Just Jane (9 page)

“You contacted them?”

“I certainly don’t wish to appear on their doorstep unannounced.” She set her bonnet. “So come, Jane. It’s time for our next adventure.”

My enthusiasm will impress no one nor fool the same. Apparently there are still more relatives to tax and annoy.

*****

I enjoy family as much as the next person, but cousins, all those cousins at Adlestrop, and then seeing another cousin, Edward Cooper, who lives in my mother’s childhood home in Harpsden near Reading . . . Mother thrives in the extra travels, and I . . . survive.

These cousins are affable enough, and their hospitality genuine and appreciated, but as Mother wants to pass by my beloved Hampshire and continue into Surrey, south of London—which is hardly on the way—I feel like asking to be let out. I will make my own way home.

The distance from Steventon was only one reason I don’t relish our trip to Great Bookham. Aunt Cooke, yet another of Mother’s cousins, has just published a novel of her own:
Battleridge, an Historical Tale Founded on Facts
. I admit that envy is present in my desire
not
to visit her. I should own pride in her accomplishment and have hopes for some interesting discussions regarding the creation of a novel. But from what Mother has said of Aunt Cooke, I regard our visit with trepidation.

Which is fulfilled during our first evening together.

We have barely settled in the parlour when Aunt presents herself before us, holding a book. And I know then, I know . . . .

“Have you seen my book?” she asks, holding its tan leather in front of her chest.

“No,” Mother says, reaching for it. “Let us see.” She examines the cover with due respect and leafs through the pages.

She hands it to me. “See, Jane? Perhaps someday one of your stories will be published.”

Aunt Cooke raises her eyebrows. “You are making attempts to write?”

I glance at Mother, wishing she would be the one to state my progress, but Mother looks back at me, forcing me to list my accomplishments. Or not. “I’ve written a few stories.”

“They are quite good,” Mother says.

Her praise surprises me. Not that she hasn’t said as much among the family during one of my readings, but she is not one to praise me elsewhere.

Aunt looks a bit distressed and turns toward a cupboard from which she produces two more copies of her book. “I have a copy for each of you. I will be eager to hear what you think.” She hands one to Mother and keeps one for herself. I, of course, already have one in my hands.

I am being expected to read it—during our visit. Although I love novels, my aunt’s presumption offends. I vow never to do such a thing to others—
if
I ever get published. If they wish to read my work, I will be pleased, but I will not force it upon anyone. Ever.

“Perhaps you would like me to read aloud to get you started. You may follow along in your own copies.”

Joy.

*****

I laugh aloud, then clamp a hand over my mouth, not wanting anyone in the house to awaken.

It’s two in the morning. I’m reading my aunt’s novel in bed, by candlelight. The late hour does not indicate an inability to close its pages, but a fascination with its style, its . . . mediocrity.

I feel the guilt that is appropriate in such a judgment, and yet . . . I’ve read dozens of novels and, as such, have learned to recognize what is good and what is not, what is new and enlightening, and what is typical and so very
done
.

Every plot twist, every locale, every deep sigh and bated breath in Aunt’s novel has been done oft before. A grotto, an imprisoned heroine in a dark tower, a lost document in a false-bottomed chest . . .

Yet even as I roll my eyes, I find satisfaction. For unwittingly Aunt has given me an element to use in my current story,
Susan
. My entire manuscript revolves around a young girl who puts too much stock in such elements, living their fantasy rather than real life. It makes fun of these novel components that my aunt has embraced with such fervor. I wonder . . . if I add a lost document in a false-bottomed chest in
Susan
,
if
my story is ever published, and
if
Aunt Cooke ever deems it worthy of her time, will she recognize that her book was the seed of that improbable (but very convenient) ingredient?

I laugh again at the thought, the idea of a future date when Aunt Cooke sits in her bed, reading my book. She will come upon the paragraph about the hiding place, draw in a shocked breath, put a hand to her chest, and exclaim, “But that was my idea!”

Yours and many before you, Auntie.

*****

“I finished your book, Aunt Cooke,” I say at breakfast.

The shocked face and hand to the chest I imagined are reenacted over eggs and biscuits. “Oh, my dear. You do me great honour.”

Not particularly  . . .

Mother butters a biscuit. “You must have been up all hours, Jane. You will be wrecked for the day.”

“Perhaps,” I say—and I
am
tired. “But it was worth it.”

I enjoy my double entendre, as I do the glee it produces in my aunt. “Oh, Jane. I knew you would like it.”

Mother looks skeptical but hides the extent of her feelings behind the biscuit.

“The covering is very lovely,” I say, for I
have
vowed to tell the truth—as far as the truth will go without offending.

“I agree,” Aunt says. “I was very pleased. It was not the colour I had imagined, for I thought a pale aubergine would have been more appropriate than conservative oatmeal colour, but the gold lettering makes up for any disappointment.”

Personally, I think the publisher knew what he was doing. A calm oatmeal was needed to offset my aunt’s exuberant and lofty word choice and plot.

“Which part did you like best?” Aunt asks.

The end?
Indeed, she puts me on the spot. How can I remain true to my convictions yet not offend—for what good would offense do? I can tell from her actions she does not want real opinion.

I hit upon a solution. “I found the false-bottomed chest interesting.”

“I knew you would like that! I read a similar story once myself and thought it so delightful that I decided to incorporate it into my own story. Feel free to use it, Jane, if it suits your needs.”

It’s difficult to hold in a smile. “Thank you,” I tell my aunt. “Perhaps I will.”

Father paces. Mother sits by the fire, tugging at her handkerchief. Cassandra’s head is down and shakes no-no-no in disbelief. I’m too aghast to do much other than watch them.

Aunt Leigh-Perrot arrested for theft?

In between bouts of pacing, Father pauses and reads us more of the letter from Uncle Perrot. “He says the shopkeeper who accuses her is Miss Elizabeth Gregory. She has a millinery shop over on Bath and Stall Street and—”

“We were there!” Mother says, turning to me. “Remember the ivory lace I purchased for my blue hat?”

Before I can respond, Father says, “Lace. That is exactly the item in question. Apparently your aunt ordered and paid for some black lace but, after leaving the shop with your uncle, was accosted by the shopkeeper, who accused her of taking some white lace—without paying.”

“That’s absurd,” Cassandra says.

“Did she have the white lace with her?” I ask.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Father says. “And since it was deemed worth more than twelve pence, it’s a capital crime.”

“Which means?” I ask.

Father looks up from the letter. “Which could elicit her death by hanging or exile to Botany Bay in Australia for fourteen years.”

“For a little bit of lace?”

“’Tis the law,” Father says.

“’Tis a ridiculous law,” I say.

“The law is not the concern,” Cassandra says. “She didn’t do it. She couldn’t.”

“She would not,” Mother says. “She and Perrot have plenty of money. She buys what she wishes when she wishes.”

“I agree,” Father says, perusing the letter again. “Something is not right here.”

Mother stands. “What is not right is that my brother’s wife is in gaol.”

Father clarifies. “She’ll be staying in the gaoler’s house in Ilchester until the trial.”

“When will that be?” I ask.

“Months. They fear months.”

Mother looks at Cassandra and me. “You girls. You must go, be with her. Comfort her in this difficult time.”

“Perrot has moved in with her,” Father states.

“’Tis not enough. She must feel the arms of our family embracing her. Girls! Go ready your trunks at once.”

Cassandra and I look at each other, and my sister’s unnerved look certainly mirrors my own. Mother wants us to go to gaol with our aunt? We both look to Father, who blessedly takes Mother’s arm, stopping her traverse from the parlour up the stairs to make ready for our trip.

“Now, now, dear. We cannot send the girls. Perrot says the conditions are crude, the gaoler’s children loud and unruly . . . and perhaps the comfort we imagine from such an arrangement would be more an imposition—”

“Ridiculous,” Mother says. “The girls have always been a relief to any in the family who need comfort. Besides, we have both heard stories regarding women of status committing suicide after being accused of shoplifting.”

Cassandra draws a breath. “Surely not!”

Mother considers this but a moment. “I would hope not. And I do suppose Aunt’s fortitude and courage will prevent her from even thinking of such a thing.”

I could add the traits gumption, self-importance, and pride to the list but remain silent.

She moves toward the stairs. “Cassandra, is your blue dress mended?”

“Not yet, but—”

Father interrupts. “My dear, you must not rush into such a thing. You must give us time to carefully consider and—”

Mother throws up her hands. “Fine. To satisfy you, I will write first and make the offer. Both girls. Or at least one.”

She departs the room to do just that, leaving the three of us recovering in her wake.

I am the first to speak. “Father, although I wish to help . . .”

He raises a hand, stopping further explanation. “I will not send you unwisely, Daughters. I promise you that.”

I’m relieved. Father always keeps his promises.

*****

I ask for God’s blessings on crude gaolers’ houses and gratitude for the wisdom of Aunt Leigh-Perrot. For in spite of Mother’s offer that Cassandra and I join our aunt’s misfortune as she resides at the gaoler’s house, and possibly attend the very trial in which she is accused, Aunt mercifully declines. “I will not allow these elegant young women to suffer at my side.” Our wave of relief is drenching.

And our aunt’s defense counsel is traitorously inept. His name is Joseph Jekyll, and he himself spreads gossip that she is guilty of the crime to which she is charged and is, in fact, a kleptomaniac. He also very vocally shares his opinion that Uncle Perrot is far too submissive to his demanding wife.

The latter holds a modicum of truth, but the former is completely false.

Or so I believe.

That I even consider the possibility that Aunt would steal disturbs me. I couch these traitorous thoughts in the possibility that Aunt put the white lace amidst her purchase of black lace without thinking. A mistake by a woman who by these very eyes has been seen to pick up numerous items for her perusal as she shops while keeping up a lively banter with whomever her companion might be, as well as the clerks who flock to her service. If she is guilty, it’s surely an inadvertent gaffe.

I keep all these doubts and dealings to myself. I will allow justice to be done—if there is such a thing. The punishment of death or banishment for so small a theft? I know God’s commandments. I hold close “Thou shalt not steal,” but imposing the same harsh penalty for theft as for murder? This is truly absurd. I pray that someday men in power will remove this offense to common sense. Perhaps as the century turns over . . .

1800. I still find it difficult to write the number, and too many letters suffer a smudge as I err on the date. This change of year from one century to the next is sobering, as if something more is expected from each of us, as if the chasm between December thirty-first and January first is deep and wide, and in order to pass over it one must take stock with self-probing questions:

What have I done with my life?

What shall I do with the rest of it?

Unfortunately, at age four and twenty I find my life distressingly devoid of measurable accomplishment.

I am not married.

I have no home of my own.

I have no children.

I write novel after novel . . .

But to what avail? Beyond family—who patronize me, albeit with love—who cares? Will anyone ever care? Will anyone ever hold a book by Jane Austen in their hands?

Yet during such times of doubt I remember the failings of Aunt Cooke’s
Battleridge
and deduce that if that book can be published, then surely . . .

It’s an arrogant thought, full of traits I’m most apt to shift upon others than accept as my own, traits unconscionable and unflattering as we begin a new century.

And yet I own them and own the dream that someday my writing will matter to someone beyond myself. If that reveals a pride unbecoming . . . ?

I accept the fault, even as I dream the dream.

*****

For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more.

I grew up with that verse ringing in my ears. Father still uses it in many a sermon and, more importantly lives the words, inspiring us to do the same.

As I do today.

I bundle against the cold, grateful it’s not snowing. We have done our own suffering in the rectory this winter, with cold drafts and too much snow. And James broke his leg and now cannot get out at all—even though he told Aunt Leigh-Perrot that he and Mary (as the heirs) would attend the trial. That is not to be.

There are so many not-to-be’s during a hard winter. Not-to-be’s, not-to-do’s, and being-too-much—together, that is. It’s a strain upon the most loving family to be with one another too much. The knowledge that one cannot escape, cannot venture out for a walk, an errand, a visit, or a dig in the garden accentuates the condition and makes the walls tilt inward, the ceiling loom low. Air! I need air!

That is one reason why I venture out today. E’en though the air be bitter, the sky is blue, and the sun shines (I wish to ask the Almighty about this dichotomy when the chance arises). I carry a basket of bread, some baby clothes Mother has made, and a small blanket I’ve bound. The items will surely not revoke troubles but may ease a few.

The poor are dissatisfied with good reason. Wheat will not be cheap this year, and every other necessary of life enormously dear. The poor man cannot purchase those comforts he ought to have: beer, bacon, cheese. A lack of firewood has even caused the death of a few elderly. Can one wonder that discontent lurks in their bosoms? I cannot think their wages sufficient, and the pride of anyone is hurt when they are obliged to ask for relief. That they can receive what is offered . . . I’m sensible to the task in their acceptance. I wish I could do more.

I know all the families in Steventon—over thirty there are—and am aware of many sufferings. But today I go to the Wilson family, where Agnes Wilson bore her sixth child just three months ago. No mother leaves her house—or even her room—before a month has passed, but with the cold, Agnes’s confinement has surely been forced.

The leafless trees that edge the house are mournful, and I hear a baby cry inside. I knock on the door.

Mr. Wilson answers, barely cracking the door against the cold. His face is flushed and it takes him a moment to realize who has come. “Ah. Miss Austen.”

I lift my basket for him to see. “I come with a welcoming parcel for the new child—and for its family.”

A little girl squeezes in front of her father, eyeing me, then the basket.

“Come in,” Mr. Wilson says.

The front room is dark—which strikes me as odd, considering the sunny day, but then I see that a quilt has been tacked against the window, against the cold.

Four other children rally round the basket, and I realize I could be invisible for all they care. ’Tis the food they want.

’Tis the food they will get—though I set it on the table near their mother, who holds baby number six at her breast. I’m ashamed I don’t know its name. I remove the basket’s outer covering. Upon sight of the bread, the children go, “Ahh!”

I pull out the baby clothes and blanket. “I hope these can be of some use,” I say.

Agnes smiles and pulls the baby from her breast, buttoning her dress. “You are so kind. Sit, Miss Austen. Please, sit. Would you like a warm drink?”

I do sit but decline the drink. I don’t wish to
take
anything from what must be meager stores. “May I hold the baby?” I ask. It has the look of a boy. “What is his name?”

“John,” she says and hands the baby over. Just fed, he fits nicely into the crook of my arm and looks up at me with brown eyes. I run a finger along his cheek, marveling once again at a baby’s intrinsic softness.

“Shoo, children,” Mr. Wilson says.

“We want bread!” the eldest says.

“Later.”

I know I am the cause of the delay, and I vow to leave as quickly as is polite. But then Mr. Wilson sits down too. “Wife here has been longing for news of the town—gossip I calls it but—”

“Jack!”

“Gossip I calls it and gossip it is, but if it will make you happy, I’m not too proud to ask Miss Austen for a bit of it. After all, we do know we are surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies. Might as well get some fun from it.”

I try to think of something that will ease Agnes’s boredom and curiosity. “My brother Henry was in Ireland for seven months and met Lord Cornwallis and—”

“Ain’t he the Governor-General of India?” Mr. Wilson asks.

“He is.”

“Then, what’s he doing in Ireland?”

I have to think. “Quelling the rebellion, I believe.” I realize a political discussion will serve no one well, so I move back to talk of Henry. “My brother arrived back in London this January. Unfortunately, his wife’s young son is not doing well.”

“I is sorry to hear about the boy,” Agnes says. “What’s wrong with ’im?”

I regret mentioning Hastings’s problems, yet have no recourse but to reply. “He has fits.” It’s as concise as I can put it.

Agnes nods. “We’ve known one like that. The fits made the child less than whole.” She taps her head. “It often seems like mental and bodily sufferings are closely sewn.”

She speaks the truth. I try to think of news less melancholy. “My brothers Frank and Charles are at sea, and Frank is near Egypt and is a commander and—”

“Have you heard about Lord Lymington?” Mr. Wilson asks.

“No, I haven’t.” I have not thought about the Portsmouth family in many years. The eldest boy, Lord Lymington, was a pupil of Father’s before my birth. I heard about his stuttering and how he was taken out of school and sent to London to be cured. I didn’t know the results but found it telling that only his two younger brothers went to Eton for their education.

Mr. Wilson leans closer. “Apparently the family married him off to a woman aged forty-seven—and him only thirty-two.”

“Why would they do that?”

Mr. Wilson and his wife exchange a glance. “Sounds to us like they want to make sure he don’t get any children out of the match. Not that Lord Lymington knows the what-all about that.” He checks to make sure no children are listening. “It’s said he thinks it takes fifteen months to born a baby.”

“He’s obsessed with funerals too,” Agnes whispers. “Likes the servants to make a play of it. And then he beats them.” She shudders.

Mr. Wilson continues. “He don’t keep track of his own finances neither. Some bigwig does that for ’im.” He sits back. “Seems to me the family is fixing things so the second son can inherit.”

I have no notion what to say. Such gossip is far from edifying, yet rings true with what I’ve heard. I manage to say, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Mr. Wilson flips a hand. “No sorriness here, not for the likes a ’im. No man like that should inherit Hurstbourne Park.”

Blessedly, the baby in my lap cries, allowing me the chance to leave. I stand and offer little John to his mother. “I’ll be going now. I’d like to get home before it snows again.” Too late I remember the sunny day.

I’m let out with the Wilsons’ thanks for the contents of my basket. I notice that while visiting, the sun has disappeared and it does look like snow.