Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  We hurry to the entrance, not wanting Mother to catch her death. “What’s wrong?” Cassandra asks.

  As soon as the door is closed, Mother answers, breathless. “Not a thing is wrong, not a single thing.”

  Father comes into the foyer as we remove our coats and bonnets. “Indeed, girls. Come in by the fire, and let us tell you what has transpired since you have been gone.”

  Gone? The clock on the mantel indicates only forty minutes have passed. What could have charged our parents with such effusions?

  We are seated by the fire, in our parents’ chairs (yes, indeed, something is about!). Father takes a letter from the table behind the settee. It’s obvious this is the source of the happiness.

  “We have received good news?” Cassandra asks.

  Father smiles—at me. “We shall let Jane read it. It’s a message from your brother.”

  “Sent by special messenger,” Mother adds.

  With difficulty I breathe. My heartbeat takes exception and vies for a place of equal importance. I take the letter in hand and recognize Henry’s messy cursive.

  “I hope you don’t mind we opened it ahead of you,” Father says. “Though it was addressed to you alone, with the special courier . . . .”

  I shake my head at his disclaimer. I read aloud:

  “Dearest Sister,

  I have the best of news. I assigned one of my business partners, William Seymour, to offer your book Susan to an acquaintance, a publisher in London, Richard Crosby. Mr. Crosby has agreed to publish it and will pay ten pounds.”

  “Ten pounds, Jane,” Mother says. “A fair amount, to be sure.”

  I’m not counting my purchases, but I am pleased. Any income of my own represents freedom for myself, as well as freedom for my parents. I will be ten pounds less a burden to them now.

  “Is there more?” Cassandra asks. “Read more.”

  There is more, and I return to the letter. “‘He’—I believe Henry means Mr. Crosby—‘promises early publication and intends on advertising the book as “in the Press” in a brochure called Flowers of Literature.’”

  “Advertisement, Jane,” Father says. “Actual advertisement. It appears Mr. Crosby is genuine.”

  “Of course he is,” Mother says. “Our Henry would not elicit the help of a charlatan.”

  “Let her finish,” Cassandra says.

  “That is about all,” I say, scanning the short rest. “Henry will get me the payment as soon as possible and will keep me informed.” I read the last line, then look up from the letter. “He says he loves me and is proud of me.”

  “Of course he is,” Father says. “As are we all.” He comes to me and lifts me into an embrace. Mother follows, and then Cassandra.

  I feel as if the very world has embraced me.

  It’s a beginning.

  *****

  Cassandra sits on her bed, brushing her hair.

  I do the same from the window seat. “Ten pounds, Cass. What I can do with ten pounds!” I tap my chin, then pretend to get an idea. “I know! With such great wealth, I will buy a cake. You know how interesting the purchase of a sponge cake is to me.”

  She gains a mischievous look, gets off the bed, and opens a drawer of her dresser. “This proves what you really think of money.”

  She holds something behind her back. “What do you have there?” I ask.

  “You may remember a certain letter you sent me that mentions your true heart in regard to payment for your work?”

  “I remember no such letter.”

  She laughs, pulls a letter from behind her back, and shoves it under my nose. “Here. True evidence of your greed.”

  I glance at the letter’s date. “This is dated January 16, 1796.”

  “I was visiting Tom and his family in Kintbury. You were at home.”

  “You kept this?”

  “I keep all your letters.”

  At first hearing, I’m impressed and then fearful. “All my letters? E’en the ones where . . .”

  “You are completely honest?”

  “Where I am distressingly honest.”

  “I have them, Jane. But fear not. I will not ever let others read those of a more intimate and . . . emotional nature. I will not let you suffer shame or embarrassment. Ever. I promise.”

  I believe her but still feel a bit nervous that my letters still exist. Then I have a thought. “I have not kept yours.”

  She shrugs. “There would be no reason. I am not the writer. I am not witty. My letters don’t entertain.”

  “Of course they do. They entertain me greatly.”

  “Then their mission is complete.” She waves away this discussion and points at the letter from seven years previous. “Read at the bottom of the first page.”

  I scan to the place and immediately know what has caused her interest—and teasing.

  “Read it aloud, Jane. Let the whole world hear your views on publishing fame and fortune.”

  I clear my throat and begin. “‘I write only for fame and without any view to pecuniary emolument.’” I lower the letter to my lap. “I will not refuse the ten pounds, if that is what you are trying to get me to do.”

  “You may have your ten quid if you admit your change of heart.”

  “I have a proposal for you.”

  “Haven’t we had enough of proposals?”

  To think that my sister believes she is not witty? “I will sacrifice fame for a bit of pecuniary emolument.”

  She puts a hand to her chest dramatically. “You mean you chuse coin over commendation?”

  “Absolutely. I’m quite happy being unknown—as long as my work is most well known.”

  “This may be a problem when ‘a novel by Jane Austen’ appears on the cover.”

  Although I’ve never seriously entertained this predicament, I find it’s something to think about. “Truly, Sister, I don’t want fame.”

  She snatches the letter away from me. “Then, alas, you shall just have to live with fortune.”

  It would be nice to try.

  *****

  I intercept Cassandra in the hall as she carries fresh sheets to our rooms. “Cassandra, would you go with Mother to the milliner for me?” I ask. “I have something else I . . .” I defer. I don’t wish to say more.

  Astute as ever, she takes a step toward me. “You have some plans? A secret rendezvous perhaps?”

  “You know very well there is no one who currently holds my interest.”

  “Bath society is very disappointed.”

  “As intended.” I hear Mother downstairs. “Will you go in my stead?”

  “If you will tell me what you intend to do with your time.”

  I pull her into our room. “I wish to start another novel.”

  Her face lightens and she hugs me with the sheets between us. “What about?”

  “I’m not completely sure, but since Mr. Crosby is publishing Susan, and since I have two other novels awaiting his interest once Susan is publicly accepted . . .”

  “You are a novelist now. A real novelist.”

  I both revel and am petrified by the title. “If that is true, then I must do what novelists do. I must become what I am. I must write.”

  “Bravo!” She kisses me on both cheeks. “I am eager to read the scratches of your mighty pen!”

  “Jane?” It’s Mother. “I’m waiting.”

  Cassandra presses the sheets into my arms and takes on one duty so that I may take on another.

  *****

  I sit at my desk, pen poised over paper, spirit willing, mind ready.

  To begin a new venture, a new story, is a supreme act of faith. It’s obvious by the pile of manuscripts in my trunk that I’ve owned much faith in all my ye
ars. Faith that my work has some merit and meaning to others beyond myself. Yet intertwined in each and every word is something beyond faith. Need.

  I need to write.

  Although I may not sparkle to my aunt’s liking, although I’m not completely comfortable being among people I don’t know, I do know that I have a voice living within my pen, one that speaks in full volume once it touches a page.

  I make no claims of art or eloquence or even intelligence. My work will not live through the ages like Shakespeare or Burney or Cowper. I have no such aspirations. I merely desire to write stories about what I know, what I see, and what I feel. Through these stories I reveal more of myself than ever is revealed through direct knowing—barring Cassandra’s knowledge of me. And yet even my dear sister does not—cannot—know all the thoughts and emotions that flit through this awkward mind and heart. Does one mortal ever completely know another?

  I think not. And good it is too. For those increments of our being that are kept to ourselves are seldom worth sharing, whether it be due to their darker side or their inane mediocrity. I admit I possess both varieties.

  And yet . . . through my characters these nether regions of my constitution find a voice which the reader can embrace or disdain with little consequence to myself. It’s not Jane Austen who is man-hungry and frivolous like Lydia Bennet, not Jane Austen who wears her heart on her sleeve like Marianne Dashwood. And though I easily decry my characters with their faults—stating they are most certainly not mine—I also must admit that Jane Austen is not strong and wise like Lizzy Bennet, nor constant and loyal like Elinor Dashwood. I cannot claim to share the high attributes nor the low faults of these characters. Yet through them, I do release a part of myself. What I wish to be. What I am glad I am not.

  And so, I sit at my desk, determined to begin again.

  Yet I admit, this time it’s different.

  I’m afraid.

  For two reasons.

  One, because I have a publisher who believes in me. I’m no longer writing merely for myself, my family, and an indistinct audience of my own imagination. What if Mr. Crosby doesn’t like what I write? I don’t wish failure when I’m on the verge of success.

  My second reason to fear is that I’ve never written here, in Bath. I’ve copied over what I wrote elsewhere. I’ve edited the words and phrases that were born in another time and place. But I’ve not written anew anywhere other than Steventon. I’ve never written in a place that still doesn’t feel like home, in a town that seems overridden with frivolous strangers and far too few sincere friends.

  In addition, I have only written as an ignorant young woman, at ease with her life, content in most ways, and hopeful of the future. I’ve never written with the scars of lost loves, broken engagements, and betrayal as stubborn lodgers in my mind. Logically, I know such experiences should add to the depth and breadth of my writing. But I fear otherwise.

  I remember a French proverb Eliza taught me: Qui onques rien n’enprist riens n’achieva. I repeat its translation aloud for my own benefit. “He who never undertakes anything never achieves anything.”

  And so, shoving fear aside, I begin.

  *****

  It’s my birthday. December the sixteenth. The sun does not awaken me by shining in my window. It’s the moon that makes me arise. I move to the window and see that it’s full. A full moon on my twenty-ninth birthday.

  Is it an omen of a larger event? For as others before me, I’m aware that the fullness of the moon often brings about extreme behaviour. Or does the extreme behaviour merely become notable because the orb of the moon is noticed?

  As he often does, Shakespeare interrupts such thoughts, and I take up Juliet’s words. “‘O, swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.’”

  I’m happy to leave the inconstant moon to itself. Its power is not something I wish to ponder on my birthday. I accept its existence with simpler thanks, for it is beautiful, and its glow makes the darkness less dark.

  I look to the clock on the mantel and notice the time. Three o’clock. It’s too soon to arise.

  And yet . . .

  I turn away from the moon and see that its light has cut a swath across the pages of my work on the desk, accentuating its presence.

  But not because it’s good work. For it’s not. There is something wrong about the book that I cannot wholly determine. The characters are interesting enough. The story revolves around the Watson family, which consists of a sickly father who is a parson on the verge of death and his six children: two sons and four daughters. The eldest son has married a dislikable woman for her money, the other son is a novice doctor, and the four daughters are in search of husbands. They all realize that once their father dies they will be left at the mercy (and charity) of their brothers. The youngest daughter, Emma, who until now has been brought up by a rich uncle and aunt, has returned to the small village of her family but finds no solace there. Because she has been so distanced from her family she disdains their ways. Greatly.

  Being careful not to awaken Cassandra, I move to the desk, wishing to reread a line I wrote last night regarding Emma’s disparaging view of her sisters’ quest for suitable mates: To be so bent on marriage, to pursue a man merely for the sake of situation, is a sort of thing that shocks me; I cannot understand it. Poverty is a great evil; but to a woman of education and feeling it ought not, it cannot be the greatest. I would rather be a schoolteacher (and I can think of nothing worse) than marry a man I did not like.

  I read it again and find nothing distinctly wrong with it, yet nothing distinctly right either. Surely after writing so many novels (albeit unpublished ones, for I am still awaiting Mr. Crosby’s fulfillment of his promise to publish Susan) I should know what is good and what is not. This not knowing is disconcerting.

  Despite the early hour, I hear rumblings in my parents’ bedroom next door. Father has not been well this autumn, suffering fevers that come and go. He is currently in the midst of one, and I expect Mother is up, attending to his nocturnal needs.

  Since this is my birthday, I expect that, with the morning, I will be greeted with good tidings as well as the question “And how would you like to spend your day, Jane?” It is Sunday, and after attending church I believe my best choice for amusement is to stay at home and work on these perplexing pages. ’Twould be better for Father too, to not feel the guilt of being unable to accompany me to some soiree or to venture out when it would best benefit his health to stay abed.

  With a nod, sealing the decision, I cast a shawl about my shoulders, sit at my desk, take up my pen, and angle my pages so the moonlight lightens them.

  Hopefully I will be able to enlighten them beyond their insufficiencies.

  It’s my birthday wish.

  *****

  I retrieve the post and find a letter from my dear friend Anne Lefroy. I break the seal eagerly, for Anne’s letters can always be relied upon to be packed with interesting tidbits about my Hampshire acquaintances and friends. Without her reliable and steadfast accounting, I would truly feel lost here.

  Dearest Jane,

  I do not wish to cause you pain, but I must inform you that there is news from Manydown. Young Harris has married. Her name is Anne Howe Frith. Her father is a lieutenant-colonel in the North Hants Militia. Harris and his wife are at Quidhampton and seem very happy. I am to meet them at the Prices’ tomorrow. Everyone in the neighbourhood seems pleased with the bride.

  I know she says this last not because I worry over Harris’s happiness—alas, to my disgrace, I do not—but to let me know that it’s done and there is no drama or strife involved. And also to assure me that because Harris has found a suitable match, my Manydown disgrace can be completely set aside without malice. I’ve already been the recipient of kind friendship from Harris’s sisters, b
ut his marriage successfully closes the door on the flaws and foibles of the past.

  For which I’m grateful. It’s true I’m alone, but with Tom, with Harris . . . it has all been for the best.

  I read the rest of Mrs. Lefroy’s letter:

  I have just had my solitary breakfast and tho’ I try to keep up my spirits I cannot always succeed when I look back to the happy days when in my husband’s absence I was surrounded by my children. The contrast is too much for my feelings and I feel forlorn and wretched beyond description.

  I’m saddened by her sadness. I feel guilty too, for as with her children, I’ve also abandoned her company. And though I know she keeps busy helping the poor, I also know there is little contentment at home. Her marriage is without glee. Reverend Lefroy is kind enough but lacks the zest for life that Anne deserves in her mate. If only I could go to her now. Surprise her. We would rush into each other’s arms, both benefiting from the renewal of our special bond.

  But I’m without means of seeing her. Unless someone takes me or comes to fetch me, I am confined here.

  Finished with Anne, I’m surprised to find a letter from James. This, in itself, is not odd because he writes to us often. The oddness falls on the fact this letter is addressed to me. Just to me.

  I set the other items from the post on the foyer table and open it.

  Dear Jane,

  I am grieved to inform you that your dearest friend, Mrs. Anne Lefroy, has been killed in a riding accident.

  I’ve held my breath. Only my body’s need for another causes me to break the moment with even the slightest movement or sound.

  Anne gone? Impossible! For her words still ring in my mind!

  I look to the table. Yes, indeed. There is her letter! Written in her own hand.

  She cannot be dead. Cannot.

  But she is. James’s words are indisputable: . . . your dearest friend, Mrs. Anne Lefroy, has been killed in a riding accident.

  With difficulty I read the rest of the letter.

  It was last Friday. She and a servant rode to Overton to shop. I saw her there and she commented on the stupidity and laziness of her horse. On the way home, it bolted. The servant says he tried to contain the beast, but as Mrs. Lefroy was trying to dismount, she fell. Her head was injured in such a way that was beyond Dr. Lyford’s skill, and she died at three o’clock in the morning on December the sixteenth. I am so sorry, Jane. I know what a kind and wise mentor she was to you all of your years.