by Nancy Moser
Just Jane
A Novel of Jane Austen’s Life
Nancy Moser
Published by eChristian, Inc.
Escondido, California
Contents
Front Matter
Cast of Characters
Intimate Connections
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Deepest Affliction
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Humble Hope
Sixteen
Seventeen
Extraordinary Endowments
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Postscript
What Happened Next?
Dear Reader
What Is Fact and What Is Fiction in Just Jane?
Discussion Questions for Just Jane
Copyright
Front Matter
To my two granddaughters, Lillian and Evelyn.
The world is yours, my darlings.
Find the joy in being just Lillian and just Evelyn.
Cast of Characters
Austen Parents
GEORGE: Born 1731. Pastor of Steventon Parrish in Hampshire.
CASSANDRA: Born 1739. Cassandra Leigh.
The Austen Children
JAMES: Born 1765. Pastor of Steventon Parrish. Married to Anne Matthews. One child, Anna. Later married Mary Lloyd. Two children: James Edward and Caroline.
GEORGE: Born 1766. Mentally unwell. Sent to live away from home.
EDWARD: Born 1767. Landed gentleman. When he was twelve he was sent to live as the son of a rich, childless couple from Kent, Thomas and Catherine Knight. Upon his adoptive parents’ deaths, he took the name of Knight and inherited a vast fortune at Godmersham and Chawton. Married Elizabeth Bridges. Eleven children: Fanny, Edward, George, Henry, William, Elizabeth, Marianne, Charles, Louisa, Cassandra Jane, Brook John.
HENRY: Born 1771. Soldier, banker, eventually pastor. Married to Eliza de Feuillide. No children (although Eliza had a son, Hastings, by her first marriage). Later married Eleanor Jackson. No children.
CASSANDRA: Born 1773. Devoted sister to Jane—Jane’s muse.
FRANK: Born 1774. Admiral in British Navy. Married Mary Gibson. Seven children. Later married Martha Lloyd. No children.
JANE: Born 1775. World-renowned novelist.
CHARLES: Born 1779. Admiral in British Navy. Married Frances Palmer. Four children: Cassandra, Harriet, Frances, Elizabeth. Later married Harriet Palmer (sister of first wife, Frances). Four children: Charles, George, Jane, Henry.
Other Relatives/Friends
ANNE LEFROY: Aunt of Jane’s early love interest, Tom Lefroy. Although twenty-six years older than Jane, the two women were very close.
CATHERINE, ALETHEA, and ELIZABETH BIGG-WITHER: Older sisters of Harris Bigg-Wither of the Manydown estate in Hampshire. Bosom friends.
MARTHA LLOYD: Sister of James’s wife, Mary. Martha lived with Jane, Cassandra, and Mother Austen for many years. She married Frank Austen late in life. No children.
UNCLE PERROT: James Leigh-Perrot. Brother of Mother Austen. Lived in Bath and in Berkshire. Loyal husband of Jane Cholmeley.
AUNT PERROT: Jane Cholmeley, eccentric, socialite wife of Uncle Perrot. Lived in Bath and in Berkshire. No children. James Austen (Jane’s brother) was their heir.
Intimate Connections
One
It is a true thing everyone knows that—
I scratch out the words, dip my pen into the well of ink, and try again. It’s not the first time I’ve scribbled and scratched, obliterating one word or phrase while searching for another. I long for the correct word, the indisputable one-and-only connection of words that will capture the essence of my intention. Yet these unfound words tease me by hiding in the shadows of my mind, just out of reach, being naughty and bothersome and—
Aha!
I quickly put pen to paper, eager to capture the phrase before it returns to hiding: It is a truth universally acknowledged . . . Yes, yes, that is the phrase that’s eluded me. I dip the pen again, finally ready to complete the part of the sentence that has never been in question.
. . . that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
I sit back in my chair, feeling absurdly prideful that I’ve completed this one line. And yet, it’s an important line. The first line of a book. Actually, it’s not a book yet. Would it ever by chance be a book?
I peer out the window of the rectory. My mother is bent over her beloved garden, plucking weeds from her asters and lavender hydrangea. I should go help her.
But I don’t want to. Mine is not a penchant for plantings and pinchings, but for pronouns and prepositions.
Mother stands and arches her back. I suffer her moan without hearing it. She looks in my direction and I offer a wave, which she returns. A lesser—or would it be grander?—mother would observe the gaze of a child who possesses two able hands, and immediately summon her outside to assist with the work. But my dear mother (and father too), in spite of having no necessity to do so, condone and even encourage my writing. That it will never amount to anything, that the eyes of family will be the only eyes that will fall upon my carefully chosen “truth universally acknowledged” is also recognized and accepted, yet ignored as unimportant.
“Express yourself, dear child,” has always been an invocation in the Austen household, and my sister, Cassandra (two years my elder), and my six brothers (all but one older than I) have always been eager to embrace the unspoken possibilities enmeshed within our parents’ appeal. We do our best to be who we might be—in all our grace, geniality, and glib foolery. That some are more glib and fool than graceful and genial is also not considered a complete disgrace. A person content to be bland will never be anyone’s first choice as a companion for an idle afternoon.
Mother goes back to work, releasing me from any hint of guilt. I return to my rich gentleman in want of a wife. If only it were true. We Englishwomen of 1795 have no recourse but to assume it is so. Pray it is so. For how else will we ever prosper? Cassandra and I often huddle together in our shared bed, whispering in the darkness about the inequities of inheritance. How unfair that only the male of the species is permitted to inherit. Alas, the females of our world—if they don’t find themselves a willing rich man—are bequeathed a life of obligation, forever beholden to the kind heart of some charitable relative to provide a roof that does not leak, a fireplace that does not smoke, and a meal that might occasionally contain meat. Such is our lot if we don’t marry well.
I myself can say with some measure of pride that at age twenty, I have prospects. Or at least one prospect. And after all, a woman only needs but one if he be the right one. His name is Tom Lefroy. He is a charming Irishman, the nephew of a neighbour I saw at a ball last Christmas. His eyes are as blue as the Hampshire sky . . . .
We danced every dance. When he took my hand to instigate a cross, rather than merely letting my hand sit gently upon his own, he squeezed it with subtle meaning. And when we slid by, one past the other, shoulder passing shoulder, we didn’t look straight ahead, as others with less intent would do, but turned our heads inward, our chins glancing upon our shoulders as our eyes glanced upon each other. With but a
n instant for conversation, we resorted to single words, words full of teasing. And entreaty.
“Beautiful,” he whispered as his shoulder skimmed mine.
“Rascal,” was my reply next pass.
“Determined.” He offered a wink.
“Ambitious.”
The dance proceeded to other movements, silencing our verbal banter. Two dozen couples rose up on their toes, then lowered themselves to just height as they swept up and back, not one step missed, all ably immersed in the elegance of a common sway and parry.
To others it may have been a lark, an amusement on a cold December evening, but for Tom and me it was a sparring, a deliberate caracole, turning, ever turning toward each other and away, despairing of steps that forced time and space between us. I became heady with the sustained implication, as well as the anticipation of more.
But suddenly, as one dance ended and the musicians began the prelude for another, Tom took my hand and said, “Let’s hide away.”
He pulled me into the foyer, to a bench leaning back against the wall of the mighty staircase but slightly hidden by a tall stand set with a porcelain urn. We fell onto the seat, a jumble of conspiracy, motion, and laughter.
“There,” he said, setting himself aright. “Now I have you where I want you.”
Before I had time to respond, he leaned forward and kissed me . . . .
I put my fingers to my lips, hoping their light pressure will help me remember the one and only . . . .
I admit that Tom and I behaved in a most shocking manner, dancing with no thought or eyes to another, sitting down together, head to head, knee to knee, discussing Tom Jones, and laughing in a way that caused many a matronly stare. That we didn’t care was shameless. Yet I would not change one moment of our time—which was too fleeting.
Before the third ball, I visited the Lefroy home in Ashe on the auspices of visiting Tom’s aunt Anne, a dear friend. Of course, I had hoped to see Tom . . . just to see him would have fed and sustained me, like partaking in one meal, all the while knowing there will be another.
But Tom had fled the house—as if avoiding me? And though I enjoyed my visit with Anne, it didn’t hold the delicious delicacies I’d expected. I now hold on to the hope that Tom was truly called away. Or did he flee because his family teased him about our attraction? Families can be relentless and cruel even as they try to be delightful.
The next day, my feast was complete, as Tom came to call. The presence of his little cousin George was not the ideal—and was a surprise I didn’t quite understand—but I was so pleased to partake of Tom’s company that I told myself I didn’t mind. And yet . . . I sigh when I allow myself to imagine the meeting I would have desired versus the one that transpired with a thirteen-year-old chaperon who talked about nonsense when I wanted to talk about . . . other things of far more import.
When a fourth ball was planned at Ashe, I held hopes that it was called to honour our upcoming match. In my anticipation I prepared many sets of dialogue that revealed how I would have the evening play out. Tom and I would return to our own special corner behind the urn. As he made his intentions known, he would combine his wit and charm with an eloquence that would impress me to such a degree that I would find myself willing to marry him just in hopes of hearing such eloquence again. And again.
Ah, the burdens of imagination . . . when the evening didn’t play out according to my carefully created dialogue and staging, my disappointment grew to such an extent that others asked of my infirmity. I found a quiet hall and gave myself a good talking to, faulting myself, chiding myself . . . . For in spite of my intense wishes, it’s a known fact that people are not characters in a story, bidden by my whim to act and be according to how I wish them to act and be.
A few days after this fourth ball, dear Tom was sent away to London to continue his law studies. He had spoken of them, so I was not surprised. Not completely surprised. He had also spoken of the pressures of being the oldest male of his generation. His father had married for love and lost his inheritance and, as such, had no fortune to pass along. But Tom’s great-uncle Benjamin in London . . . ah, there is the fortune he needs to cultivate. It’s the prudent thing to do for Tom’s future—and mine. It’s not unusual for the responsibilities and expectations of his gender to take precedent over the needs and desires of a young female with aspiring plans of her own. One’s future must be nurtured and finalized to the best of one’s ability, in fate’s time, not ours.
Yet even with my dashed expectations at the final ball, and my disappointment in Tom’s leaving, I take heart in knowing that our initial banter had grown to include some measure of substance. Enough substance that a future together is more than just a girlish inkling or a plot in a story.
And my expectations are recognized beyond my own hopeful wishes. My brother Henry’s friend, who was here to visit over Christmas, presented me with a portrait of Tom, drawn by his own hand, assuming, of course, that I would delight in it. Which I do. I hold on to that portrait, as it is the only Tom I’ve seen during these ten long months he has been gone. I expect him to visit our home in Steventon soon, with the proposition to share our future forthcoming. He will go far, my Tom, and I will be a good wife.
I think of him, the oldest boy, the eldest son of twelve children, with five older sisters . . . .
Five older sisters . . . all in want of a husband.
Female names interrupt my thoughts of Tom, listing themselves as though they are real and have but to make my acquaintance: Elizabeth, Jane, Mary, Lydia, and Catherine—no, Kitty . . . . I nod, accepting their introduction, for each seems just right.
Five girls, each in want of a husband. Is this how I can dislodge my story from its hard-fought first line? I will begin with the sisters discussing their lot, chattering over the need for a gentleman who is, of course, in need of them . . . .
It’s as good a place as any to begin. At a beginning.
Two
Mother bursts into my bedroom unannounced. “She’s leaving!”
Cassandra and I stop making the bed and exchange a glance. The she in question must refer to our cousin Eliza, who has been staying with us.
Mother sits on our bed while Cassandra hurries to close the door. “She cannot leave,” says Mother, “not without giving your brother her answer.”
It’s bad form, leaving my oldest brother, James, waiting. He has wooed Eliza for many weeks, driving over from his rectory in Deane, writing the verses that are his forte, making her laugh. They are a good match, and the family approves. Poor James lost his first wife last spring—dear Anne Matthews felt ill after dinner and died within hours—leaving him alone with two-year-old Anna. Her plaintive cries for Mama led him to send Anna here to the rectory in Steventon to stay with us.
Eliza has also been widowed. Two years ago, her husband of twelve years, Jean Capot de Feuillide, a French landowner, was beheaded by the new French Republic on the same day he was found guilty for attempted bribery while coming to the aid of an imprisoned marquise. Eliza has a child, a ten-year-old son, Hastings, who, alas, suffers from convulsive fits and has trouble speaking well. Yet, he’s a dear boy. Once I asked Mother if Hastings reminded her of my older brother George, who suffers similar discomforts and was sent away as a child. She ignored me and told me to go to the garden to dig some turnips for dinner. George is never spoken of . . . . Shakespeare wrote a great truth when pondering the cruel fate to be yet not to be.
I know letting others care for my brother is for the best, but I do admire Eliza for holding her boy close. Her only boy. Her only child unless . . . She is thirty-five. Four years older than James. It’s not an age to dally.
Her Hastings and little Anna play well, which we embrace as a happy sign of a match between their parents. It’s quite evident that James and Eliza are two souls in need of companionship, with two children who yearn for the comple
teness of family in a father and mother united.
With my own mother sitting atop the covers, I abandon the making of the bed. “Perhaps Eliza is just being Eliza,” I say. “You know how she relishes the game.”
Mother shakes a finger. “Love is no game.”
Although I hold with my contention, I don’t argue with her. For as with games, love is rife with strategies. It demands patience and extends just out of reach—the lure and promise of a winner. As well as a loser.
“I will not have her disparage our dear James,” says Mother. “She has already played our Henry ill.”
Yes, she has. A year ago my younger brother, Henry, also wooed our cousin to the point of attachment. Yet she turned him down. Not one to be spurned, Henry quickly became engaged to a sweet girl, Mary Pearson. In spite of my prodding, neither Henry nor Eliza will speak of the odd turn of events, though I often wonder if her being ten years his senior was the cause of their parting. Or perhaps they realized that their mutual lighthearted approach to life was unwise. It is preferable if one of a pair is prudent and practical.
James is practical. James will make a good husband for Eliza and little Hastings. He will temper her exuberant nature and she will bring him gaiety. Though, in truth, I do find it hard to fathom Eliza a rector’s wife. She, who carries her pug dog like a jewel, who entertains us with her stories of walking in the park in London with the Prince of Wales, or playing cards with the officers at Brighton. Ever since her marriage to de Feuillide, she has called herself a countess (though rather more quietly since the trouble in France), and though it’s true they did possess five thousand acres and a château, we believe the title is an Eliza-ism—one we willingly espouse for her pleasure. Although Eliza and my dear Henry were two fires who threatened to consume each other, in the present case, I see Eliza as the burning fire and James an ember. It’s our fervent hope they find a way to warm each other without denying their intrinsic natures.
