‘I’ve a confession to make,’ he said with a grave face one morning.
‘Do you need the privy?’ she said. She stood up.
‘No, thank you. I need to tell you: I’ve never read any of your books.’
Jane sat down once more. She stared at him and took a moment to realise what he meant. ‘Do you mean to tell me you’ve never read a Jane Austen novel?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Correct,’ he said. ‘I’m a terrible person.’
‘How dare you,’ she said. She spoke in a tone of mock outrage, though she also secretly felt a small piece of real outrage, too. She added this to the outrage she already felt about him not acknowledging what had passed between them in the hospital and found herself wrapped up in a ball of agitation, full of real emotions and fake ones.
‘I was supposed to read Emma in secondary college, but I watched the film instead,’ he said. He winced, as if preparing for her to slap him.
‘I’d hit you if you were not moments from death’s door. Are you not a teacher of English literature?’
‘I am.’
‘Someone led me to believe my books sat on the school syllabus for English.’
‘They do.’ He flinched.
‘Well, then? You don’t teach them?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t teach every book on the syllabus. I’ve never had to teach your books, so I’ve never read them.’
‘And you never picked one up, to read for pleasure?’
He laughed. ‘I’m sorry, no. I feel terrible.’
Jane crossed her arms. ‘You should read them. I’m told they are masterpieces.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said. ‘I want to.’
She pushed her shoulders back. ‘You can do so any time you wish. They are locked in the liquor cabinet.’
‘How about now?’ he said. ‘There is a spare key in the drawer. Don’t tell Sofia.’
Jane went to fetch one of her novels. She was excited to get a book for him. Not to read it, as this led to erasing self and universe, as Sofia had warned, but she could at least smell its pages.
Jane stopped at the glass cabinet. Six of her books were once there. Then five. Before Fred went to hospital, there were four. Now there were just three. Another of her books had joined the others in disappearing.
Jane returned to the sitting room. ‘No book?’ Fred asked her.
‘No time; we must get on with your exercises,’ she replied, and said no more on the subject.
Jane fumed. She continued to erase her novels, and for what? There was no declaration from him. There was no sign of any regard at all, except his thanks for her being his servant. And now with another book gone, Jane found her position in this place increasingly foolish. Mrs Sinclair had brought Jane to her one true love, but that did not mean she had brought Fred to his. Jane had given her heart to someone who did not return the affection, and the price she paid was removing her life’s work from the world.
Jane wondered what she was doing there. She was in limbo. It was beneath her dignity to linger so. She was conducting a love affair with herself, playing both parts. The longer she remained like this, waiting for a declaration that would not come, the longer she made herself ridiculous.
She would tell Sofia to fetch the letter. It was time.
‘Place the letters on the board, please, or you shall get the cane.’ Jane spoke in a stern voice.
‘I’m being taught words by Jane Austen,’ Fred said with a grin. ‘I should feel privileged, but I feel annoyed.’ They had moved to the kitchen table. Between them was a board with a white surface. Letters of the alphabet painted in shiny colours were spread across the table. A blue ‘L’, a red ‘m’. They were a teaching aid for children, with a magnet on the back of each letter.
They were engaged in a rehabilitation exercise that was the result of a conversation Jane and Sofia had had with the medical staff before they had left the hospital. ‘The electricity has fried parts of his body,’ one of the nurses had explained. ‘His memory has been damaged. There will be a list of exercises which he will need to do every day.’
‘That sounds like a lot of work.’ Sofia grimaced.
‘The occupational therapist is booked up for the next month.’
‘I will pay them double,’ Sofia said.
The nurse scoffed. ‘You can’t bribe a healthcare professional!’
‘I can do whatever I want,’ Sofia countered. ‘I am a celebrity!’ She pointed to her chest at that point, as if the title were branded there.
Jane lowered Sofia’s arm, which had been raised dangerously close to the nurse’s face. ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Jane said. ‘What are the exercises? I will be happy to do them until the language teacher is available.’
‘It’s a lot of work,’ the nurse protested. ‘Are you any good at English?’
‘My skills should suffice,’ Jane said.
The nurse had given Jane a list of the exercises and since Fred had arrived home they had done one lesson every day. She regretted accepting the commission now that it was obvious Fred did not return her affection. She would continue the lessons, as his recovery was important, but she insisted on doing so with a governess-like frostiness.
‘Recall the associated word I told you earlier and spell it out on the board,’ she commanded. He did not move. ‘Do you not recall it?’
‘Remind me of the rules again?’
Jane rolled her eyes. ‘Earlier I provided you with a list of word pairs. Do you not remember?’
‘I don’t know. My memory is broken, after all.’ He chuckled.
Jane scowled. ‘I provided you with pairs of words: “ball–tree”, for example, and “triangle–candlestick”. Your task is to remember which words paired with which in the list. So, when I say “ball”, you must recall that its word pair is “tree” and spell it out on the board.’
‘You never said “candlestick”,’ Fred said.
‘I most certainly did,’ she countered.
She saw him laughing. ‘Perhaps I forgot,’ he said. Clearly, he did not share her determination for cold, professional instruction.
‘Have you forgotten the next one also? What word goes with “bottle”?’
‘Actually, I remember that one.’
‘Good. Then why do you not write it down?’
‘I don’t know how to spell it. The word is “descant”, right? I don’t even know what that means.’ He grinned and scratched his cheek.
‘“Descant”? A melody over the top of another melody. It is a wonder you have survived thus far.’
‘You remind me of a grumpy schoolmistress,’ he said.
‘I am a grumpy schoolmistress. You are an insolent student. I make allowances for your memory loss, but I cannot tolerate poor spelling.’
Fred chose some letters and placed them on the board.
Jane observed the letters – d e s c a n t – and offered a begrudging nod. ‘Correct. Next word: “stone”.’
The accompanying word was ‘terrific’.
Fred took out the letters and placed them on the board.
‘No. “Terrific” has two “r”s.’
‘You should pick easier words,’ Fred said. ‘I couldn’t spell “terrific” before the accident.’ He grinned again, to show Jane he was joking. A teacher of literature could obviously spell these words.
Jane was outraged. Why was he grinning, when she was dying inside? She ignored the remark. ‘Next word, “bauble”.’
The word paired with it on her list was “masterpiece”.’
‘Could I have a glass of water? My throat is dry.’
‘Spell the correct word and the water shall be fetched for you. Like magic.’
‘I was burned to a crisp. Cooked from the inside! Please, I beg you. Get me some water.’
Fred placed a magnetic ‘m’ on the whiteboard, by way of encouragement.
Jane fetched the water, returning with a pitcher to look over his shoulder. Fred placed the next letters on
the board. Jane grimaced. ‘No. That’s incorrect,’ she said. ‘You’ve put an “r” there.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You vex me for sport.’
Fred added more letters to the board with glee.
‘You’ve put an “r” there; it should be an “s”,’ she said. ‘It’s “m-a-s”, not “m-a-r”.’
But Fred ignored her and added a second ‘r’. Jane stared at the words as they formed on the board. Fred’s hands shook as he placed the child’s letters down. Jane held her breath, watching his trembling hands. Another ‘m’, then an ‘e’, formed the second word: ‘m-e’.
m a r r y m e j a n e
Jane swallowed. She turned her head, but Fred had vanished from his chair. She swung around and found him kneeling on the floor before her.
‘Could you reach into my pocket?’ he asked.
Jane did as she was told.
‘The other one.’
Jane obliged and removed a box from his trouser pocket.
‘Open it,’ he said.
She snapped open the lid. A ring lay inside, one she had seen before. She stepped back in shock. A blue stone of creamy turquoise shone from a band forged from warm gold. It gripped her with the same sensation she had felt when she beheld it in the painting, only now the feeling was a thousandfold.
‘It was my mother’s,’ Fred said. Jane nodded. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It is beautiful.’ It was all she could manage to say. For a reason she could not place, Jane thought of her own mother. Astonishment gripped her, surprise at the about-turn, but as she looked at his face, she saw he had been thinking about this, planning and preparing all morning. Her mind raced at the speed of the declaration; her heart thumped in her chest.
‘This is all so sudden,’ she said to him. Although she had wanted it, the shock of it and the haste forced her to protest. ‘We have only known each other a short time. I hardly know you. You hardly know me,’ she said.
‘What more do you want to know?’ he asked.
She remained silent. The effort of kneeling down had made him break out in a sweat and his hair lay across his forehead in clumps. Jane brushed it to the side. ‘Do you only give me this ring to prevent me from leaving? I can stay and look after you as long as you need. I will care for you, help you recover. You don’t need to give me a ring to stay for that reason.’
‘I don’t need you to stay and help me. I don’t give you a ring for that. I want you to stay. Not as my helper, but as my wife. I love you.’
Jane breathed. ‘I love you too,’ she said.
He smiled. Then the smile left his face; he seemed to wait for her to say more.
Jane felt the back of her neck prickle. Water filled her eyes. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked him.
His knee trembled. ‘I feel like I’ve known you my whole life,’ he said. ‘You pierce my soul. Yes, I am sure. Will you marry me?’
The words were so beautiful and honest, she could give only one reply. ‘I will,’ Jane said. Fred beamed at her, and she embraced him and helped him up from the floor.
PART THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The day of Maggie’s christening had arrived. Fred was to be godfather. Jane and Sofia got to St Swithin’s early, carrying flowers for the service. Jane wore a yellow dress that Sofia had bought her as an engagement present. Fred told her she looked beautiful and kissed her on the cheek.
‘I must show you something,’ Jane said to Sofia as they placed the flowers on the altar. She led Sofia over to the transept. ‘I almost forgot it laid here. You will enjoy this.’
They rounded the corner and Jane pointed at the white and grey marble wall.
Sofia stared at the marble and squinted. ‘Not sure what I’m supposed to be looking at,’ she said. ‘Good masonry? Jane?’
Jane stared at the wall in horrified silence.
‘Can I go now, love?’ Sofia said. ‘We’re staring at a blank wall.’
‘A plaque stood here before,’ Jane said.
‘There are loads of plaques,’ Sofia replied. She pointed around to the brass and bronze plates which littered the rest of the wall. ‘Catching dust everywhere.’
‘No. A plaque stood right here,’ Jane said. She pointed to a clear space of marble.
Sofia, listening now, turned to Jane. ‘What did it say?’
‘It said, “Here worshipped Jane Austen”.’
Sofia and Jane departed the church just as the other guests were arriving. Sofia made an excuse about wanting to change to a bigger hat, which Fred mercifully believed, even though her present head covering was roughly the size of a wagon wheel. They made their way home, promising to return before the service started.
‘Perhaps I imagined the plaque,’ Jane offered in a futile voice as they walked from the churchyard. She hoped rather than knew this to be true.
‘Perhaps,’ Sofia said. They spoke few other words to each other on the way. Sofia seemed to know why Jane wanted to return to the house; she needed to survey the contents of a certain glass cabinet.
They turned down Gay Street and, now out of sight of the rest of the christening party, they ran. With each passing step, Jane’s feeling of dread grew. They arrived at the house, both puffing, starved of breath. Sofia fumbled with the keys in the door. Jane, calmer, took them from her and unlocked it. They raced inside to the sitting room and the glass liquor cabinet.
Where there once sat a stack of six novels, then five, then three, there now lay a pile of empty space.
Sofia sat on the floor and placed her head in her hands. ‘Jane. Your books have disappeared.’
Jane joined Sofia on the floor. ‘Because I do not write them any more.’
Sofia searched her bedroom for another hat and Jane stared at the wall. Sofia returned. ‘I’m beyond sorry, Jane.’
Jane shrugged. ‘What did I expect? I could both stay here and return home to write? Jane Austen can hardly write novels in that world if she stays in this one. Your prediction has proven half-correct, Sofia. While I have not destroyed the universe, I have destroyed myself.’
With no plan for anything better to do, and people expecting their return, Jane and Sofia made their way back to the christening. They passed the building where they’d visited the Jane Austen Experience. It now housed a patisserie.
They stopped at Bath library, just to check. The same librarian as the first time addressed them.
‘Do you have anything by Jane Austen?’ Sofia asked her.
The librarian turned to her machine. ‘How do you spell it?’
‘A-u-s-t-e-n,’ Jane spelled out in a pitiful voice.
The librarian typed the name into the box. ‘There’s no writer by that name.’
Sofia bit her lip. ‘Oh, Jane.’ Jane merely nodded. They thanked the woman and left.
To make triply sure they both did not hallucinate some perverse nightmare, Sofia spoke to her theatrical agent using her steel box, her telephone.
‘Max, may I confirm my call time for Northanger Abbey next week?’ she spoke into the device.
‘Northanger what?’ the telephone voice replied. Sofia bowed her head.
‘The Austen film? The one shooting in Bath,’ she said in a feeble voice.
‘Never heard of it,’ the voice replied. ‘What are you talking about?’ He paused. ‘Are you okay, Sofia?’
She nodded and said nothing.
‘Sofia?’ the voice continued. ‘Who is this Austen person? Is he a writer? Does he need representation?’ Sofia replaced the telephone in her pocket. They walked on down the road.
‘I think it’s clear,’ Jane said. ‘We can feel satisfied. Jane Austen is gone.’
‘What shall you do?’ Sofia said to her.
‘I don’t know,’ Jane said. She spoke the truth.
‘What about Fred?’
Jane nodded. What about him? ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘There are two options. You either return to your world and write those books, or you stay here with Fred and
be happy, yes? First, full disclosure – if you never return home and write those books, disaster for me. By deciding to stay, everything has gone: your books, your museums, your legacy.’ She laughed in a grim tone. ‘Your films, too, which means my career is likely kaput as well. In short, for me, a catastrophe.’
Jane inhaled. ‘Good God, Sofia. Your part vanishes too. I am so sorry.’
Sofia shrugged. ‘It’s okay. There are more important things.’ She smiled at Jane.
‘A woman excelling at her profession? There are few more important things to me,’ Jane replied. She pushed out her chin.
Sofia held her arm and cleared her throat. ‘On the other hand, if you do return home, you will write your books, but you will break Fred’s heart. And your own. So yes, quite the dilemma. Helpful, aren’t I?’
Jane bowed her head.
‘Jane. Do you love him?’
Jane gazed at the floor. ‘I have never felt like this.’
Sofia sighed.
Jane shrugged. She could not choose. ‘May I have more time to decide?’
‘If you decide to stay here, you can have the rest of your life.’
They walked towards the church. ‘I shall know what to do when I see him,’ Jane said with confidence. She immediately felt gripped with dread and cursed herself for saying it. Suddenly she did not want to see him, to be forced to decide; she felt rushed. But then, she reminded herself, she had been prepared to leave him before. It would not be so bad; she could do so again.
They arrived at the church, faster than she had hoped, walking through the doors and down the aisle. Fred stood by the altar. He held the baby. He waved to her and his face bore a look of pain. He knew something had changed; he possessed too much intelligence for anything else.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked her when she reached him. He rocked the child in his arms. Maggie touched his face and cooed; she liked him. He would make a wonderful father.
An odd feeling overcame Jane, one that disarmed her with its rareness. What was it? Oh. Happiness. As one world closed for her, another opened up. She was no longer the voyeur, writing of other people. She had put down the pen and was living instead.
Jane in Love Page 30