Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  “If we don’t expire first.”

  We all laugh. How rare to find a gentleman who knows how to parlay language in such a witty fashion. How delightful.

  He removes his hat and offers a bow. “William Jones, at your service, ladies.”

  We curtsy, and Cassandra, being the eldest, offers introductions. “We are the Austen sisters: I am Cassandra, and this is Jane.”

  “A pleasure.” He turns to his right. “Shall we walk?”

  I can think of nothing better.

  *****

  The appeal of Sidmouth increases a hundredfold after meeting Mr. Jones. He is a clergyman, in town to visit his brother, who is a doctor here. We have met twice since that first happy happenstance—with Cassandra as our chaperone, of course. I’m glad to have her along, not because being in a gentleman’s presence makes me nervous, but because by her very presence I am relieved of having to remember what I said, what he said, and what I said again. This allows for our sisterly time alone to be utilized for discussions of his intentions and what he really might have meant by what he said after hearing what I said.

  The whole affair makes me giggle. Cassandra too—which makes me very pleased. For I don’t wish to have feelings for anyone whom Cassandra dislikes.

  She assures me William Jones is very amiable.

  I stand before the mirror and attempt to tame my curls, for he is to call today. Call here, at our residence in Sidmouth.

  “You look lovely,” Cassandra says, watching my flutterings.

  “I can never claim that trait, but I’m grateful for your encouragement.”

  “He needs no encouragement, you know.”

  I turn away from the mirror to see her face. “Do you think . . . ?”

  “I believe he is quite in love with you.”

  “Has he said something?”

  She points to her eyes. “With these. I can see by the way he looks at you.”

  “Perhaps he partook of bad oysters.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “Perhaps he feels the pangs of love.”

  I put a hand to my midsection. “Is this what it feels like?”

  “Only you can say.”

  “But how do I know?”

  Cassandra shrugs, which is not an answer I can fathom. “I have only loved one man and the love grew so gradually, from childhood to grown, that I’m not sure I can speak of love’s measure or absolute knowledge.” She twists a curl by my forehead, then steps back, obviously pleased. “Is this feeling the same as that which you had toward Tom Lefroy?”

  I’m torn by her question. “I don’t know. That seems a lifetime ago. I was not the same Jane then as I am now. Should I feel the same?”

  “You were very young then.”

  “I was very ignorant of . . . life.”

  Cassandra nods. She understands. For in the three years since Tom, I’ve felt a myriad of emotions hitherto unknown to me. I had been a happy young woman, nearly a child, who flirted and laughed at balls and whose largest dilemma was whom to dance with first. Now I’m older and have been introduced to disappointment, frustration, sorrow, anger . . . .

  “Does a person love the same way twice?” I ask.

  “I wouldn’t know.” She takes my hand and draws me to standing. “It’s time. He will be here soon.”

  “So . . . what do I do?”

  “You follow your heart.”

  I remember a quote from Blaise Pascal that Father taught me: The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.

  I hope to prove the quotation wrong.

  *****

  Father and Mr. Jones engage in a rousing discussion regarding the simple fact that though men appear to be good, it does not mean they truly follow God’s decrees. William points out that we often judge people by their manners, when such manners can cover a multitude of flaws of what should be true, godly character. Father heartily agrees.

  I am content to observe—and delight in their connection. Although I’ve little history of bringing suitors to meet my parents, what plays out between them fulfills my imagination.

  Their discussion complete, William looks in my direction and smiles. Father smiles. Mother smiles. Cassandra smiles.

  The world is good and right.

  “I was wondering, Mr. Austen,” William says, “if I might be allowed to meet up with you again in the near future. Jane says you are traveling on to another coastal town?”

  “We are,” Father says.

  “Are you leaving Sidmouth soon, Mr. Jones?” I ask—with far too much panic in my voice.

  “I must.” He looks at Father. “But with your permission, once my business is complete, I would like to come visit with you again. You name the city, and I will be there.”

  Oh my.

  My panic subsides and my heart follows Pascal’s quotation. I am a stranger to reason.

  “I think that would be delightful,” Father says, shaking William’s hand. “Come, let me show you our itinerary.”

  The men leave the room and Mother is immediately at my side, taking my hands in hers. “Oh, Jane, he is all I hoped for you! I’m so pleased.”

  She hugs me tightly, more tightly than she has ever embraced me. I am glad to have finally pleased her.

  I have pleasure on so many accounts.

  God is good.

  *****

  “You daydream again,” Cassandra says as the carriage jostles us toward our next coastal destination.

  “Mmm.”

  “He will be there,” she whispers.

  *****

  As soon as we arrive at the inn, even before I remove my bonnet, I check with the owner. I’ve sent word through William’s brother as to our final schedule. He, in turn, is to leave word at the inn as to where he is staying. To see him! Soon, I will see him!

  I must admit my affection has grown in his absence. I’m not naïve enough to call it true love. But with my imagination added to my memories, I have all hopes that love will evolve. And is that not the best kind of love? One that once born grows larger?

  “Excuse me, sir?” I ask the owner. “Is there a message left for Miss Jane Austen?”

  He nods and pulls a letter from a box. “Came two days ago.”

  He has been here two days? My heart races. I must not keep William waiting a moment longer!

  I rush to my room, where Cassandra unpacks. Immediately she sees it in my hand. “What does he say?”

  “I have not opened it yet.” I toss off my bonnet and sit by the window to read. I break the seal and gaze for the first time upon William’s writing. He owns a lovely cursive. Very readable and neat.

  Dear Miss Austen . . .

  I had hoped for Dear Jane.

  But as I read the words, the importance of the salutation evaporates.

  I regret to inform you that William has had an accident and has been killed. Please know that his thoughts were upon you. He was so excited about seeing you again . . . .

  “Jane?”

  My head shakes back and forth of its own volition. The letter falls from my hand, its words too heavy to hold.

  Cassandra picks it up and reads. Her shaking head joins rhythm with mine. “No! No! It cannot be!”

  I press my hands against my face, covering my eyes. Surely they didn’t just see the words, read the words, accept the words.

  Surely, they did.

  *****

  I feel Cassandra slip into my bed, beside me. My back is to her, and we do not speak, but I move over as best I can. She puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I know what you suffer.”

  And for the first time since hearing of William’s death, I realize she does. I turn toward her and adjust our two frames in the space meant for one. Even
in the moonlight I can see her face. “You know.”

  She nods.

  “What am I to do?”

  “You hurt.”

  I begin to cry and she touches her forehead to mine. There is comfort there, but I move on to another emotion and pull back. “But why, Cass? Why would God take him? We had just found each other. Why, when I finally found a man I might truly love?”

  “Why did God take my Tom?”

  “It’s like we are doomed to be two old spinster women.”

  “I’m accepting of that,” she says.

  I sit up, throwing the cover against her. “But I’m not! I know you want no one but Tom, but I’ve not made such a choice. I’m willing—if I find the right one. I’m open to the idea of love and marriage and family and—”

  “Then it will happen.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But why would God bring this man into my life, tease me with his charm and amiability, please Father and Mother with hopes of our future, and then take him from me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I dislike her answers. “Who does know?”

  She opens her mouth to speak, and I know the same three words perch on its edge. She wisely does not let them loose.

  I lean against the wall at the side of the bed and draw my knees to my chest, pulling my gown around them. “Do you ever wonder if we are a disappointment to our parents?”

  “Because we aren’t married?”

  I shrug, for that is a part of it. But there is more. “All their sons have done well and prospered. But we . . . we . . .”

  “What would you have us do? The avenues of accomplishment open to women are narrow.”

  “We could marry. Have children. Stop being a burden. Give them some true time alone.”

  “They know my view of it.”

  “But Mother made it clear that moving to Bath would open marital possibilities.”

  “For you, Jane. Not for me. There will be none but Tom for me.”

  She frustrates me, for of the two of us it’s Cassandra who has more to offer a man than I. She is adept at all things domestic; she is intelligent, calm in the face of calamity, constant, versed in child rearing, and loves far beyond herself. I’m a gray, dusty moth to her lovely butterfly.

  We allow silence to fill the space between us. It’s not awkward, as it might be in the presence of others. We accept each other’s silence as a part of our dialogue. Words are not the only thing that speak.

  “If I do ever marry, you will live with me,” I say. I didn’t plan to say it, but the words move unbidden from thought to fruition.

  “Your husband may not approve.”

  “Then he will not be my husband.” I hold out my hand. “Shake on it, Cass. Make a pact of it.”

  She hesitates, but only for a moment. We shake hands. Though others may come and go, live and die, satisfy and disappoint, the two Austen sisters will remain united.

  Forever.

  Thirteen

  We have returned to Bath. I’m as pleased as I expect to be.

  And yet . . . I have decided there are little rubs and disappointments everywhere. We are all apt to expect too much. If one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better. We find comfort somewhere.

  We must. It’s our never-ending quest.

  I try to hold on to, but not dwell on, the lovely months in the west country at the shore, nor dwell on what could have been with my William. (Was he ever my William? I ponder this.) Yet I know what good such dwelling achieves.

  Our lives attempt to find a rhythm here, but I find the rhythm of my left hand does not match that of my right. I work against myself, yet cannot seem to come to a complete stop so that I may get a better start at things, in good time, in even time.

  I have many excuses, some worn by overuse. But just to keep things interesting I add new complaints to my list: the house at Sydney Place has an odd smell that one gets used to once inside but that assails the senses anew each time one returns. And the new furniture we have procured here is right enough but will always be wrong because it’s not our old furniture. Plus, I grieve over the lack of a piano. Yes, I can visit Aunt Leigh-Perrot and play hers, but that is not the same as spending time each day in a private communion with music before others are about. There is a place I visit while playing—a place that I miss.

  Privacy is an issue here, as Mother and Father, with no cares or responsibilities, have taken it upon themselves to be social flutter-bees, going out, coming in, having others in, going out—none soon enough. That they insist Cassandra and I meet and greet annoys me. We are not wallflowers nor hermits, but the obvious intent behind the meetings embarrasses. “We are like flowers in a stall, ready for picking,” I tell Cassandra.

  She responds with, “They fear we will wilt.”

  Their fear is unfounded. On my part, I have no plans to wilt. But to be presented with such desperation, as though we are a bargain because of some flaw . . . Come see, come buy. They are not so terribly out of season!

  Not yet.

  Age is our flaw. Time, that endless taskmaster, ever moving, unrelenting . . .

  Were it not for the marriage issue, I would find my age quite pleasant. At twenty-six I’m old enough to know something of the world and young enough to hope for something better. Wise, yet naïve? If there can be such a state, it is mine.

  I sit near the window and work on my needlework. I do more of it now, as it is something that occupies me when unamusing people come to call. Too often have I been caught thinking: I wish I had a piece of work handy so my time would not be a total loss. So now, ever wiser, when we have visitors, I take up my work with an eagerness which it does not often command. Although I have socks to darn, I’ve been informed that is not proper. And so I make a pretty case for a pillow, ivory with yellow and pink flowers. Father reads the paper, and Cassandra sits nearby putting embroidery on a moss green reticule to match her newest dress.

  She displays it for my perusal. “Do you think this is enough? Or should I put another row along the open—?”

  Mother rushes into the room, causing me to prick my finger. She waves a letter. “Young Hastings is dead!”

  Eliza’s son, by her first husband, the French count. Poor little Hastings!

  Cassandra takes the letter from her. “It was the fits. They had come more frequently of late.”

  “He has not been well,” Father adds. “Never been well.”

  It was a truth we none could argue. Ever since the chubby little boy had come into our lives to be our special pet to pamper and play with, we recognized he was unlike other children. His speech never developed correctly, and he took to repeating very formal phrases such as calling someone “My very valuable friend.” Yet as lofty as the words sounded, they seemed said from memory, as if he had learned the sounds but knew not the meaning.

  Mother pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve and sits by the fireplace. “He has been in much pain. For years,” Mother says. “Fifteen long years of agonizing existence.”

  Whenever I think of Hastings, I’m reminded of my older brother, George, who is also not right. Second born, and nine years older than I, he was sent away as a child. It has been years since I’ve seen him, but I have heard he is well. Well enough. Unlike dear Hastings, George can function.

  Cassandra finishes reading the letter and tells us the rest of its contents. “The boy has been buried in Hampstead beside his maternal grandmother. Eliza is going to Godmersham for a few weeks.”

  I nod. “She and Henry will find solace at Edward’s. Henry so enjoys it there.”

  With a glance to Mother, Cassandra says, “Henry is not going. He is staying in London to attend to business with his new ba
nking position.”

  Mother shakes her head. “They are apart far too often.”

  I’ve noticed this quirk in their relationship but have accepted it as an agreed upon situation for two very independent spirits. Although Henry is my favourite brother, I do acknowledge—at least in private—his many faults.

  “He had better behave himself,” Father says.

  “Meaning?” I ask.

  Mother receives another glance, this time from Father. “He had just better, that is all. Life is hard work, not all pleasure.”

  “They should be having their own children,” Mother says. “Especially now . . .”

  “But Eliza is ten years older,” I say. There is no need to offer details. Eliza is forty years old. The fact that she and Henry have not already had a child warrants speculation that she is unable. For surely, they do share affection to its fullest extent.

  “It’s none of our business,” Cassandra says. “We must each write, offering our condolences, and let them handle the grieving as they will.”

  She is right. As always.

  Death is part of life. And accepting that fact as quickly as possible is the Austen way.

  *****

  Yes, indeed. The Austen way has its merits.

  The next year Henry and Eliza come to visit. I wonder if being in Bath will be bittersweet for Eliza, bringing back memories of her son, who sought help here. But if that is so, she does not mention it.

  The two of them are as vibrant as ever. The air moves when they enter a room; the light brightens and colours enrich. And once they have entered, the four corners, the ceiling, and the floor, all come to attention.

  Henry falls into a chair in the parlor. Eliza gracefully takes command of a settee next to Father. Oddly, he reddens at the very nearness of her. I’m not surprised. Eliza has that effect on men of all ages. She seems to make them more aware that they are men.

  And she, a woman.

  Mother, Cassandra, and I sit on various chairs, drawing them close to hear the news. Henry has intimated that there is an adventure to tell, which, considering the players, does not surprise.

  “So,” Father begins, looking at lovely Eliza. “Henry says your trip to France was eventful?”