by Syrie James
The party all protested that they were too tired, and too full, to do any more walking than was necessary to reach the boat that was to carry us home.
“I would love to take one last stroll about the place,” said I, rising to my feet.
“Charles, be a sport and keep the other ladies company,” said Mr. Ashford, offering his arm to me.
Together we moved off across the lawn. Glancing back, I noticed a happy smile on Cassandra’s face, but a look passed between Maria and her husband which I could not identify; it puzzled me, and I felt a stab of guilt. “Perhaps it is rude for us to abandon the others,” I said hesitantly.
“Nonsense,” declared Mr. Ashford, as he drew me on towards the abbey. “If they want to lie about all afternoon, then let them. I want to take a look at that east window up close again.”
“There was an old ruin not far from Steventon Rectory, where I grew up,” I said, as we wandered through the abbey ruins. “It was nothing like this—just the remnants of a stone foundation with a few crumbling walls—but when I was very young, my brothers, Cassandra and I pretended it was a castle and played there for hours. We were knights of the Round Table and their ladies, or Robin Hood and his merry men.”
“And you were Maid Marian, I presume?”
“Oh no, that was Cassandra’s part. She was three years older and always the good and virtuous one, in play, as well as in real life. I was generally cast as the handmaiden, or the serving wench with a limp. Although on several occasions I remember playing Little John, which I was told I carried off with great distinction by adopting a booming voice and displaying a keen aptitude for archery.”
Mr. Ashford laughed. “Archery? I see you are a woman of many hidden talents.”
“I doubt I could hit the side of a barn with an arrow to-day. It was purely a childhood pursuit. Along with home theatricals, cricket, tree-climbing and sliding down stairs.”
“Sliding down stairs?”
“Did you never practise it yourself?” At the puzzled shake of his head, I explained, “It was one of our favourite games. My sister and I would sit upon a sturdy tablecloth at the top of the stairs, as if it were a magic carpet, and our brothers and my father’s pupils—my mother and father ran a boys’ school, you see, so there was always a houseful of noisy young men, clomping up and down the halls—they took hold of the corners of the cloth and pulled it down to the bottom. We always shrieked with laughter and every one ended in a heap.”
“It sounds as if you had a most agreeable childhood,” he said, with a wistful look.
“I did. And you? It must have been pleasant, growing up on a vast estate.”
Mr. Ashford hesitated before answering. “In truth, it was lonely. You were fortunate, to grow up in a happy household of noisy, active boys. I was an only child for many years. Charles was my only companion, and he lived many miles distant. When I look back on my childhood, it seems as if I spent all my time at lessons, studying Greek and Latin—or thinking of running away.”
“Running away?”
“I had this plan, you see. When I was fourteen I would steal away and join the navy.”
“I have two brothers, Frank and Charles, who are both commanders in the Royal Navy.”
“How proud you must be of them! That was my boyhood dream—to sail away on a great ship and see the world.” He shrugged ruefully. “But that was not to be. The heir to Pembroke Hall will never go to sea.”
“Surely, Mr. Ashford, you cannot regret the life you lead; you are destined for greater things.”
“Greater things? I do not look at it that way. I consider the navy a most noble profession.” He paused. “Please do not misunderstand me; I cherish my family’s land. I love my father and my sister dearly. The work of managing an estate is interesting and fulfilling, and I am most grateful for all I have. But at the same time, it is a duty, rather than a choice. I was born into a life that was prescribed for me since I first drew breath.”
“And you wish that you had been given more choices in life?”
“Does not every one? It is human nature, I believe, to want something different from that which we have, no matter how fortunate we are.” We had left the far end of the abbey now, and emerged into a grassy field leading to some woods. “Tell me, what did you dream of, as a girl?”
“A girl cannot dream of much beyond marriage and children.”
“A typical girl, yes. But you, I think, are far from typical.”
I smiled at that. “I did have a dream once, but—”
“But?”
I caught myself, stopped and shook my head. “It was nothing, it is too ridiculous.”
“No dream is too ridiculous.”
“This one is. I gave it up long ago. Please. Let us talk of something else.”
“After I have bared my soul to you? Admitted that I wanted to give up my inheritance, and run away and join the navy? Surely nothing you would say could be more ridiculous than that.” When I did not respond, he said, “Let me guess: you wanted to be—a strong man in a circus?”
“There! You have guessed it,” I replied, laughing.
“A commissioned officer in Her Majesty’s Royal Dragoons?”
I laughed again. “Without my uttering a word, you know my deepest, darkest secrets.”
“Seriously now. All your life, you dreamed of becoming—let me see—a magistrate?”
“Impossible.”
“A physician?”
“A female physician? Are you mad?”
“You could be the first.”
“I have not the aptitude, nor the patience.”
“An actress upon the stage?”
“Never.”
“A renowned novelist?”
His guess caught me unprepared; my smile froze on my face, and I looked away, lapsing into awkward silence.
“Is that it?” I felt his eyes on me, searching my face. “A novelist?” To my mortification, a laugh escaped his lips. I felt my cheeks grow hot. I turned, gathered up my skirts and darted away.
“Miss Austen! Wait!” I heard his chagrined voice and quick steps behind me as I hurried across the field, into the woods.
“Stop,” cried he. “Please. Forgive me! I did not mean—”
He was fleet of foot, but so was I; although my stays prevented me from achieving the full potential of my exertion, I managed to elude him as I darted into the cover of the trees; but after a short distance, upon reaching a large pond edged with undergrowth and overhung by leafless, flourishing oaks, I had to pause to catch my breath. Mr. Ashford darted around and in front of me and stopped.
“My word, you can run!” said he, struggling between every word to breathe. “Please hear me out. I think you misunderstood me. I meant no disrespect.”
“Is that so?” I replied, in a heated tone. “Your laugh implies otherwise. It was that laugh, that very reaction, that I have, all my life, sought to avoid.”
“I am sorry. But I assure you it was not a derisive laugh. It was a laugh of recognition, and of unqualified delight. Surely you agree with Dr. Johnson, that to write, ‘To be able to furnish pleasure that is harmless pleasure, pure and unalloyed, is as great a power as man can possess.”26
I knew the quotation; it was one I had often cited myself. The sincerity and admiration in his voice was unmistakeable, and the mortification in my breast began to dissipate.
“Having heard your talent from your own lips not half an hour past, it should have been my first guess,” said he. “Tell me, what do you write?”
“Nothing of importance.”
“And how long have you been writing nothing of importance?”
I hesitated. He had a way about him—the kindness in his eyes, the directness of his gaze, the deep tone of his voice, which harboured both sensitivity and gentle amusement at the same time—that made me feel as if I could tell him any thing. But very few people knew that my efforts with a pen had been directed at any thing but the writing of letters. “I would rather not
discuss it.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because writing is not considered a respectable female occupation. Because I do not welcome ridicule, or censure, or the scorn that accompanies failure.”
“What about the admiration that accompanies success?”
“I have the approval of my family. It is enough.”
He sat down upon a large fallen log not far from the pond’s edge. “I do not believe you. If you write, you must crave to share the fruits of your creation with the world.”
Once more, I felt heat rise to my cheeks and looked away. I felt as if he could see through my countenance, to glimpse those thoughts and feelings which lay buried in the private depths of my very soul. I had, indeed, always written for the pure enjoyment of the endeavour, and for a love of language; I had never sought nor expected fame. But as a woman without income, dependent on the support of others, I also had to be practical. Some kind of financial remuneration for my efforts would be most welcome; and to be published—to see my work in print, for others to read—that would indeed be a dream come true!
“I would venture to guess,” said he, “that you have been writing ever since you played that serving wench with a limp, with her brothers in the wood—and it is that occupation which gives you more joy than any other thing.”
I could not lie to him, or to myself, any longer. “Yes. I have.” I sat beside him with a sigh. “But it has all come to naught. I am too unworldly, too ignorant.”
“Nonsense. You are the most well read person of my acquaintance, man or woman. And you have the most vivid imagination of any one I have ever met. Tell me,” he prodded gently. “What have you written? Stories? Plays? Essays?”
“Some of each, in my youth. And since then—”
“And since then, what?”
“My journals. The occasional poem. Several short works. And—three novels.”
“Three novels!” He could not have looked more astonished, had I told him that I had swum the Channel to France and back. “Three novels!” he repeated. “I would think it a great triumph to have written one book, but three! You leave me speechless. What are they about?”
“The subjects I know best: the trivialities and domestic lives of families in small country villages; kindled romances, hearts joined or broken, love and friendship, follies exposed, lessons learned.”
“They sound charming. What has become of them?”
“Not a thing. They are youthful efforts, wanting, in need of alteration.”
“Then alter them. What are you waiting for?”
“My life has not been my own since I left Steventon, Mr. Ashford,” I said indignantly. “Writing is not an occupation which is easily picked up and accomplished on a whim.”
He went quiet for a moment, and then said, “I am not a writer, I admit. But in my experience, I have found that there is never a perfect time or place for any thing. We can always find a reason to put off that which we aspire to do, or fear to do, until tomorrow, next week, next month, next year—until, in the end, we never accomplish any thing at all.”
His words shocked me. I stood and walked some little distance away, feeling all at once a little ashamed. Had it indeed been fear that had prevented me from indulging in my most beloved pursuit for so many years, and that was holding me back from it even now?
“I am sorry,” said he, crossing to where I stood, “if I have spoken too openly or harshly; I only wished to share my own observations on the matter.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” said I at last. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I have been finding excuses not to write. And I do not wish to make further excuse now, but—even if I were to write my books afresh, and address all those faults which concern me, where would I send them? I know not a single person in the literary world. No one.”
“What does that matter? In the end, talent will win out. Do you want to be a published novelist?”
“It is all I have ever wanted.”
His eyes locked with mine, as a sudden breeze stirred the branches of the trees above us.
“Then a published novelist is what you shall be, Miss Jane Austen.”
Chapter Eleven
That night, when I was certain that Cassandra was asleep, I lit a candle, drew a shawl about my shoulders, and, as silently as I could, pulled out my writing-box from beneath my bed and rummaged quietly through the precious manuscripts within, regarding each one with affection.
Some, I believed, were superior in content; one or two were no good at all; others (the three volumes of my juvenilia, painstakingly reproduced into copy-books, complete with title-pages, to appear like a published work) were merely silly, girlish efforts; and my journals had no value other than the nostalgic pleasure they afforded me. Yet they all felt like my children in one way or another, for I had given birth to them, and spent a significant portion of my life with them.
“A published novelist is what you shall be, Miss Jane Austen,” Mr. Ashford had said. I was filled with both excitement and trepidation at the thought. For many long years, I had abandoned my dearest pursuit, convinced that my circumstances were not amenable to writing, and that the work was, after all, to no purpose. All at once I understood that this very attitude had been at the root of my misery, and I knew, without question, that I could not waste another moment.
I must write again, no matter what the consequences.
Which book to work on? That was the question. I set aside The Watsons, a novel I had begun while living at Bath, and had no wish to return to, and Lady Susan, a brief epistolary novel from my youth, which I had recopied. I barely glanced at Susan, which Crosby & Co. still possessed.
I considered, for a moment, First Impressions, the novel which was perhaps dearest to my heart. I knew it was desperately in need of contraction. It suffered from a rather stagnant segment at the end of the second volume, in which Lizzy (some months after receiving Mr. Darcy’s letter) returned to Kent, to visit her aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner; and I was particularly troubled by a sequence in which Mr. Darcy invited Lizzy to tea at his estate at Eastham Park, in Kent.
No, I was not ready, I felt, to tackle that tome just yet, not until I had arrived at a satisfactory conclusion as to how to remedy the evils.
I turned my eyes instead to the manuscript at the bottom of the trunk: a novel I had titled Sense and Sensibility. That endeavour—to adapt an earlier, epistolary work called Elinor and Marianne—had proved very problematical; but I liked the characters, and believed the concept of the book yet had merit. All at once, an idea sprang to mind, a way in which I might improve the book with a radically new beginning.
With a rapidly beating heart, I retrieved the first part of Sense and Sensibility, replaced the box beneath my bed, and stole from the room.
The first light of dawn had begun to make its presence known beneath the fringe of the drawing-room drapes, when I heard the door creak open and my sister appeared, sleepy-eyed, carrying a candle. My own candle, I noticed, of a sudden, had burned down to its nub, and the fire in the grate was nearly out; how long I had been working in the frigid near darkness, I could not be certain.
“Jane? Are you all right?” said Cassandra softly. “What are you doing? It is freezing in here.” She added more coal to the grate, then drew open the curtains, flooding the room with early-morning light. Taking sudden notice of the quill in my hand, my ink-stained fingers, and the stack of completed pages lying on my desk before me, she gasped with delight. “Oh! Jane! What are you writing?”
I quickly finished the sentence I was scribbling, and said, “A brand-new version of a very old book.”
“Which book?”
“Sense and Sensibility. I have written a completely new beginning.”
“What was wrong with the old beginning?”
“Everything.” I set down my quill and dried my fingers on a scrap of cloth. “The Digweed sisters lived in ease and comfort with both their parents in a country village, and Elinor met Edward Ferrars
at a ball.”
“What is wrong with that? As I recall, your description of Edward at the ball was most amusing.”
“Well, I have thrown all that out. It was too similar to the opening of First Impressions, and there was no immediacy to it. Elinor and Marianne were simply two sisters with dramatically opposing views, but they had no particular troubles or cares. Their lives were in good order, so we did not worry about them. My new beginning, I hope, is vastly superior, as it immediately throws them into drastic circumstances. Their father dies, you see, and they and their mother and younger sister are forced to leave the home they love to their older brother. They have nowhere to go, and very little income.”
Cassandra stared at me. “How very familiar that sounds.”
I felt a blush sweep over my countenance. “Yes. Well. It is a little based on what has happened to us. Since Marianne is such a feeling person, it seemed only right to tap the depth of pain I experienced when we left Steventon, and when papa passed away.”
“What a good notion. To write of what you yourself have felt can only enhance your work, I should think.”
“That is my hope.” I gathered up my new pages and thrust them at her. “Here. Read it for yourself, while I continue to work. I have finished the first chapter, and am making excellent progress with the second.”
“You must have been up all night!” she admonished.
“And I will not sleep a wink, until I hear your thoughts.”
Cassandra sighed, smiling all the while, and took a seat beside me. “You know I have never been able to resist your writing, Jane. I will take a look.”
Cassandra loved what I had written. Encouraged, I took a brief nap, awakening shortly before Mr. Ashford called, as promised, that afternoon.
I was very pleased to see him, and told him so. That I looked forward to continuing our acquaintance, was a fact; that I had felt happier, more engaged, and lighter of heart in his company than I had with any other man of my acquaintance, I could not deny; but at that moment, my head ached from two consecutive nights of little sleep, and it was only with the greatest degree of difficulty that I managed to stifle a continual urge to yawn.
