Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  My heart stops.

  On top of the pile of three is a letter addressed to Cadell and Davies. From my father. Across the front is boldly written: Declined by Return of Post.

  I turn it over. Father’s seal is broken and resealed.

  They read the letter.

  They returned it.

  They don’t want my manuscript.

  I’ve been rejected.

  Father comes into the foyer, a book in hand. He sees me. “Ah. Letters.” He extends a hand.

  I hesitate. For it’s not just I who have been rejected. All Father’s hard work, writing the letter on my behalf, believing in me . . . oddly, I feel I’ve failed him.

  “Jane?”

  I give him the three, keeping the rejection on top. He deserves to see it.

  He reads the front, turns it over, then reads the front again. “Declined?”

  “They read it but—”

  His voice rises. “Declined?”

  I take the offending letter away, moving it behind my back. Out of sight. “It was a great risk, Father. I am too great a risk. For who will take seriously anything penned by a parson’s daughter living in Hampshire? I have no standing, no right, no—”

  “But declined?”

  I point to Edward’s letter, which graces the top of the pile. “Go. Read what your son has to say.”

  He nods and turns away, then back to me. “I am sorry, Jane. It’s a good story.”

  “You tried, Father. I will always remember that.” I kiss his cheek.

  He goes back to his study.

  And I?

  I remove the letter from behind my back and stare at it. My silly imaginings of Cadell writing a far different response evaporate. I need to take the words I have just spoken with such false bravery to Father and hold them as truth: Who am I to expect a publisher to care about my work? I am no one, beyond obscure, never to be known beyond the tight boundaries of tiny Steventon.

  Who am I to expect more? Want more? Dream of more?

  I retreat to my sitting room and close the door. I open the trunk that holds the evidence of my folly—my follies. Manuscripts written strictly for the amusement of my family. And myself. For I do enjoy the writing process. I do enjoy creating another place and time, populating it with people who could be as outrageous, vainglorious, courageous, or victorious as I will them to be. Through my writing I capture a smidgen of control—if not in my own life, in the lives of my characters. Their happiness, success, justice, or demise depends on me.

  If only I had as much control over my own fate. My mind wanders to thoughts of Tom . . . . If only he would come home from his law studies and take me away from all this. Rescue me.

  But alas, such happy endings happen only in novels.

  Novels that will never be published.

  I look down on the stacks of paper, so neatly tied. Hours and hours, days and days of my life . . .

  Wasted.

  I slip Father’s letter under the bow of First Impressions. The word Declined peeks back at me, teasing me.

  Condemning me.

  I close the lid of the trunk.

  The lid of my dreams.

  *****

  I dust our room, hating that in winter the smoke from the fireplace makes my work more difficult. Oh, for spring! To open wide the windows and breathe fresh air that smells of honeysuckle.

  Cassandra enters with an armload of fresh laundry. She sets it on the bed and begins folding.

  “I can do the dusting,” she says, nodding toward my work.

  “I’m fine.”

  I see her glance at my writing desk. “I’ve not seen you writing lately. What are you working on at present?”

  I dare not admit that in a week I’ve written nothing but a letter to Frank. “I’ve been busy with other things.”

  “What other things?”

  I try to think of how I’ve spent my time. Oddly, I cannot give her specifics.

  “You are not writing, are you?”

  I plan to hedge, to ease forward an answer that skirts the truth, yet I hear myself say, “No.”

  “Why?”

  I want to repeat my own “Why?” question, genuinely wanting her to give me a reason. For I have none of my own.

  “Father told me about the letter to Cadell,” she says.

  “Declined.”

  “They must get dozens of such letters every week. It’s not a personal affront. They don’t know you, Jane. They don’t know your work.”

  I laugh softly. “They will never know. No one will. And why should they be interested? I am nobody. Even if someone were to publish a book, who would purchase it?” I offer a smile. “Besides you and Henry.”

  Cassandra snaps a pillowcase before folding it. “So you write for fame?”

  “Of course. I write only for fame and without any view to pecuniary emolument.”

  “Fame and fortune are beyond our control. Yet our inability to move the pieces about the board does not mean you should not try to be a part of the game.”

  “Well said, Sister. Perhaps it’s you who should be the writer.”

  I pick up a bedsheet to fold it, but she grabs it from my hands. “You must write, Jane. You. As Father must preach, Henry must joke, and Mother must complain. You must write.”

  Her eyes are intense.

  “And what must you do, Cass?”

  She hesitates but for a second. “I must encourage.” She points to the trunk. “Work on something. Or write something new. I don’t care, only that you write.”

  I nod but reach for the sheet. She slaps my hand away and points to my desk. “Write.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  She is frozen in place, her finger directing my way.

  I move to the desk but at the last moment detour to the trunk. It’s as if I need to see evidence that what she has said is true. I must write. And I have written.

  I open its lid and see Father’s letter mocking me from atop First Impressions. I feel no compunction to retrieve that story. Not now. Not yet.

  But then I see another I have put away so long . . . it’s almost as if I hear Marianne calling to me, “Here, here, Jane! Chuse me! Chuse us! Fix our story. Make it better. Elinor and I have been waiting far too long.”

  As have I.

  I remove the pages of Elinor and Marianne and untie the ribbon that binds them together. I begin to read. The book is in letter form and, within pages, annoys me.

  “This is not right,” I say aloud.

  Cassandra smooths a folded sheet to the pile. “What is not right?”

  “These letters. This form. The story doesn’t flow.”

  “Then change it,” my sister says.

  I take fresh paper, a deep breath, and begin to do just that. For I am a writer. And writers write.

  *****

  Although the act of receiving mail in a small village can test one’s patience, the speed with which gossip flies from house to house to house impresses.

  I am in the front room when Mother bursts into the house. Her basket—which she had intended to fill with meat from the butcher—is empty, but her face is not. It’s brimming with emotions.

  “George! Cassandra! Jane, go get your sister. And be quick about it.”

  I don’t have to leave the room because Father and Cassandra appear in the doorway. Mother removes her cape and I take it from her, draping it over a chair near the fire. I notice the rug is spotted with snow from her feet. I move to stoke the fire to warm her, but she says, “No. None of that now. I have news.”

  She is in such a flurry, her hand to her chest, her bosom heaving, her bonnet askew, that Father goes to her side. “My dear, calm yourself.”

&nbs
p; “I cannot calm myself! I have news.” But she does sit in the chair he offers.

  Cassandra takes a step toward the doorway. “I will get you some tea.”

  “I do not want tea! I want you to listen.”

  With a glance between us, Father, Cassandra, and I gather close, set ourselves in place, hopeful she will begin. And yet fearful too. For by her agitated state, the news cannot be good.

  Mother tugs at the ribbons of her bonnet but pulls the wrong end, creating a knot. I reach out to help her, but she shoos my hands away and shoves the bonnet behind her head, knot or no knot. In spite of the cold outside, the curls around her face are flattened with perspiration.

  It must be very bad news indeed.

  “My dear, you must tell us immediately,” says Father. “Enough delay.”

  “But that is what I’m trying to do!” She takes a deep breath and rubs her hands together as if to warm them. “I was walking to the butcher’s when I came upon Mrs. Newcombe sweeping the newest snow from her doorway. ‘Ah, Mrs. Austen, your ears must have been burning. Is that why you are out on such a cold day?’ Of course I asked for details and she said that her husband’s cousin, who lives in Greenwich, has a son who is a soldier. He was injured—”

  “Was he on a ship with Frank or Charles?” asks Cassandra.

  Mother blinks, and I can see the progression of her thoughts dissipate. “No. Yes.” She tosses her hands in the air. “Please!”

  “Pardon me,” says Cassandra.

  Mother takes another deep breath and resumes her story. “Actually, the soldier is a friend of our Henry and he was injured and—”

  “Henry has been injured?” I gasp.

  “No, no. Please let me finish!”

  If only she would . . . .

  “The soldier was injured and went to the hospital to be treated by Sir Richard Pearson.”

  “Mary’s father?” our father asks.

  “The very same.”

  I try to arrange the facts without interrupting. Mother was talking about the father of our Henry’s fiancée, Mary Pearson?

  Mother continues. “The soldier heard Mary’s father say that his daughter was no longer engaged to our Henry.”

  “What?”

  Mother raises a hand, stopping our questions. “In fact, Henry has married someone else.”

  This time, she pauses and allows our questions.

  “Who, Mother, who?” asks Cassandra.

  She shakes her head. “You will never believe it.”

  “Mother!”

  Father takes a step toward her. “Yes, my dear. Enough playing with our emotions.”

  “Eliza!” she says. “Henry has married our Eliza!”

  The next few moments hang in silence but are soon filled with questions.

  “But Eliza spurned Henry years ago, and then she spurned James, and—”

  “Yes, yes, but now they are married! At Marylebone Church on December thirty-first.”

  Cassandra takes a seat on the settee and I join her. “Oh, poor Mary. She must be crushed.”

  Mother shrugs. “I made the same comment to Mrs. Newcombe, but apparently, Sir Richard implied that it was accomplished with fairly little distress.”

  “And Eliza does have her own income,” says Father. “I used to be trustee of her wealth, but just six months ago she had her assets put directly into her control.”

  “Was she planning this even then?” I ask.

  “I would not doubt it,” says Mother. “Although we love Eliza, we are all aware of her penchant for taking control.”

  I think of my brother, think of his having such a wife. “How will she adjust to having Henry control—?”

  Mother laughs. “Our Henry does not control his own life well, much less the life of a wife with a son. I believe he may do best with a wife who takes control.”

  Eliza, our independent, headstrong cousin . . . used to getting her own way. How did she manage this? “But Henry is stationed in Yarmouth, and Eliza lives in London. How did they—?”

  “Apparently Eliza took little Hastings to Lowestoft for his health.”

  I must laugh. “And for her own purposes.”

  Another shrug from Mother. And truth tell, perhaps she is right. Does it matter if Eliza set her store on Henry and pursued him? Perhaps she heard about his engagement to Mary and the thought of losing him to another . . . Yes, yes, that would motivate Eliza to action. Plus the fact that Henry has given up all thoughts of joining the church and is now earning a good income as a Captain Paymaster. His income combined with hers . . . and Eliza still holds hope that she will someday receive her proper inheritance from France should that country ever return to normalcy. Yes, indeed, together they can lead the high life which is their preference.

  “But why didn’t he tell us?” asks Cassandra.

  I also admit my hurt, for Henry is my favourite brother, and the bond we have . . . I thought he would have told me.

  “They are probably on a wedding trip,” says Mother. “He will tell us. I know he will.”

  “And we will be happy,” Father says. It is not a question.

  With the slightest hesitation, we all nod. Yes, we will be happy. We are happy. And though surprised, not shocked. Of all the people in our lives, such actions might be expected of Eliza and Henry.

  Now . . . if only my Tom would be so bold . . . .

  *****

  I must thank Eliza and Henry for their help. Although they don’t realize they have helped me by simply being themselves, they have.

  I am working on Elinor and Marianne and have been inspired by the real-life intrigue of Eliza’s courtship of Henry, then James, then Henry again. In my story I have a character named Lucy Steele. What if she were engaged to one man—to Edward Ferras—yet ended up marrying his brother?

  I dip my quill in the ink. Yes indeed. Thank you, Eliza and Henry.

  Five

  Off to Godmersham to witness my brother’s bounty!

  ’Tis the essence of convenience to have a brother who was made rich through inheritance, though admittedly odd that he has gained his wealth, not from his blood family, but through the family who adopted him. Edward Knight-Austen is his legal name, though I expect the Austen moniker will fall away when he eventually takes on his father’s title. No mere “mister” for my brother. Master.

  My brother Edward—adopted at twelve by the childless Knights in Kent—also helped his pocketbook by marrying well, for Elizabeth owned her own fortune and property. (That the rich become richer is a perplexing feat, one they have perfected over centuries of practice.) Since their marriage six years ago, Edward and his wife have lived in one of her family’s homes, called Rowling, on her parents’ Goodnestone estate.

  But now all that has changed. Edward’s adoptive father died four years ago. Since then, his mother has lived alone in the mansion of Godmersham but has recently decided having so many rooms to wander in by herself is a bore and has offered it to Edward, Elizabeth, and their four—soon to be five—children. Five children in six years. Perhaps in their new manor home my brother and his wife should consider separate bedrooms.

  I hear the elder Mrs. Knight has just purchased a home in Canterbury. I can only imagine its palatial qualities. I cannot imagine she is used to anything humdrum or mundane.

  Edward has invited my parents, Cassandra, and me for a summer visit to Kent. ’Twill be a chance for Edward to show off, though I expect Elizabeth will do the crowing for both of them. To his credit, my brother has never flaunted his wealth, though he readily enjoys it. He realizes how the fates have smiled on him through no merit of his own (but by being a sweet, agreeable boy who captured the Knights’ fancy) and acknowledges that he is where he is due to the sacrifice of our parents. To relinquish a son for his own betterme
nt is a true act of love. After seeing Godmersham, perhaps I will wish the Knights had wanted a daughter.

  But no. I am suited to Steventon, to the rectory, and to the quiet life we lead. Although I may show wit to family and close friends, among strangers I have been called standoffish and dull—two traits highly unacceptable in high society. So be it. I see no reason to play a part for others’ sake. To pretend to be that which one is not . . . I leave such drama for my characters: Mr. Collins and Lucy Steele aspire to impress. In regard to my own dealings with the upper set, I cannot say I’ve met any who would make me regret my position, nor any who would inspire me to step up the charm for their benefit—or my own. And if my sister-in-law Elizabeth—now the lady of a great manor—has some of her priggish friends come to call (and if she is appalled by my diffident manner) then I shall declare my mission complete.

  I can be quite evil, in a loving sort of way. Yet as everyone knows, Kent is the only place for happiness. Everyone is rich there. Back in Steventon people get so horridly poor and economical that I have no patience with them.

  My evil shortcomings are mercifully interrupted by Mother looking out the window of the carriage and exclaiming, “There it is!”

  In spite of my stubborn vow to remain unimpressed, I am stunned. How can I be otherwise? The house is set alone on a hill so all can be astonished by its stateliness and offer the proper reaction. It is surrounded by lush parks with groupings of trees planted just so. The entire park is enclosed by a stone wall, a sure way to serve two purposes: show the world the extent of one’s holdings, as well as keep those same people in their proper place—outside.

  The carriage stops at the wall and a man unlocks the gate. I admit to feeling a surge of pride that we are allowed inside, which proves my ego is not as faultless as I would like to believe.

  “Our son has done well,” Mother says to Father.

  Father answers with an understated “Indeed,” although I do notice a slight catch in his voice. Will he ever feel such pride in me?

  I dispel the self-pity. Such feelings are not allowed on this day.