“I will never write anything again,” she said at last.
“Oh, please do not say that,” sighed Cass.
“But I have not written a single word since we moved to Bath.”
“That is because we have been so busy. And Bath is so frantic. Perhaps one day we shall settle in a house in the country somewhere, and you shall return to your writing.”
“Perhaps you can tell me where such a house will appear from? Though even if it did appear, that is no guarantee of anything. My urge to write – as strong as the urge to breathe, I once said to –” she paused, “to Tom – has gone.”
Cassandra did not speak. Jane was aware of her sister’s watchful concern, and her own smarting eyes, but her voice was steady. “Perhaps, after all, I am an old-fashioned girl who simply likes to sit in this old-fashioned garden and read. Perhaps the pursuit of a literary career would bring me nothing but unhappiness. You must not take my words seriously. I am happy with my lot.”
“I shall take your words as they are meant,” said Cass. “You wish to write, but cannot, and you would rather blame yourself than our parents, whose desire to rush off to Bath like a couple of young puppies disturbed your peace so violently.”
“And yours,” said Jane.
“We are not speaking of me.”
As impetuously as if they were children again, Jane put her head on her sister’s lap. “Dearest, dearest Cass!”
They sat in silence among the long shadows. From the house came voices and kitchen noises. Someone went by on a horse and exchanged a greeting with Dick, who entered the garden by the back gate and sauntered round to the stable.
Finally Jane lifted her head. “Do you know what I am inclined to do?
“What?”
“Marry the first man who asks me, whoever he is.”
Cass was dismayed “Even if you do not love him?”
Jane shook her head. “By Christmas I shall be twenty-seven. That is no age to be worrying about love.” She let out an unamused laugh. “Indeed, I am exactly the age of Charlotte Lucas in First Impressions, when she married Elizabeth’s rejected suitor, the absurd Mr Collins.”
“Do you mean you will marry Mr Blackall, who is almost as absurd?” asked Cass, horrified.
“I am speaking of possibilities, Cass.”
“But Charlotte Lucas and Mr Collins did not love each other at all,” protested Cass. “And do you not remember how Charlotte’s marriage distressed Elizabeth? She could not forgive her.”
“I am not Elizabeth Bennet.”
Cass gripped her sister’s hand. “You are not Charlotte Lucas either; you are real. Do not be hasty. Pray do not make yourself unhappy for the sake of securing your own household. It would break my heart.”
“When I created Charlotte Lucas,” mused Jane, “I was twenty years old, and twenty-seven seemed impossibly old. Indeed, I wondered if I should make her younger, so as to make her situation less pathetic! But twenty-seven has arrived all too quickly, and no one – not even Mr Blackall – has proposed to me.”
She stood up and brushed the grass from her skirt. “Come, let us go into the house and wait for them all to come home. We shall have a merry evening, our last one at Steventon for the present. We are to go to Ibthorpe tomorrow, and from there to Manydown. How pleasant it will be to see all our friends again! And if I cannot write, at least I can practise my powers of coquetry. If I do not find someone during all our travels, then I am a sorry specimen who does not deserve to marry, for love or anything else.”
Jane and Cass, after a month at Ibthorpe, had brought Martha to stay at Manydown with them. Everyone was there: Alethea and Catherine, their brother Harris, who had now become a well-groomed young man of twenty-two, and tragic, still-beautiful Elizabeth.
Harris was now old enough to play a role in his family’s unusually gracious hospitality. He was attentive to Jane, Cass and Martha, handing them from carriages, fetching shawls, offering amusements and outings. But Jane had not been at Manydown more than a week before she began to notice that he was particularly attentive to her.
It was October. Not a very mild October, but a dry one. Manydown was a glorious place to be when the leaves were turning, and the chestnut avenue behind the house was Jane’s favourite walk. In the mornings, or after dinner when the rest of the household was at cards, which she did not care for, Harris walked with her there. No one considered the idea of accompanying them; they were childhood friends.
As a child Harris Bigg had had trouble with his speech, Jane recalled. For many years he had stammered, and was inclined not to make much contribution to conversation. She remembered him as a boy full of spirit, always ready to spar with one of the Lefroy boys, or slide recklessly on a polished floor, or risk broken limbs climbing trees and sledding. His father had not sent him to a public school, and, kept at home with his sisters, he had achieved a degree of understanding of the world of women Jane had only seen before in Charles Fowle. Both, as boys, had allowed girls into their games, and both, as men, could be trusted to put the hood of the carriage up when it was too windy for a feminine hairstyle, and not complain when kept waiting by a lengthy feminine toilette.
Harris did not stammer now. As they walked between the chestnuts he told her of his plans for Manydown, which his father had hinted might pass to him early, as he and Mrs Bigg were inclined to copy the Austens and go travelling.
“It is a fine old house, but some of the upstairs rooms need improvement,” he said, stopping and indicating windows on the upper corner of the building. “These days a man must provide better quarters for his servants than of old. My father, sadly, does not understand this, and so my mother continues to complain that her maids do not stay long.”
While they walked on, Jane looked at him. He was of more than middle height, and well-made without being thick-set. His hair was brown like hers. It looked as if it might soon thin at the temples, but she did not mind that. She had always liked the playful boy he had been when they had danced together at weddings, balls and house parties, and she had taught him to play the card-games she now despised. And she liked the man he had become.
What was more, he seemed to like her. One early December morning, when a cold mist lay on the ground and a walk was impossible, he forwent his usual ride in favour of joining Jane in the library. She wished to look at a book on a high shelf; he pushed the ladder into place, and would have climbed it for her if she had allowed him.
“It is all right, Harris, I have legs, you know.”
He coloured immediately. Amused, yet flattered, Jane realized she could not speak of such intimate objects to a man whose amorous feelings were becoming daily more clear.
He went to the table and opened the nearest book which lay there, trying to cover his confusion. Jane did not like to see him discomfited. She did not climb the ladder, but joined him at the table.
“You have been very attentive to my sister, my friend and me since we have been here, for which I thank you,” she said gently. “Martha in particular has remarked upon your pleasant company.”
“It is not Miss Lloyd – I mean, I am much obliged to you,” was his reply. His face was still rosy, and Jane had a notion that he was struggling against a temporary return of his stammer.
“Miss Lloyd is to be taken back to Ibthorpe on Friday, I understand,” said Jane, only vaguely conscious that she should be saying something that put him at his ease, but in fact was succumbing to an almost mischievous desire to test him. “And Cass and I shall rejoin our parents in Bath later that day. And today is Tuesday.”
“Yes,” said Harris, without looking at her. He fingered the pages of the book. He was calmer now; his voice was steady. “My parents intend to give a small farewell party for you and your companions on Thursday evening.” He raised his eyes to hers. “There will be dancing, I believe.”
“In that case, I shall look forward to it greatly.”
“Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?”
There
was no need for such formality, but Jane recognized that Harris needed to show himself to be sensible of the rules of courtship. That he wished to court her was astonishing enough – she was, after all, his senior by five years, and a lifelong close friend of his older sisters – but his impeccable attention to courtesy and propriety lent his suit more weight than he could know. He would not break his promise like William Heathcote, or disappear across the sea like Tom Lefroy.
And he was the only male heir, the sole inheritor of Manydown.
“The honour will be all mine,” she said, equally formally.
Suddenly he laughed, and slapped his palm on the table. “I feel as if I have had a glass of wine already!” he said, so ingenuously that Jane could not help but laugh too.
“Are you as good a dancer as you were when you were a little boy?” she asked.
“Better, I should hope! My sisters and I had lessons from a master. I can even do a minuet.”
“The necessity for that will not arise, I am sure,” replied Jane. “But I will join you in a reel, if you have the energy.”
“Have you ever known me not have energy? You will be the one who begs to sit down, not I.”
On Thursday evening Manydown House, though not decked out as splendidly as it had been for that important Christmas ball seven years before, felt warm and welcoming. Mr and Mrs Bigg’s supper-dance, given for the family and a few friends, was necessarily subdued by Elizabeth’s bereavement earlier in the year. But upon the instant Jane entered the familiar ballroom she detected an atmosphere of satisfaction, as if the Biggs were convinced that although some things had gone wrong, other things were about to go right.
“Everyone is smiling tonight,” Jane remarked to Catherine. “Your family is very good at making guests welcome.”
“I know,” agreed Catherine. “Sometimes I wish I could be a guest myself.” She threw Jane a coy look. “Do you ever wish you could be member of our family, Jane?”
Jane could not find an answer. She gazed at her friend, too surprised even to blush. Were the events of the past few weeks so obvious to everyone?
“Oh, Jane, do not pretend that you have not noticed the attention that Harris has been paying you,” said Catherine, snapping her fan closed and giving Jane a “really!” look.
“He is kind to everyone,” said Jane blankly, her thoughts racing.
”He likes you, and you know it. He is always saying how clever you are, and how pretty your hair is.”
“My hair?” repeated Jane.
“The very same.”
“I am astonished.”
“No, you are not. Alethea and I saw you through the library windows the other day when we were waiting for Stevens to bring the carriage round. You were laughing at everything he said.” Catherine leaned nearer to Jane. In her eyes Jane saw hope, and concern, and affection. “Do not dismiss him if he should speak tonight, I beg of you. He is young and easily bruised.”
Jane could hardly keep herself from smiling. She realized with a rush of joy that Catherine and her family were as desirous of the attachment as Harris himself.
“Now you must excuse me,” said Catherine. “My mother is signalling to me.”
Jane remained where she was standing, her imagination working. If Harris did speak tonight, which last Tuesday had seemed scarcely possible, Jane would leave tomorrow as the future mistress of the house she now stood in. After her marriage she would have not only Manydown, but a carriage and a barouche, like Edward and Elizabeth. She would have a housekeeper and several indoor and outdoor servants, housed in quarters improved by her husband’s good sense. Her sons would be educated at public schools, and her daughters at home with a governess.
Her words about accepting the next man who asked her had surely been prophetic. Had God been listening? Was the inheritance due for her meekness over the move to Bath about to come in the form of Harris Bigg?
“Our dance, Miss Jane?”
Harris stood before her, his hand outstretched. She curtseyed low and accepted his hand. He drew her hand to his breast. “I cannot tell you how much pleasure this affords me,” he said sotto voce, his eyes alight.
This was bold, and very romantic. Jane was overwhelmed; her colour rose, she smiled widely. “Why, thank you, Harris,” she whispered.
She walked with him to the set. She tried her very best not to allow Tom Lefroy into her consciousness, but he would come. He had trodden these very floorboards with a twenty-year-old girl so delighted by his presence she could not feel her feet. Seven years later, Harris Bigg now turned to face the less idealistic woman she had become. He looked solemn, nervous, knowing he held his destiny by the hand.
During the dance he did not speak. She was half aware that people were watching and whispering about them, but she did not mind. It was clear that Harris’s mind was working furiously as he completed the measures and turns. Cass had to skip out of the way to avoid a collision when he momentarily forgot in which direction he was supposed to proceed. He smiled ruefully, but was unembarrassed. And when the music had finished and the dancers were applauding he led Jane to the flagstoned loggia at the back of the house. He made no attempt to sit down, or to invite her to do so. As soon as they were out of earshot of the merrymakers he took her hands.
“Jane … I may call you Jane, may I not?”
“By all means,” said Jane, so quietly that she barely heard herself. She could not breathe properly.
“Jane, I planned to say this after the last dance, not the first, but I cannot contain my desire to speak now.”
She said nothing. Encouraged by her lack of protest, he continued.
“You can have no doubt that over the past few weeks I have developed an attachment to you, which I hope most sincerely might be returned.”
Again Jane did not speak. She could hear his tense, shallow breathing. She gave a slight nod.
“Tell me,” he said, his brown eyes bright, “if I may have the further honour of hoping that you will consider a proposal I have in mind.”
Jane felt as if she were back in the drawing-room at Steventon, dressed in her mother’s old clothes, acting in a play with Henry, while Cass and the other boys waited, giggling, behind a curtain. “Of course,” she said softly.
“Then…” He swallowed, and his eyes filled with an expression whose like she had only seen once before, in Tom Lefroy’s. “Then, will you bestow upon me the greatest happiness I can imagine, and consent to marry me, Jane?”
Jane had written several proposals in her books, some accepted, some rejected, some comic, some serious. But Harris’s proposal was not like any she had written. He had approached her so directly, with such an attractive combination of bashfulness and desire in his countenance, that the possiblity of eloquence did not enter her head.
“Yes, Harris, I will.”
She had barely uttered the words before he had gathered her to him and kissed her, not quite on the lips, but somewhere very near. Jane clung to him, her brain on fire. She had done what she had promised Cassandra she would do. She had accepted the first man who asked her. It was done. She was engaged.
“Let us announce our engagement now!” he said, releasing her at last.
She had never seen greater pride on the face of a young man. Grinning, he led her back to the ballroom. Mr Bigg did not have to hear the news; he saw it on their countenances as soon as they entered. With a glance he communicated it to his wife and daughters, and before she knew it Jane was being toasted with champagne.
“Our wish come true!” exclaimed Mrs Bigg, gazing fondly at her. “We have always longed for this moment, my dear. You have made us very happy.”
Jane sipped, and then gulped, a glass of champagne, and then another. The dancing began again, food and wine appeared, midnight passed. Martha and the Bigg girls cried, but Cass remained dry-eyed. She said little, but kissed Jane warmly. Jane, who knew her sister better than anyone, was sure that she was deeply moved by her younger sister’s success, but needed assurance
that Jane’s feelings for Harris were genuine. Tomorrow, Jane determined, when we can be alone again, I will give her that assurance.
Very late, she and Cass made their way up the carpeted staircase to their separate rooms. “Oh, Cass, I do love you,” Jane said impulsively as they parted at her door.
“And I you, dearest. Now go to sleep, and look beautiful for your fiancé tomorrow morning.”
Jane kissed her and went into the bedroom. Catherine’s maid had laid out her night things and turned down the bedclothes. Jane washed her face and curled her hair untidily, hardly noticing what she was doing. Her limbs felt heavy as she changed, shivering, into her nightdress. She was fatigued beyond description. It was with relief that she climbed into bed and closed her eyes, and waited for the blankets to warm her.
But she did not sleep. She opened her eyes and looked at the stars between the open curtains, thinking, thinking…
A name drifted into her mind, and out again, and in again. Charlotte Lucas. Charlotte Lucas. Charlotte Lucas. And Cassandra’s words: “do not make yourself unhappy … it would break my heart.”
Time passed, and Jane’s thoughts cleared. Harris Bigg would be a perfect husband. Rich, kind, a member of a loving and beloved family. As a father to her children he would be more than perfect: educated at home like her own brothers, he had grown up surrounded by domestic concerns; he understood children. As a child himself, his ability to extract fun out of the most unpromising materials had ever impressed her. And now he would do the same for her own sons and daughters, and they would adore him.
She thought about Elizabeth Bigg, whose husband’s untimely death had wrenched her from her happiness. She would not remarry, Jane suspected. Her boy, who at two years old had so much of his father’s looks and ways it was almost distressing to see, would be the centre of her future existence. And at least she had him. If she had never been married, she would never have been widowed, but neither would she have her son. There was no doubt, Jane reasoned, that in view of the unexpected dangers of the world, marrying Harris and having his children was the rational thing to do.
Cassandra's Sister Page 18
