Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  He looks toward the concert. “And less drum.”

  “Ah,” I say. “We also share the vocation of music critic.”

  His face reddens, but in a nice way. He bows. “Forgive me. My name is Arthur Gould.”

  I curtsy. “Jane Austen.”

  “Shall we walk?”

  I nod. He is polite enough to head in my previous direction.

  “I should not complain about Bath,” he says. “My cousins have been very kind to take me in for a visit these past weeks and show me the sights during my summer holiday.”

  “Holiday from what?”

  “I attend Oxford. I study history. And naval history interests me very much.”

  I smile. “I enjoy history also. I have two brothers at sea at present. The younger is a lieutenant on a frigate, and the elder is a commander in the Mediterranean. And one brother, Henry, has just left the militia and is currently seeking opportunities in Dublin.”

  “Really? What do they think of the problem of the French, the Revolution, and Bonaparte?”

  I spot a bench. “Shall we sit?”

  And though I don’t care much for politics and war, what ensues is a wonderful discussion about my brothers and their views—of those two subjects I can talk for hours.

  That Mr. Gould does not mind is definitely in his favour.

  *****

  I am surrounded.

  Midmorning, on the day after the gala evening at Sydney Gardens, I am called from my room to the parlour. Aunt Leigh-Perrot has come to visit and sits stiffly in a chair, her hands in her lap. Mother sits nearby as I enter. “Come, Jane. We must speak to you.”

  My mind skitters across any indiscretions I might have visited since they saw me last, and can think of nothing. Yet it’s evident I have done something to offend.

  I stand before them, my hands clasped in front. I make no preamble, more than willing to let them speak first.

  My aunt does the honours. “I’ve heard that you went walking alone, with a stranger.”

  “While you should have been at the concert with us,” Mother adds.

  “I went walking alone and met a stranger by happenstance.”

  “You spoke?”

  They make the word sound scandalous. “We did.”

  “Did you walk with him?”

  “As we spoke.”

  “Did you sit with him?”

  “On a public bench, for all to see.” My words, said to clarify and amend their concern, sound slightly wrong and nearly confrontational. I rush to remedy anything misconstrued. “We rested a moment. He spoke of his studies at Oxford. He is studying history and has an interest in all things naval. We spoke of Charles and Frank.” Surely the presence of my brothers—albeit in subject if not in true presence—would appease them.

  My mother and aunt exchange a glance as if conceding this point. And yet they are not through.

  “We hear he is not well . . . not well appointed,” Mother says.

  “He is poor,” Aunt says. “He is here strictly on the grace of some odd cousins.” She nods her head at this and adds, “Odd in many ways, I’ve heard.”

  I realize it’s not the best of times to bring up my aunt’s opinion of us lesser, odd Austens.

  “Are his cousins female?” Aunt asks.

  Her question confuses, but I answer. “I don’t know.”

  “Is he the eldest son?”

  Again, “I don’t know.”

  She shrugs. “At least in that way he might have the chance of inheriting the uncle’s estate. As will your James.”

  Aunt and Uncle are childless, so my oldest brother, James, is due to inherit when the time comes, a fact that surely makes his mercenary wife, Mary, quite gleeful.

  Mother’s eyes perk up. “Is he the eldest male in his generation? Because then . . . my objection might be lessened if he was due to inherit and be able to give you—”

  I raise my hands in protest. “Mother, I’m not engaged to this man. I simply spoke with him in friendly conversation for a short time, during which I did not procure either family or financial information.”

  She looks shocked. “But was he not amiable?”

  “He was very amiable, but—”

  “I could make inquiries,” Aunt says. “Mrs. Fellowes might know, or the Mapletons.”

  “The latter, I would think,” Mother says. “You like the Miss Mapletons, don’t you, Jane?”

  I spent Friday evening with the Mapleton women and am obliged to submit to being pleased in spite of my inclination. Together we took a very charming walk up Beacon Hill and across some fields to the village of Charlecombe, which is sweetly situated in a little green valley, as a village with such a name ought to be.

  My mother awaits my answer.

  “I find Marianne sensible and intelligent, and even Jane, considering how fair she is, is not unpleasant. I don’t see them very often, but just as often as I like. I’ve heard that their father, Dr. Mapleton, is quite a success here. No other physician writes so many prescriptions as he does. Whether that be good or bad, I dare not fathom.”

  My aunt cocks her head. “A rather biting assessment from such an acquaintance as yourself.”

  I feel myself redden. I realize my comments are too honest and reveal far too much for the ears of my aunt and mother. Such bits of sarcasm are best kept for Cassandra’s ears alone.

  “I don’t mean to offend, Aunt, but merely mean that I don’t think you should bother them with questions about—”

  Aunt waves away my concern. “’Twill be no bother. Your uncle and I know everyone in Bath, and all are glad to tell me what I need to know.”

  I don’t mention that Aunt didn’t know Mr. Gould . . .

  “How old are you now, Jane?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Aunt Leigh-Perrot shudders. “Too old, too old. If not Mr. Gould . . . I’m disappointed no other young man has caught your fancy during your time here.”

  “And Edward speaks of leaving soon,” Mother adds.

  Aunt drops her hands to her lap. “Well, then. I must expedite my inquiries regarding your young man.”

  “He is not my young man!”

  Mother and Aunt are visibly aghast at my declaration. I admit my words were too forceful. I take a breath to calm myself. “Forgive me. It’s just that I have no real interest in Mr. Gould, and were we not seen together, I would not have mentioned him—so short and without meaning was our acquaintance.”

  The brows of both women furrow, making them look their age. “You cannot be so choosy, Niece,” Aunt says. “You and Cassandra—older than yourself by two—must make efforts to find a mate and a proper situation.”

  Mother leans toward Aunt confidentially. “Since Tom Fowle died, Cassandra shows no interest in finding another. We all have tried to get her to dance at balls and to make it known that she is available, haven’t we, Jane?”

  She has spoken the truth. “Yes, we have, but . . .” I cannot say more without breaking a confidence. Only I know that my sister has no intention of ever marrying.

  “At least she had a fiancé,” Aunt says. “But you, Jane . . . you have not done your duty in eliciting male interest.”

  Her words cut deeply. First, by bringing to mind my sorrow in regard to my Tom and a marriage that is not to be, and second, by reminding me that my sorrow has to be borne alone. Aunt speaks from an ignorance that cannot be remedied.

  She stands, ready to leave. “In spite of your objections, I will make inquiries. It’s my duty.”

  I cannot argue. My aunt’s domination is not something I can battle alone. Mother rises to see her out.

  I pity poor Mr. Gould.

  *****

  “He is gone,” Mother tells me.

  It
takes me a moment to realize the “he” is Mr. Gould.

  My face must reveal my true feelings, because Mother asks, “Does that make you happy?”

  Relief is a closer feeling, yet I can speak a truth. “I’m sorry to hear that.” In spite of my aunt’s and mother’s matchmaking schemes, in spite of the fact that Mr. Gould was a nice enough fellow, I don’t wish to procure a mate through coercion or manipulations. Although I know such means are often used (and often necessary) in the pairings of young people, I still embrace the hope that I can find a husband through my own means, my own charm, and my own destiny.

  It’s the stuff of novels.

  How appropriate.

  *****

  I pack my trunk. It’s time to go. Although I’ve enjoyed our visit to Bath, it’s a place for visits, not residence. And six weeks is enough of gaieties, gallivants, and gambits.

  Edward is the one who instigates our retreat—for two reasons. He has not been well these last two days; his appetite has failed him, and he has complained of sick and uncomfortable feelings, which, with other symptoms, make us think of the gout. Perhaps another fit of it might cure him (and another round of treatments), but I cannot wish it to begin at Bath.

  But the most pressing reason for our departure is that rent day at Godmersham approaches. Twice a year—in January and July—the workers on Edward’s estate come to the house and dine with him amidst music and merriment. But just the men. The women of the estate are not invited. Actually, I see no great affliction in this segregation, for I can imagine both genders benefit from an occasional evening free of the other. Such a statement is not meant to be disparaging of either side, though I can imagine some might take it as such.

  Mother comes in the door, her bonnet in hand. “Are you ready? The carriage awaits.”

  I close the trunk and latch it. “I am ready to get home,” I say.

  Mother gives me a quizzical look. “Home? We are not going home. I wish to visit my other Leigh cousins at Adlestrop and Harpsden and Great Bookham.”

  My breath leaves me in a sigh. Yes, Mother had mentioned such visits, but I had not realized she was set upon them. “But Father and Cassandra . . . they’re eager for our return.”

  “Oh, fiddle-dee. They are fine. I didn’t travel all this way to slip by my other relations. They are expecting us.”

  “You contacted them?”

  “I certainly don’t wish to appear on their doorstep unannounced.” She set her bonnet. “So come, Jane. It’s time for our next adventure.”

  My enthusiasm will impress no one nor fool the same. Apparently there are still more relatives to tax and annoy.

  *****

  I enjoy family as much as the next person, but cousins, all those cousins at Adlestrop, and then seeing another cousin, Edward Cooper, who lives in my mother’s childhood home in Harpsden near Reading . . . Mother thrives in the extra travels, and I . . . survive.

  These cousins are affable enough, and their hospitality genuine and appreciated, but as Mother wants to pass by my beloved Hampshire and continue into Surrey, south of London—which is hardly on the way—I feel like asking to be let out. I will make my own way home.

  The distance from Steventon was only one reason I don’t relish our trip to Great Bookham. Aunt Cooke, yet another of Mother’s cousins, has just published a novel of her own: Battleridge, an Historical Tale Founded on Facts. I admit that envy is present in my desire not to visit her. I should own pride in her accomplishment and have hopes for some interesting discussions regarding the creation of a novel. But from what Mother has said of Aunt Cooke, I regard our visit with trepidation.

  Which is fulfilled during our first evening together.

  We have barely settled in the parlour when Aunt presents herself before us, holding a book. And I know then, I know . . . .

  “Have you seen my book?” she asks, holding its tan leather in front of her chest.

  “No,” Mother says, reaching for it. “Let us see.” She examines the cover with due respect and leafs through the pages.

  She hands it to me. “See, Jane? Perhaps someday one of your stories will be published.”

  Aunt Cooke raises her eyebrows. “You are making attempts to write?”

  I glance at Mother, wishing she would be the one to state my progress, but Mother looks back at me, forcing me to list my accomplishments. Or not. “I’ve written a few stories.”

  “They are quite good,” Mother says.

  Her praise surprises me. Not that she hasn’t said as much among the family during one of my readings, but she is not one to praise me elsewhere.

  Aunt looks a bit distressed and turns toward a cupboard from which she produces two more copies of her book. “I have a copy for each of you. I will be eager to hear what you think.” She hands one to Mother and keeps one for herself. I, of course, already have one in my hands.

  I am being expected to read it—during our visit. Although I love novels, my aunt’s presumption offends. I vow never to do such a thing to others—if I ever get published. If they wish to read my work, I will be pleased, but I will not force it upon anyone. Ever.

  “Perhaps you would like me to read aloud to get you started. You may follow along in your own copies.”

  Joy.

  *****

  I laugh aloud, then clamp a hand over my mouth, not wanting anyone in the house to awaken.

  It’s two in the morning. I’m reading my aunt’s novel in bed, by candlelight. The late hour does not indicate an inability to close its pages, but a fascination with its style, its . . . mediocrity.

  I feel the guilt that is appropriate in such a judgment, and yet . . . I’ve read dozens of novels and, as such, have learned to recognize what is good and what is not, what is new and enlightening, and what is typical and so very done.

  Every plot twist, every locale, every deep sigh and bated breath in Aunt’s novel has been done oft before. A grotto, an imprisoned heroine in a dark tower, a lost document in a false-bottomed chest . . .

  Yet even as I roll my eyes, I find satisfaction. For unwittingly Aunt has given me an element to use in my current story, Susan. My entire manuscript revolves around a young girl who puts too much stock in such elements, living their fantasy rather than real life. It makes fun of these novel components that my aunt has embraced with such fervor. I wonder . . . if I add a lost document in a false-bottomed chest in Susan, if my story is ever published, and if Aunt Cooke ever deems it worthy of her time, will she recognize that her book was the seed of that improbable (but very convenient) ingredient?

  I laugh again at the thought, the idea of a future date when Aunt Cooke sits in her bed, reading my book. She will come upon the paragraph about the hiding place, draw in a shocked breath, put a hand to her chest, and exclaim, “But that was my idea!”

  Yours and many before you, Auntie.

  *****

  “I finished your book, Aunt Cooke,” I say at breakfast.

  The shocked face and hand to the chest I imagined are reenacted over eggs and biscuits. “Oh, my dear. You do me great honour.”

  Not particularly . . .

  Mother butters a biscuit. “You must have been up all hours, Jane. You will be wrecked for the day.”

  “Perhaps,” I say—and I am tired. “But it was worth it.”

  I enjoy my double entendre, as I do the glee it produces in my aunt. “Oh, Jane. I knew you would like it.”

  Mother looks skeptical but hides the extent of her feelings behind the biscuit.

  “The covering is very lovely,” I say, for I have vowed to tell the truth—as far as the truth will go without offending.

  “I agree,” Aunt says. “I was very pleased. It was not the colour I had imagined, for I thought a pale aubergine would have been more appropriate than conservative oatmeal colour, but the
gold lettering makes up for any disappointment.”

  Personally, I think the publisher knew what he was doing. A calm oatmeal was needed to offset my aunt’s exuberant and lofty word choice and plot.

  “Which part did you like best?” Aunt asks.

  The end? Indeed, she puts me on the spot. How can I remain true to my convictions yet not offend—for what good would offense do? I can tell from her actions she does not want real opinion.

  I hit upon a solution. “I found the false-bottomed chest interesting.”

  “I knew you would like that! I read a similar story once myself and thought it so delightful that I decided to incorporate it into my own story. Feel free to use it, Jane, if it suits your needs.”

  It’s difficult to hold in a smile. “Thank you,” I tell my aunt. “Perhaps I will.”

  Eight

  Father paces. Mother sits by the fire, tugging at her handkerchief. Cassandra’s head is down and shakes no-no-no in disbelief. I’m too aghast to do much other than watch them.

  Aunt Leigh-Perrot arrested for theft?

  In between bouts of pacing, Father pauses and reads us more of the letter from Uncle Perrot. “He says the shopkeeper who accuses her is Miss Elizabeth Gregory. She has a millinery shop over on Bath and Stall Street and—”

  “We were there!” Mother says, turning to me. “Remember the ivory lace I purchased for my blue hat?”

  Before I can respond, Father says, “Lace. That is exactly the item in question. Apparently your aunt ordered and paid for some black lace but, after leaving the shop with your uncle, was accosted by the shopkeeper, who accused her of taking some white lace—without paying.”

  “That’s absurd,” Cassandra says.

  “Did she have the white lace with her?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Father says. “And since it was deemed worth more than twelve pence, it’s a capital crime.”

  “Which means?” I ask.

  Father looks up from the letter. “Which could elicit her death by hanging or exile to Botany Bay in Australia for fourteen years.”

  “For a little bit of lace?”