‘I thought you were at the Dawsons until Thursday?’ Jane said. Her brother and his wife, who had been visiting friends in Cornwall, were not due to visit the Austens until a week’s time, on their way back to London.
Henry shook his head. ‘Mama wrote to us express and demanded we change our plans. We shall come with you to the Pump Room tomorrow. We are all so happy for you, Jane. Truly, this is such wonderful news.’
‘Indeed,’ Mrs Austen said. She nodded, proud. ‘This is more important than silly Robert Dawson.’
‘Mama, no!’ Jane cried, her voice panicked. A catastrophic feeling held her. ‘We get ahead of ourselves. I have met this man once.’
‘Jane, do listen,’ Henry said with a smile. ‘You have been invited to the Pump Room. Everyone becomes engaged there. No one goes for any other reason, except to drink that horrid water.’ He laughed, his white teeth shining in the daylight. ‘On top of this, you are Jane Austen, the loveliest, cleverest woman of my acquaintance. You will make the best mother, and the best wife. Sorry, dear,’ he added, nodding towards his spouse.
‘Don’t apologise,’ Eliza commanded softly, in the French accent of her birth. She never spoke, only purred, and exuded an exotic glamour Jane could never have attempted without looking foolish. ‘I agree with you.’ Eliza nodded to her husband. ‘And now you have the dress,’ she added with a smile. ‘No man will resist you.’
They all dined together. Mama made jokes and Papa opened a bottle of wine that a rich parishioner had given him back in Hampshire.
‘What is Darcy up to lately?’ Henry asked Jane in the middle of the meal. He offered her a cheeky grin as he shovelled a piece of lamb into his mouth and chewed. A hush swept through the dining room. Everyone knew of Mama’s threats to burn Jane’s writing, and Henry, always the rebel, loved to tease her. They all looked to Mrs Austen and waited for her reaction.
But if anyone hoped for an outburst, Mrs Austen disappointed them. Instead of shouting, she smiled. ‘Nothing you can say can vex me tonight, my son. Jane may write as much as she likes when she is married.’
Henry erupted with laughter and applauded. The others joined in. A strange mood descended on the home for the first time in years: happiness. Henry sent everyone into fits of laughter with stories of the strange characters he dealt with at his bank. Eliza played the pianoforte, and Revered Austen, normally crippled with shyness, even joined in the singing, to Jane’s surprise and joy. Mama’s excitement seemed to radiate from her body in little breaths and gasps, her cheeks rosy from the wine.
Jane had never realised how dull and sad the house was before; she had caused this change in them, or her luck in love had. She swallowed, nervous at the weight of the emotion, at how the ease of her parents depended on her marital status. She excused herself.
Henry found her on the stairs. He embraced her again. ‘I am truly so happy for you, Jane,’ he told her.
‘Henry, this is all so sudden,’ she protested.
Henry interrupted her. ‘Stop this now, Jane. I know Old Man Withers; I have done business with him. He is a sensible man. Sister, the time has come. This man would be a fool to let you go. You are going to be happy, I’m afraid. Time to get used to the concept.’ He flashed her a giant smile. Henry had a happy nature; he always smiled.
Jane nodded and allowed herself to be silenced.
When Mrs Austen suggested a walk, which they used to do as a family back in Hampshire, everyone agreed happily. They donned their coats and boots and stepped out into the cool evening air.
Henry and Eliza walked ahead, arm in arm. Mrs Austen left her husband’s arm and joined Jane, who walked alone. As they strolled away from Sydney Place, Mrs Austen attacked Jane with schemes for romantic scenarios to best engineer a proposal. If Jane fell into the Avon or perhaps a bear pit, begged Mrs Austen, Charles Withers would have to rescue and then marry her. Jane said she knew of no bear pits in Somerset, which did not deter Mrs Austen. She also provided Jane with a script of sweet things to whisper at the man’s eardrum and a selection of unachievable styles in which to wear her hair. Where Jane normally protested, now she smiled and praised every plan, her mind elsewhere, allowing Henry’s conclusion of the situation to sink in.
‘There is Miss Harwood. Let us pay our respects,’ her mother said as they stepped into Cheap Street. A small woman with grey hair and mended gloves waved to them from her doorway.
‘Please, Mama, no more well wishes,’ Jane said. But her mother had already turned towards the woman’s house and bade her good evening.
‘I did not witness your approach,’ said Miss Harwood. ‘I have been much engaged all night, though I suppose I could brew a pot and rustle up some cake.’ She made to go inside.
‘Thank you, no, Miss Harwood,’ Jane’s mother replied. ‘We must get home. We have merely stopped to inquire after your supplies of coal.’
Miss Harwood smiled. ‘My level of coal is excellent, madam. I have no need for a fire, in any case.’ She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
‘You have no fire?’ Mrs Austen said. ‘The ground frosted yesterday and will do so again tonight.’
Henry and Eliza looked over from their position by the bridge. Miss Harwood lowered her voice and looked down. ‘I do not waste coal when it is but me inside.’
‘How much coal do you have, Miss Harwood?’
‘Three.’
‘Three bags of coal? Why, that’s plenty.’
‘No, three,’ she said.
‘What, three . . . lumps?’ Jane said.
‘I thought your brother came last week?’ said Mrs Austen.
‘Samuel is an important man, madam. Many appointments.’ Miss Harwood raised her chin.
‘Come by Sydney House and Margaret will fix you four bags of coal,’ Mrs Austen said. ‘I will require one of your paintings as a payment,’ she added.
‘I already have the idea,’ Miss Harwood cried in a relieved tone. ‘A landscape of Pulteney Bridge.’
Jane’s mother praised the woman on the originality of the concept. ‘But please do not exhaust your hands,’ she added.
Miss Harwood looked to Jane and their eyes met. She looked away. ‘Would you inspect my hearth, Mrs Austen?’ Miss Harwood said. ‘The chimney may possess a blockage.’
‘Of course, Miss Harwood,’ Jane’s mother replied. She ducked under the door arch.
Once Mrs Austen had disappeared inside, Miss Harwood grabbed Jane by the arm. ‘You are due at the Pump Room tomorrow, I heard. If all does not come to pass, seek me out,’ she whispered, and pulled Jane closer. Jane drew away. The words so shook her with their strangeness, she thought she had misheard.
‘Excuse me. Of what are you talking, Miss Harwood?’ Jane said. She peered around the street and hoped no one had seen them.
‘This is not the only path,’ Miss Harwood said. She shook Jane’s arm with such force that had she not possessed roughly the dimensions of a sparrow, she might have loosened the bone from its socket.
‘You do hurt my arm, Miss Harwood.’
‘You think me a pathetic soul. Pitiable and ridiculous.’
‘I do not,’ Jane lied.
‘We must stick together, ladies like you and me.’ Jane searched the older woman’s face. Miss Harwood’s eyes darted left and right. A strand of wild grey hair escaped from her bonnet. She blew it from her face with a spit of breath. ‘Promise you will come to see me,’ Miss Harwood demanded. Jane agreed, and the strangeness of the promise rang in her ears as she and her family returned home, crossing the River Avon at the bridge Miss Harwood had threatened to paint for her bags of coal.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning, as Jane came downstairs and the family admired her new dress, the doorbell rang, surprising them all.
‘Who could that be?’ exclaimed Mrs Austen. ‘And at this crucial hour. Our entire acquaintance has been informed we are off to the Pump Room.’
Margaret answered the front door and announced the caller. ‘If you
please, ma’am,’ said the housemaid, ‘Lady Johnstone.’
The Austen family looked and shrugged at each other, all seeming to think the same thing. Why did she visit now?
Lady Johnstone threw her coat at Margaret as she strode inside. Mrs Austen curtsied to their neighbour. ‘Lady Johnstone,’ she said. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?’
‘Can I not take tea with my closest neighbours without suspicion?’ Lady Johnstone replied in an outraged tone. The widow of a solicitor from Putney elevated to the knighthood, Lady Johnstone had never deigned to take tea with the Austens since the day they first arrived in Sydney House. She had selected quite the moment to condescend to them now.
‘But of course, madam,’ said Mrs Austen. ‘However, we are expected in town this morning, and don’t want your meeting rushed. This is my son Henry and his wife, Eliza. Henry owns a bank in London.’
Henry bowed and Eliza curtseyed.
Lady Johnstone nodded towards them with eyes closed. ‘I’ve heard of your small operation,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you knew my late husband, Sir Johnstone of Putney.’
‘I knew of him, my lady,’ Henry replied.
‘Perhaps, my lady, you could return this afternoon when we shall all be at your leisure?’ Mrs Austen said.
‘Nonsense,’ Lady Johnstone said. ‘I am a quick drinker of tea and will consume but a slice of cake. I shan’t be ten minutes.’ Lady Johnstone proceeded up the hallway as she spoke. Jane’s father peered at the grandfather clock in the hall and scratched his head. ‘I delighted in making an acquaintance with Mr Withers of Kent,’ Lady Johnstone said, showing herself into the sitting room.
‘Indeed. He is a fine young man,’ Mrs Austen replied as they all followed her into the room.
‘Do sit down,’ Jane’s father said, though Lady Johnstone had already taken his chair. He joined Jane and Mrs Austen on the settee, while Henry and Eliza squashed themselves onto the couch. Everyone looked quite foolish, sitting inside with their coats and boots on. Jane was barely listening when Lady Johnstone spoke next.
‘I shall be delighted in congratulating Mr Withers on his engagement,’ said Lady Johnstone.
A moment of silence passed as everyone in the room seemed to digest the words. Finally, Mrs Austen spoke, jumping from her chair and pointing at Jane with joy, seeming to figure it out. ‘Jane,’ Mrs Austen exclaimed, half-accusing, ‘you have said nothing!’ The rest of the room all gasped and smiled, as though finally they joined Mrs Austen’s thinking.
Jane shook her head. ‘Nothing was communicated to me,’ she insisted. Her heart thumped inside her chest.
‘A terrible frost occurred in Bristol yesterday. It detained much post and ruined many travel plans,’ Lady Johnstone explained. ‘This would be why you have not heard yet.’
‘We did not know this, my lady,’ said Mrs Austen. ‘Thank you, madam. You have done us a great service.’ Reverend Austen grabbed Jane’s hand. His fingers felt warm and soft.
‘On what score?’ said Lady Johnstone.
‘You have broken the news to us of our daughter’s engagement,’ said Mrs Austen with a laugh.
‘Beg pardon,’ said Lady Johnstone, laughing also. ‘I am excited to congratulate Mr Withers on his engagement to Miss Clementine Woodger of Taunton. They struck the deal yesterday, in Bristol.’ The solicitor’s widow assembled her face into a sneer of glee.
Jane and her mother and the other Austens all took a moment to react to the news. Jane could not see inside her mother’s head, but she imagined that Mama conducted some important discussion with herself, for she smoothed down the folds of her best skirt, folding and refolding each piece of blue muslin. Jane said nothing either, though she did stare at the floor and breathe as her heart fell away.
Her mother thankfully broke the excruciating silence a moment later. ‘We shall congratulate him also,’ she replied finally, in a bright tone. Jane rose to stoke the fire with a poker and met eyes with no one. Mrs Austen offered more conversation quickly. ‘Miss Woodger is of large fortune?’
‘Her father, Sir Woodger, is a solicitor,’ said Lady Johnstone. ‘His speciality is conveyancing. He has an office in Putney.’
‘Putney?’
‘Yes. Putney. Clementine, his bride, is not twenty-one years of age.’
‘So young,’ Mrs Austen noted.
‘It is not young at all. For marrying, one is past their prime at twenty-two.’
Jane stoked the fire more.
‘Anyway. Much engaged today,’ Lady Johnstone continued, rising as Margaret entered with the tea tray. ‘Do not bother with him now,’ she added, pointing at the teapot. She smirked and took her leave.
Jane sat still for a time.
At first, hope existed that Lady Johnstone had made a cruel joke. But then Margaret returned from the market with word from the washerwoman of the house at which Mr Withers was staying. Mr Withers had become engaged yesterday in Bristol.
Mrs Austen expressed disbelief and confusion, claiming dark forces were at work. ‘Someone or something got to him,’ she declared. Jane nodded, but secretly suspected that far more banal powers had influenced the day. Common sense – and likely, his father – had prevailed upon Mr Withers. Laughing around the fire on a Tuesday evening for the rest of their lives held less value to him than lying as the wealthiest man in Gravesend Cemetery, and in the end, Mr Withers had likely performed an act no more evil than taking the path his fortune and breeding demanded.
‘I am so sorry, Jane,’ Henry said. Jane’s father did not speak. A feeling of horror and nausea gripped her; her stomach felt curdled with embarrassment. The nerves and joy of last night and the morning evaporated. Mrs Austen wiped a tear.
‘You should return to the Dawsons, Henry,’ Jane said in a cool voice.
‘No, Jane. Of course we will stay here with you.’
‘Nonsense. I insist you go back to them. A stupid waste of your holiday to stay here.’ She stood. ‘I’ll check with your driver to see if he can’t take you back now.’ She turned for the door.
Henry stood up. ‘Stop that, Jane. I will go.’ He walked past her and into the parlour.
‘I’m sorry for ruining your holiday, Eliza,’ she said.
‘Don’t be sorry, ma chérie,’ Eliza said gently. Everyone looked at the floor. Jane spotted on her father’s desk the letter she had almost sent to Cassandra extolling Mr Withers’ handsomeness and wit and cringed.
Jane excused herself from the drawing room and walked upstairs. The clock read eleven o’clock, but she climbed into bed. She did not come down for lunch or supper. She told Margaret to go away when she knocked to tell Jane that Henry and Eliza were leaving. Jane did not come down to say goodbye; she heard Henry and Eliza leave through the front door in the midafternoon. She lay awake all night until, eventually, she fell asleep at 5 a.m.
Jane woke an hour later and jumped from her bed. She buzzed with agitation: words filled her head. She threw back her bed pillow, looking for something. Yes, she had kept one there once, but no longer. Jane paced the room. An object glimmered on the floor. She ran over. A small pale rod nestled between two floorboards. She fished it out with a smile; her mother had found dozens in her sweep of the room but missed one. Others declared the buttery brown flesh of the oysters the best, but for Jane, this thin white stick represented the beautiful part of a goose. Jane took the spine between her thumb and forefinger, and her tendons moved it into the crook of her hand on instinct.
She flung open a pine chest at the end of her bed and burrowed through its contents. She found a glass pot the size of an apricot and held it up. It contained nothing, so she threw it into the corner of the room and mined through the chest once more. She found a second pot, but it too held only dust. She tossed it over her shoulder to join its twin. She dug down to a bolt of lace meant for a veil. She flipped it from its coffin and flung it to the floor. A third pot lay underneath, and this one held a tiny mound of powder comprised of tannin, vitriol and acacia gum. J
ane held the pot aloft like a trophy. She needed water.
A vase of brown, decaying roses sat on the windowsill. Jane upended the stinking flowers and squinted into the vase. A finger’s worth of putrid water lay at the bottom. Jane poured the filthy liquid into the pot, rushing but careful not to spill. The mottled sand crystals dissolved to liquid.
Now she needed paper. But the room contained none! She could fetch some from the drawing room, claiming she wanted to write to Cassandra again, but her mother would surely see her face and suspect her true intention. Panic redoubled its caresses of her mind, as phrases and words began to depart her head.
She stiffened; the room did contain paper. She dug her nails into the crack of one floorboard and pulled until a loose plank rose up. She reached into the floor cavity. Six hundred pages, double-sided, in Jane’s own hand lay inside. She had begun its composition on her fifteenth birthday. First Impressions, she called it. It had been to London and back, rejected by Cadell the publisher, and then Jane had kept it hidden for nine years, lest her mother find it and put it to the torch.
Jane lifted the pages and ran her fingers over the yellowed paper. It smelled of vanilla and wood. She turned over the last page and found a space, brushed an inch of dust off her desk and dipped her quill.
CHAPTER SIX
Isobel Thornton now understood the feeling of wanting something she could not have.
Melbourne House grew intolerable. Isobel’s mother took to her room with the complaint that she had never been so wronged in her existence. When that action provoked insufficient attention from the others, she returned to the parlour to make the same noises. Isobel’s father was worse. Instead of joking with his daughter about this latest of romantic mishaps, he took to his study and avoided all conversation. Isobel sensed they all felt as she did: they entertained flattery to believe a man like John Wilson would interest himself in a woman of her station and age.
When the servant expressed a need for mending ribbon, Isobel demanded she undertake the mission herself, if only to exit the house. But when Isobel bade Mrs Turner good morning in the ribbon shop, the reply came not from the shopkeeper but from a customer. ‘Good morning, Miss Thornton,’ said John Wilson, the very man and source of her current pain, the man who had rejected her, a man she hoped never to set eyes on again. He swallowed and turned his head away as he spoke, then inspected a bureau of scarves with violent attention.
Jane in Love Page 3