“For the very good reason that her name has been expunged from the annals of literature.”
“Why, when she wrote so well, and was a published author?”
“Clarissa was widowed at an early age and left with a daughter to support. She turned to her pen and succeeded, to admiration, writing three-volume novels of the kind now called Gothic literature, in the style of Mrs. Radcliffe. However, although this made her a modest income, it barely sufficed to keep her in anything more than respectable gentility, and was not enough for the great hopes she cherished for a daughter who was both beautiful and amiable.
“By chance, she fell in with a rakish crowd, the Dilettanti, a most disreputable body of men who were up to all kinds of mischief. One of them, a wicked rake, commissioned her, on payment of a large sum of money, to write a very particular story entirely for private circulation among his circle. She did so, and because it was too scandalous for any publisher to touch, she rewrote it in a more modest vein for the general public, which is the version you now possess. Her daughter, launched into society, had the good fortune to attach the affections of a rich nobleman. He was shocked by Clarissa’s literary output, and so a condition of the nuptial agreement was that she would lay down her pen and never write another word again under her own name or any other. He then went to great lengths to buy up every copy of her books and had them all burnt in a great bonfire in front of his house in the country.”
“What a dreadful thing to happen to a writer.”
“Yes, indeed. However, this is not why I’ve drawn your attention to this volume, I don’t wish you to re-establish her place as a minor footnote in English literature. It is simply that, if you have any wits, you can see in the story she has written something you may adapt to your own use.”
“What, plagiarize it?”
“No such thing. It’s a quid pro quo. Clarissa cannot come back herself, as I have done on several occasions, since when an author’s work is no longer read, or even available, the personality of the writer loses any substance and form it may have. She cannot make her presence known to others as I can.”
“If I won’t do it, what then?”
“You’ll regret your decision for the rest of your days.”
“If I agree, will you go away?”
“Certainly.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“And otherwise?”
“No.”
A life haunted by the ghost of Jane Austen? Sara gave in.
“Where will you be while I’m doing this?” The thought of working with Miss Austen at her shoulder made her shudder.
“I’ll be in and out. I have a few other things to arrange while I’m here.”
Why did Charles have to give me that locket? Sara asked herself the next day as she sat at her computer bleary-eyed from copying out the book, rewriting feverishly, modernising, cutting. Why not some other writer, or a scholar who would give anything to be face-to-face with the spirit of Jane Austen?
Sara was a fast worker, but two weeks later, as she printed out a copy of the manuscript, she felt as though she’d run several marathons. But she also had a sense of satisfaction, and an idea that it might be fun to write a book like this herself.
Miss Austen had returned from time to time to check on her progress, and now, as the last sheet flew off the printer, there she was, smiling the prim little smile that hid a will of iron and an IQ Sara could only guess at.
Ten minutes later, Sara was heading out of the flat. “There’s no point in you coming with me,” Sara said. “I won’t be able to see her; I’ll leave the script with her assistant.”
“I’m sure Livia Harkness will see you.”
Sara was wrong, and Miss Austen was right. At reception, instead of the normal glare from the receptionist, Sara was greeted with a smile.
“I know Livia will want to say hello,” the girl said. Then she frowned.
“What’s the matter?” Sara asked. She knew what the matter was—the receptionist had mistaken her for one of Livia’s more successful clients.
“For a moment I thought there was someone else in here, but you came alone, didn’t you?”
“Just me.” She went up the stairs and found Livia standing at the door. Another welcoming smile.
“Good morning, Sara. Have you something exciting for me? Did you take my advice?”
“It’s something written awhile ago.” At least that had the merit of being true. She handed the envelope to Livia, who sat herself down at her vast desk and pulled out the script.
“Clarissa Curstable?”
“It’s an entirely different kind of book, so I thought it should be under a new name. A pseudonym.”
“I generally choose the pseudonyms for my authors.” Livia twirled a pen in her fingers, red nails flashing. “But this has a ring to it. A historical, by any chance?”
“Yes.”
“Then the name might do. Leave it with me, I’ll get back to you.”
These were the most amicable minutes Sara had ever spent with Livia Harkness. She turned at the door to say goodbye, and saw a puzzled expression on Livia’s face. Ha, Livia was as surprised by her mellow behaviour as Sara was. She wanted to laugh and wished she could tell Livia that she had fallen under the powerful influence of the ghost of Jane Austen. There was no point, though; Livia thought most writers were mentally deranged and this would just be further proof of it.
Out in the street, she felt a certain lightness of spirit. She was reluctant to go back to the flat, but on the other hand she’d thrown on her clothes without a shower. And she wanted to check whether Jane Austen’s ghost had kept her word and taken herself off.
As she turned the key in the door she knew she hadn’t.
“I’ll wait until your agent confirms the book will be published.”
Sara’s heart sank. That could take weeks, months even, judging by past experience.
Not in this case. It took Livia twenty-four hours to get back to her. Livia was her normal terse self, but what she had to say would have been very gratifying had Sara felt she had anything to do with a novel Livia had already sent round to half a dozen editors.
By the end of the week, Livia had an auction going and Sara’s financial worries were at an end.
Now, surely, Miss Austen would vanish. “Please, please, go,” Sara said through gritted teeth.
“All in good time. I’m glad you had the good sense to accept my offer; Clarissa will be obliged to you. While you have been engaged upon your literary endeavours, I’ve taken the trouble to find out about this Charles of yours. He is a most estimable young man, and you were a fool to drive him away. I’ve managed to make amends for you, but, before I depart, let me give you some words of advice. Were you ever to meet Mr. Darcy, you would find him a frighteningly complex and difficult man who would in no way suit you, as a lover or a husband.”
Miss Austen could say whatever she liked, but Sara knew Mr. Darcy would always be her ideal man.
“You are quite mistaken. I created him; I know exactly what he is.”
“Some people think you based him on the character of Tom Lefroy.”
“Tom? Oh, he was a handsome fellow and most attractive, and we certainly took one another’s fancy. However, we would never have suited; he was too staid for me, and would have disapproved of what I was as time went by. But he was fun and full of sparkle and playfulness. I based my delightful Lizzy Bennet on him.”
“What about Mr. Darcy?”
“I myself am Mr. Darcy. Had I been born male instead of female, and in affluent circumstances, I would have been just such a man: reserved, proud, and clever. And no doubt have made some woman’s life a misery. Put him out of your head, or at least leave him on the page where he belongs and, as you say today, get a life.”
Suddenly she was gone. Completely and utterly. It was as though all the air had been sucked out of the flat, and Sara realised what energy her presence had brought with it. Even so,
she didn’t regret for a moment that the apparition had vanished and her life had returned to normal.
As normal as it could be without Charles.
At that moment, she heard a key turning in the door. And there he was, a suitcase in each hand and a squash racket under one arm. He put the bags down and held out his arms. “Sara, my love, I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me?”
Later that night, curled up with him in bed, she raised herself on one elbow and lovingly stroked his hair. “Charles, it was so generous of you to buy the locket for me, but it was terribly expensive. Do you know, I’m not interested in Jane Austen any more; I swear I never want to read Pride and Prejudice again or watch any of the films. I’ve cleared out all the photos and things from my study, and I’m turning over a new leaf. So, don’t you think it would be a good idea to send the locket back to the auctioneers? Since we’re planning to get married later this year, I’m sure we can do with the money.”
He looked down at her, astonished. “No more Jane Austen? Are you sure? Of course, sweetheart, if that’s what you want. I’ll take it round to the auctioneers tomorrow.”
The next morning, Charles woke up with a shout of alarm and sat up, pulling the covers up to hide his nakedness. “Sara, there’s a strange woman on the end of the bed.”
Oh, no, what about that promise? Sara rubbed her eyes and sat up.
It wasn’t Miss Austen sitting there. This was a different woman, slightly vague in outline, as Miss Austen had been when she first arrived. A taller, more angular woman, with a humorous mouth and a firm nose.
“Good morning,” she said. “You must be Sara and Charles. I am Clarissa Curstable.”
ELIZABETH ASTON is a passionate Jane Austen fan who studied with Austen biographer Lord David Cecil at Oxford. The author of several novels, including Mr. Darcy’s Daughters and Writing Jane Austen, she lives in Malta and Italy.
www.elizabeth-aston.com
Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. Less happy for Mr. John Bennet was the very same day, for it meant that he must part with Elizabeth and Jane. It seemed not two minutes since he himself had married, but it was in fact twenty-three years since he had first started courting Mrs. Bennet.…
He had lived all his life in the country of Hertfordshire, in the village of Longbourn. The village was named after Longbourn House, or so John’s mother had always proclaimed, although there were rumours that the house was, in fact, named after the village. It was a fine residence, with paddocks and lawns, shrubberies and walks, a hermitage and a wilderness, and no other house in the neighbourhood could surpass it.
The house was entailed on the male line, passing from father to son in an unbroken line, unless no son was available, when the inheritance would leap over wives and daughters like a capricious frog and pass to the nearest male relative. This admirable arrangement was devised by men, who reasoned sagaciously that women had no need of a roof over their heads as they were protected from the elements by their charming bonnets.
John’s mother, however, feeling that Longbourn House was a more desirable roof than a piece of straw, however elegantly contrived, preferred the idea of living out her days in her home to sleeping beneath the hedgerows. She was therefore eager for John to marry and provide the necessary heir as soon as possible.
This fact was known to every female of good family in the surrounding neighbourhood, and John was the object of their attentions from the moment he attained his majority; for who would not want to marry him and live at Longbourn House, becoming the first lady of the neighbourhood?
John took all the attention in good part. Indeed, he was not so unnatural as to object to the smiles of every pretty, and not so pretty, well-born young lady in the area. However, he was unnatural enough to tire of his parents’ constant references to the subject. His mother made frequent remarks about the beauty of one young lady or the accomplishments of another, whilst his father called him into the library at least three times a month to talk about his responsibilities.
“It is time for you to take a wife, my son,” he said one morning.
“I am too young to be thinking of marriage,” said John.
“For many men of your age, that might be the case,” said his father. “But you are in a unique position, my boy. On your shoulders rests the future of the family fortunes. Besides, marriage is a fine institution. It gives a man stability.”
“I do not feel in need of stability, Papa, and as I am not yet three-and-twenty, there is no hurry, I think,” said John.
“There is no hurry, no, but neither must you delay. Only think, you might go out in the carriage this afternoon and it might overturn. You might be taken up, dead.”
“Then perhaps I had better ride,” John said.
His father saw no humour in his remark. “Unfortunately, riding is even more perilous. Your horse might be startled by a bird and it might bolt, throwing you in the process. There are all sorts of accidents that can befall a man on horseback.”
John smiled. “Then I shall go on foot.”
“Even that is not without its dangers,” said his father. “You could be attacked by footpads or find yourself knocked down by a cart. And even if you manage to escape an accident, then you might be taken ill with typhoid or smallpox or develop a putrid sore throat.”
“Indeed, with so many dangers all around, it is a wonder I have managed to survive so far,” said John.
“I am sometimes surprised at it myself. However, you have, and we must be thankful for it. We must not take it for granted, though. You must do your duty to your family, your name, and your estate without delay. I think I need not remind you that, if you die without an heir, then Longbourn will pass to Cousin Collins.” A look of distaste crossed his face. “Cousin Collins is not the sort of man who belongs at Longbourn. He is a singularly unpleasant person, a man of no education and of mean intellect. He is a man I despise. Indeed, he is the kind of man to turn your mother out of the house the moment he inherits. But you can prevent him inheriting, John, by presenting us with a grandson.”
“I assure you, Father, I like Cousin Collins no more than you do, but as I have every intention of staying alive, I am determined not to rush into matrimony,” said John. “I will marry in the end, of course, but marriage is at all times a precarious institution, and a hasty marriage is a recipe for disaster. I prefer to look about me and take my time.”
“There is no question of a hasty marriage. I am not asking you to marry tomorrow, merely to start courting one of the young ladies in the neighbourhood in the near future,” said his father. “Pick a fine, healthy girl from a good family, one who will bear you many children and some good, fine sons. Anne Raistrick, now—”
John gave an involuntary shudder. “No, thank you, Papa, I have no taste for Anne Raistrick.”
“I cannot think why. There is nothing to be said against her, and there is a great deal to be said in her favour. She comes from a large family full of boys, you know, and she is likely to have a great many boys herself. I advise you to get to know her. Talk to her at the next assembly; dance with her. I am sure you will find her charming. You would be welcome to invite her to the house at any time. Your mother and I would approve of her as a daughter-in-law.”
John tried to hide his impatience. “I am sorry to disappoint you,” he said politely, “but Anne Raistrick bores me. She can talk of nothing but her needlework and she looks like a horse.”
Mr. Bennet grew irritable; John grew angry; and the interview ended with John being dismissed. He was glad to escape from the study, and he took refuge in his room. The walls were lined with books and there was a book lying open beside the bed. He picked it up and then, enticed by the sunshine, he walked out into the fields, where he could indulge his hobby without interruption.
He wished, for a moment, that there were other young men like him in the neighbourhood; men of intelligence and sense, who liked to read and learn abou
t the world around them. He sometimes felt that he would stagnate in the small country village where all the young men of his own age spent their days riding, hunting, and drinking. Yet for all its limitations he loved Longbourn, because it was his home. He loved the house, with its cool hall and its elegant drawing-room and its airy bedrooms. He loved the gardens with their tall trees and their flower beds. But most of all he loved the library. It was a room his father seldom frequented, going there only to conduct matters of business, but John went there often. The books were, to him, old friends. They took him on journeys and showed him the places he might never see. They allowed him to know the thoughts of scholars and philosophers that he would never meet. And most of all, they offered him a retreat from the demands of his parents.
The one he was carrying was a favourite, and as he walked through the paddock to the fields beyond, he felt his spirits lift. Indeed, the day was one such as to gladden the heart of any living creature. It was March, but unseasonably warm, as happens sometimes in that month, and the world smelt of the newly awakening spring. Birds were singing and the trees were blossoming, putting forth thick pink and white flowers that filled the air with their heady scent. The sun was warm and the droning of bees was everywhere.
He swung himself into the branches of a horse chestnut tree and opened his book.
He had not been reading long when his attention was distracted by the sound of laughter and he saw the two Miss Gardiners walking down the lane that bordered the estate. Miss Gardiner was the beauty of the family, indeed the neighbourhood, for she had soft, fair hair, large blue eyes, and a good-humoured countenance which often broke into smiles and laughter. Her sister, Miss Mary Gardiner, was neither so pretty nor so good humoured, but was nevertheless a handsome girl. The two of them, walking past in their hooped skirts, brightened the lane with their brocade dresses and their large hats and their twirling parasols.
“Let us go into Meryton, Jane, and see Papa,” said Mary.
“Oh, yes, we must see Papa,” said Jane with a laugh. “It would never do to neglect him.”
Jane Austen Made Me Do It Page 20
