by Nancy Moser
And I know the lowly. I’m on friendly terms with Miss Benn, who has too much extended family and not enough money for any. I call her my “unavoidable” neighbour. She reminds me a great deal of poor Miss Stent back in Steventon. She likes to chatter away, saying absolutely nothing at all. Her taste in clothing is questionable and a bit ratty, and Martha bought her a nice shawl, but on my advice not too nice, or Miss Benn would never wear it.
The list goes on, proving that we are not reclusive in our cottage here, but merely . . . selective. The praise to the Almighty goes to the fact that we are the ones who do the selecting. This is a very great blessing and, in execution, probably makes us venture out to meet more of our neighbours than we would meet if the neighbours were thrust upon us.
The tea is ready and Cassandra pours. Once we are resettled in our favourite chairs, talk turns to the world beyond Chawton. Again, this is a change for us. For in previous abodes we found talk of politics and worldly happenings tedious and left such discussions to the men. But without men near (or perhaps because we are simply more mature) we have taken an interest in such things.
“I hear the Prince has been made Prince Regent,” Martha begins.
“’Tis about time,” says Mother. “There is talk the King is once again afflicted with his madness.”
“It must be more serious this time,” says Cassandra.
“There is to be a birthday parade of Volunteers on Selborne Common next week,” I offer.
“Isn’t his birthday in August?”
I laugh. “Apparently a Prince can declare the celebration at any time of year.”
“As many times as he likes,” adds Martha.
“Actually,” I say, drawing the word out, a true signal that what I’m about to say is a bit scandalous, “I heard that he had a party to celebrate his elevation to Prince Regent at Carleton House in London, and the party cost one hundred twenty thousand pounds.”
Mother lets her teacup titter against its saucer. “With our country struggling to pay for twenty years of war? Struggling to feed the poor?”
Martha leans close, her voice lowered. “He didn’t even invite his wife to the party.”
“They battle over custody of Princess Charlotte,” says Cassandra. “Poor child.”
“Poor child, my elbow,” says Mother. “At sixteen she flirts with any man available. One of her parents had better take control of her.”
“Their father is busy with his own flirtations,” I say. “I personally shall support his wife as long as I can, because she is a woman, and because I hate her husband.”
“The new Prince Regent has his supporters—many who are no more virtuous than he,” says Mother. “Frank wrote to say the Regent appointed the Duke of Clarence as the Admiral of the Fleet, when the Duke has been making a fool of himself, traipsing about with his mistress, who has born him ten children. In spite of that he also pursues pretty young things while speaking for the slave trade in the House of Lords.” She shakes her head. “A travesty, that is what it is.”
“Our brothers should be admirals,” says Cassandra. “They are good men with good character.”
“If only women ruled the world,” I say.
They are silent and stare after me.
“Surely we could do no worse,” I offer.
“There is no guarantee of that,” says Cassandra.
“No, there is not,” says Mother. “And so that leaves us here to complain.”
She says it so seriously that we all pause a moment before breaking into laughter.
Such is our life here at merry Chawton.
I would not change a thing.
*****
It’s autumn and I help Mother remove the dead flowers from our garden. It’s not work I prefer but work I do willingly to help. Not surprisingly, nor uniquely, I much prefer seeing things grow than die.
I hear the garden door creak open. With a glance I see Cassandra approach. “We are glad for the help, Sister.”
“Indeed we are,” says Mother. She stands and, with a hand to her lower back, arches with a groan.
I pull the leaves of a wilted hosta away from its base. They give up easily, almost as if they know and accept the repercussions of the season.
Cassandra stops beside me, and to look up at her, I must shield my eyes against the sun at her back. “Don’t just stand there; help me—”
“Stand up.”
“Why?”
“Stand, Jane. You must be standing.”
She confuses me, but I comply. I wipe my hands on my apron. “There. I’m standing. Now explain to me why I must be—”
From behind her back she brings forth a package wrapped in brown paper. “It’s for you,” she says.
I wipe my hands again, better this time. “’Tis way early for my birthday. Who is it fr—?”
But then I see who sent it. Mr. Egerton.
I look to Cassandra, my mouth agape, asking its own question.
“I don’t know,” she says, “but I assume . . .”
“Assume what?” asks Mother, walking close.
I answer all our inquiries by removing the string and unwrapping the paper. My heart beats in my throat. I’m not certain I can breathe . . . .
In unison we gasp. For there, in my own hands, are three volumes. On the cover are the words that make it real: Sense and Sensibility.
I juggle them, one to the other.
“Your book,” Cassandra says, finally stating the obvious truth since I, for once, have no words.
Mother wipes the dirt from her hands but does not move to take the volumes from me. No one does. For it is my book. Mine.
She looks over my shoulder. “It says ‘By a Lady.’ Not your name, Jane? Not your name to take credit?”
’Tis a sore point between us, one that has been discussed and rediscussed. “There is too great a risk in being known. I don’t want attention. I merely want the book to be out there, being real, being read.”
“But with this . . .” Mother points at the epigraph. “Can I not tell the neighbourhood the truth of it?”
“You cannot. Only immediate family. Not even the nieces and nephews, for surely they are too young to hold the confidence.”
“I don’t like this,” says Mother.
Cassandra’s voice is softer. “I don’t either, yet I understand.” She wraps her arms about me. “I’m so proud of you.”
I’m rather proud of myself. For now, for once and for all, I am truly an author.
Twenty
“Jane, Jane! Here’s another one!”
Cassandra runs into the dining room and places another parcel on the table. It’s from Henry.
I unwrap it and find a letter and clippings from periodicals.
“Ooh,” Mother says, leafing through the clippings. “These are about you!”
My stomach knots, then releases. “About the book. Not me,” I say.
Mother reads one and shakes her head. “No, it’s about you.” She clears her throat. “The headline reads: ‘Interesting Novel by Lady A—: Who could the mysterious Lady A—be?’”
Martha bumps her shoulder to mine. “Oh, we know . . . .”
“And here are two reviews!” Mother says, waving two pages in the air like banners.
Banners were for happy occasions, and having not read the reviews as yet . . .
Cassandra gets us focused correctly. “What does Henry say?”
“Just a moment . . .” I don’t wish to read the letter word for word, as Henry oft quotes me numbers in regard to sales, and I wish to keep such knowledge to myself—not because I’m unwilling to share whatever level of wealth I acquire, but because I may be embarrassed by the lack of it.
I read the letter to myself. He speaks of the first printi
ng not being sold out—I’m not exactly sure how many that would be; at one time he mentioned the number one thousand—but he assures me enough have sold to recompense our expense. His expense. For this I’m most grateful and am willing to read no further beyond this good bit of news. Yet I have three other ladies waiting to hear more.
“Henry heard that Lady Bessborough has reported her friends were quite full of the book at Althorp.”
Mother claps. “The high-and-mighty readers will certainly aid sales.”
“But,” I say, reading ahead, “she thinks it ends stupidly.”
Silence.
I break the moment by offering, “I know many will think Marianne merely settles on Colonel Brandon, and yet, I see it as a goodly match—considering.”
“I do too,” Cassandra says. “More,” she prods me. “Read more.”
I read some lines, then say, “Oh my. Here are some opinions even higher than the last,” I tease. “For at the prompting of her uncle, the Duke of York, young Princess Charlotte has read the book and says she feels quite one with the company and claims to have a disposition very like Marianne—though she is not nearly so good. The book interested her very much.”
Mother puts a hand to her chest. “Royalty, Jane. Royalty are reading it!”
“And liking it,” Martha says.
I notice Cassandra has taken the reviews from Mother and has been reading them intently. My throat tightens, but I trust her to tell me true. “What do they say?” I ask.
She holds a finger at a particular place, then reads, “This, from the Critical Review: ‘The incidents are probable, and highly pleasing, and interesting; the conclusion such as the reader must wish it should be, and the whole is just long enough to interest without fatiguing.’ It finds that Marianne and Willoughby are strikingly alike.”
I nod. “They are. Too much so to be wise for each other.”
“That is what I always thought,” says Mother. “The best matches occur when two people share commonalities, yet gain complementaries from their mate.”
I smile. “Well said, Mother!”
“There is another review from British Critic. It’s quite long.”
My heart beats faster. I wish I didn’t care what is said about the book, but I do. “If good, I will read its entirety later, if bad, you may toss it out right now.”
Cassandra offers me a knowing smile. “But for a few negativities about the overcharged portrait of Sir John Middleton and a confusion in the beginning about who belonged to what family, it—”
“I like Sir John,” says Martha. “He’s a most jolly sort.”
I’m more concerned with the second negativity, for it’s one I too had pondered. “’Tis always hard in the beginning to set the story right, to bring in the proper characters at the proper time so as not to cause confusion. I obviously brought in too many too soon.”
“I understood it,” Mother says. “I understood all of it.”
I appreciate her defense, more than she could know.
“What good things do they say?” asks Martha.
Cassandra reads here and there on the page. “‘The object of the work is to represent the effects on the conduct of life, of discreet, quiet good sense on the one hand, and on overrefined and excessive susceptibility on the other. The characters are happily delineated and admirably sustained.’”
“Perhaps the reviewer is wiser than I first thought,” says Mother. “He does seem to understand the gist of it.”
“It delineates a bit of the plot, then says . . .” Cassandra finds her place. “‘Not less excellent is the picture of the young lady of over exquisite sensibility, who falls immediately and violently in love with a male coquet, without listening to the judicious expostulations of her sensible sister, and believing it impossible for man to be fickle, false, and treacherous. We will, however, detain our female friends no longer than to assure them, that they may peruse these volumes not only with satisfaction but with real benefits, for they may learn from them, if they please, many sober and salutary maxims for the conduct of life, exemplified in a very pleasing and entertaining narrative.’”
I press a hand to my chest, willing myself to breathe.
“They really like it,” Martha says. “Really, really like it.”
“And they deem it educational,” adds Mother. “An added benefit, with added worth.”
“I didn’t mean for it to be educational,” I say. “At least not with any conscious intent.”
“Your stories portray true life,” Cassandra says. “In that there is always education.”
“Perhaps it’s best I don’t try to teach. At that I would surely fail.”
I look back to the letter, which is nearly complete. And yet, Henry has saved the best for last. “Oh dear,” I say aloud.
“What? What?” asks Mother.
As tears threaten, I hand her the letter and point to the ending. Mother reads aloud. “‘All this to say, dear Sister, that Mr. Egerton is very pleased and would like to buy the copyright for Pride and Prejudice. He offers one hundred ten pounds for the copyright.’” Mother gapes. “One hundred ten pounds!”
“I was hoping for one-fifty.”
Everyone stares, and in but a moment I realize my gaff. “Where did that come from?” I ask sheepishly.
Cassandra smiles. “It comes from being an astute businesswoman. From being a prized author who has been deemed a success.”
I put my hands to my mouth, letting the tears loose. The dear women in my life come forth and we all embrace as one.
For in truth, my success is also theirs.
*****
I’m excited about a visit to Chawton by both Henry and Eliza. They don’t often travel together, so it will be a treat. It will also give me a chance to talk to Henry about the publication of Pride and Prejudice. After long consideration I’m very hesitant about selling the copyright to Mr. Egerton—for any price. I feel so strongly about this book and its strength (more than any other) that I don’t think limiting my return to any amount—much less one hundred ten pounds—is wise. For in selling the copyright . . . if it sells beyond that earning, I will get nothing additional. At least not for the fourteen-year length of the copyright. And even then, if it sells well, he may chuse to renew it.
The advantage in living at the crossing of three roads is that I hear the coming of their carriage, the halt of the wheels, and the neighing and huffing of the horses.
I run to the door to be the first to greet them. Henry is already out of the carriage, his hand extended to Eliza as she negotiates the step to the ground.
“Welcome!” I say to them.
He smiles tentatively at me, but his attention immediately returns to Eliza. Once grounded, he takes her arm with great solicitude.
And then I see why.
She is not well. In spite of the warmth of the day, her face is ashen, her features strained—strained beyond the normal stresses of travel.
I step forward to embrace them but find myself barely touching Eliza. I’m afraid she will break.
As I lead them inside, I wait for Henry to offer some flippant explanation: I’m afraid my wife is sorely tired of my rambling on about the bank. Can you get her a cup of tea?
The flippance is checked. Instead he says, “I’m afraid Eliza is sorely weary and not herself this—”
Mother appears with a hearty, “Henry! My dear boy! And Eli—” She stops short of a welcoming embrace and says, “Eliza! My dear. You look like death warmed over.”
Henry looks quickly at his wife, his face tight with concern, and I realize Mother may have been too apt.
Cassandra and Martha join the welcoming party—which is quickly turned into a flurry toward getting Eliza comfortably set in the guest bedroom.
We women await Henry’s r
eturn in the drawing room, our voices hushed as we scatter our concern between us.
“Had they written anything of her condition before?” Cassandra asks.
“Nothing,” says Mother.
Martha rises. “I will get my book and see if there is any cure that can help.”
As she exits, I whisper, “I don’t think any rhubarb roots from China will help what Eliza has.”
“Or oil of this or a pinch of that,” says Mother. “That book of hers contains more nonremedies than remedies.”
I glance at the doorway, fearing her return. But then I hear her voice added to Henry’s as two sets of feet descend the stairs. “Thank you for your interest, Martha. But Eliza is very particular about her treatments, for she saw their effect on her mother when she was confined in this way.”
The three of us gasp but recover enough to feign normality when they enter the room. Eliza’s mother died of a tumor in her breast.
“Well, then,” says Henry, playing the jolly brother very well as he joins us. “Please fill me in on all the Chawton gossip, and if there is none too amusing, I’m sure I can add a bite or two from London-town.”
It’s so Henry to avoid distressful subjects.
And it’s so us to allow him to do so.
*****
We tread lightly; we speak softly.
Although neither Henry nor Eliza asks us to act differently during their visit at Chawton, we adjust our ways to accommodate this changed Eliza, and her husband who seems intent on pretending there is no change.
She spends quiet time in the garden or on the chaise in the drawing room. One morning she even asked me to play for her on the pianoforte, and instinctively, I chose tunes played andante and adagio, leaving the rousing allegros for another time.
Another Eliza.
One afternoon, when Eliza takes a nap, Henry finds me checking the stores in the pantry.
“Jane, just the sister I wish to see, for we have a bit of business to discuss regarding Pride and Prejudice and Mr. Egerton. What do you think of his offer of one hundred ten pounds?”
All my grand plans to ask him if it would be possible to finance our own printing have dissolved since first seeing Eliza. I cannot bother him with such a burden—especially when the doctor bills will surely be large. In addition, I cannot bother him to negotiate with Mr. Egerton for more payment at all. What is money when a loved one is dying? “The one hundred ten is quite acceptable,” I say.
