by Nancy Moser
If I had my way . . .
But I don’t.
Our journey proceeds exceedingly well; nothing occurs to alarm or delay us. We find the roads in excellent order, have very good horses all the way, and reach Devizes with ease by four o’clock. At Devizes we have comfortable rooms and a good dinner, to which we sit down about five. Amongst other things we have asparagus and a lobster (which makes me wish for Cassandra to be here), as well as some cheesecakes, on which the children make so delightful a supper as to endear the town of Devizes to them for a long time.
I’m plagued regarding my trunk of clothes and manuscripts; it’s too heavy to go by the coach from Devizes; there is reason to suppose that it might be too heavy likewise for any other coach. I wonder if we might find a wagon to convey it.
Edward limps into the inn as we are putting on our bonnets. “Good news,” he says. “I’ve found a wagon to convey your trunk on to Bath—but it will not arrive there until tomorrow.”
Although I wish to complain because we will arrive in Bath this very afternoon, and after nearly losing my life’s work once, I am wary of losing it again, I tell him thank you and get into the carriage. I cannot complain too much when my trip is being supplied gratis by my brother.
Can I?
Although I can silently long for our destination to appear with great haste so I can procure a few moments that do not include being knee to knee and arm to arm with another. I can also silently long for a bit of outer silence—and be eternally glad that only Edward’s two eldest are on this jaunt. Although I love all my nieces and nephews dearly, I much prefer to enjoy their presence in wide rooms and open fields.
That my mother has taken it upon herself to fill our carriage time with an extensive listing of recent ailments, including each faulty diagnosis from Dr. Lyford and the strengths and weaknesses of each medicinal remedy or fallacy, only adds to my desire to hurry the horses on toward our destination. Faster, faster, dear horses, carry me ever faster!
As Mother continues her discourse, and Elizabeth kindly listens, as Edward finds consolation out the window, I take advantage and close my eyes—for they have bothered me of late—and allow myself withdrawal and respite. Although I dare not hope for sleep in the rocking carriage, I do look forward to letting my mind wander to thoughts of my characters Susan Morland and Henry Tilney. I still am not sure how their story will end . . . .
Mother nudges my knee with a hand. “Wasn’t that right, Jane? Wasn’t Dr. Lyford utterly wrong about my not having consumption?”
Although I admire Dr. Lyford for his doctoring ability—and commendable bedside manner—I find it easier to say, “Yes, Mother. That is right.”
“See?” Mother says to Elizabeth. “It is as I have told it.”
May Dr. Lyford forgive us.
*****
Rain accompanies us, adding to our traveler’s weariness. We come upon Bath at one o’clock in the afternoon, though ’tis gloomy enough to be one in the morning. I find Bath itself to be on show as much as all the people who visit there. The buildings are situated in such a way as if to say, “Look at me!” and “Am I not grand?” Both buildings and people have the same motivation, but neither speak of it out loud.
We stop at the Paragon, where my aunt and uncle—my mother’s brother—live in No. 1, but it’s too wet and dirty for us to get out, and as one does not prevail upon Aunt Leigh-Perrot while looking like a wet pup (a pup who might also dirty her marble), we didn’t bother them, except to speak to the butler, who told us that last night Uncle Perrot—who suffers from the gout as does Edward—had a better night of it.
As is expected once one arrives in Bath (indeed, why one comes), we are seen and see others. In the Paragon we meet Mrs. Foley and Mrs. Dowdeswell, with her yellow shawl airing out, and at the bottom of Kingsdown Hill meet a gentleman in a buggy, who, on minute examination, turns out to be Dr. Hall—and Dr. Hall in such very deep mourning that we speculate either his mother, his wife, or he himself must be dead.
We proceed to the house Edward has let, at No. 13 Queen Square. We are exceedingly pleased with the house; the rooms are quite as large as we expected. The landlady, Mrs. Bromley, is a fat woman (also in mourning), and a little black kitten runs about the staircase. Elizabeth has the apartment within the drawing room; she wants my mother to have it, but for various reasons—not always to my understanding—it’s settled for Mother and me to be above, up a double flight where we have two very nice-sized rooms, with dirty quilts but everything comfortable. I have the outward and larger apartment, which is quite as large as our bedroom at home, and my mother’s is not materially less. The beds are both as large as any at Steventon, and I have a very nice chest of drawers and a closet full of shelves—so full indeed that there is nothing else in it, and it should therefore be called a cupboard rather than a closet, I suppose.
Mother does not seem at all the worse for her journey, nor are any of us, I hope, though Edward seemed rather fagged last night and not very brisk this morning; but I trust the bustle of sending for tea, coffee, and sugar and such, and going out to taste a cheese, will do him good.
Mrs. Bromley told us there was a very long list of arrivals in the newspaper yesterday, so that we need not immediately dread absolute solitude; and there is a public breakfast in Sydney Gardens every morning, so that we shall not be wholly starved. I truly have no worries in that regard. Edward is not one to spare the coin in regard to food, and my aunt thinks nothing of setting up card tables for ninety people and feeding them throughout multiple games. I don’t particularly like cards. People take it too seriously and gamble. I suppose not having money to lose can also be a facilitating factor in my opinion.
After settling in, I retire down the stairs to the drawing room in order to write to Cassandra. Seizing a quiet minute, I find I like our situation very much; it’s far more cheerful than the Paragon, and the prospect from the drawing room window is rather picturesque, as it commands a view of the left side of Brock Street, broken by three Lombardy poplars in the garden of the last house in Queen’s Parade. I hope it will be a tolerable afternoon. When first we came, all the umbrellas were up, but now the pavements are getting very white again.
I hear commotion in the hall with the children’s effusive jabberings and their parents’ attempts to comply. Mother’s voice joins them, and I hear talk of proceeding to the Pump Room with haste, so Edward can be made well—by his hopeful expectation if not from the intake and partake of the magic waters.
“Jane?” Mother calls. “Where is that girl?”
I’ve barely started the letter.
It will have to wait. Bath calls.
*****
Three weeks and counting . . .
I cannot say that I don’t enjoy myself here in Bath, yet I can offer the distinction that I enjoy myself best when doing things other than that for which Bath is known. Although both Edward and Uncle take the waters—both by drink and bath—and though Edward has even taken a new electrical treatment that I dare not imagine, I remain a skeptic. Yes, we have been told the benefits of the water are often cumulative and are often unappreciated until after one has left the city. I do see the convenience in this—for Bath’s reputation. One cannot complain well when there is distance . . . .
But in truth, I don’t see bountiful benefit in either of the men, and see the greatest benefit coming to the physicians who are as plentiful and as genuine as the sprigs of fruit and flowers in the women’s bonnets.
I look at such sprigs now, shopping with Mother, Elizabeth, and my aunt. Before coming to Bath, I was consigned by Cassandra, Martha, and Mary to procure certain items of clothing in the multitude of eager shops that inhabit this city. Among other sundries, Cassandra ordered sprigs for her hat. I peruse the selection before me. Flowers are very much worn, but fruit is the thing. Elizabeth has a bunch of strawberries on her bonnet, and I’ve s
een grapes, cherries, plums, and apricots. A plum or greengage will cost three shillings, cherries and grapes about five. A mite much, I would say. If asked.
Which I am not.
The responsibility is weighty. Although I’ve been given unlimited power to chuse, it never bodes well to be too at ease with another’s budget. But looking here, it appears I can get four or five very pretty sprigs of flowers for the same money which will procure only one Orleans plum.
I put the costly plum down, feeling weary. I realize I cannot decide on the fruit till I write to Cassandra for her preference. I also cannot help thinking that it’s more natural to have flowers grow out of one’s head than fruit (Elizabeth and her strawberries notwithstanding).
Aunt looks over my shoulder at the plum. “Have you found something to suit you?”
“’Tis not for me, but Cassandra.”
“Ah.” She plucks the plum. “Be that as it may, I hardly think this is appropriate for your Steventon.”
“Your Steventon” drips with her disdain. Aunt always makes it clear that we Austens are lesser to her more. And though my mother’s own Leigh lineage is hardly impoverished and holds its own honour (their ancestor was the Lord Mayor of London in the 1500s), the Perrot family (which my aunt pronounces Perr-uht, trilling the r’s) comes from loftier roots. The entire extent of her right to impale us with her braggadocio escapes me (even though she will insist she has made it perfectly clear), yet I do remember that some King and some river can be claimed as family. We, as mere Austens, are claimed with less enthusiasm.
My aunt puts the plum down with an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose I could take you to a cheap shop. There is one down near Walcot Church that occasionally amuses.”
I accept her slight and let my practicality reign. “That might be best.”
But with a roll of her eyes, she surprises me by asking the clerk to wrap up two plums.
A gift? I busy myself with silk violets and pretend not to notice. It’s best to remain ignorant of a gift until it’s properly presented. As I wait for the transaction to be complete, I chastise myself for all the inappropriate thoughts I’ve entertained regarding my aunt and her haughty ways. She can be a kind woman. Thoughtful in every—
She takes her small bundle and turns toward the door. “Let’s move on. I would like to find some lavender ribbon to put around these plums for my hat.”
My hat.
As we exit the store, I let the inappropriate thoughts return, finding unkind solace that their bite is nearly as satisfying as any plum on any chapeau.
*****
Bath causes me to ponder Shakespeare. For indeed, All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.
The parts people play in Bath are varied and are actually quite inconsequential. Their desire to be on stage is the driving force here—to be seen and to see.
And to catch and be caught by the opposite gender.
Where it’s true such negotiations happen in every parlour across England, from the smallest village of Steventon to the great halls of busy London, here in Bath it’s more blatant, more persuasive, and utterly endorsed by all.
But not appreciated by all.
It’s not that I don’t desire a husband. Although a part of my heart will always bear the scar of Tom Lefroy, I have far from given up. That same heart is open and willing to accept the love of another—as long as I’m able to return it. No more Mr. Blackalls, if you please. No more men who see a mating with Jane Austen as a pragmatic decision for the sake of a cleaner house, a warm bed, and the propagation of their family name. Get a maid, find a woman of ill repute, and take in an orphan.
Such rude comments are unbecoming and will certainly not aid in my finding a husband. But is it wrong to want love as an ingredient in a match? Mother and Father love each other. My uncle adores my aunt in a way that perplexes all who know her. Even Tom’s parents . . . the entire financial upheaval that currently befalls his shoulders is due to the fact that his father ignored his family’s wishes and married for love. It can happen. My brothers have done well in that regard. Although I may not fully appreciate the merits of their wives, I do believe they are happy, and each has chosen well, in his own way.
And what of God? Does He not get involved? Is His will not instrumental toward bringing two people together in a way that is both pleasing to Him and suits His plans?
I like to think so, think that someday I will meet a man I am supposed to meet and we will know, just know, that we are meant to be together.
So why must my aunt and mother conspire on my behalf? Do they truly believe I’m incapable of making a male head turn or keeping a chatty dialogue going beyond how-de-dos?
Apparently.
They are conspiring even now. I stand at the door to Aunt’s parlour and listen. It’s always considered good defense to know the plottings of one’s opponent. That I should deem them such is an opinion that would surely earn me a lengthy lecture. Or two.
“If only Jane had my nose,” I hear Mother say. “’Tis quite aquiline and is surely a sign of aristocracy, don’t you agree?”
“My husband, your brother, has no such nose,” Aunt says.
I listen for Mother’s reply, but she is silent.
Aunt continues, “Are you insinuating Perrot did not descend from aristocracy because his nose is not large and . . . and hooked? For he is a Leigh too.”
I was eager to hear Mother’s reply. I’ve been made aware of the deficiency of my own small nose my entire life.
“’Tis only one sign of aristocracy. There are many others, of course.”
“Of course.”
“If only Jane was more . . . full. She is so spare.”
Mother’s words are discreet, but I know their meaning. I cannot help my frame. Unless I eat and eat and eat and become fat and filled out in that fashion, there is no means by which I can ever—
“And her colour is a bit too flushed,” Aunt says. “She has the cheeks of a doll.”
“At least she doesn’t need to worry about rouge,” Mother says.
“And she is nearly too tall.”
“Indeed.”
Too tall for what? And yet, even as I pretend not to know their intent, I know that my height makes me see eye to eye with most young men.
My aunt sighs. “Does she paint and play the piano well?”
“She is very accomplished at the pianoforte but has no eye for art. Cassandra owns that talent—but alas, no talent for music.”
“Hmm,” Aunt says. “It appears your girls must be sold as a pair to get a whole.”
I nearly gasp but am saved from such a reaction by the women’s soft laughter. And though my aunt’s comment was said in jest, it owns much truth within its edges. In many ways Cassandra and I complement each other. We are better together than apart. We are a truer whole as two, not one.
“There is the concert tonight in Sydney Gardens. Perhaps we can arrange for Jane to sit where it’s advantageous,” Aunt says.
“I will do all that I can to help.”
“As is our duty.”
I slip away from the doorway, wishing I could argue with them. But I cannot. Older women framing the romantic pairings of those who are younger?
’Tis been this way since time began, and no amount of my disdain or disgust can change it.
*****
The concert entertains and I sit where my aunt and mother have placed me—next to a Mr. Clark, who has high colour such as I, but to an even greater degree. I don’t know whether it’s caused by his delight at meeting me, his panic for said meeting, embarrassment for being thrust into the matchmaking clutches of my relatives (and surely his), a rash for which he should seek an ointment, or a flush caused by the
heat of the evening.
At any rate, it’s not attractive. Nor are his teeth, which look as bad as Uncle Perrot’s. I try to draw him into conversation, but his yes-and-no answers, offered without adornment, leave me weary. I can never be interested in a man who is not witty with words, and the idea of spending even an evening at his side, with Mother’s and Aunt’s conspiratorial glances in our direction . . .
I stand and tell Mr. Clark, “If you will excuse me.”
By the look on Mother’s face, the way she grips my aunt’s wrist . . . you would think France had just attacked England.
With great courage I do not surrender and sit down again. I walk between the rows of chairs and away, receiving fewer and fewer looks from concertgoers, as I move past the circle of my acquaintance.
Once through the crowds that linger at the back, I can breathe free and do so with great alacrity. I take the direction that leads me into the greenery. Lavender hydrangeas tease me on the right with pink nasturtiums bowing to my left. They welcome me, and I know their high colour is cause for pleasure, not alarm or discomfort.
As I walk away from the concert area I find myself pleased at the music, once removed. Perhaps I’m the recipient of too much fine noise of late. My obvious enjoyment of its lack is telling. I wonder if we can return home soon. I miss Steventon. I miss Cassandra and Father. I miss the solitude of our own garden.
I’m looking down at the path and suddenly see two feet—not mine—and feel two strong arms taking mine, holding me back.
“Oh!” I say at the near collision.
“Pardon me, miss,” says the young man. “It appears our thoughts have taken us places our feet have not.”
I laugh. “And where were your thoughts taking you?”
He looks to the air, then laughs again. “I cannot remember. And you?”
I don’t know this man so I don’t wish to reveal too much. But I do like his spectacles. They make him appear thoughtful, an attribute that currently appeals. “I too am devoid of memory,” I say. “But I do know that I wished to capture a breeze.”
