by Nancy Moser
“If the former existed, the latter would follow forth?”
She makes my mind race. “If I say yes, and yet at some future point it proves not to be so, I’ve taken away my last excuse.”
“So be it.”
I press my hands in my lap with determination. “I promise you that once back in Southampton, I will try my very utmost to write. I should not—I will not—let the lack of intangibles keep me from it.”
She smiles a sly smile and taps a ringed finger against her cheek. “I have an idea about this . . . .”
“What sort—?”
“Not yet,” she says. “But know that I don’t forget you, Jane. Nor your mother or sister.”
“And Martha Lloyd.” I look to the doorway, expecting Mary back by now. “She is Mary’s sister but is nothing at all like her; not nearly so . . . abundant.”
Mrs. Knight laughs, then looks up. “Ah, Mrs. Austen. Welcome back. Can I pour you some more tea?”
*****
Our visit at Godmersham was ever delightful, but I’m ready to return to Southampton. The Bigg sisters are coming to visit, and Mother is going to be in Steventon to bring little Anna home, and little Mary is still at her family’s in Ramsgate, leaving Cassandra and me to entertain alone. What joy! It will be a snug fortnight for four dear friends.
But first I must get there. My initial plan was to ride back with James and Mary, but they have already left, and now I’m told that there is no one else to escort me home until Henry visits in two months!
I cannot stay here while this chance to see Alethea and Catherine evaporates. Catherine is soon to be married. This will be our last chance to visit as four singles.
One day in late June we discuss it at breakfast. Elizabeth declares, “I don’t see why you are making such a thing of this, Jane. Is our society so tedious that you cannot endure it a moment longer?”
“Oh, Aunt Jane, please stay longer,” Fanny says. “We still have a thousand things to do together.”
Her plea is flattering and heartfelt but is overshadowed by my need for companionship beyond her sweet adolescence.
I look to the head of the table, to Edward. I’ve already told them about the Biggs’ presence in Southampton and my desire not to miss them, but they see it as a frivolous desire for girl-talk.
Which it is.
But a greater reason can be given. One they don’t know. One that no sibling knows but Cassandra and James. One I never wanted any of my family to know . . .
Yet if I tell it, I will surely be set free. I believe the gain is worth the loss.
“The scenery will be ever so lovely in September,” Edward says. “Besides, at that time Henry can do us a favour by bringing Cassandra here to us, for Elizabeth’s confinement.”
The next child is due in early October.
“You would not have us be inconvenienced, would you, Jane?” Elizabeth’s voice has an undertone of frustration that I would even dare imagine going against their schedule. For what do my wishes matter? I have no important life that must be attended.
And yet . . . I am willing to accept their subtle disparagement if only to spend some special time with the Biggs and Cassandra. I’m not one to press, and certainly not one to go against any of my brothers’ wishes, but in this . . .
It’s hard to explain, this intense desire to have time alone with my sister and our two friends. And I realize as Edward dabs his lips with his napkin, very near the end of our morning repast, that I must press my point. In payment for their kind hospitality, I owe them the truth—or at least a part of it.
“May I speak with both of you?” I ask. “Privately?”
Husband and wife exchange a glance but agree.
Elizabeth gives the servants instructions, warns the children of their manners, and the three of us leave the table. We enter Edward’s paneled study, where my brother takes his position behind the massive desk. Elizabeth stands at his shoulder, forming a distinct two against one.
“So what reason can be so important that you take us away from our meal?” Elizabeth asks.
I’m embarrassed by the entire situation but have come too far to retreat. I stand with my hands clasped in front and raise my chin, hoping my stance will offer some much-needed courage. “It’s very important that I have time with Alethea and Catherine Bigg, because I . . . I was engaged to their brother Harris.”
Elizabeth’s face shows her aghast. “When was this?”
Edward has a different tack: “You were engaged to Harris?”
“I was.” I look to Elizabeth to answer her query. “Six years ago.”
It’s Edward’s turn to look aghast. “And you never told us?”
“I did not, because by the next morning I had changed my mind. I broke the engagement.”
“But why?” Elizabeth asks. “He is rich; he is handsome; he comes from a good family. Why would you turn him down?”
My answer will sound trite, and yet . . . considering my audience . . . “I didn’t love him.” I hasten to say, “You and Edward loved each other when you married. I’ve always been inspired by your love and want such a marriage for myself. Surely I cannot be faulted in that.”
I can tell by the look that passes between them that the point is well taken, and yet . . . the fact I’m not from wealth—as the two of them had been—still hangs heavy.
To their credit they don’t say it. Don’t say any of it. And for that I commend them. Edward knows that his place in the Knight family is a blessing. I’m certain he often looks at the financial trials of his siblings and thinks, There, but for the grace of God, go I.
In order to solidify my case, I proceed with a half-truth. “Because of my disgrace, I feel the need to repair the damage my actions have caused. I cherish my friends and wish to mend the past so we can continue our dear friendship.” I don’t mention that the bonds have long been mended, nor that I’ve been to Manydown since and know that all is forgiven. Yet I do know this special time will increase the strength of our sisterhood. And that is always a good and rightful thing.
“Please, Edward,” I say. “Please help me make things right.”
Edward stands and with a sigh says, “I will arrange it.”
*****
It’s not surprising that my broken engagement is not spoken of. For it’s old news. The four of us—Cassandra, Catherine, Alethea, and I—slip into an easy amity as though the event were but a dream.
It’s not possible we are women in our thirties. Women of our age don’t giggle and carry on. Yet, alone in our home in Southampton, that is exactly what occurs between us. The years rush away, once again making us hopeful ingénues brimming over with frantic talk of dances and men and gossip and the upcoming nuptial as if we had no cares in the world.
But I admit as Catherine speaks of her autumn wedding, I don’t envy her. Herbert Hill is not my first choice as a partner for my friend. For anyone. Without forethought I hear myself asking aloud, “And how old is he?” I know very well the answer.
Catherine’s chin rises. “He is not yet sixty.”
“Which means he is twenty-four years your elder.”
“He is a kind man.”
“I would hope so,” I say.
“He is a reverend.”
“The former does not of necessity go with the latter, although it should,” I say.
Cassandra nudges at my knee. “We are very happy for you, Catherine. To find a man who—”
“I will miss her at Manydown,” Alethea tells us.
“I will visit,” Catherine says. “You know I will. Herbert has assured as much.”
“It will not be the same,” Alethea says.
Catherine looks about and adds, “Herbert is the uncle to Robert Southey. The poet.”
We all nod in apprecia
tion of family ties, but I find myself thinking that I would rather have Catherine marry the nephew—who is sooner our age—than the fatherly uncle.
No one speaks.
I am guilty of lessening the mood. I must make amends.
I stand and retrieve a gift I had planned to give Catherine upon her leaving. My inexcusable dampening of our gathering makes now a better time.
I hand her a cambric handkerchief I’ve embroidered. “For your wedding day,” I say.
“Oh, Jane, it’s beautiful.”
“You may not think as much when I combine it with this poem.” I clear my throat and read from the page I will give her:
“Cambrick! With grateful blessings would I pay
The pleasure given me in sweet employ.
Long may’st thou serve my Friend without decay,
And have no tears to wipe, but tears of joy!”
She comes to me with a hug and kiss. “Oh, Jane, that is lovely. I will cherish both forever.”
It is what I wish her. For all of us. A lovely forever.
If only I knew exactly what that entailed.
*****
“You wish to move where?” I ask Frank.
He pulls Mary under his arm as she cuddles baby Mary Jane and repeats himself. “We wish to move into our own home on the Isle of Wight, where I’m to be stationed. ’Tis not that far, Jane. Just a ferry ride across from Portsmouth.”
I know my geography.
“It’s not that we don’t enjoy your company,” Mary says.
“’Twould seem just so,” Mother says. She crosses her arms in her peeved mode.
Frank moves away from his family to console her. “Our Yarmouth Division has nice lodgings, and with fish costing almost nothing, plenty of engagements and plenty of each other, we will be very happy.”
Mother shrugs.
Cassandra steps forward and kisses Mary on the cheek; then her brother receives the same. “We are very happy for you. You deserve a house of your own.”
Frank’s sigh reveals his relief. “Thank you, Cass. We knew we could count on your blessings.”
“And mine,” I say, offering my own kisses.
We all look to Mother, who begrudgingly says, “I suppose I could cure a ham for you.”
We laugh. A ham. Of all things. But Frank is ever gracious. “Thank you, Mother. That would be splendid.”
The happy family leaves us alone in the parlour. We each look to the other.
Mother speaks first. “Well? Now what?”
“Between the three of us—four, with Martha—we have enough income to stay.”
“Not without frugalities,” Mother says.
“No,” Cassandra concedes. “Not without those.”
Vulgar, vulgar economy.
*****
“Surely you don’t pout like Mother,” Cassandra says as we ready for bed.
Before I answer, I assess the truth of my response—and adjust. “I do so only in that I don’t like upheaval. I am a woman of roots. To be plucked once again . . .”
“We can stay here, Jane,” she says, pulling back the covers of her bed.
I nod and climb between my own covers. “I try to see the good of it. After visiting Godmersham and being amongst all those children—dear as they may be—and then coming home to little Mary Jane, and I’m sure there will be an increase of children on Frank and Mary’s account . . .”
Cassandra nestles into her bed, pulling the coverlet to her chin against the autumn coolness. “It will be nice to own silence and the simplicity of adults.”
“Adults not with child.”
She laughs and turns her face to the wall. “’Twill be all right, Jane. You will see.”
*****
Our sister-in-law Elizabeth is no longer with child but most certainly has her new child with her. Brook John was born just before Cassandra arrived at Godmersham to give her usual laying-in assistance.
An eleventh child. Although I don’t deny a single niece or nephew their existence, I do wonder as to the wisdom in it. Not that Edward doesn’t have the resources to raise his children in an apt, proper, and prosperous manner, but surely, the wear upon poor Elizabeth . . .
She never complains.
Perhaps she should complain more. Insist on separate bedrooms. Tell my dear brother, “Enough, I say! I’ve had enough!” Yet for her to employ the gumption to show such pluck would go against the very reason she and I have never got on. She does not appreciate my pluck, and I don’t appreciate her lack of it.
Martha comes in with the post. She has just returned to us from her travels, and I find it very fine to have her back.
“Is there another from Cassandra?” I ask. I always ask, for it’s my sister’s words that please me beyond all others.
“There is,” she says, handing it to me.
I break the seal with enthusiasm, eager for news of Godmersham. How is baby Brook John? How goes the weary Elizabeth? I am sure my sister offers more than simple comfort as she—
I stop my mind’s meandering and reread the words on the page. The awful words on the page. “No,” I say. “No. No. No. No . . .”
Alarmed, Martha comes to me. “What’s wrong?”
I clasp a hand over my mouth, unable to say the words aloud. Martha takes the letter and reads for herself. She looks up, aghast. “Elizabeth is dead?”
I run from the room.
*****
More news has come. Details we hate but need to hear. Apparently, Elizabeth seemed quite well after the birth. Just a week later, she had even arisen for dinner, and Edward had felt assured enough to attend to estate business. Yet on the tenth of October, after eating a hearty meal just thirty minutes previous, Elizabeth was dead. The doctor offered no explanation as to why a thirty-five-year-old woman of good health, good breeding, and good attention should pass away in the blinking of an eye.
I try to find rationalization in the fact that death related to childbirth is not a stranger to us. I’ve witnessed other families suffer this cruel fate. Just a decade ago, during the same week when James’s son James Edward was born, two women in tiny Steventon died giving birth. That our Austen family has never lost a child to infancy, nor lost a mother during her confinement, is a miracle attributed only to God. That we would eventually face a break in this string of grace is tragic but nearly expected.
I write to Cassandra, hoping through my words to make atonement for my peevish comments against dear Elizabeth.
Castle Square, October 13, 1808
My dearest Cassandra,
I have received your letter. We have felt, we do feel, for you all—as you will not need to be told—for you, for Fanny, for Henry, for Lady Bridges, and for dearest Edward, whose loss and whose sufferings seem to make those of every other person nothing. God be praised that you can say what you do of him, that he has a religious mind to bear him up and a disposition that will gradually lead him to comfort.
My dear, dear Fanny! I am so thankful that she has you with her! You will be everything to her; you will give her all the consolation that human aid can give. May the Almighty sustain you all and keep you, my dearest Cassandra, well. But for the present I daresay you are equal to everything. You will know that Edward’s poor boys are at Steventon, fetched from school by James. And perhaps it is best for them, as they will have more means of exercise and amusement there than they could have with us, but I own myself disappointed by the arrangement. I should have loved to have them with me at such a time. I shall write to Edward by this post. With what true sympathy our feelings are shared by Martha, you need not be told; she is the friend and sister under every circumstance. We need not enter into a Panegyric on the Departed, but it is sweet to think of her great worth, of her solid principles, her true devotion, her e
xcellence in every relation of life. It is also consolatory to reflect on the shortness of the sufferings which led her from this world to a better.
Farewell for the present, my dearest sister. Tell Edward that we feel for him and pray for him.
I sign the letter and seal it, wishing more could be said but knowing there are no words.
No more words for paper but . . .
I hold the letter to my chest and bow my head. There are many words to be said, but not for any mere mortal’s ears.
Dear heavenly Father . . .
*****
I feel most for Fanny.
I know such a declaration might raise more than one eyebrow (considering ten other children, dear Edward, and all the Bridges at Goodnestone who have lost a sister and daughter), yet I cannot change the statement in any well-meaned preference to give it to another.
Edward’s loss is terrible and must be felt as such, and it’s too soon to think of moderation in grief, either in him or his afflicted daughter. But we may hope that our dear Fanny’s sense of duty to that beloved father will rouse her to exertion. For his sake, and as the most acceptable proof of love to the spirit of her departed mother, she will try to be tranquil and resigned in her new role as woman of the household. I hope she finds consolation in Cassandra, and yet I worry she is too much overpowered for anything but solitude.
I vow to be there for her, and yet, what do I truly know of large households and children? Other than offering my respect by wearing bombazine and crepe, I can only offer my presence—either from near or far—along with the occasional hand with some of the children.
The two eldest boys are staying with us now. They behave extremely well in every respect, showing quite as much feeling as one wishes to see, and on every occasion speaking of their father with the liveliest affection. His letter was read over by each of them yesterday and with many tears; thirteen-year-old George sobbed aloud, but at a year older, Edward’s tears don’t flow so easily.
I try to distract them with childish joys and comfort them through their faith. Sunday, I took them both to church and saw fourteen-year-old Edward much affected by the sermon, which, indeed, I could have thought purposely addressed to the afflicted: “All that are in danger, necessity, or tribulation” was the subject of it. Afterwards, the weather did not allow us to get farther than the quay, where George was very happy as long as we could stay, flying about from one side to the other and skipping on board a collier.
