Jane held up an impatient hand. “That is ancient history, Eliza. Pray listen to me. The English government is particularly interested in you.” She hesitated, then said, “They are watching your every move. They have intercepted at least one of your letters and found it very suspicious.”
“They’re reading my mail?” Eliza frowned. “But I don’t recall receiving any suspicious letters.”
“They kept the letter,” Jane said. “I saw it.”
“Jane, how am I supposed to know anything about a letter that I never received?” Eliza exclaimed.
“It is possible that I might have scribbled down some of the details of my best recollection of the letter,” Jane admitted, pulling the paper from her pocket. She and Eliza pored over it. “It was from a former servant in France. He said he had fallen upon hard times and needed your assistance. If not intercepted, the letter would have reached you six weeks ago. You were in London then, weren’t you?”
Eliza nodded. “Yes. Hastings had several doctor’s appointments.”
Hastings was Eliza’s son. He was eight years old, but had the intellectual capacity of a child half his age. He had problems with his balance and could barely walk. No doctor had ever been able to cure his malady. Eliza doted on him.
“How is Hastings?” Jane asked.
“He was not well enough to travel. I left him in London with his governess. Travel stimulates his mind entirely too much.”
“Mother will be disappointed; she adores Hastings,” Jane said, and was rewarded by Eliza’s indulgent smile. Eliza liked nothing better than to hear her son praised.
“So you were in London when this was written?” Jane asked, returning to the subject.
“Yes. But I never received that letter. Tell me, Jane, do you know the name of the servant who wrote it?”
“A servant named René Geroux.”
“René?” Eliza exclaimed. “That is impossible. He’s dead.”
At that moment, the door swung open and Marie came in with a tray of sweets. “Madame,” she said. “The innkeeper wishes to know if we intend to stay the night or continue on.”
Jane reflected that only a woman as confident as Eliza could have a maid who was so pretty. Younger than her mistress, Marie had the face of an angel, with thick dark hair and black eyes.
“Jane, what do you think? Should we go now?”
“Steventon is at least seventy miles away. If we try to go now, we’ll be traveling in the dark and will have to break our journey overnight anyway.”
Eliza nodded. “Not to mention the highwayman might be waiting!”
Marie’s face reflected her alarm. “Madame?”
“Don’t worry, Marie,” Eliza reassured her. “We will go tomorrow. Tell Jacques, s’il te plaît.”
After Marie had left, Eliza said, “Promise me you will not mention any of this spy business in front of Marie. The highwayman she will hear about from Jacques—but the rest must be between us. Particularly the letter.”
Jane regarded her cousin. “Why especially the letter?” she asked.
“René was her husband. She and I were widowed by the same guillotine.”
CHAPTER 6
“From you, from my home, I shall never again
have the smallest incitement to move . . .”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
Jane was exceedingly glad to be home. Entering the drawing room, she sighed in satisfaction. The parsonage at Steventon was exceedingly plain and modest compared to her brother’s home—compared to any domicile of substance—but she liked its simplicity. The beams might be exposed and the furniture sparse, but it was an honest house.
In past years the noise of six brothers, two sisters, and Mr. Austen’s boarding students had filled the rooms. Since the sons were all now launched in their careers and only the two daughters remained at home, Jane’s father had recently decided that he no longer needed to tutor students. Now the house echoed with emptiness.
This particular morning, Jane’s mother was ensconced on the sofa to one side of the fire. Mrs. Austen had long been known throughout the county for her efficient management of a large family, their boarders, her poultry farm, and the parsonage, all on a limited income. Now, at long last, Mrs. Austen could indulge herself and nurse a head cold.
Mr. Austen was detained at Oxford and would not return for several days. The only brother at home for a visit was James, Jane’s oldest brother. He was out shooting; the fine weather had extended the shooting season well into January.
Jane settled herself at her writing desk, the perfect distance from the fire. Her father had given the desk to her for Christmas, and it was by far the nicest gift she had ever received.
“When will Eliza come down?” Mrs. Austen asked in a querulous voice. “It’s almost noon!”
“I believe she’s still asleep,” Jane explained. “Our journey was fatiguing.” But thankfully uneventful, she thought. There had been no sign of the masked man during the ride home. Much as Jane had wanted to, she and Eliza were not able to discuss him, constrained as they were by the presence of Marie the maid. “Eliza is not used to our country hours.”
Mrs. Austen sniffed, putting her handkerchief to her runny nose. “She’s already missed breakfast. Prudence will have to bring her a tray; it’s very inconvenient for the servants.”
Jane blotted the paper in front of her. Growing up in such a crowded house, she had learned to write amidst any distraction. Despite her mother’s twittering, she had already managed to begin a new story. The heroine of this story was destined to marry for affection and still enjoy a lavish lifestyle to which she had not been born. And possibly a rogue with a French accent might make an appearance, just to complicate the plot.
“We have no one here to amuse Eliza,” her mother went on. “The boys are all away.”
“James is here,” Jane said, only half of her attention devoted to her mother.
“That’s true. Last night he stayed with the Bigg-Withers so they could play cards. But James is hardly likely to exert himself to entertain his widowed cousin. He finds talking to women so difficult. If only his Anne hadn’t died!”
James was a clergyman like Jane’s father. The year before his wife had died unexpectedly. He had been greatly grieved by the loss, and it reinforced his tendency to be a bit solemn. Jane thought it was about time he was in society again.
“Eliza is very good at frivolity,” Jane suggested. “If anyone can teach James to be more lighthearted, it is she.”
“Do you think that he and Eliza might make a match of it?” Mrs. Austen asked, sitting up, suddenly alert. “I must say I hadn’t thought of it.”
“I was joking,” Jane assured her. “Our James has many excellent qualities—sobriety, solemnity, piety—and not one of them is likely to attract Eliza’s attention other than as an affectionate cousin.”
Mrs. Austen sighed. “Perhaps you are right. But then what is Eliza to do while she’s here? All of our neighbors are in London for the winter. Except for dear Madame Lefroy, of course. But there is hardly anyone else to distract her. I wonder that she wants to visit us at all.”
Jane smiled as she dipped her pen in the ink bottle. “Our cousin is much sought after. She chose to be with us, knowing full well our rustic ways.”
“She did indeed, and then came earlier than we expected. Naturally, I was delighted to see you both, but it was a surprise. And why didn’t Cassandra join you?”
“My sister could not be spared by our dear sister-in-law,” Jane said dryly. “A governess and nurse are not sufficient to amuse Elizabeth’s children.”
“You should be less judgmental,” Mrs. Austen scolded. “It was very kind of Edward to have you at Godmersham. How else are you to be introduced to eligible men? The pickings in Hampshire are quite slim, especially since you are so particular.”
Jane’s pen nib nearly snapped from the pressure she placed on it. “Mother, the young men in Kent are no more interesting than the men in Hampshire! I
wish you would stop assuming that it is everyone’s proper job to provide your daughters the opportunity to meet bachelors.”
“You pretend it doesn’t matter, Jane, but you know better. With such a small fortune as you possess, it would be wise for you to display less intelligence and more beauty if you wish to find a good match.”
“I would not want a husband who valued my appearance more than my wit.” Jane’s response fell into a well-worn groove; she and her mother had had this conversation many times before.
“At least Cassandra is soon to be settled.” The partial satisfaction in Mrs. Austen’s pronouncement was apparent to Jane. Unsaid was, “What a relief that at least one of my daughters will be married.”
But Jane wondered whether Cassandra was really better off. Married to her Mr. Fowle, she would always be scrimping and making economies, since he was even poorer than the Austens. And once Cassandra had children, how were they to manage? Her mind recoiled at the idea of her precious sister bearing child after child, like Edward’s wife. Childbearing was dangerous, and she’d rather have a spinster sister than lose Cassandra to anything but old, old age.
“Is it better for Cassandra to be engaged to a poor man?” Jane asked wickedly. “Or should she hold out for someone with a greater fortune?” She pulled out a knife and began to trim her pen.
“Your father and I want nothing more for you girls than happiness,” her mother rejoined. “Cassandra will not have a comfortable life unless Mr. Fowle finds a patron. However, she is in love with him. Therefore, we are content for her to wait. But what can we expect from you? No suitor can meet your standards.” Mrs. Austen mimicked Jane’s voice perfectly. “‘Not ten thousand pounds would convince me that his opinions are interesting.’ Or ‘Rich and handsome, yes, but with vulgar tastes in literature and music.’ I despair that you will ever give a gentleman a chance to prove his worth before you judge him wanting.”
“Enough, Mother!” Jane said with asperity, replacing the knife in its drawer. “I will try to be more accommodating. I shall set my cap at the next eligible young man—no matter his breeding, his fortune, or his intelligence.”
“If only you would, Jane dear.” The long-suffering sigh made Jane smile as she scratched her pen to a blank piece of paper. She owed Edward her gratitude for this at least—his parcel of paper would last her for months. She might even dedicate her next story to him.
The doorbell clanged.
“Who can be calling so early?” Mrs. Austen wondered.
“Perhaps that is my future beau now.” Jane laughed.
Their maid, Prudence, poked her head in the doorway. “It is Mrs. Lefroy, ma’am. Are you receiving callers?”
Jane leapt up, forestalling her mother from arising from her chair by the fire. “To Madame Lefroy, we are always at home!” Jane exclaimed. “Prudence, show her in.”
Madame Lefroy was the wife of the rector at Ashe, a house just a few miles away. Madame was a poet, a great reader, and a beautiful woman. To Jane she embodied the perfect combination of sense and sensibility. The entire district admired her wit and accomplishments, hence her honorary title of “Madame.” Her home was always welcoming to her friends, who much appreciated her willingness to throw open the folding doors between her drawing and dining rooms and get up an impromptu dance with five or ten couples of her close acquaintance. She was a particular friend of Jane’s despite the difference in their ages: Madame’s oldest child, Lucy, was only a few years younger than Jane.
When Madame Lefroy entered the drawing room, her charm brightened the plain room. As always, her hair was beautifully arranged and powdered, yet still appropriate for the country in the dead of winter.
Jane joyfully embraced her friend. After a proper greeting to Mrs. Austen, Madame clasped Jane’s hands and exclaimed, “How delightful to see you so soon. We didn’t look for you in Hampshire for several more weeks.”
Jane explained that her cousin’s change of plans had demanded her early return.
“So the famous Comtesse has arrived?” Madame asked, an enigmatic smile playing on her lips. Madame was confident of her standing in the neighborhood, but surely she didn’t relish a rival who had not only the advantage of fortune but also the romantic aura of having lost a husband to La Guillotine.
“You will adore her, Madame,” Jane assured her. “She is charming.”
“If you say so, it must be true,” Madame replied generously. She stood in front of the fire, rubbing her chilled arms. “In any event, I am terribly relieved that you are home!”
“Dear Madame Lefroy, I’m always eager to be of use to you,” Jane said. “What is troubling you?”
“I have a visitor,” Madame explained, with a grimace.
“From your expression, I venture to guess an unwelcome one?” Jane asked.
“Mr. Tom Lefroy. He is my husband’s nephew. Only twenty years old, he has the pretensions of someone at least twenty-one.”
From her brocaded chair near the fire, Mrs. Austen’s interest was clearly piqued at the mention of a young man. “Pray, Madame, tell us about him,” she implored.
“He is to study law in London under the tutelage of my husband’s uncle, the judge. But after only a month in Town, he’s already fallen in with an undesirable group of young men. The judge decided he would do better in the country, getting to know his relations for a few weeks.” She turned to face Jane and held out her hands to show her helplessness. “But he is a difficult guest.”
“Is he so hard to please?” Jane asked sympathetically.
Madame nodded vehemently. “After ten days, we have exhausted every topic of conversation, and now he says there is nothing interesting to talk about in the country. The hunting has not been as good as he’s seen at home. He’s not interested in visiting because the young ladies of the district are provincial and dull.”
Slyly, Mrs. Austen said, “Jane, he sounds like your ideal match!”
Jane felt her cheeks pinken and hurried to say, “Madame, how can I help?”
Madame Lefroy confided, “I’ve told him how you and Cassandra are the prettiest girls in the district—and clever besides. He is doubtful, of course, in a particularly smug manner.”
“He sounds absolutely irresistible!” Jane remarked.
“I am looking forward to watching you put him in his place.”
“Me?” Jane asked.
“That sounds more like Jane,” Mrs. Austen said acidly.
“Best of all would be if you could make him fall in love with you, Jane,” Madame implored.
Jane burst out laughing. “Why on earth would I do that?” She paused, reconsidered, and added, “Assuming I could, of course.”
“Of course you could! Trust me, he would be a terrible match for you for so many reasons—but then you could rebuff him and teach him a lesson.”
Mrs. Austen snorted in disgust. “The two of you do not take the business of matrimony seriously. Jane has enough obstacles to a good marriage without you encouraging her to be difficult.”
Jane grinned broadly. “Madame, I look forward to the challenge.”
The doorbell rang again. Before the maid could announce him, a young man dressed in the latest style for young dandies in London with a well-cut coat and a blindingly white silk shirt appeared in the doorway to the drawing room.
“There you are, Aunt,” he said. “I looked around at home and you had disappeared.” He tossed his hat and gloves on a settee. Mrs. Austen smoothed her hair and cast a nervous look at her youngest daughter.
“I couldn’t wait another moment to see my friends.” Madame Lefroy gestured gracefully to the ladies. “Mrs. Austen, Miss Jane Austen, let me present my husband’s nephew, Mr. Tom Lefroy.”
Mr. Lefroy clicked his heels and Jane curtsied. His face was well formed, but there was an indulged look to his well-shaped lips that to Jane’s eye indicated a spoiled temperament. Jane smiled. She was going to enjoy herself.
CHAPTER 7
Elinor was not inclined
, after a little
observation, to give him credit for being
so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured
or ill-bred as he wished to appear.
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
“You are most welcome in our home, sir!” Mrs. Austen called from her chair. “I’m terribly sorry that I am indisposed. My daughter Jane will have to act as your hostess. She will fill the role admirably, I am sure.”
“I am sorry to hear of your indisposition, ma’am,” Mr. Lefroy said politely but with little interest. Jane heard a lilt in his words she could not quite place.
“I’m sorry too, Mrs. Austen,” Madame said. “What is the nature of your malady?”
“A dreadful cold in my head,” Mrs. Austen replied mournfully. “It has quite exhausted me.”
“Perhaps we should return another time,” Madame said politely.
“Not at all,” Jane said. Then she indicated two rather uncomfortable chairs and said, “Please, sit down.”
With an air of boredom he did little to disguise, Tom Lefroy took a seat. Mrs. Austen asked him about his stay and if he had been to Ashe or even to Hampshire before. His answers were seldom more than a syllable.
While her mother interrogated this future prospect with utterly predictable questions, Jane observed him closely. He looked about the room as if he were valuing its contents and finding them wanting. He took his watch from his waistcoat and compared its time with the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Madame watched him with a slight tightening of her mouth, and Jane deduced that this was a fair sample of his manners.
To please her friend, rather than from any desire to converse with him, Jane asked whether Mr. Lefroy was enjoying his time in Hampshire. “Tolerably,” he replied with a bored shrug. Jane had seen this mannerism before from London friends her brothers brought home. They enjoyed the novelty of country life for a few days, but then longed for the excitement and society of London.
Secrets in the Snow Page 4
