Jane the Authoress

by Jane Lark

  “I would tell you, but I do not know his name either.”

  Irritation and impatience shot through Jane like an arrow that quivered through her chest. “Yet his story.”

  “All that I may tell you about this gentleman is that I would assume he must have been a friend of Lord Edward’s.”

  “But that is no story at all.” Frustration gripped Jane’s voice and made it sharper.

  “Any man’s life is a story; it is only that some are not so exciting.”

  Jane’s lips pressed together, her expression chiding him for his lack of exciting knowledge.

  He laughed. “You cannot hold against me what I do not know, Miss Jane.”

  “Jane…” Cassandra said in reprimand.

  “I cannot believe that, though. Not from his face. There is more of a story, and if he is not a family member, then why is here?”

  “Why, indeed?” Mr Butler echoed, smiling at her.

  “Do not mock me. You are being cruel.”

  “Shall I make up a tale for you then?”

  “No!” Jane snapped, as anger spiked.

  “Of course—that is your skill. You may make up your own story for the gentleman.”

  “Yet what reason would Lord Edward have to display a portrait of a friend?”

  “There might be numerous reasons, Miss Jane, you shall have to employ your imagination.”

  “Oh,” Jane announced her frustration aloud, her nephews’ and nieces’ petulant style of mood returning…

  Mr Butler and Cassandra laughed at her. As she deserved.

  It was just that she had discovered so many inspirations here it was disappointing to have the final one she had hoped for snatched away so firmly.

  The stranger’s face had hovered in her dreams some nights, as though he wished her to hear his story—or wished to inspire one of her own.

  “Come let us go back to the drawing room for tea. They will wonder where we have gone,” Cassandra proposed gently mollifying Jane’s ill-temper.

  Jane turned around, complying. “Very well.”

  Cassandra walked beside Mr Butler and they spoke exclusively, as Jane walked more slowly behind them, her mind full of words for the annoying stranger.

  When she drank her tea with the others, despite the active conversation led by Mr Holt Leigh and Mr Butler, the face of the stranger continued to taunt her in her mind’s eye.

  Her anger was foolish. The stranger was not even there, and quite probably not even alive. Mr Butler would laugh himself silly if he knew.

  Jane smiled and shook her head, denying her thoughts and shaking off her sour mood. It was silly. She bit her lip on a laugh directed at herself. Then shook her head, telling herself off as sternly as Lady S & S might have done, and joined in the conversation. It was her last evening in this wonderful house of discovery and she was allowing one illusive story to spoil it.

  After they had drunk their tea, as it was such a pleasant evening, Reverend Leigh proposed a short promenade through the wilderness walk. Lady Saye and Sele and Mrs Leigh chose to retire, but Jane, Cassandra and Jane’s mother, set out with Reverend Leigh, Mr Holt Leigh, Mr Leigh and Mr Butler.

  The gentlemen’s conversation was entertaining, and the cooler evening breeze refreshing. They walked at a slow steady pace and Jane watched the wildflowers in the long grass about them stirring as they passed by. The scent of clover lifted on the air.

  Jane’s gaze rose to the horizon as the sky turned from light blue to orange and pink.

  The setting became magical.

  When they had nearly reached the end of the walk, small, dark images began swirling through the sky above them. Jane looked harder. Small bats.

  It was dusk. The sky was on the edge of darkness. It was the haunting time of night, when everything had an eerie feel.

  It made the walk more memorable and beautiful—spellbinding.

  A barn owl screeched from somewhere in the wood on the far side of the house. They turned to walk along the tree-lined riverside path back towards the house. Jane glanced up at the view of Stoneleigh Abbey before they walked behind the trees. It was a magnificent vista. The house was framed by the night sky, when it was still a very deep indigo blue, not black, yet the first stars could be seen, and a sickle-like moon hung above the house illuminating the pale stone of the West Wing.

  If her gift were to be an artist and not an authoress, she would have captured the image in paint. But she was one and not the other, and so she merely tried to hold the image of the pale house glowing in the moonlight, with its many sparkling windows, in her mind’s eye. Where she would try to keep it for the rest of her life.

  When Jane retired to her bedchamber, she was alone. Cassandra and her mother had retired a few minutes ahead of her. Jane had stopped for a few final words with Mr Butler.

  She did not go straight up to her room, though, but walked back down the stairs to look at the portrait of the unknown man. She waved a reproving forefinger at his face. “Oh, you rogue, you present such an image and it is all false.”

  She laughed at herself as she walked away and climbed the stairs upward towards her room, to spend her last night in the softest bed she would probably ever rest in.

  Chapter 19

  Jane sat up. Sweat ran down her back between her shoulder blades. Her nightdress was damp. She had been dreaming. Dreaming of the face of the unknown man.

  Her fingers clasped the top sheet.

  The pleasant evening had become a warm night.

  She breathed out.

  It had not quite been a nightmare, but nor had it been a happy dream, and the detail of it was already slipping from her memory—yet not the feelings. The anger. The aggression. A sense of betrayal.

  His face had taunted her. Led her on to believe there was some great and wonderful story of a hero behind it. With his charming persuasive blue eyes, full of vitality. That look had caught her attention every time she had walked up and down those stairs. She was so angry with him. He had cheated her.

  “A painting,” she said aloud, then laughed at herself. “You are angry with a painting… You are truly foolish.”

  Yet.

  Jeopardy.

  Write his story…

  He could provide jeopardy!

  “Think.” Jane urged her mind, as she lay on her back. She looked up at the ceiling while her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Shadows formed amongst the grey tones.

  Secrets, shadows, were the essence of jeopardy.

  Shadows of dark secrets…

  The image of Stoneleigh Abbey caught in the glow of the first sight of moonlight held in Jane’s mind. At some point all secrets became vivid.

  Jane sat up and threw back the covers. Pride and wickedness. She would make that charming unknown stranger the villain. That would pay him back for withholding his true story. She would give him a fictional tale in her book that he would probably hate.

  The words bubbling up inside her could not wait to be written. She was to travel tomorrow. She would be sitting in the carriage for a week. If she were to write, the time was now.

  Jane went to the window and pushed the shutters back so that the moonlight spilled into the room.

  She took out the manuscript for First Impressions, fresh paper, a quill and ink, and laid them out on the table. Then sat down to write. Her fingers tingled, and her palm itched as she picked up the quill. There was a sense of timelessness in the room.

  This would not only add jeopardy, but empathy, and create a greater absorption in all the characters.

  She began to amend the scene where Lizzy and her sisters, with Mr Collins, met Mr Denny in Meryton. Denny was no longer going to be Lydia’s secret beau. Jane had a better idea… “But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very Mr Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire, and he bowed as th
ey passed. All were struck with the stranger’s air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible to find out, led the way across the street…”

  New words began to stretch between the existing lines, and ran about the edges filling up the page. Jane picked up a blank sheet; to be inserted between that page and the next.

  Darcy rode his horse along the High Street.

  Of all the moments…

  Jane laughed aloud.

  He saw Elizabeth, as Bingley spotted Lizzy’s sister Jane and rode immediately towards her. The men were on their way to Longbourn with the intent of asking after Miss Bennet’s health.

  Darcy followed his friend as an inexplicable pleasure leapt in his chest. He had valued the hours Elizabeth Bennet had spent at Netherfield for the benefit of her sister. He had become far too used to the opportunity to be near her and watch her expressive eyes. He had missed her unusual, open and forthright manner since she had left.

  They stopped before the women and Darcy bowed his head. Yet Darcy’s gaze did not remain long on Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

  Oh my good Lord. Bloody Hell. The Devil. The devil it was… The words flowed through Jane’s head, in Darcy’s deep tone.

  Heat invaded Darcy’s skin.

  Jane saw his deep blush, just as Lizzy saw it in the scene. And she saw Wickham. Yes, Wickham. Mr Wickham. What an appropriate name for her new character. The name of the unknown man. Wickham. It resounded like the snap of a whip.

  Wickham, the man who had been a stranger to Lizzy a few moments before, turned white.

  Lizzy’s gaze transferred from one man to the other.

  She wished to know what Mr Wickham thought. What had passed between the men previously that would cause such a peculiar reaction on both their parts. Mr Wickham seemed the epitome of a gentleman, striking in looks and his conversation was charming. Nothing he had said was ought that he should not.

  How might Darcy have offended him so awfully? With what justification? Of course the fault must be Darcy’s, in Lizzy’s mind.

  After a moment Darcy lifted a hand and touched the brim of his hat. Mr Wickham did the same. Then Darcy rode away.

  Jane laughed when she finished her first whisper of the jeopardy. Those slight gestures hid so much, and Lizzy was entirely blind to the truth which had passed before her eyes, yet Jane wished her readers to see it. Lizzy had already judged Darcy ill. So with Mr Wickham’s charming manner she judged him good after only a moment’s meeting, despite the fact that it was Darcy who had made the first acknowledgement, and therefore offered the first kindness.

  Jane turned pages until she found the place for the next amendment that would change fundamental elements and therefore the complete foundations of her story, but in a way that she knew would lift its quality a hundredfold.

  Excitement clasped tight in Jane’s stomach.

  Mr Wickham walked Lizzy and her sisters to their aunt’s and uncle’s with Denny, and by so doing, acquired an invitation to dine. His manner, the confidence with which he walked, the assurance and easiness with which he expressed himself, and the friendliness and attention of his listening and his speech made anyone who met him see a trustable man they wished to know better. Lizzy was not immune to it, and she was the one blessed by his company at the dinner table. But beyond the appeal of his congenial company there was another reason that she was glad he had chosen to sit beside her. She wished to understand the cause of the awkwardness between himself and Mr Darcy. Yet it would be rude to ask him about something that had been private.

  Wickham’s first conversation was about the weather. A polite and simple topic, yet the way he spoke with such enthusiasm, humour and breeding had Lizzy captivated. A man with charm—like Mr Butler or Mr Holt Leigh—or the unknown man in the portrait, whose character Jane could only imagine. Such men could make any topic of conversation amusing.

  After dinner, again Mr Wickham sought Lizzy out. He sat down at a table where they were to play lottery. He sat between Lizzy and her sister Lydia. Lydia loved to play, and was so absorbed in the game it allowed Mr Wickham to speak privately and openly with Lizzy.

  Lizzy longed to know why he had turned white, and why Mr Darcy had blushed, when they had met. But she still dared not ask.

  Yet when Mr Wickham raised it, she did not query his lack of propriety. He was too nice; he had been too polite, too well-mannered and was too genteel and pleasant a man from the moment of their meeting to do anything that he ought not. So of course as he sat beside her and acknowledged that she had noted the coldness of that meeting, then subtly spoke of his very poor opinion of Mr Darcy, Lizzy absorbed every word; entirely enchanted by his charming ways, looks, and likable nature. Lizzy rested her elbows on the table and leant towards him to listen as they continued to play the game but spoke in between their turns.

  Mr Wickham wished to know if Mr Darcy was likely to leave the area.

  Lizzy had heard nothing of the likelihood.

  Mr Wickham—Jane’s entirely imagined character, as far as nature went, but with the face of the unknown man in the portrait, then began to spin a web of lies.

  The ears of a naive young woman, who believed she might judge everyone in the world by first appearance and capture a true impression, listened eagerly and with complete trust in every word.

  Lizzy was as naïve as Susan in her way. But that was the breeding of a young woman in the country, with no broader experience of gentlemen.

  Darcy appeared the villain, coldly proud, cruelly vindictive and bitter hearted.

  Wickham claimed himself to have been shamed, poorly treated and cut off from a life in which he had once shared a great deal of mutual respect and a familial acquaintance. Darcy’s father had been his godfather. Darcy had grown up with him, and to Wickham, he had been like a brother as they attended the same schools. No matter that his father had been the steward for Darcy’s father and therefore in service.

  But Darcy’s father had made a promise to provide a living for Mr Wickham which the current Mr Darcy had thrown aside.

  Lizzy was shocked to her core.

  Mr Wickham believed Mr Darcy’s behaviour born of jealousy.

  But surely Mr Darcy’s extreme sense of pride would think it appalling to treat a man so ill, if a promise had been made.

  “It is wonderful,” replied Mr Wickham, “for almost all his actions may be traced to pride; and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger impulses even than pride.”

  Lizzy was absorbed by the tale; completely drawn-in by her first impression, by looks and manner. Darcy was the villain, and Wickham the hero.

  “What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?”

  Mr Wickham was a clever weaver of lies, he began with a denial that he would ever speak ill of a lady, because that of course would be ungentlemanly, then progressed to do so, slating Miss Darcy to be as proud and ill-mannerly as her brother.

  Mr Wickham went on to associate Mr Collins with Lady Catherine, and therefore to inform Lizzy of Darcy’s relationship with Lady Catherine, whom he claimed equally proud and cold, setting Lizzy up to believe even more strongly in Darcy’s weakness of character when she met his aunt.

  When Lizzy returned home that night she was more silent than usual. Images of Mr Wickham and the words he had spoken hovered in her mind.

  In an equal way an image of her hovered in Darcy’s head as he retired to his room in Netherfield. His thoughts could not be free of the picture of Elizabeth and her sisters speaking with Wickham. A fist of pain had clutched in Darcy’s stomach from the moment he had noticed Wickham.

  But the Bennet sisters could not be in any danger from Wickham’s ability to perform for strangers—they had no fortune. Darcy had no cause to fear.

  As Darcy lay down to try and sleep he saw the image of Elizabeth in his mind’s eyes, and held on to it, trying to forget the image of Wi
ckham.

  Jane set her quill down and sat back, smiling at herself when she put the page aside to let the ink dry. Then she turned over pages to find the next point for amendment.

  The Netherfield ball.

  When Lizzy danced with Darcy.

  Jane sat forward again and picked up the quill.

  She read Darcy’s stumbling attempts at conversation before she pulled over a blank sheet of paper. Lizzy teased Darcy into conversation, then became intolerant of his lack of amusing subjects. She was a swift judge of character and a swift judge of whether or not she had any interest in a person. If they did not have the same quick wit as she they were discounted for whatever quality they lacked—in Mr Darcy, it was an inability to share amusing pleasantries. To Lizzy that appeared as cold aloof pride.

  “What think you of books?” said he, smiling. Darcy thought himself to be accepting her challenge of conversation and succeeding in letting a little of himself into the open.

  “Books—Oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”

  “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”

  “No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else.”

  “The present always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said he, with a look of doubt. He could not understand her. Though he wished to more than anything. She seemed to enjoy life so much, and nothing upset her. A spike of envy stuck him through the chest. He wished to be like her.

  “Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its being created.

  “I am,” said he, with a firm voice. Where was this conversation being directed? She was leading for a purpose.

  “And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

  “I hope not.”