According to Jane

by Marilyn Brant

  I was reminded of this a week later when we were making a visit to Oxford. Two of Jane’s elder brothers had been educated there and the cobblestone streets all but vibrated with the promise of history and the roar of tour buses.

  After a pleasant afternoon of browsing at Blackwell’s Bookshop, I strolled over a bridge, away from the city bustle, and paused to look down upon the river Thames. I was with Jane, of course, but, to the world, I knew I seemed to be just a single American woman, wandering the town alone.

  Is that why you’re with me, Jane? I asked her. The reason underneath the reason? Because we are to share similar fates?

  She gave me a puzzled sniff. You are considering becoming a lady novelist?

  I laughed. God, no. Most writers are half crazy. I mean as far as relationships. Do you know that part of my destiny already? Will I end up being alone like you?

  Firstly, I was not alone, dear friend. I had the immense pleasure of my sister’s company, the lifetime memory of a man I had loved deeply and the endless bounds of my imagination. I was neither alone nor lonely. She paused. And secondly, SOME writers are not AT ALL crazy.

  I giggled.

  You realize, Ellie, she said in her Lecturing tone, that my childhood writing, “Volume the First,” is here in Oxford University’s Bodleian Library.

  Yes, I said. And as I recall, you referred to it as “one hundred eighty-four pages of sheer nonsense.” But I take back my comment about crazy writers. Or, at least, I’ll exclude present company.

  Thank you, she replied, unable to disguise the amusement in her voice. I do believe my family would have been surprised by such success. Most surprised indeed. My youthful writing here at the university. Imagine!

  I laughed with her. Millions upon millions of people had read her novels over the past two centuries and, more recently, had been glued to the movie screens to watch films based on them, yet the thing Jane found most diverting was that some of her juvenilia was housed at a major Oxford University library. No one was going to convince me that writers weren’t at least a little nutty.

  So, tell me more about this man you loved, I said. I’m older now. I can be trusted with the details. And, though I knew what she’d say (I’d asked a thousand times before with no success), I added, I want to know this handsome clergyman’s name once and for all.

  I have only ever spoken of him with Cassandra, and it is only with her that I have shared his name. Although I do know you can be trusted, Ellie, she hastened to assure me.

  Yeah, sure. Where’d you meet him again? I remembered, of course — I’d pored over her biographies at my home library and memorized large chunks of them — but, though everyone knew of her youthful flirtation with Irishman Tom Lefroy, and even the much later marriage proposal of Harris Bigg-Wither, only a few scholars made note of her secret love interest in the years between. I was naturally insatiable on the subject and wanted to get her talking about The Unknown Man once more.

  We met in Sidmouth, a Channel town in Devonshire, not far from Lyme, she said, when I was five-and-twenty.

  And his brother was a doctor in town?

  Yes. And Mr. — She cleared her throat. And HE was a young clergyman who was visiting his brother for a short seaside holiday.

  And he was so wonderful even Cassandra approved of him for you, right?

  She fell silent.

  Jane?

  This gentleman and I knew the pleasure of each other’s company and conversation for but a few weeks, Ellie. And I had surely not guessed this would be my fate — to love so deeply and yet to have the object of my affection for so short a time. She paused and I could sense her measuring words, editing herself. When I heard of his death, my sister was the one person to whom I could turn. She, unfortunately, understood the pain of such loss only too well.

  Cassandra’s fiancé, Reverend Thomas Fowle, had contracted yellow fever and died before their wedding. The Austens had known Fowle since childhood, and Jane’s sister had never entertained the notion of loving another after his death. It seemed Jane had chosen a similar response to the dreadful news she’d received about the love of her life.

  Yet, as for knowing the truth of your fate, Ellie, I confess I do not. I do believe, however, that it is always better to have loved well — fully and purely — for once, rather than halfheartedly for always. I had hoped this advice might be of use to you, too.

  I’m sure you’re right, I said, but I wondered, as I always did, about whether the memory of a lasting love (even a completely mutual one) would’ve been enough for me.

  Whom, if anyone, had I loved with complete abandon like that?

  And who, if anyone, had loved me back that way?

  The only man whose name rose to my lips for the former question was, of all people, Sam Blaine. Though for years I’d hated to admit it, I had loved him. But I’d been so young and so impressionable when we’d first met that he probably didn’t count. If he did, I guess it was true that we never really got over our first love.

  And as for the latter question, I doubt any man had felt the way about me that Jane’s unnamed Clergyman By The Sea had felt about her.

  Do not worry so, Jane instructed, aware of the direction of my thoughts as usual. Regardless of what happens in your playing at love, you will end up where you need to be. Life brings its gifts to you either way. For, though I never married nor became a mother, I felt blessed and fulfilled.

  I blinked away a sudden tear. That may have been the case, Jane, and I’m glad of it. But you also gave back your extraordinary gifts to the world. Your presence in my life has been priceless, and I’ve always been grateful for the richness of spirit you brought to me.

  There was a long pause, and then she said something I hadn’t expected. Something that made me feel connected to her, as a great-great niece of a beloved aunt might.

  And by your kindness, your honesty and your courage in the face of love’s challenges, you, dear Ellie, have brought the same to me. If I understand anything of the trials a modern woman must confront and conquer in order to find her place in the world, it is because you have opened my eyes.

  Chapter 14

  She threw a retrospective glance over

  the whole of their acquaintance,

  so full of contradictions and varieties…

  — Pride and Prejudice

  Just a few weeks later, on August fifteenth, we celebrated my thirty-third birthday in the city of Bath, complete with high tea at the renowned Pump Room.

  Rather indulgent of me, having a feast like this at a table for one, wouldn’t you say? I said to Jane, taking in the full view of the open dining area from our little corner. Curious tourists strolled along the edges of the room and peered through the windows at the legendary bathing area below.

  Jane made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, then muttered something unintelligible.

  What was that? I asked her. I raised my teacup in the air to toast myself and reached for a delicate chocolate petit four filled with custard. The jars of strawberry jam and clotted cream called to me from across the tiny table, and I was tempted to rush through my first treat so as to sample another.

  I despise Bath, Jane said, louder this time. It is a noisy, dismal place, where purported gentlemen and ladies visit for the exercise of gossiping and gazing at strangers. My opinion of it has not improved with the centuries.

  I pointed to the pyramid of sweets in front of me. But just look at these delicious —

  Ellie, she said with a sigh. Do you recall the emotions you experienced during your school dances? You described them as times when gentlemen and ladies stared at each other yet did not speak. And the feast items on the table did not appeal to you either. Do you remember why?

  Yeah. They were usually dried-out, awful things we ate so we had something to do with our hands.

  Perhaps the desserts in my time had more flavour, she said, but our intention in consuming them was for much the same reason as yours. We relied on something els
e to divert our attention from the matter at hand.

  The “matter” being husband-or wife-shopping?

  Indeed, she said.

  Okay. So you’re saying spending time in Bath left a bad taste in your mouth. I laughed at my own joke and nibbled on another teacake.

  Jane ignored my attempts at lightening up the conversation. When we were living here for five years and, later, in Southampton for three, I wished only to be someplace settled. Someplace that was home. It was dreadful being on display every day and forever in transit. A short seaside holiday was a welcome change, yes. But eight years of displacement and rooming with relatives was not. I wish to depart this room and this city, Ellie. I will leave you to enjoy your desserts in the peace of your own company and shall rejoin you at a later time.

  Jane? I asked, but I received no answer. She’d left. Hidden herself in the dark unconscious of my mind, just beyond my grasp.

  I popped a final pastry into my mouth and sipped on the last of my tea, mindful of my solitary state. I knew I had distant relations living in the area. Maybe I should’ve done some serious genealogy work before I came…or maybe it was better I hadn’t.

  Let’s face it, people never knew what weird stuff they might uncover about their families when they began to dig. Truth was, I probably didn’t want to know. But this left me, of course, with the downside of my reticence: There was no one I could really talk to here.

  It was easy not to feel the sting of loneliness when Jane’s acerbic and witty observations kept me company. In her absence, awareness of the reality flooded my mind unfiltered, and I became haunted by a homesickness I tried unsuccessfully to ignore. I, too, wanted to be back home. To be settled again in the place I belonged.

  My flight back to Chicago departed in three days and, whether or not I’d gained greater maturity as a result of this six-week sojourn, the time had come for me to go back.

  On a crowded 777 heading west into the sunset, I thought about my sister’s soon-to-be-born baby. Di would need me, I reasoned. Maybe the two of us would end up like Jane and Cassandra, relying on each other when the hope of finding true love had gone.

  I smiled thinking of this. Funny how life could change. Di was the one person I’d never imagined as a close friend and, yet, that was precisely what I now considered her to be. For sanity’s sake, though, it would be best if we never shared a house again.

  My American Airlines flight required a quick plane change at Boston’s Logan Airport and, since we were an hour late departing London, “quick” meant “immediately.”

  “Attention passengers with connecting flights to Chicago, we are beginning to board Flight 509,” I heard the gate attendant say over the loudspeaker as I wobbled my way down the plane ramp with my stuffed backpack, slogged into the airport proper and cleared the Customs line. “Flight 509 now boarding at Terminal B, Gate 17.”

  “Oh, damn.” I was in Terminal E. “How do I get to Terminal B?” I asked the first person I could find wearing an airline uniform.

  That person turned out to be a handsome, forty-something pilot (married, or so implied by his gold band) who pointed me in the direction of the shuttle bus, and off I raced. I made it to the gate just as a different attendant was saying, “Last call for Flight 509…”

  But it wasn’t until I was struggling up this new plane ramp and away from the airport proper, that I realized where I’d been. In Boston.

  Sam’s city.

  And though I hadn’t seen him there, hadn’t seen anyone who looked remotely like him even, this was where he was. Somewhere nearby. As always, almost within reach, but not quite.

  I grinned to myself, for no other reason than that I knew of his continued existence. He wasn’t dead, like Jane’s or Cassandra’s young admirers had been when the sisters were my age. No. Sam lived and breathed and was a part of my history. A history that, despite our fumbles, we’d gotten a fair amount of closure on.

  And, so, I could claim the happier memories as my own. The odd camaraderie he and I shared in high school. The one amazing night we’d spent together. A night that had greatly influenced my view of love and relationships ever since. I could embrace our infrequent path-crossings in the years that followed. Sure, the recollections still held their fair share of pain, but at least I wasn’t left hanging, or wondering for eternity what might’ve happened between us if we’d had the chance. Right?

  Because, hey, if I wanted to, I could still reach him. I could do a Yahoo People Search when I got home and look up Sam’s e-mail or his home phone number or his street address in Boston. I would’ve heard through our suburban gossipy grapevine if he’d moved, so he must still be somewhere in this city.

  If my life were a romantic comedy, I could run right back down this ramp and look him up here and now. Take a chance he’d want to see me again. No, better yet, believe he’d fallen in love with me. Or, exponentially better, that he’d always been in love with me!

  I’d call him from an airport pay phone, still breathless from my sprint past all those other gates. In violation of the laws of physics, he’d materialize almost instantly, and the two of us would pounce on each other. We’d wrinkle our previously pristine clothes and lock lips with a voraciousness only B movie stars could replicate. The flight attendants would all cheer.

  Yeah.

  I collapsed into my seat, 15F, and giggled at this fantastical, whimsical vision, complete with Heart’s Greatest Hits as the musical score.

  As if something like that could ever happen — even if I wanted it to. Which I didn’t. Because I was too realistic.

  Nevertheless, I daydreamed variations of this fantasy for two straight hours, amusing myself with dialogue worthy of a Mexican soap opera. Until somewhere, just above O’Hare’s sacred airspace, Jane reentered my mind with a Hello, Ellie. Enough of this nonsense, please.

  Ah. Back to my real life.

  Any lingering visions of Di and me forming a Jane-and-Cassandra–like, no-men-allowed-to-come-between-us-for-the-rest-of-our-naturallives sisterly bond were dashed the moment I spoke to Di in person.

  “Alex and I are back together again,” she informed me, rubbing her belly and looking large enough to be carrying twin baby Orcas. Not that I told her that.

  “Really? Wow,” I said, praying this was the right move for her. “And you’re happy about this?”

  She nodded. Happiness radiated off every part of her.

  “How does he feel about the baby?”

  “He, um…wants to assist me during the birth.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to mask my disappointment by sounding extra upbeat and supportive.

  “I know you said you’d help me, Ellie, with the Lamaze stuff and everything. But this way you don’t have to go to those classes and shit.” She grimaced. “Alex took me to an information session at the hospital this week, to see what it was like and all. Man. Those leaders really try to scare the crap out of you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She looked worried. “I’m not so sure I wanna do it after all.”

  “The Lamaze method?”

  “The birth,” Di said.

  I put my hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. “You’ll get through it just fine. Especially with Alex by your side.” I paused. “You must still really, really love him.”

  She gave me a long look. “I do. And, El, he loves me, too. Neither of us ever stopped.”

  So, it wasn’t much of a surprise when, four weeks later, my sister gave birth to a nine-pound, two-ounce baby boy she named Clifton Barnett Evans (since Di had never changed back her last name after the divorce). And, just after Clifton’s APGAR scores pronounced him to be in excellent health, Alex and Di got reengaged (which made that whole last-name thing really convenient). Wedding date to be announced soon.

  And it was.

  Three months after that, with the fresh chill of December blowing in the door, I entered Di’s new condo to find Clifton flashing his first smile and his proud mother announcing that she
and Alex would get remarried early the following November.

  “I wanna do it right this time,” Di said, bouncing my chubby, adorable nephew in her arms twice before holding him out to me. She knew I needed to have my baby fix when I came over.

  I grabbed the little guy from her and buried my face in the softness of his rounded belly before cradling him tight and rocking him to my imaginary soundtrack of ’80s tunes. “You’ll have a lovely wedding,” I assured her. “You’ve put Mom on the case. Who could be more thorough?”

  “I’m not worried about those kinds of details,” Di said. “I meant that I want to make sure I do the important things right. Like remembering to keep my vows with Alex — in sickness and in health and all that stuff. Like not drinking tequila from my shoe at the reception — that was stupid. And like — ” She shot me a look. “Having my sister be my maid of honor.”

  A lump formed out of nothing in my throat. I couldn’t get a response out.

  “Will you?” she asked me, looking as though she were holding her breath.

  Tears threatened to spill down my cheeks, and I was having a devil of a time speaking. I clamped my mouth shut and nodded.

  Di’s eyes looked suspiciously bright, too. She nodded back at me and then leaned in to give my cheek a quick kiss. “You’re such a geek,” she said, but the affection in her voice gave her away.

  “I love you too, sis,” I said.

  “Jingle Bell Rock” flooded the airwaves all that week. I remember because that was the song playing on the radio the evening I opened Terrie’s Christmas card.

  There were other songs, too, of course, and other cards. Actually, I’d gotten so much pre-holiday mail I’d been joking with Jane about it. That, and the fact that the date was December sixteenth, her birthday, and I’d been alternating between humming Christmas carols and “Happy Birthday to You” all day long.

  We’d just finished a rousing debate over mail delivery (Early nineteenth century British versus early twenty-first century American — which was more civilized? Discuss…) when I’d returned with the day’s postal stack from my mailbox. I tossed the bills into the Boring pile and turned right to the Newsy pile. The cards.