Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  After my inventory of leaning walls, I find Father in his study, his elbows on his desk, his hands covering his face. Is he also mourning Cassandra’s departure?

  “Father?”

  He removes his hands, pulls in a breath, and sits upright. “Oh. Yes. Jane.”

  I’ve pulled him from another place. “Are you unwell?”

  I watch his eyes and see he is chusing an answer. Although I never rush to bad news, I don’t want him to scuttle around the truth.

  “Tell me true, Father. What troubles you?”

  He lets out the breath he has been saving and sweeps an open hand across the papers on his desk. “’Twas a bad year. Money is tight.”

  “How tight?”

  He puts a hand on a paper and hesitates. I realize I am not a son, but he can tell me. I try again. “Father? How tight?”

  “Half.”

  I don’t understand. “Half what?”

  “Our best year was six hundred pounds, but this year . . . we have only cleared three hundred.”

  I realized the yield of the crops was less, but not by this amount.

  He sighs and adds, “And the war taxes have trebled, and horse taxes too . . . we must sell the carriage.”

  I move to stand behind him and lean low to wrap my arms about him, my head next to his. “I’m so sorry, Father. I—” My eye is caught by the sight outside of Mr. Harker speaking with Mother regarding planting new trees on the right-hand side of the elm walk. Mother has been fretting about whether it would be better to make a little orchard of it by planting apples, pears, and cherries, or whether it should be larch, mountain ash, and acacia. She frets so much and with such alacrity that I’ve said nothing and am ready to agree with anybody.

  But now, seeing them proceed, I question the wisdom. “Should we be going to the expense of planting new trees when—?”

  He takes my hand. “A few trees cost little and offer hope for the future.”

  I shrug, only supposing it is so for his benefit. I’m not one to worry much about money. To have enough is enough. But now, the thought that there is not enough is disconcerting.

  Father offers a smile. “Don’t worry, dear Jane. I have traversed many a trouble in my sixty-nine years and will no doubt traverse many more.”

  I kiss his cheek and leave him, closing the door quietly behind me.

  My last glimpse shows him staring down at the papers with furrowed brow.

  *****

  During a horrendous storm, we lost two great elms in the garden and four trees in the grove. And we were not the only ones who suffered damage. The Lefroys at Ashe lost their dining room chimney, making quite a mess within that room. I give thanks that our storm raged without, not within. The rectory remained safely intact.

  Although the storm is all that has been talked about for weeks, we recover and do not dwell on the loss. Father won’t allow it. In fact, he has insisted that we go about to neighbourhood gatherings and balls.

  I happily comply. Monday last, the three of us and James had a very pleasant day at Ashe. We sat down fourteen to dinner in the study, the dining room with its crumbled chimney being uninhabitable. Mrs. Bramston talked a good deal of nonsense, which Mr. Bramston and Mr. Clerk seemed almost equally to enjoy. There was whist and a casino table, and six outsiders. Rice and Lucy made love with their avid flirtation, Matthew Robinson fell asleep, James and Mrs. Augusta alternately read Dr. Finnis’s pamphlet on the cowpox, and I bestowed my company by turns to all.

  And tonight there is a ball. Just yesterday it was settled that Mrs. Harwood, Mary, and I should go together, but shortly afterwards a very civil note of invitation for me came from Mrs. Bramston. I might likewise have gone with my dear friend Anne Lefroy. How delightful to be given three methods of going. I will be more at the ball than anyone else.

  I dine and sleep at James’s home in Deane, where I have help with my hair, which I fancy looks very indifferent. I hope nobody abuses it so I can retire delighted with my success. Hair has never been my crowning glory, and I would just as soon cut it off than be consistently mundane. It would surely be a way to put myself into every conversation—something I’m not wont to do.

  We arrive to the ball on time, as James is ever punctual. As I enter I count nearly sixty people. Though some will not dance—by choice or lack of partner—I still imagine a good brace of couples. Fifteen or sixteen perhaps. A jolly lot, to be sure.

  I begin to take stock of those present, making mental notes I will share with Cassandra in my letters. I see the Portsmouths, Dorchesters, Boltons, Portals, and Clerks, though there is a scarcity of men in general and a still greater scarcity of any that are good for much. There are very few beauties, and such as there are, are not very handsome. Miss Iremonger does not look well, and Mrs. Blount appears to be the only one much admired. She has a broad face, diamond bandeau, white shoes, pink husband, and fat neck. The two Miss Coxes are here: I trace in one the remains of the vulgar, broad-featured girl who danced at Enham eight years ago; the other is refined into a nice, composed-looking girl.

  I cross the room and see Sir Thomas Champneys. I spot his daughter and think her a queer animal with a white neck. Mrs. Warren, I am constrained to think, is a very fine young woman, which I much regret. I hear she is with child, but as the music starts, she dances away with great activity, looking by no means very large. Her husband is ugly enough, uglier even than his cousin John; but he does not look so very old.

  I nod to the Miss Maitlands, who are both prettyish, with brown skin, large dark eyes, and a good deal of nose. The general has got the gout, and Mrs. Maitland the jaundice. Miss Debarie, Susan, and Sally are all in black but do not carry off such severity well. I’m as civil to them as their bad breath allows.

  As I get a cup of punch I chastise myself for being so biting in my assessment but diminish my mental punishment by the fact that I must find something of interest to share with Cassandra. As she consoles and advises me, I amuse and entertain her. ’Tis our lot and obligation to each other.

  James Digweed approaches and I apply a smile.

  “Miss Jane.” He bows.

  I curtsy. “Mr. Digweed.”

  “How nice to see you tonight,” he says, his eyes scanning the room. “But where is your lovely sister?”

  “In Kent, at my brother’s.”

  His face is genuinely sad—something else I can relate to Cassandra. “I’m sorry to hear that. Please send her my best.”

  “I will.”

  He puts his hands behind his back, showing his fine blue waistcoat and brocade vest to full advantage. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss of trees. Those two great elms . . .” He shakes his head, then blinks as if the recipient of a fresh thought. “Surely they fell from utter grief at your sister’s absence.”

  He is so serious and gallant that it’s only with difficulty I retain my smile. “Surely ’tis true.”

  At the lack of my sister, he asks me to dance. I comply. It’s the least I can do for his sorrow.

  By the end of the evening, I have partnered with Stephen Terry, Tom Chute, and James Digweed, as well as my dear friend, Catherine Bigg. There were commonly a couple of ladies standing up together, but not often any so amiable as ourselves.

  I return to Deane exhausted, yet refreshed. Dancing will do that. As will enjoying good company.

  I am well content.

  *****

  To add to my state of contentment, I go to Ibthorpe to visit Martha Lloyd. Her mother is not well, and as I have experience in that regard—knowing how it strains the nurse e’en more than the nursed—I come to offer diversion. And help, if asked.

  Three of the endless Debaries come to call within hours of my arrival. As they had recently visited us at Steventon, I endure a recount of their great uncle’s passing in London (great in their assessm
ent of him, not in regard to a familial title). They persist in being afflicted. I find these stories of their love and attention to such uncle, who was unknown thitherto by us, to be directly linked to his death. He was obviously a man who owned enough riches to cause the entire Debarie clan to proclaim sudden interest. I do wish the whole thing settled soon so we can be spared further mention of his laudable traits. And I do hope for the Debaries’ sake, generosity was one of them.

  Upon leaving, the Debarie sisters urge a visit from Martha and me to their nearby parsonage. We say we will try and close the door. I quickly bar it with my body.

  “What are you doing?” Martha asks.

  “Barring further entry against all persons in order that I might have you to myself for at least an hour.”

  She giggles and gives me a curtsy. “But what about our return visit to the Debaries’?”

  I shake my head with vigor. “We cannot go.”

  “Whyever not?”

  I approach her confidentially. “Don’t you know that it’s common circumstance in this parish to have the road from Ibthorpe to the parsonage much dirtier and more impracticable for walking than the road from the parsonage to Ibthorpe?”

  As my bosom friend she wastes no time in agreeing with me. “Yes, yes, I do believe you’re right.”

  “To further our cause, shall we pray for rain?”

  “Absolutely,” Martha says. She raises praying hands at her chin and bows her head.

  I do the same and pronounce, “Amen!”

  What Martha does not know is that e’en though my prayer appeared short, it had another purpose unconnected to the Debaries. For its content contained no mention of roads but was filled with gratitude for having such a friend as she.

  *****

  I will admit Mrs. Lloyd is sincerely ill. I’ve been so long in the presence of my mother’s phantom complaints, and also in Bath where illness is embraced and thought about at every minute, that I find myself suspect of all her symptoms. I silently offer apologies and help Martha’s duties of care the best I can. Although I find the best cure is to be busy and ignore all illness, in Mrs. Lloyd’s case such action—no matter how determined—is not available.

  But that does not mean Martha and I cannot enjoy our visit. I find her so unlike her sister Mary. Although through her marriage to James, Mary is my relation, I find my true sister’s heart connected to Martha.

  Our best times are had after Mrs. Lloyd is set to sleep for the night. We retire to Martha’s cozy room and feel the freedom of a closed door. We speak freely and at great length. That our hours of sleep are adversely affected does not matter. I would not trade such times for all of Uncle Debarie’s riches.

  We dress for bed but wrap ourselves in quilts as we sit in two ratted but comfortable chairs by the fire. I bring my feet up to the chair’s cushion and tuck the quilt beneath them. “I finished another story,” I proclaim. Martha is the only one outside the family who is privy to my attempts.

  Her eyes light up, a true sign of friendship. “Does this book contain a Mr. Darcy in it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Another like Mr. Darcy?”

  I shake my head. “Are you smitten?”

  “You know I am. ‘My good opinion once lost is lost forever.’”

  I laugh. “You know his words better than I!”

  “If you would let me read First Impressions one more time, I will have it published. By memory.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “A promise,” Martha says. Her eyes flash with a combination of firelight and sincerity. “It’s a good book, Jane. Very good.”

  “’Tis not a book yet.”

  “But it will be. It must be.”

  Her words are a balm. And yet . . . “I have no avenue to get it published. Mr. Cadell and Davies sent back a letter regarding—”

  “Unopened. I know. They sent back a letter.”

  “They didn’t deem the story readable.”

  “They didn’t read the story. They read a letter about the story. That is what they returned.”

  I offer a shrug, though it is a true point I’ve oft wanted to embrace.

  She reaches across the space that separates our chairs and waits until I let myself loose from the guilt and take her hand. She squeezes. Hard. “You must try, Jane. You must not let your work remain hidden. Its light must shine for all the world to see.”

  “It’s not worthy of the world’s eyes.”

  She lets my hand go with emphasis. “That is a lie.” She sits back. “You have spent countless hours creating stories for your own amusement?”

  “They do amuse me.”

  Martha pulls her own blanket close. “If this is true, then you, Jane Austen, are the most selfish of all beings.”

  I am shocked by her words. And hurt. “I’m not selfish. You’ve read them. My family—’’

  “Four or five people have been so honoured?” She shook her head. “’Tis deplorable, Jane. Hundreds, yea even thousands, must enjoy your work.”

  The idea ignites me with excitement. And fear. “But . . . how?”

  “You try. If you don’t ask the question, the answer is no.”

  Her words hang in the air between us as if they own substance beyond their sound.

  Martha wisely allows a bit of silence. Finally she asks, “You will do this, Jane?”

  I find my answer honest. “Yes. I will.”

  “You offer a promise?”

  With a deep breath, I say, “I do.”

  *****

  My joy continues. I have much to be joyful about. My time with Martha has invigorated me, as has the occurrence of my birthday. I am now five and twenty, and though some would suffer fear and frustration at that fact (considering my unmarried state) I refuse to allow myself such an ungrateful opinion. I have prospects—though neither they nor I know it. After all, ’tis I who danced nearly every dance at the balls this season. I am not a wallflower but a flower yet to fully bloom.

  And professionally . . . though ’tis true I’ve not been published, I have three satisfactory manuscripts complete and in my proud possession. I am poised with promise. I will not falter in my determination to continue my writing and pursue publication. I have no thought as to how this latter will come about, but I trust some divine plan will aid its completion—or no.

  But that is all the future, a shaded place that offers few glimpses and allows no regret.

  The regret will come later.

  I don’t dwell in that place of maybes or possibilities. I am happy now, and now is what sustains me. After nearly two weeks at Ibthorpe, I have the continuation of pleasure in Martha’s company, for she accompanies me the fourteen miles to home, and I find that any distance has little meaning when in good company. We tease that our initial plan was to have a nice black frost for walking to Whitchurch, and there throw ourselves into a post chaise, one upon the other, our heads hanging out at one door and our feet at the opposite. What a stir we would have made!

  As I near home, I make note that my parents have been alone during my absence. Have they missed me as they have missed Cassandra? I cannot imagine what they do alone in only each other’s presence. In their thirty-six years of marriage, through eight children and a bevy of Father’s pupils in residence, they have not oft suffered a silent house.

  Like it or not, they are soon to have that silence disturbed. We pull up front.

  I see by a carriage that James is here. I mention it to Martha. Her face lights. “My sister! What a delighted happenstance if Mary is also here.”

  I hold less delight at the possibility but do not dispute my friend’s happiness.

  We make our entrance, letting the driver bring in our bags. Martha spies Mary sitting in the parlour and the sisters embrace. I remove m
y hat and see Mother and Father standing to greet me. They exchange an odd glance, but then Mother comes forward with an embrace.

  “How are you feeling, Mother?” I ask. I feel a bit guilty for not wondering more after her health during my visit at Ibthorpe.

  She takes a small step back, then says, “Well, girls, it’s all settled. We have decided to leave Steventon and go to Bath.”

  I am in no mood to visit my aunt and uncle. I look forward to some time at home with Martha. “Can we not wait for a visit?” I ask.

  Mother looks at Father, who steps forward. “’Tis not a visit we speak of, Jane. We will move to Bath. We will reside there.”

  One word screams through my mind. No!

  I remember nothing else.

  *****

  “She awakens.” It’s Martha’s voice.

  I open my eyes and find myself on the settee in the parlour. Martha holds my hand and looks upon me with worried countenance.

  So it was not a dream.

  “Water,” Father says. “Give her some water.”

  A glass is held to my lips, but I push it away. I sit and gaze upon those gathered.

  Mother sits in a chair nearby. “See? She is better. I was not mistaken in telling her.”

  “You spoke too plain, my dear,” Father says. “Too plain too quickly. Jane was barely in the door when you accosted her with the news.”

  “I thought it best to let her know posthaste. There is much to be done.”

  My muddled mind attempts to grasp the subject behind their bickering. “I don’t understand,” I say. “I must have heard you incorrectly. Surely, I heard—”

  “You heard correctly,” Mother says. “While you girls were gone, your father and I decided we have had enough of Steventon and wish to—”

  Father suppresses her words with a hand to her arm. “Not so harsh, my dear. We cannot expect Jane to comprehend our reasoning when we ourselves took many days to meld the factors into a decision.”

  I set my feet upon the floor, needing its solidity. I rub my hands over my face, accepting the pain as a measure of this moment’s reality in time.