by Syrie James
Having delivered this speech, he urged his horse forward and rode off down the road. I watched him go, my ire rising with every beat of the animal’s hooves.
The next morning, I was still so angry with Edward Taylor that I did not speak to him at breakfast or after church, and I avoided him whenever I saw him during our play rehearsals throughout the day. I went over our conversation many times in my mind, and although I could not really find fault with any of his arguments, it yet irked me that he had so vociferously defended his actions, and seemed unable to admit to any real culpability in the affair.
“Is it possible,” said I to my sister, “to be very, very angry with someone, yet love them at the same time?”
“Of course,” replied she. “I believe we both feel that way about our mother every single day.”
About an hour before dinner, I was pacing on my own in the privacy of the central walled garden, practising my lines aloud to the shrubbery and the flowers in the warmth of a calm summer afternoon, when Edward Taylor suddenly appeared. He crossed to where I stood, carrying something wrapped in brown paper, which I thought might be a very thin book.
“Miss Jane.”
I stopped and glanced up at him, not entirely thrilled to see him; but there was a look of genuine apology in his dark eyes.
“I wanted you to know that I feel bad about what happened yesterday.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I have been thinking about it. You called me reckless—”
“And so you were,” snapped I.
“And so I was,” admitted he. “I could not bring myself to say so at the time. But you were right. And you were equally perceptive in your suspicion that my father does not approve of such behaviour. It is the reason I am here in England.”
“Oh?” said I, surprised.
“Few people know this, but earlier this spring he caught me challenging my brothers to do something he considered reckless, and it so angered him—that, combined with my gambling debts, which had increased to such a level—let us just say that my father was fed up with me. He sent me home to ‘remove my brothers from my bad influence,’ as he put it, and to force me to ‘confront and think about my future.’”
I paused upon hearing this, somewhat troubled. I was not blind—I knew that Mr. Taylor had a propensity to speculate—but I had never considered that it might have ever proved to be a serious problem. “Thank you for sharing that. It helps explain your antipathy towards your father, which I wondered at—but it in no way excuses it. And as for gambling—”
“I am not perfect, Miss Jane, but I try to learn from my mistakes. I have mended my ways: I now indulge in nothing more than the occasional, impulsive wager—” (colouring slightly) “as you have witnessed—or a friendly card or dice game, with stakes so low as to impoverish nobody.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“In all other respects, I aim to be a better man in future. I can only say that I am very sorry I ended up endangering your brother’s well-being yesterday, and I hope and pray that you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”
The sincerity and contrition in his gaze was so appealing, as to begin wearing away at the core of my anger. “Well. I will try.”
“I would like to say one thing, however, in my defense.”
“What is that, pray tell?”
“There are three instances, I believe, when it is acceptable to be reckless and daring; nay, not just acceptable, but imperative: one, when one’s life or the life of one we love is in danger; two, when one’s own reputation is in danger; and three, when following one’s passion. In the first two, such action is worth any risk; in the latter, the fastest or safest route does not always lead to happiness, nor rarely to achievement.”
I considered his comment, but found that I could make no rebuttal.
“Pray allow me to add,” continued he, “where passion and achievement are concerned, I could not stop thinking about what you said yesterday. You said you like to write.”
This unexpected transition to a topic concerning myself took me off guard. “I am fond of writing, Mr. Taylor. You might say I am addicted to it. But—”
“According to your sister, you are also very good at it.”
“She cannot be impartial.”
“Perhaps not; but she claimed that your family is entertained when you read from your work. I am predisposed to believe her. I have engaged in enough conversations with you to appreciate your intellect and wit. Having heard you perform Puck, I can attest to your skills as an actress; you have a talent for achieving just the right pitch, tone, and nuance, to carry a point to its most humorous conclusion. I imagine that anything you write would be equally as entertaining on the page. With that in mind—(and after yesterday, at the very real risk of offending you)—I thought I would dare to offer you a challenge of sorts, which I promise is not remotely life-threatening.”
“A challenge, Mr. Taylor? Forgive me; I do not have the pleasure of understanding you.”
“I requisitioned this from Sir Brook; but suspecting that you would prefer to keep the matter private, I promise you I did not breathe a word about its purpose.”
He offered me the object in his hands. I took it; immediately I understood what it contained. “A packet of writing-paper?”
He nodded. “I challenge you to write a story—and I sincerely hope that you will let me read it.”
“Oh! No—never!” My face turned scarlet. “I told you, what I write is of no real interest or value; it is only silly, romantic nonsense.”
“Silly, romantic nonsense is very popular. Witness: A Midsummer Night’s Dream. No sillier, more hilarious bit of fluff and nonsense has ever been penned by human hand, yet it is considered a classic work by a brilliant artist, and endlessly performed.”
“I am hardly Shakespeare, Mr. Taylor—as my own mother continually reminds me! What I write can never be considered brilliant or a classic, no matter how enthusiastically my sister might promote it.” I tried to return the packet of paper to him, but he refused to take it. “You have read the works of all the greatest writers in history! I would die of shame to think of you reading anything I have written. It is not worthy.”
“Then write something new and different,” insisted he emphatically, as he turned to go, “something which you think is worthy.”
All through dinner my thoughts were full of Edward Taylor, and they ran in two divergent channels.
One: I found I could not remain angry with him any longer. He was so very, very charming; he had such a way with words; he had proved himself to be so genuinely sorry for what he had done, that both my heart and mind had already exonerated him. All those feelings which had built up since we met were now restored to their former glory: I could not hate Edward Taylor; no, never; I could only admire and love him.
Two: he had issued me a new, personal challenge which I could not ignore.
I had written nothing since leaving Steventon other than letters to Martha, my father, and my brothers; nor had I expected to. Since arriving at Goodnestone, I had had very little private time; over the past week in particular, since rehearsals for our play had begun, I had been so occupied every minute, that I had not given pleasure-writing a thought. However, at that moment, I could think of little else. Edward Taylor’s praise was enough to make anyone blush; I knew I did not have so much potential as he seemed to suggest; yet, he had been so very encouraging!
I had, in the past, always written because I felt compelled to do so, even though I could not quite explain why. Perhaps my love of writing was influenced by my deep love of reading; when stories came unbidden to my mind, I could not prevent myself from writing them down. Or perhaps I should blame my predilection on my family. My work made them laugh! The very notion that the ideas, characters, and scenes which had originated in my own mind could be communicated to them through chosen wo
rds, particularly arranged, and transmitted either aloud or on paper, was such a joyful, infectious, and powerful enterprise, that it remained unmatched in my experience by any other endeavour.
I was, of a sudden, filled with a kind of quiet but hesitant confidence, which rekindled my desire to write.
It had been a long and active day. We were now seeing the result of the play rehearsals which had, for more than a week, been taking place all over the house; for the acts were being run through together in sequence. I knew I ought to be very tired and predisposed to retire early; but now, my strong inclination to go upstairs and sequester myself had a very different purpose in mind. I felt the urgent need to pick up a pen and to let my ideas and thoughts flow forth, whatever those thoughts might be!
This craving could not be assuaged with any immediacy, for there was dinner to get through; and after we ladies removed to the library, I did not wish to be rude and leave before the men arrived. As we all sat at our needlework (making fabric leaves and flowers for the fairy costumes), I could pay little heed to anything the ladies were saying; the sea of faces around me were but a blur, my thoughts consumed with some unseen force which was compelling me to write, write, write!
What should I write, however? It was a matter of some concern. At times, I wrote because an amusing notion occurred to me; at other times, I had no idea what I should compose until the moment I sat down, sharpened my nib, and allowed my fancy to take me wherever it might wander. I was in the latter position now, with no particular subject in mind—only an overwhelming compulsion to satisfy.
I was brought out of my reverie upon perceiving the following conversation between Fanny and her two eldest sisters, who sat close by:
“I declare, I will not marry him! He can never make me happy.”
“Perhaps not, but his fortune, his name, and his house will.”
“Elizabeth! Be serious!”
“I am being serious. I am only repeating what you have said to me any number of times.”
“You were happy enough at the thought of marrying Mr. Cage a fortnight ago,” said Sophia gently. “What is your complaint? What is different now?”
“He is different. He has been in a bad temper all week.”
“Mr. Cage is a serious man, but a good man,” answered Sophia. “I never considered him to be ill-tempered.”
“But he is; or he has been, ever since we started practising the play. Mr. Deedes has been ever so much nicer to me. He, too, has a very big house—three houses in fact! I am sure he will bestow on his wife just as many gowns and jewels as Mr. Cage has promised, and no doubt a new carriage as well. How can I live with a man who is always complaining and finding fault with everything I say and do? I should certainly never behave so to anyone myself.”
“I am sure you would not do so intentionally,” said Sophia, shaking her head.
“Regarding Mr. Cage’s display of temper,” commented Elizabeth, “have you considered that it may have been brought on by the anxiety of acting, as well as his concern for your performance in such an open display? I have heard him say numerous times that he did not wish to be involved in our theatrical.”
“And yet, look with what relish he has thrown himself into his part!”
“I admit that I feel a bit—awkward—acting with Mr. Cage,” said Sophia, blushing deeply, “knowing him to be your intended. It cannot be easy for him to see you acting in romantic scenes with Mr. Deedes.”
“Why should that bother Mr. Cage? It is only acting,” replied Fanny indifferently; but a puzzled expression took over her face, and she added slowly, “At least, it is acting on my part—I presume it is so for him, as well.”
At this interesting juncture, Lady Bridges joined her daughters and asked of what they were speaking.
“We are talking about Mr. Cage,” said Sophia.
“Fanny wonders if she can be truly happy with him.” Elizabeth sighed.
Lady Bridges also sighed and sat down. “Are we to go over this yet again? I declare, Fanny, I do not understand you. You accepted him. It is all settled. I like Mr. Cage, and have commended your choice from the start.”
“Perhaps I made the choice too quickly,” said Fanny petulantly.
“Perhaps you did.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “We all know why you took him with such expediency, Fanny.”
“What do you mean?” cried Fanny.
“You barely knew him a month; yet a week after my engagement was announced, you were announcing yours. You could not stand the idea of my being wed before you.”
Fanny coloured. “That is not true!”
“Yes it is! If you now regret your choice, you have no one to blame but yourself!”
“Girls!” cried Lady Bridges in a serious, subdued tone. “Lower your voices. Do not argue. It matters not how long Fanny knew Mr. Cage before she accepted him. Some of the best and happiest unions have been decided in a far shorter time than theirs; a long engagement is the key.”
“I am sure you will be very happy,” insisted Sophia. “Mr. Cage is a kind man, and warm of heart.”
“Mr. Deedes is kind and warm of heart,” said Fanny. “I thought Mr. Cage was; but I have seen little evidence of it of late.”
“He is open; he is frank,” insisted Sophia.
“Too frank at times,” replied Fanny.
“He dresses well and has a genteel figure,” commented Elizabeth.
“Mr. Deedes is similar in that respect.”
“Why are we talking of Mr. Deedes?” cried Lady Bridges. “Let us consider only his friend!”
“Mr. Cage is generous,” said Sophia.
“Generous! Mr. Cage is stingy. He will not give me a new carriage when we are wed.”
“He already has two carriages,” said Lady Bridges, “both elegant and very new. Choose your battles, my dearest Fanny. Save your negotiations for the pin-money. His income is good: much can be done on three thousand a year.”
“What is three thousand a year? I have met men with more.”
“Fanny: I am determined that Mr. Cage will go no farther than our own family for a wife. If you will not have him, then Sophia must; he has always been kind to her, and I think he could like her.”
Sophia’s countenance went scarlet.
Lady Bridges patted Fanny on the knee, and smiling slyly, added: “If Sophia will not have him, then perhaps he will think of Marianne.” She ended the conversation by abruptly standing and walking away, leaving Elizabeth laughing, and Sophia and Fanny looking very uncomfortable.
As for myself, I was experiencing a very different kind of emotion than either of the three sisters. While listening to this discussion, a shiver had begun to dance up my spine; and I now found myself filled with excitement for two reasons. Firstly: it appeared that my scheme was working: Fanny was beginning to like Mr. Deedes—and Sophia clearly liked Mr. Cage! If all continued to go in this vein, then the couples who I had predicted as so ideally suited to each other, could very well be connected by the end of the week! Secondly: the dilemma which had been weighing on my mind all evening, had just been resolved in the most expedient manner. All at once, I knew exactly what I wanted to write about!
With delight I leapt to my feet, nearly dropping my needlework, and alarming all those seated within my proximity. I suppose the look on my countenance must have been very odd, as four ladies in unison, including my sister, inquired as to whether I was ill.
“No—I am only fatigued,” replied I.
I bid all the ladies a hasty good-night, explaining that I wished to retire. Taking a candle, I hurried up the grand staircase, a dozen thoughts buzzing inside my brain.
The opinions and attitudes which the Bridges sisters and their mother had just expressed were so very interesting; I knew they could be fodder for a droll and comical story! It would be a story, I decided, about three sisters, one of whom was extr
emely materialistic and undecided about her matrimonial prospects. I could write it in my favourite style—as a series of letters from the sisters to one of their friends. All my prior stories to date were mainly comic, but this one, I decided, would combine humour and reality; it would emphasize the ridiculous, without being entirely absurd.
Already, ideas were forming themselves into complete sentences in my brain. I could hardly wait to set them down in ink.
Once in the privacy of my chamber, I took out the paper Edward Taylor had given me, folded it to my preferred size, assembled my writing materials, sat down at the little desk, and with enthusiasm began to write:
The Three Sisters
A NOVEL
Letter 1st
MISS STANHOPE TO MRS.—
MY DEAR FANNY
I am the happiest creature in the World, for I have received an offer of marriage from Mr. Watts . . .
Chapter the Twenty-sixth
I was still writing an hour later when Cassandra joined me.
“Jane: I thought you were going to bed.”
“Forgive me for misleading you; I only said I wished to retire. In truth, I had an idea for a story.”
Cassandra smiled. “So I see.”
Cassandra knew better than to talk to me while I was writing, and she undressed in silence. I kept working, although my mind soon began to grow a bit cloudy, and I could not prevent a yawn. In my eagerness to compose my next sentence, I pressed the nib too hard, splashing a great blot of ink across the page.
“Oh bother!”
A gentle hand descended on my shoulder.
“Dearest, I can see how engrossed you are; but we are both tired. Will you come to bed?”
Reluctantly I nodded, yawning again as I cleaned my pen and my fingers. But even though I was exhausted, long after I had climbed beneath the counterpane and blown out the candle, the characters in my story continued to carry on conversations in my mind, both tantalizing me and frustrating me, as I struggled to fall asleep.
