My face must reveal my true feelings, because Mother asks, “Does that make you happy?”

Relief is a closer feeling, yet I
can
speak a truth. “I’m sorry to hear that.” In spite of my aunt’s and mother’s matchmaking schemes, in spite of the fact that Mr. Gould
was
a nice enough fellow, I don’t wish to procure a mate through coercion or manipulations. Although I know such means are often used (and often necessary) in the pairings of young people, I still embrace the hope that I can find a husband through my own means, my own charm, and my own destiny.

It’s the stuff of novels.

How appropriate.

*****

I pack my trunk. It’s time to go. Although I’ve enjoyed our visit to Bath, it’s a place for visits, not residence. And six weeks is enough of gaieties, gallivants, and gambits.

Edward is the one who instigates our retreat—for two reasons. He has not been well these last two days; his appetite has failed him, and he has complained of sick and uncomfortable feelings, which, with other symptoms, make us think of the gout. Perhaps another fit of it might cure him (
and
another round of treatments), but I cannot wish it to begin at Bath.

But the most pressing reason for our departure is that rent day at Godmersham approaches. Twice a year—in January and July—the workers on Edward’s estate come to the house and dine with him amidst music and merriment. But just the men. The women of the estate are not invited. Actually, I see no great affliction in this segregation, for I can imagine both genders benefit from an occasional evening free of the other. Such a statement is not meant to be disparaging of either side, though I can imagine some might take it as such.

Mother comes in the door, her bonnet in hand. “Are you ready? The carriage awaits.”

I close the trunk and latch it. “I am ready to get home,” I say.

Mother gives me a quizzical look. “Home? We are not going home. I wish to visit my other Leigh cousins at Adlestrop and Harpsden and Great Bookham.”

My breath leaves me in a sigh. Yes, Mother had mentioned such visits, but I had not realized she was set upon them. “But Father and Cassandra . . . they’re eager for our return.”

“Oh, fiddle-dee. They are fine. I didn’t travel all this way to slip by my other relations. They are expecting us.”