She decided she needed some air. It was high time she visited her brother George. The people who cared for him in Deane were country folk and would be awake by the time she arrived. Bundled in her pelisse, warmest bonnet, and fur-lined gloves—the last borrowed from Eliza—Jane left the parsonage.
The road that led from the parsonage was lined with small cottages. The wind gusts tasted of snow, but as yet there were only occasional flurries. All the farmland and fields she could see belonged to the parsonage, and the majority of the villagers worked for her father.
She passed the large kitchen garden and the barn where the Austens kept pigs and chickens. Between them, the Austens were well provided with foodstuffs, but they had very little extra cash, most of which was earmarked for the sons’ careers. Jane and Cassandra could count only on their fifty pounds per annum and no dowries at all.
Her thoughts flew to Eliza, fast asleep at the parsonage. In the privacy of her own meditations, Jane could admit how she envied her cousin. Eliza had rank and wealth enough to make her own decisions. Her son was practically an invalid, but Eliza had the means and inclination to keep him at home with her. Her dead husband had been resurrected in the most romantic and mysterious way possible!
Jane longed to live like Eliza did, to the fullest and with verve. Even better, she wished she could transform herself into one of her own heroines and with a stroke of her pen create a perfect match for herself. Someone with enough money that he could choose to marry a penniless girl. And he must dance! But most of all, he must accept Jane for who she was, ink-stained fingers and all.
She shook her head ruefully at her childlike fantasies. Writing would have to be her solace for being an old maid.
Her tragic thoughts were interrupted when she noticed a gentleman walking toward her. Mr. Lefroy! This was too much, too much indeed. Last night he had followed her from the ball, and now he was outside her house before nine o’clock in the morning! What on earth was he doing here? She waited to speak until he had caught her up in the middle of the lane.
“Mr. Lefroy,” she said, bobbing in a mild curtsy.
“Miss Austen, I had not dared hope I would see you so early in the day.” He bowed.
“It is not the usual time for a call,” she said dryly. “Particularly for visitors from Town. I thought Londoners slept till noon.”
“Ah, but I am only newly a Londoner. I kept early hours in Ireland,” he said. “I thought I should tell you that James spent the night at Ashe Rectory. My aunt insisted, over his objections.”
Jane immediately felt contrite. “Was he very put out that we forgot him?”
“He may be under the impression that you did not forget him at all, but that the demands of your cousin’s illness kept his party from waiting for him.”
“And should I thank you for conveying such an idea into his head?” Jane asked, with a wry smile.
“A bit of improvisation seemed to be called for,” he said gallantly.
“I am very grateful,” she said. He looked at her with a dubious air. “No, I truly am,” she insisted.
“As I told you last night: anything I can do to be of service.” He put his hand to his heart. “Brothers rescued, coats fetched, secrets kept—I can do it all.”
Jane considered him carefully. Perhaps he had earned a tiny bit of her confidence. “Mr. Lefroy . . .”
“Please, call me Tom.”
With a sense of stepping into a level of intimacy she had not anticipated, she said, “Then you must call me Jane. If the secrets you seek were mine, I might tell you one or two. But I cannot betray another’s confidences.”
“Your cousin, the Comtesse?”
Jane narrowed her eyes. “No matter how artful you are, you shall not convince me to reveal anything more than I already have.”
“In that case, shall we walk?” he asked. “Where are you going this very cold morning?”
She eyed him suspiciously. He had given up too easily. “I’m going to Deane to visit . . . a relation.”
“That’s several miles, isn’t it?” he asked, grimacing. “May I accompany you?”
“I am perfectly capable of walking there myself,” she said. “As for you—those boots you’re wearing may be just the thing in London, but they’ll give you blisters after a long walk in the country.”
“I’m fine,” he assured her.
“Suit yourself,” Jane said. “But I am a quick walker.”
With a grieved look, he said, “I expected nothing less.”
They passed through the tiny village of Steventon, at perhaps a brisker pace than even Jane would usually set. Tom was surprised that there were no shops or inns.
“The nearest public house is in Deane. The post comes there, too,” Jane said. “But for our shopping we go to Basingstoke.”
“I’m used to having more choices for my entertainment.” Tom said.
“London is a feast of diversions,” Jane said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I miss home.”
“What is Limerick like?” Jane asked.
He beamed and began to talk. Jane had the sense that he was lonely in the city and had no one to tell his stories to. For the rest of their walk, he amused her with stories of his misadventures growing up and studying law at Trinity College in Dublin. “And now my uncle is supporting my application to the bar.”
“The beginning of a promising career,” Jane offered. As she knew from her brothers’ situations, gentlemen without fortune, however well educated, required patrons to ease their way into their professions.
Tom didn’t speak again for a long while. Jane was appreciative of someone who felt no need to talk if he had nothing to say. She found his company unexpectedly restful.
But when they arrived at the outskirts of Deane, she paused in front of the well-kept cottage where her brother lived. “Thank you for accompanying me. Your company has made the time pass very quickly, but I shall take my leave of you now.”
Just then, the door of the cottage swung open, and her brother ran out to Jane and hugged her tight. “George!” she cried.
In return, he smiled widely and mouthed “Jane.” His sisters were his favorites, in part because they had learned how to speak with their fingers to communicate with him. He could not hear, and that had affected his speech and his understanding. Although he was nearly eleven years older than Jane, his mentality was that of a child.
Over his shoulder, Jane saw a startled Tom step back. She hugged George back and using her hands to echo her spoken word, she said, “George, this is my . . . friend Tom.” She wasn’t sure whether Tom deserved the title of friend, but it was impossible to explain such nuances to George.
George waved and beamed at Tom. Jane watched, tense, waiting to see whether he might mock her brother’s disabilities.
Tom smiled at Jane and then turned to George. To her shock, Tom began to speak with his hands as well. He had his own way of communicating his words, but Jane recognized enough to understand that Tom was saying he was pleased to meet George and that he admired George’s sister greatly.
Practically bouncing up and down with excitement, George signed his welcome to Tom. Then he ran into the house, pausing at the door to beckon them inside.
“Is it because of George’s condition that you didn’t want me here?” Tom asked quietly.
“Yes,” Jane answered honestly. “I didn’t think you would understand or sympathize.”
“One of my sisters is deaf,” he said simply.
As Jane preceded him through the narrow doorway, she was thoughtful. Perhaps she had been too hasty when she had decided she thoroughly disliked Mr. Tom Lefroy.
CHAPTER 13
“I have had my doubts, I confess; but
they are fainter than they were, and they
may soon be entirely done away.”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
By the time Jane and Tom left the cottage, the scattered flurries had settled into a gently falling snow.
“I’ll come bac
k soon,” Jane promised George, her fingers fluttering rapidly in the air.
“If I may, I will visit again too,” Tom said.
George solemnly shook hands with Tom, but when he turned to Jane, he streaked his fingers down his face.
“Does that mean he’s sad?” Tom asked.
“Yes. Those are tears,” Jane said. She embraced her brother, letting him squeeze her tightly for as long as he wished. As they walked away, Jane glanced back to see him waving hard, and vowed to visit more often.
“What shall we do now? I believe there is an establishment that calls itself an inn in Deane. A cup of tea perhaps?” Tom asked brightly, as though they had planned to spend the day together.
“I have to get home,” Jane said.
Disregarding her refusal, he went on, “But now that we know each other better, it would be the perfect opportunity to tell me all about your mysterious noble cousin.”
Jane stared. Eliza’s situation had been so much on her mind that for a moment she thought he was referring to the Comte.
Tom noticed her confusion and, mistaking it for irritation, said, “Please, don’t let my curiosity about the fair Comtesse keep us from being friends. On second thought, we need not discuss her at all.”
Relieved, Jane quickly answered, “There is really little to say about my cousin that you don’t already know. I must go. My mother will be expecting me for breakfast.”
“That’s something I miss in London,” Tom confided. “In the country you can do a dozen things before breakfast.” He shifted on feet that were clearly sore. “We mustn’t keep your mother waiting. Let me escort you home.”
Thinking of Tom’s sore feet, Jane chuckled. “That will take you miles out of your way.” She pointed. “Ashe is due west. I am perfectly capable of walking back on my own.”
Before Tom could politely protest, a solution appeared on the road. Jane immediately recognized Jacques in the driver’s seat of Eliza’s carriage. “Good morning, Jacques,” she called.
He touched his cap, then his chest, reminding her of the odd gesture she had seen the Comte do on their first meeting. “Mademoiselle,” he said.
“Are you on an errand for my cousin?” she asked.
“I’ve just collected my mistress’s mail,” he answered. “Your mother asked me to collect the household’s, too.”
“I’ll take it,” Jane said, holding her hand up to him. She was expecting a letter from Cassandra.
Jacques scowled and hesitated.
“Is there something the matter?” she asked, wondering at his odd behavior.
“The lady asked for the post,” Tom said, his voice filled with peremptory command. He held out his gloved hand. Jacques stared down at him and reluctantly handed the mail over. But Jane caught a glimpse of the heavy paper with an official red seal that Jacques held back and tucked away in his coat.
In the small pile were several letters addressed to Eliza, prompting Jane to wonder which letter Jacques had held back if it wasn’t one for his mistress. Surely no one who could afford paper like that would be writing to a coachman.
Tom opened his mouth to reprimand Jacques, but Jane shook her head. Jacques was Eliza’s servant, not hers.
“Jacques, I will ride back to Steventon with you,” Jane announced. She turned to Tom. “If you go down this road, you’ll be in Ashe in twenty minutes. I am glad we had this opportunity to talk.”
“As am I, Jane.” A smile played across his lips. “My aunt told me that you were the only tolerable girl in the county. She was right.”
Jane shook her head in mock sadness. “Just as I was beginning to think you were an actual gentleman, you mock me. I must assure you Hampshire is full of young ladies far more tolerable than myself.”
“I doubt that very much.” With a cheeky grin, Tom bowed and held open the door to the carriage. “Good day, Miss Austen,” he said, speaking formally for the benefit of the servant’s ears.
“Good day, Mr. Lefroy,” she said.
As they headed back to the parsonage, Jane was quite relieved to have the carriage. She wouldn’t have admitted it to Tom Lefroy for a hundred pounds, but her toes felt frozen solid. She thought again of poor Tom in his city boots. Should she have offered him a ride? But it would have been so forward, and the carriage wasn’t even her own. Besides, she hadn’t invited him to walk with her to begin with!
She thumbed through the letters, pleased to see one from Cassandra. She ripped it open and scanned the contents quickly.
Cassandra had written a full page about the antics of their nieces and nephews but only a few lines about Edward and his surveillance of Eliza. “Our brother has frequent meetings with your mysterious Major Smythe,” Cassandra had written. “I gave the footman a shilling to tell me whenever he comes, and tried to overhear their conversations but was immediately discovered. Sister, I lack your ability to eavesdrop successfully.” Jane smiled at the thought of her forthright sister trying to listen at keyholes. “So unfortunately, I am none the wiser than I was before.” That was too bad, Jane thought. She had so much news to report—if only she dared write! Cassandra would be quite jealous.
Quite soon the carriage rumbled up the gravel path in front of the parsonage. Jacques leapt down and opened the carriage door for her.
“Thank you, Jacques,” she said, stepping down onto the drive. He waited for her to go inside, but she hesitated. How much did he know about Eliza’s affairs? In Jane’s experience the servants always knew everything.
“Do you remember that gesture I asked you about on the ride home from Godmersham?”
Jacques’ leathery face was impassive. “I cannot recall, mademoiselle.”
Jane frowned. “This.” She repeated the Comte’s salute, touching her forehead, then her lips. “Surely you remember?”
“Perhaps,” Jacques said, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above her head.
“Tell me, is that a French habit?”
He shrugged. “It is common in the Landes, where I am from.”
“So that is why you were surprised to see it?” she pressed.
“Oui. Why else, mademoiselle?” he asked. In vain, Jane searched his impassive face for any hint of his true feelings.
“I thought perhaps it was something your late master used to do,” she said. “It must have been quite a shock to lose him that way.”
He shot her a surprised glance, then a look of deep sadness passed across his face. “It was,” he answered flatly.
Eyes narrowed, Jane nodded and went inside. Jacques was keeping something secret, certainly, but she didn’t think he knew about the Comte’s miraculous resurrection. Otherwise, he would not be so grieved.
Jane handed her coat and gloves to Prudence and started for the parlor. She immediately saw that, despite the fire blazing merrily, the atmosphere in the house was as frigid as it was outside. Jane tried to back out of the room before she was noticed, but a preemptory call from her mother put an end to that plan.
“Where have you been, Jane?” Mrs. Austen’s eyes were full of relief. She was ensconced on her couch, mending the household linen, but Jane could easily see that all her mother’s attention was on the two feuding sons next to her.
“There you are, sister,” James said from the armchair in the corner. “As you can see, I arrived home safely even though my own relations abandoned me in Basingstoke.”
“James, stop whining. It ill becomes a man of the cloth to be so petty,” Henry said from his armchair close to the fire.
Injecting as much warmth into her voice as she could, Jane said, “James, when Eliza was feeling faint last night, I knew I could depend on you to make your own way home.”
“I don’t blame you, Jane,” James said, glaring at Henry. “You were merely trying to care for our cousin.”
Before Henry and James could start again, she said, “Excuse me, I left my book upstairs.”
“No you didn’t, dear,” her mother said. “It’s right here.”
Jane
wanted to pull out her hair. She had a genuine mystery to solve but instead she was trapped in the drawing room playing peacemaker. If only Eliza would wake up!
She moved to the pianoforte in the window bay overlooking the garden. She could see Jacques chopping wood. He was quite expert; his ax cleaved the wood with one blow. Idly watching him, she rearranged her sheets of music, all carefully copied from friends to save the cost of purchasing. She sighed at the snow coming down more heavily than before. There would be no visitors today. If Eliza planned to meet her husband, the weather would surely prevent such a rendezvous. Jane picked out a melody, enjoying the counterpoint with the thud of the axe outside.
Suddenly her attention was drawn by a glimpse of color and movement in the garden. She stopped playing to watch. A woman in a dark cloak was picking her way around the empty flower beds. Was it Eliza?
As Jane watched, the woman went to Jacques. The hood fell back onto the woman’s shoulders and Jane saw it wasn’t Eliza at all but Marie, her maid.
As Marie spoke, she gestured sharply with her hands. Jacques caught her wrist. Jane tensed, wondering whether Jacques meant her harm, but then she relaxed as Marie put her hand to Jacques’ cheek. She spoke rapidly, and he seemed to be appeased. He returned to his chopping while Marie disappeared into the woods.
Interesting, Jane thought. The intrigue around Eliza even extended to her servants.
“Are you going to play or just stare out the window?” Henry asked.
Jane glared at him. “Since you will nap regardless of what I do, I don’t see that it matters,” she retorted.
“Children, stop squabbling,” Mrs. Austen scolded without looking up from her mending. “Jane, just play.”
Jane selected a cheerful jig and started playing the pianoforte with enough energy, she hoped, to wake the dead.
“Jane, it’s early,” her mother called over the music. “A little less exuberance if you please.”
“A jig, I see. That Lefroy fellow is from Limerick, isn’t he?” Henry asked knowingly. “I don’t wonder that an Irish tune is your new favorite.”
“I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to,” Jane rejoined. “I don’t care sixpence for Mr. Lefroy!” She pushed herself away from the piano and stomped to the hall. Through the door to the kitchen she spied Prudence preparing a tray for the only member of the household still abed.
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