Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  *****

  “Well?”

  Mary stands before us with James proudly at her side. He holds a portrait they have had painted. Of her.

  She looks at each of our faces in turn, waiting for effusive compliments. We are not an effusive family—when the compliments would prove false. Father always taught us that honesty . . .

  Is not always the best policy?

  Mother, being the matriarch and more and more beyond overly caring what others think, takes a step forward, her eyes moving back and forth between Mary and her painted image. She is to comment first.

  I admire her courage.

  “Well, Mary . . . I cannot say it affords me pleasure. The upper part of the face is like you, and so is the mouth, but the nose . . . the feature that strikes me . . . is so unlike you that it spoils the whole and moreover makes you look very cross and sour.”

  Mary and James stand agape.

  I don’t know whether to laugh, cry—or flee.

  Mary juts out her chin (making the portrait appear more true) and says, “At least I have a portrait. I think it’s absolutely deplorable that the Austen men have all had their portraits painted and yet you three women have not. Elizabeth and Eliza have had their portraits taken.”

  Neither Elizabeth nor Eliza was the wife or daughter of a clergyman.

  Mary looks to Martha, her sister. “Surely you, Martha . . .”

  “It’s a good likeness,” manages Martha.

  After what Mother has said, this is not necessarily a compliment.

  Mary looks at her husband. “James? I believe it’s time to leave.”

  James has not said a word but offers us a quick bow to his head, then follows his wife outside.

  “Mother, that was a bit unkind,” says Cassandra.

  “She asked for our opinion, did she not?”

  “She did,” I say.

  Martha moves to the window and watches her sister ride away. “Mary needs to accept that we Lloyd women are not beautiful. It’s this nose,” she says, running a finger along the hook of it.

  “’Tis an aquiline nose,” says Mother. “I too possess such a gift.” She huffs out.

  The three of us look to each other and laugh. “But alas, I possess no such gift.” I trace the line of my nose, which Mother has always disparaged for its lack of curve. I set myself between Martha and Cassandra and whisper, “I think our greatest blessing is that the portrait will hang at Steventon.”

  *****

  That very afternoon, Cassandra comes into our room, points to the book I’ve been reading, and says, “Put that down.”

  “This?” I say, holding up Ida of Athens by Miss Owenson. “’Tis no great loss. Nobody ever heard of it before and perhaps never may again. And yet I began my perusal with the hopes that it must be very clever because it was written—as the authoress says—in three months. I’m afraid her Irish girl does not make me expect much. If the warmth of her language could affect the body, it might be worth reading in our chilly weath—”

  She takes the book from me. “I didn’t come here for a book review.”

  Her eyes are intent and she carries her bag of art supplies in her free hand. “So. Why have you sought me out this fine afternoon?”

  “I wish to take your portrait.”

  “I have no need to compete with Mary,” I say.

  “I assure you my talent will not compete.”

  “For yours is far greater.”

  She rolls her eyes, then directs me to the other chair, furthest from the window. She assesses the light and adjusts my pose just so.

  “I have not assented to this,” I say.

  She sharpens her pencil with a knife. “I am not offering you assent. I’m determined. There should be one portrait taken of Jane Austen, the authoress.”

  I’m happy to play along and lift my chin, attempting regal bearing. “Then do your best. My future fame depends upon it.”

  *****

  Dinner is called, calling off my first ever portrait sitting. I rub the back of my neck. “I didn’t realize it was hard work.”

  Cassandra puts away her tools. “Let this be our secret,” she asks. “At least until I’m satisfied.” She studies the small page, a mere four inches by three inches in size.

  “May I see?”

  She bites her lip. “It’s not right. Not yet. Your eyes are too large, your mouth too small.”

  “I look a bit dour,” I say. “Surely, I’m not dour.”

  “As I say, the lips are not right.”

  “Ah, but the nose is quite perfect. There is no aquilinity about it by any opinion. Mother will be so pleased you didn’t give me an attribute I don’t deserve.”

  We hear from below, “Girls? Are you coming?”

  Cassandra slips my very first portrait under a doily on the dresser. I offer her my arm. “Shall we?”

  *****

  I sit in Henry and Eliza’s Sloane Street home in London. I hold the first proof pages of my book—my book—Sense and Sensibility. As I’m paying for the production myself, I have no editor. No proofreader. My submission goes to the printer, they print each page but once, then give them to me for final consideration. I am to say yes, this is acceptable, or no, please change what is not.

  I have the power.

  I have the last word.

  I have the responsibility.

  I run my hand across the page: The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, and Marianne’s impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place could give her ease, Barton must do it . . . .

  I feel the words, as if they have true substance.

  In a way they do.

  Because they are my words.

  This is my story.

  Based on thoughts from my mind and feelings from my heart.

  That others will read.

  “Feeling a bit heady, are we?” Eliza stands at the doorway to the study that they so kindly let me use for this purpose.

  “So much depends on this. Everything depends on this. All things happen for a reason—but that does not mean all things succeed as we hope.”

  She nods, and I see a distant look in her eyes. Although Eliza is effervescent, she is hard to fathom, as if she is always set apart by some invisible wall we cannot breech. And yet I know she understands hard experience. Losing a husband to the guillotine, having a son suffer great infirmity, marrying my brother who often is more successful at thinking up, rather than settling down . . .

  I look back to the page before me. “I still find this hard to fathom. Can it be real?”

  “’Tis only a beginning, Jane. Eventually there will be the two others.”

  I am brave enough to smile with confidence. “Three.”

  Her beautiful eyebrows rise. “Oh?”

  “I’ve started a fourth book. As of February.”

  “What is its name?”

  “Mansfield Park.”

  “No something and something?”

  “Not this time.”

  She enters the room in her effortless way, and the study seems more vibrant with her presence. “What is this one about?”

  “A poor relation being taken in by rich relatives. A duel of morals and immorality. Temptation and strength.” I watch her carefully, wondering what she will think when she reads about the charming Mary Crawford, or Mrs. Bertram, who loves pugs and dramatically lounging just as much as—

  “Oooh,” she coos. “Will I like it?”

  The Jane of last year would say, I hope so, but the new Jane I have become says, “Of course.”

  Eliza laughs. “Our party is tonight. Will you be able to pull yourself away to
attend?”

  “Of course. Again.”

  Now that my writing has its own solid place within the moments of my life, I am free to enjoy all the moments more fully.

  *****

  The rooms are dressed with flowers and look lovely. A glass for the mantelpiece was lent by the man who is making a permanent one for Henry’s house. Mr. Egerton and Mr. Walter come at half past five, two very fine gentlemen to begin the festivities. At half past seven the musicians arrive in two hackney coaches, and by eight the lordly company begins to appear. Among the earliest are George and Mary Cooke, and I spend the greatest part of the evening very pleasantly with them. The drawing room being soon hotter than we like, we place ourselves in the connecting passage, which is comparatively cool and gives us the advantage of the music at a pleasant distance, as well as the advantage of the first view of every newcomer.

  We are sixty-six in count, which is considerably more than Eliza had expected and quite enough to fill the back drawing room and leave a few to be scattered about in the other and in the passage. The music is extremely good: “In Peace Love Tunes,” “Rosabelle,” “The Red Cross Knight,” and “Poor Insect.” Between the songs are lessons on the harp, or harp and pianoforte together—and the harp player is named Wiepart, whose name seems famous, tho’ new to me. There is one female singer, a short Miss Davis all in blue, whose voice is very fine indeed, and all the performers give great satisfaction by doing what they are paid for and giving themselves no airs. No amateur can be persuaded to do anything. Sometimes wisdom does prevail over a desire for attention.

  Wyndham Knatchbull calls me a “pleasing-looking young woman.” At five and thirty, that must do; I cannot pretend to anything better now, and I’m thankful to have such compliments continue a few years longer.

  The house is not clear till after twelve. The most interesting news is that Captain Simpson tells us, on the authority of some other captain just arrived from Halifax, that Charles is bringing the Cleopatra home, and that she is probably by this time in the Channel. But as Captain Simpson is certainly in liquor, we must not quite depend on it. It does give me a sort of expectation and will prevent my writing to Charles until I hear from him. I do long to meet his wife. He met Fanny Palmer far away in Bermuda during his four years there and now has two children we have never seen! To add to the clan, Frank and little Mary now have a son, his namesake. ’Tis so wonderful they have moved inland, near Alton to be closer to us, for in spite of my complaints, I do feel most complete and at ease among children.

  Speaking of children . . . Mother and Martha both write with great satisfaction of Anna’s behaviour. She is quite an Anna with many variations, but she cannot have reached her last (for that is always the most flourishing and showy). She is at about her third or fourth variation, which are generally simple and pretty.

  At any rate, the party is in the paper the next day. Imagine. I, Jane, in attendance at such a party. The old Jane would have been wary and quiet until an acquaintance was made, but this new Jane . . .

  I keep stating it so: this new Jane. And yet I am new. I spent most of my life as someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s aunt or friend. But now, on the edge of an accomplishment that is wholly mine and mine alone, I’ve gained a substance that is centered within. It’s as though God has finally shown me my purpose. Like the Israelites, I may have wandered my own desert, wandered aimlessly for years, unsure and confused, but now, I see the Promised Land, and it is good.

  I don’t know whether my books—and yes, I know in my heart that more than this one will come to fruition—will reach one reader or many. It’s something beyond my control. And though I wish great success be heaped upon it, I’m willing to let Providence guide its patronage. God has led me this far. He will not abandon me now.

  In her last letter Cassandra asks after the book, and I honestly tell her that I’m never too busy to think of it. I can no more forget it than a mother can forget her suckling child. I tell her my progress, and Mrs. Knight regrets in the most flattering manner that she must wait till May to read it. But due to the slowness of the printer, I’ve scarcely a hope of its being out in June. I think she will like my Elinor, but I cannot build on anything else. Henry does not neglect the publishing; he hurries the printer and says he will see him again today.

  But until my work is complete, Henry has tickets to the Lyceum to see The Hypocrite, and then another day he plans to take us to see the Watercolour Exhibition. I’ve heard there are many paintings by women—for watercolour is now considered a woman’s art.

  In the past I’ve always been agog at the life Henry and Eliza live, often disparaging in its regard. And yet, now, with this new freedom that has infected me, I feel in a celebratory mood and see the advantage of festive minds. As such, I’m ready to enjoy the constant celebration that lives at the core of my brother’s world.

  Life is good. And I am richly blessed.

  *****

  I am back at Chawton and am thoroughly glad to be here. I find it amusing and more than a little intriguing that since moving to this place, I find little need to leave. In the two years since our arrival, I’ve not once been to Godmersham. I have been to London—to Henry’s—on business (what a glorious word!) and for a short visit to James’s. Although unrealized until now, I believe that my many trips and visits in the past were a means by which I didn’t need to live in any place that didn’t cause me happiness. And so . . . I escaped to the homes of others. Yet by admitting this, I also admit a selfish pursuit of said happiness.

  For that I am guilty.

  Beyond that pursuit (which may be called forgivable, as it is common in all) is the unforgivable act of complaining. For what good comes from that particular vice—for the complainer or her unlucky listener?

  I am as much guilty of that then as I am guilty of contentment now.

  For now, I am content to deal with nouns and verbs, with commas and semicolons, and even with the flawed vitality of my character Mary Crawford against the staid morality of Fanny Price.

  I am content to take pleasure in our young peony at the foot of the fir tree that has just bloomed and looks very handsome indeed. I am content to offer a smile of expectation at the shrubbery border that will soon be very gay with pinks and Sweet Williams in addition to the columbines already in bloom. The syringas too are coming out for my benefit, and we are likely to have a great crop of Orleans plums. And our intent is to save the chickens for something grand.

  I enjoy sitting with my mother in the front room, and revel in her delight as we watch the traffic go by. I laugh (albeit silently) at her habit in rainy weather of sitting with the curtains open. I received a letter from Mrs. Knight that said a traveling gentleman friend of hers (riding by in a post chaise) had seen the Chawton party looking very comfortable at breakfast. If we had but known of his connection to our friend, we would have waved a greeting.

  I don’t even mind that the stillness of the night is frequently broken by the noise of passing carriages, so thunderous that they often shake the beds.

  All these things great, and all these things small, contain the essence of my life. The only betterment will be when I hold my finished book in my hand.

  And though I continually fight impatience, in all but this vice . . .

  I am truly content.

  *****

  It rains. We sit in the drawing room and do our needlework. I take an odd joy in such work, as it’s the only work men are not allowed to do. It’s our work, and we each excel in it.

  For it’s not just the finished work that holds merit, but the working.

  As I look about the room at Mother, Martha, and my sister, I marvel at the invisible thread that binds us here. Each busy within her own creative task, we are linked by a commonality of purpose. And though we are pleased—or not—with the results of our labours, unlike those of the male gender,
we don’t feel the need to compete by assuming a mine-is-better position. We unite through this women-time; we do not divide.

  Mother sighs, lowers her crewel work, and rubs her eyes. “’Tis teatime, is it not?”

  Martha sets aside her own work and stands. “It can be.”

  And so we move from one occupation to the next, the delight in each other’s company enough to sustain us.

  As I gather cups, I think of how different socializing is here in Chawton than elsewhere. Unlike Bath and Southampton, which were often destinations for friends and relatives on holiday, no one comes to Chawton on a lark. In those locales, I always found it hard to concentrate on the light dialogue of such visits and often weighed my words and sentences more than the norm, looking about for a sentiment, an illustration, or a metaphor in every corner of the room. The effort was often wearying, creating a need for us to desire our own holiday.

  But now . . . there is no such need. Our home is a home, not an inn for lodgers, no matter how amiable and familial.

  ’Tis not that I utterly disliked their visits. Of course not. But to be here, where the comings and goings of others is more controlled, brings with it a level of serenity that could never be found in those larger cities with their holiday delights.

  We are not hermits. We do not sit with doors locked, never to venture out. ’Tis not like that at all. If I have pride, it’s that I’m getting to know Chawton in its entirety. I know Triggs, the gamekeeper at the great house, I know Eleanor Papillion, the niece of the rector. (Mrs. Knight once told me I could move to Chawton if I married Eleanor’s uncle. I assured her that I would straightaway.) Eleanor and I often visit the poor in each other’s company. She is quite as delightful as I.

  I also often tolerate the Miss Sibleys, who want to start a Book Society, acting as though it were their own brilliant idea when I’ve overseen many others. I’m conversant with Harriot Webb, who cannot say her r’s. I’ve even tolerated listening to her read—an adventu’e to be su’e.

  I know the mighty William Prowting, the justice of the peace, and the Middletons, who let the big house from Edward, at least for a time. (I do hope Edward takes it back, as I do long to have them come visit and stay so close.)