Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  I look across the sitting room where the cabinet in question sits unawares. It has always been mine. As a child I used the bottom drawer as a bed for my doll. My niece will not have it. No one will.

  Mother appears at the door. “Jane, I have decided to have two maids in Bath. A steady cook and a housemaid.”

  “Isn’t Nanny coming with us?”

  “Nanny’s husband is decidedly against her quitting service in such times as these and, I believe, would be very glad to have her continue with us. But you know, Jane, in some respects she would be a great comfort, and in some we should wish for a different sort of servant. Nothing is settled at present with her, but I should think it would be as well for all parties if she could suit herself somewhere nearer her husband and child than Bath. Mrs. Rice’s place would very likely do for her. Yet, as she herself is aware, she’s not qualified for many houses.”

  So we have dispensed of dear Nanny too—though it does appear Mother has at least given more thought to her disposal than that of my cabinet.

  “Does Father know of your idea of servants?” I ask.

  “Not as yet.”

  “I assume there will be a manservant also, of middle age,” I say. “Someone who can undertake the double office of husband to the former and sweetheart to the latter. No children to be allowed on either side.”

  Mother rolls her eyes. “This is not one of your novels, Jane.”

  It could be.

  Thankfully—for her sake—Mother is called away before I can mention my cabinet not being assigned to Anna.

  The battle is not over. But it will be won.

  Hopefully, in my favor.

  *****

  I hug Martha close, her bonnet to my ear. “Don’t go.”

  “I must. Mother isn’t well.”

  I know this to be true, but it does not lighten my sorrow. “You leave me alone.”

  She is wise enough not to say, “But your parents are here.” As a bosom friend she discerns my meaning.

  Martha approaches the carriage. “Cassandra will be home soon.”

  “Not soon enough. And Mother wants me to travel with her to Bath to look at rental properties.”

  “But surely Cassandra will come too?”

  “Yes, if I am consulted.”

  Sadly, we both know the probability of that.

  *****

  Cassandra is home!

  We meet her at the door with a strong embrace. “Welcome!” Father says.

  “I’m ever so glad to be home,” she says.

  “You leave our grandchildren well at Godmersham?” Mother asks.

  I take Cassandra’s coat and bonnet. “All six of them.”

  “And baby Elizabeth?”

  “Quite healthy with rosy, fat cheeks and four brothers and a sister to croon and coo over her.”

  “I do wish to see her,” Mother says. She turns to Father and bats his arm. “We should go to Kent for a visit.”

  “And when would we have time for that?” he says. “You and Jane are to leave for Bath at the end of the week.”

  “Cassandra too,” I say.

  Mother holds the door so Cassandra’s luggage can be brought inside. “No, Jane. Cassandra must stay here.”

  My worst fear is realized. “But why?”

  “She has items to sift through for the move. Being at home, you have had the advantage, Jane.”

  I see no advantage.

  Cassandra and I exchange a plaintive look.

  There is nothing we can do.

  *****

  “They don’t think straight nor long enough to discern the truth. That they could make such a decision in the few days I was at Martha’s speaks strongly of their impulsiveness.”

  Cassandra leans over the washbasin and rinses her face. When she is finished I hand her a towel. “They must have been months contemplating it.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, getting under the covers for a sleep that may not come easily. “There is all indication that a lightning bolt from heaven has been responsible for sending us toward this hell.”

  Cassandra gets in bed. “I hate how you have suffered. If only I could have been here with you.”

  “So you could witness how gleefully Mary, and even our James, descended upon our meager riches?”

  “Apply a bit of mercy, Jane. They didn’t instigate this change in our lives—nor in theirs. That they find joy and excitement in the prospect is to be expected.”

  As always, she is the voice of reason. I sit up in bed, adjusting the pillow behind me. “The very least they can do is not express their glee in my presence.”

  She offers me the look I deserve. Yet I am unappeased. “Please, Cassandra, do you not find our fate despicable for the fact that we have had no say in it and for its unfortunate fruition? We are held captive from a life of our own.”

  “Do you have another life to go to, Jane? Do I?”

  I dislike the truth. “There is no choice, then. We must marry the first man who asks. Whether Digweed, Blackhorn, Holder, or . . .” Amid my sarcasm, I smile. “Or?”

  Cassandra adjusts the covers before answering. “I know you wish me to mention dancing four dances with Mr. Kemble at the last ball, but I will not.”

  “Because I teased you about him being so stupid a man? Because I said that I would have rather you danced two of them with some elegant brother-officer who was struck with your appearance as soon as you entered the room?”

  She ignores my query. “The men don’t swarm about me, Jane, no matter how you testify to my merits.”

  “At least you are dancing, Sister. It’s the best way to meet and—”

  “I have no wish to meet and . . . anything.”

  She has made this blanket statement before. “But Tom has been gone two years.”

  “Three.”

  I trust she knows. “I realize you loved him, but I also believe he would wish you to marry and be happy.”

  “I am happy,” she says, pulling the cover over her shoulder. “Happy enough to have truly loved. Once.”

  I think of Tom Lefroy and know that I have not truly loved. Not as yet.

  Cassandra continues. “As much as we believe we will dislike Bath, Jane, there may be advantage there.”

  I roll my eyes but am curious. “Oh, do tell me what it is. I am waiting, all pins and needles in expectation.”

  Cassandra takes a long, hard breath, as if what she is about to tell me is of the utmost difficulty. “‘Fire is the test of gold; adversity, of strong men.’”

  “So saith Cassandra Austen?”

  “So saith Seneca, a Roman philosopher. Father had a book—”

  “I have no wish to hear the wisdom of dead Romans.”

  “Then listen to me.”

  “I am.”

  “Are you?”

  I hesitate but for a moment. “I will.”

  “Good, because in many ways, you and I are of one cloth. We are perfectly content to embrace home and garden. Big cities like Bath . . .” She shakes her head. “It is not for us, Jane.”

  I’m surprised by her words. “I agree. I truly dislike—”

  She stops what would have been a rant by raising a hand between us. “I know what you dislike because I dislike it too. But because we are being forced into a situation and locale we would never have chosen otherwise, we are forced to adapt. And grow.” She touches a finger to her own forehead and points toward mine. “We will learn things we would not have learned if left to our own devices, dear Sister. And because of this knowledge, we will be better for it, even if it comes buttoned too tightly and in rough fabric. Use it, Jane. Use it in your books. Nothing will be a waste if we declare it so.”

  And right then, as I have
many times in the past—and no doubt will feel many times in the future—I know my dear sister is right.

  She returns to the origin of our discussion. “Besides, we have no place to go but to live with our parents. So . . . ‘Whither thou goest . . .’”

  I complete the verse from the book of Ruth. “‘I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.’”

  Cassandra turns her back to me, ready to sleep. “Amen.”

  Deepest Affliction

  Ten

  Cassandra arrives home to Steventon.

  And I leave.

  With Mother.

  Alone.

  The person in whom I take solace is now taken from me. With whom should I seek solace now?

  We leave on the fourth of May. A favourite month forever bound to this horrible occasion. The sun mocks me by shining. How dare it do such a thing!

  I walk through the house that has been my home. I have lived here twenty-five years, four months, and nineteen days. There is not another house that has ever been home. Every moment of my life, remembered or not, has been embraced by these walls, this floor, this ceiling. Every emotion I’ve felt was felt here. All the family I have ever had shared this space, their laughter and tears still present as I walk from room to room. Other than my parents, I have lived here more than any of my siblings. My brothers are all gone. And Cassandra is often at Edward’s for months at a time helping with their never-ending creation of progeny. Yes, I too have traveled and visited elsewhere. But if days were added on to days, I am the one who has spent the most time amid these rooms. This is my house more than any other’s. And yet I was not asked to give it up. I was not consulted. The decision was forced upon me. As others move toward the future with anticipation, I do not.

  I’m not ready, nor do I wish to be.

  I hear Mother coming from the back and slip up the stairs, needing more time alone. As I enter that which soon will be my room no more, I hear her stop at the front door and commence talking with Father regarding our carriage.

  I close the door on my sitting room and lean against it. Although the ownership of this space is fairly new—having only come into Cassandra’s and my possession after the departures of our brothers, it is a place that is fixed in my memories. The joy it has brought has made it a place beyond worth. That we are to leave it behind, that my parents have already done so in mind and emotion if not yet in act, disturbs me nearly beyond bearing.

  How can they let it go? Does it not elicit cherished times in their hearts? Are they so cold that our departure means nothing to them?

  I hear as well as feel a soft knock on the door against my back. “Jane?”

  As it’s Cassandra, I let her in. She does not ask what I’m doing, standing near the door alone. Instead, she takes me in her arms and offers commiseration.

  It is my only solace.

  *****

  Our journey away from one life and on to another is free from accident or event. I find this disconcerting. Shouldn’t we suffer tragedy and turmoil? At least some small drama to mark this journey? If I would write such a scene, I would make it so.

  As it is, we change horses at the end of every stage and pay at every turnpike. We have charming weather, hardly any dust, and are exceedingly agreeable to one another—as we don’t speak more than once in the first three miles.

  Between Luggershall and Everley we take a grand meal. We cannot with the utmost exertion consume more than a twentieth of the beef. That we neither one have the appetite hints that Mother feels at least a part of the discomfiture of leaving as I. Or maybe the jostling of the carriage is the cause . . . . The main value of the meal is the procurement of a cucumber that will, I believe, be a very acceptable present, as my uncle talks of having inquired as to the price of one lately, when he was told a shilling.

  We have a very neat chaise from Devizes; it looks almost as well as a gentleman’s, at least a very shabby gentleman’s. Unfortunately, when I get into the chaise I discover that Cassandra’s drawing ruler is broke in two at the top where the crosspiece is fastened on. I hope she will beg my pardon. Yet it seems appropriate that something go awry on this day.

  In spite of the advantage of the chaise, we are three hours coming from thence to the Paragon. The first view of Bath in fine weather does not answer my expectations. I think I see more distinctly through rain . . . . The sun is behind everything, and the appearance of the place from the top of Kingsdown is all vapour, shadow, smoke, and confusion.

  It’s half after seven before we enter the house. The manservant William, whose black head is waiting in the hall window, receives us very kindly, and his master and mistress also show cordiality. They both look very well, though my aunt has a violent cough. We drink tea as soon as we arrive, and I give the present of soap, basket, and cucumber. Each is kindly received.

  I have not been two minutes in the dining room before Uncle questions me with all his customary eager interest about my brothers Frank and Charles, their views and intentions. I do my best to give information.

  As we settle in, I find I have the pleasure of my own room up two pair of stairs, with everything very comfortable about me. Again, I nearly wish it were not so. I should not hold comfort. Not on such a day. Not after such a journey.

  I go to bed, assuming I will not sleep.

  I should not sleep.

  As an act of rebellion.

  But alas, I grow tired and soon know that my weak body cannot contend with my rebellious heart.

  My heart surrenders.

  I sleep.

  *****

  I have been awake ever since five and sooner. I would like to claim it as a partial victory toward my insurgence but know the truth lies in having too many clothes over me. I thought I should have them by the feel of them before I went to bed, but in the night I had not the courage to alter them. I’m warmer here without any fire than I have been lately with an excellent one—a fact I am wary to admit.

  In spite of our journey, Mother’s health is commendable and I secretly wonder whether her ailments at home were brought about by boredom. With all her sons moved away, and no more pupils . . . she moved from chaos to calm. And where I prefer calm, I do believe she prefers otherwise.

  Our purpose here is to find a house so when Father and Cassandra join us (soon, Cassandra, come soon!) we shall have a place for them to stay. I don’t use the word home because the distinction is too vivid in my heart to offer the word indiscriminately.

  Our work began back in Steventon. Before arriving we made inquiries. There are three parts of Bath we think likely to have suitable houses: Westgate Buildings, Charles Street, and some of the short streets leading from Laura Place or Pulteney Street. Westgate Buildings, though quite in the lower part of the town, are not badly situated themselves; the street is broad and has rather a good appearance. However, Charles Street is preferable; the buildings are new, and its nearness to Kingsmead Fields would be a pleasant circumstance, as it leads from the Queen Square Chapel to the two Green Park streets.

  The houses in the streets near Laura Place are above our price. Gay Street is too high, except only the lower house on the left-hand side as you ascend. Toward that, Mother has no disinclination. It used to be lower rented than any other house in the row, from some inferiority in the apartments.

  But above all others, her wishes are fixed on the corner house in Chapel Row, which opens into Prince’s Street. Her knowledge of it is confined only to the outside, and therefore she is equally uncertain of its being desirable as of its being available. In the meantime she says she will do everything in her power to avoid Trim Street, expecting Cassandra to express a fearful presentiment of it, due to its lowly nature.

  Today, when my uncle goes to take his second glass of water from the baths, I walk with him—he lim
ping with his walking stick—and in our morning’s circuit we look at two houses in Green Park Buildings, one of which pleases me very well. We walk all over it except into the garret. The dining room is of a comfortable size, the second room about fourteen feet square. The apartment over the drawing room pleases me particularly because it is divided into two, the smaller one a very nice-sized dressing room, which upon occasion might admit a bed. The aspect is southeast. The only doubt is about the dampness of the offices, of which there are symptoms. If I am to live in Bath, I wish to live in an amiable space. And I wish to find it soon . . . . The pace as we peruse the market is unbearably slow.

  Soon after, a friend, Mr. Evelyn, speaks to the proprietor of No. 12 Green Park Building and finds that he is very willing to raise the kitchen floor. But all this I fear is fruitless. Tho’ the water may be kept out of sight, it cannot be sent away, nor the ill effects of its nearness excluded.

  Beyond our search of property, I think of other ways to make our move here more amenable. My hope is that we can tempt Martha’s mother to settle in Bath for her health. I send word that meat is only eight pence per pound, butter twelve, and cheese nine and one half. I carefully conceal, however, the exorbitant price of fish: a salmon has been sold at two shillings, and nine per pound for the whole fish. The Duchess of York’s removal is expected to make that article more reasonable, but till it appears so, I say nothing about salmon.

  As diversion, I meet with a Mrs. Mussell for a gown. We discuss it at length, and she tells me her intentions. It’s to be a round gown, with a jacket and a frock front, open at the side. The jacket is all in one with the body and comes as far as the pocket holes, about half a quarter of a yard deep all the way round, cut off straight at the corners with a broad hem. No fullness appears either in the body or the flap; the back is quite plain in this form, and the sides equally so. The front is sloped round to the bosom and drawn in, and there is to be a frill of the same to put on occasionally when all my handkerchiefs are dirty. She is to put two breadths and a half in the tail, and no gores—gores not being so much worn as they once were. There is nothing new in the sleeves: they are to be plain, with a fullness of the same falling down and gathered up underneath, just like some of Martha’s, or perhaps a little longer. Low in the back behind, and a belt of the same.