by Nancy Moser
An additional blessing is, that when little Mary leaves for a summer visit to her Ramsgate family, I can honestly say I will miss her.
When does one truly grow up? At age thirty-one, I would like to know.
Seventeen
Edward has invited all of us to join him for a visit at his other estate, Chawton House in Hampshire. What a joyous event to see all of them at a location that is so close. For Chawton House is only twenty-nine miles from Southampton, not the one hundred thirty-three miles to Godmersham. In addition, Chawton House is only fifteen miles from Steventon, so James (and company) will join us. What a festive time indeed.
We have never been to Chawton House, and though it’s not as grand as Godmersham, it holds our entire family with little effort. It has huge fireplaces, a great hall, and a gallery. The house is heavy with history and the continuity of family.
After our visit, all of Edward’s (which of the children only include Fanny and William) will come back to Southampton so we can show them our home on Castle Square. And to our delight, Henry has come down from London. What a jolly time. We go to the theatre and see John Bannister in The Way to Keep Him. It’s a fine play, most enjoyable, exhibiting a biting merriment toward wives who stop pleasing their husbands after marriage. We go on a boat trip to Hythe, and then another to the ruins of Netley Abbey. Dear Fanny, at age fourteen, is most impressed and declares, “I am struck dumb with admiration, and I wish I could say anything that would come near to the sublimity of it.”
The sublime. Ah yes. For it’s all sublime. The family, the laughter, the picnics, and walking with Fanny along Southampton’s stores on High Street until late. I enjoy every minute and thank God for one and all.
And yet . . .
Even while I enjoy their company, I wish them gone. Why do I possess this trait? Why can I not be like Henry, who is invigorated by lively company? Why can I enjoy such camaraderie only so long before my spirit rebels and demands quiet attention? I love my family but find rejuvenation in solitude.
Is that wrong?
Wrong or no, it seems I can do nothing to change it. And so, when Henry hires a sociable and takes everyone for a ride in the New Forest, I decline.
“Now, Jane,” he says. “Come with us. You can e’en sit on my lap and take the reins.”
“If I did such a thing your knees would scream within a mile, and we would surely end in the ditch. No, no, I’m fine. Off with you now, before William and Fanny go without you.”
I wave as they drive away and enter the house alone. The door closes, capturing the silence and letting it reverberate from ceiling to wall.
I hold my breath, not wanting to disturb the hallowness of the moment. For it does feel holy to me. As holy as any moment in church . . . a moment to be worshipped.
I tiptoe to a chair in the parlour and sit. I lean my head against its back and close my eyes. I expel the breath I’ve been saving.
And I relax.
*****
“Jane?”
Someone says my name. Someone shakes my shoulder.
I open my eyes to see Cassandra. I’m still in the parlour, having fallen asleep in the chair. I sit erect and press at my hair. “You have all returned, then?”
Cassandra removes her bonnet. “Just me. They wished to stop at the Old Bowling Green and I did not. I was worried about you.”
I feel badly for causing her to end her day prematurely. “You don’t need to worry. I have enjoyed the . . .” I don’t know how to say it without sounding rude.
“Total silence devoid of human noisiness and movement?”
I stand and busy myself setting some stray books in the shelves. “I adore the company of my brothers and the children.” There is a but unspoken at the end of my sentence. Blessedly, Cassandra does not fill it in. But she knows. She knows me fair well.
“You need to write, Jane. I was hoping you would use this time alone in such a manner.”
“I will. But since moving to Southampton, there is always someone coming or going. We have become quite popular.”
She is relentless. “You need to write.”
“I will. When the time is right.”
“When the conditions are right.”
I feel my cheeks redden. “It’s lovely here. Such a reprieve from our other . . .”
“But it’s still not right.”
I don’t know what she means—exactly what she means. “It’s a fine house, in a fine city, with fine company. I have no right to com—”
“Then I will complain for you.” She moves to stand before me. “I know what you need, Jane. What you need is—”
I attempt a laugh. “Talent?”
Her face is serious. “Stop that! You possess great talent, but a talent unused is a talent wasted.”
“I have written,” I say.
“But you must write more. Write anew.”
I look about the room where we spend so much of our time. There is nothing to suggest an oppressive quality that would prevent the creative process. So why have I not written? Why is inspiration so elusive? And who am I to be so particular? I’m not some bastion of literary genius who must have conditions just so to create a masterpiece. I’m but a spinster who dabbles with writing when life affords her the time, inclination, and inspiration.
Cassandra has removed her coat and folds it over her arm. “I will do my best to make it work, Jane. To make life work so you can work.”
“I don’t deserve special attention or considera—”
“You do. And I will do my best to see you have it.”
“But—”
She points at me with a slender digit. “I will do my part, but you must do yours. Agreed?”
“I will try.”
*****
It’s my turn to visit Godmersham. My dear niece Fanny, who at age fifteen writes letters full of passionate entreaty, has begged me to come. And so, in the summer of 1808, I begin my journey to fulfill her greatest wish.
Along the way I stop to see Henry and Eliza. I’ve oft seen my brother—who frequently travels alone—but have not seen Eliza for far too long. Our initial greeting is replete with hugs and kisses. Once stepped apart, I find her older in countenance (she is forty-seven) yet still vibrant in spirit. “It’s about time you come to see me!” she says.
And it is.
Their home at Brompton (well east of London) is small and made to feel more so (in a most delightful way) because it’s always filled with friends. Oh, the many actors and artists I meet! My brother and his wife are the ultimate host and hostess, and my two months as their guest are filled with dinner parties and numerous outings to see concerts and plays. But beyond the social events, I marvel that there is always time to sit and talk, with never a moment wasted thinking of to-do’s or should-do’s. At Brompton a guest suffers no cares and my every need is met before its full inception. Eliza knows how to make me feel as if I am the most important person in the world. ’Tis a great talent.
I mean to ask Henry about the publication of Susan, which he arranged with Richard Crosby four years ago, but can never find a proper time when such a discussion would not quell some special merriment. Henry did deem himself my agent, but I can see he now has little time for such a Herculean task.
Besides, other than offering old stories, long dusty in my trunk, what have I done of late to advance my craft?
Nothing.
And so I leave the subject untested. It’s for the best. Life moves on. In most ways I feel incredibly blessed.
Yet even the delights of Henry’s must find an end. James, Mary, and their two youngest, James Edward, age ten, and little Caroline, only three, have just collected me. We are off to Godmersham.
We leave at five in the morning. Our first eight miles are hot, but after Blackheath we suff
er nothing, and as the day advances it grows quite cool for June. We are crowded, and the children are rowdy. I try to remember it’s natural for a child of three to be so fidgety.
At Dartford, which we reach within two hours and three-quarters, we go to the Bull, the same inn at which Cassandra and I breakfasted on a previous journey. It has the same bad butter.
At half past ten we are again off and, traveling on without any adventure, reach Sittingbourne by three. The innkeeper is watching for us at the door of the George, and I am acknowledged very kindly by Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. I chat with the latter while Mary goes out to buy some gloves. A few minutes, of course, did for Sittingbourne, and off we drive, drive, drive, and by six o’clock are at Godmersham.
Edward and James immediately walk away together, as natural as life. My two nieces, Fanny and Lizzy, meet us in the Hall with a great deal of pleasant joy. A few minutes later we proceed into the breakfast parlour and then to our rooms. Mary has the Hall chamber. I’m in the Yellow Room and immediately write a letter to Cassandra. It seems odd to have such a great place all to myself and to be at Godmersham without her.
There is a knock upon my door and I open it to find Fanny. “I came as soon as I saw Aunt Mary to her room. May I stay?”
“Of course.” We chatter on while I change from my travel attire. She is as dramatic as usual, stating her longing for Cassandra’s company. She is grown both in height and size since last year (but not immoderately), looks very well, and seems as to conduct and manner just what she was and what one could wish her to continue to be.
My sister-in-law Elizabeth, who was dressing when we arrived, comes to me for a short moment, attended by some of the other children. She gives me a very affectionate welcome.
I cannot praise Elizabeth’s looks, but they are probably affected by a cold. Her little namesake has gained in beauty in the last three years, though not more than Marianne has lost. Charles is not quite so lovely as he was. Louisa is much as I expected, and I’m told little Cassandra is suffering a violent breaking-out so severe, she will not come down after dinner.
We go downstairs and I notice how their Steventon cousin, James Edward, finds instant friendship, yet shy little Caroline . . . she is left out. Her cousins are too much for her. A lonely poor cousin in a large mansion . . .
Elizabeth, though expecting her eleventh child, does well enough, and the older children help with the younger. Yet the way she looks at me . . . as if she disapproves. Because I’m not married? Because I’m childless? Because I have few responsibilities beyond myself?
Perhaps. And in these liabilities, I find myself accused and convicted.
Fanny takes my hand and pulls me toward the front door. “Come walk with me. I’ve much to tell you.”
I set my liabilities aside and assume the role Elizabeth must approve: Aunt Jane.
*****
“I don’t see why we must go all the way to Canterbury,” Mary tells me.
“It’s but seven miles,” I say.
Mary huffs and folds her arms. She is full of prejudice today, and I nearly regret taking her with me to visit Edward’s adoptive mother, Mrs. Knight. That I would even consider chusing her company on this journey looms as a large question in my mind.
She continues her complaints—about all but herself. “I don’t approve of Harriot Bridges marrying that oily George Moore. I don’t like him. I just don’t.”
“I’ve not met him,” I say. To my own discredit I add to her vexation. “I heard they are all coming to dinner tomorrow tonight.”
She shudders as though I have stated the devil himself will grace the Godmersham table. “If Elizabeth will allow it, I will chuse the far end of the table. I will, I tell you.”
Her dislike of George Moore—whom none of us has met—only piques my interest of him, for whoever upsets Mary might be a friend of mine.
I ask silent forgiveness for my cruel thoughts.
“And your sister . . . ,” she continues.
I brace myself, for though I may accept hearing the slights of others, toward Cassandra I’m protective. But I don’t bite.
“Your sister . . . ,” she repeats.
Ah me. I know she will not be satisfied till I respond. Toward the hope of eventually changing the subject I open the floodgates with two words: “My sister?”
“Did you know she had tea with a sister of James’s first wife?”
“How nice of her.”
“Nice?”
I try to think of a more appropriate description. “Cassandra is kind to all relatives, past and present. The woman in question is Anna’s—is your stepdaughter’s—aunt.”
“That woman is not a relative of any kind. Her sister died. I am the mistress of Steventon now.”
“No one implies you are not.” Feeling a bit put upon, I take the opportunity to add, “Why didn’t you bring Anna with you to Godmersham, with the other children?”
“Do your mother and Cassandra wish her to be gone?”
“No, no,” I hasten to say. For that is not the issue at all. Yet I’m not certain Mary will acknowledge the true concern. “Occasionally the youngest children are left behind, but rarely the eld—”
“Anna prefers being with her grandmother and aunt in Southampton.”
Although I know Anna enjoys our company—and we, hers—I also know from direct correspondence that the fifteen-year-old keenly feels her stepchild status. And there is no denying she would have enjoyed the company of her cousin Fanny at Godmersham.
If only she had been brought along.
Mary peers out the carriage window. “Oh, when will we ever be there?”
Subject suitably changed.
I’m certain it’s for the best.
*****
Mrs. Knight greets both of us warmly, and my opinion of her genteel, intelligent nature is not changed. Even Mary seems thoroughly charmed, a victory attributed to the generous manner of our hostess.
We have tea and biscuits and chat about family. I take a lesson by the fact Mrs. Knight allows Mary to ramble quite incessantly about the merits of her life, her children (there is no mention of Anna), her fine home, and a new set of dishes that now graces the rectory table. As my nerves grow brittle at the monologue, Mrs. Knight simply nods and smiles and offers an occasional “How nice,” which, from her lips and by her countenance, sounds genuinely effusive.
Take a lesson, Jane.
Mary excuses herself to use the facilities. I find her exit a relief. Obviously, any lesson on graciousness has not taken root.
I release a sigh, and Mrs. Knight laughs. Which allows me to laugh. “How do you do it?” I ask.
“All any person wants is an ear, Jane.”
“Mary offers too much for my ear.”
“She does offer an . . . abundance.”
Before I can say more, Mrs. Knight glances at the doorway as if to see if Mary has returned. She leans toward me, her mature face still strikingly beautiful. She presses a small pouch into my hand. “For your use, my dear.”
By its weight I know there are coins inside. She has done this before, given me an allowance. And, alas, I’m not too proud to take it. “You are too kind,” I say.
“Nonsense. I’m only kind enough.”
Without her generosity, I would have no income to call my own. I take it because her kindness releases a portion of my burden from others. I tuck the pouch into the reticule I’ve brought with me.
“There. Now that that is taken care of . . . I want you to tell me how you are, Jane.”
“I’m fine.”
She shakes her head. “Triteness does not become you. Again I ask: How are you? How are you living in Southampton, holed up with your brother and his wife? Five women . . .’tis the makings of a . . . a complicated life.”
“We get along admirably,” I say.
“So you like Frank’s wife?”
“She is a sweet girl.”
“Hmm. And now, with a child.”
“It’s good we are there with her and little Mary Jane. Frank is long at sea.”
“You are a good sister.”
I feel my cheeks flush, for I know I’m not. At least not all of the—
“You disagree?”
I laugh. “You miss little.”
She nods with satisfaction. “The perks of age are few, but the attributes that one can collect along the way . . . often come to good use.” She gazes at me, waiting. “So? Why are you not a good sister?”
I hesitate only a moment. In truth, I don’t mind sharing my failings with such a woman. I only wish to do so before Mary returns. “I complain.”
“About . . . ?”
“Too much.” I expand for the sake of time. “The house is very nice, there is a garden, the town is lovely, but it does not feel . . . I’m not sure it’s possible for it to feel . . . I would like it to feel—”
“Like home?”
I let out an expansive sigh. “Yes.”
“The feeling of home is often built upon the indistinct.”
“I agree wholeheartedly. Although the placement of walls, lushness of carpets, and the pleasure of fine prospects are pleasing accoutrements, the true delineations that make a house a home are ephemeral. ’Tis like explaining the depth and breadth of the wind—one can best explain its effects more than its substance.”
Mrs. Knight claps softly. “Bravo! You are steeped in prose. So . . . how goes your writing?”
Oh dear. “It . . . I think about it often.”
She gives me a chastening look. “Jane, you know very well that thinking is not doing.”
“I do know. And I mean to do it, but the time never seems right and . . .” I shrug. “I should not offer excuses. If I am a writer, I should write.”
“But a writer needs more than accoutrements.”
I blink, astonished. She understands! “I fear the intangibles that make a home are intertwined with those that provide inspiration.”
