Jane in Love

by Rachel Givney

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Jane said at last, and took her place by Fred’s side.

  ‘Are you going to leave me?’ he said. His voice shook.

  Jane looked up at him and inhaled. ‘I go nowhere,’ she said. She did not tell him about the books disappearing, and she had asked Sofia to say nothing. Little reason existed to get into it now; she had made her decision. She turned instead to the future, and the new joys it held, here in the twenty-first century, with the man she was going to marry.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The vicar arrived and welcomed everyone, and the service began. Jane and Sofia took their seats in the front pew. Fred, in a blue suit, stood at the baptismal font and held Maggie in his arms. Sofia sobbed as the curate began. Jane wiped a tear also.

  The vicar performed the benediction over Maggie. ‘I hereby baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.’ Jane smiled; her father had said the same words many times.

  ‘Amen,’ Fred replied.

  The vicar poured water over Maggie’s forehead. A boy soprano sang ‘Amazing Grace’, as they did in Jane’s time. Afterwards, the vicar invited the party to the altar to pose for what Jane now knew were called photographs. Fred asked Jane to join him, and she took her place by his side.

  The baby awoke from her slumber at the shock of the talking and fussing. She grizzled like a baby bear, then threatened to cry. The congregation tensed. The sacred mood so carefully engineered by the singing, the chants, the words, threatened to crack with the unscheduled wail of tears. Fred looked panicked. Jane took the baby from him, held her and rocked her on instinct.

  The child sensed the motion and waited. Jane played her best hand, smiling down at the child. Jane had a round and pink-cheeked face babies loved. She could illicit a smile from the fussiest, most colicky child. She was Naughty Aunt Jane, beloved by infants. This twenty-first-century specimen reacted no differently.

  The child played her hand back. She looked up at Jane and gurgled and smiled, suddenly entranced by Jane and perched on the verge of laughing. Jane heard herself inhale as the baby offered up little smiling gasps of chubby breath, the sweetest sound she ever heard.

  Something stirred deep within Jane. A pang of love in the depths of her soul, an unstoppable force beyond cognition. Did a trick in Nature exist more beguiling than this?

  Jane often felt a pang of jealousy when her mother wrote her recipes in verse. Mrs Austen wrote lines which delighted all with their wit. Her mother loved to read but did so late at night and only if all the socks were darned and the letters replied to. Most nights it didn’t happen. Mama had read half the books Jane had, despite owning twice the age. This made sense, as Jane had quadruple the time. Jane shook her head at her mother’s obsession with her children’s concerns. Mrs Austen slaved to help Henry find the right curtains for his bank and listened for hours to James’s terrible sermons. Jane saw now the reason: a smile from one’s child becomes the only thing.

  She imagined having one of her own, and the child gorgeously sucking Jane dry. She would feed it, wake when it woke, and feel pride in being the only one able to soothe it. This pride would hypnotise her and occupy her time. The little life would swallow up everything, murdering the whim to nurture anything but itself.

  ‘You’re a natural,’ Fred said to her. She nodded.

  Jane handed the baby back to Fred. He gave her a quizzical look, seeming unsure why she returned the child when they enjoyed such a time together. The congregation smiled and cooed at how Jane had calmed the child, and Fred gazed upon her with love and awe. The perfume of church incense, at first spiced and mystical, now turned Jane’s stomach. She forced her face into a smile and swallowed, to force back down the bile which crept into her throat.

  The next morning, Sofia greeted Jane with an excited declaration. ‘Today, we’re trying on wedding dresses.’

  Jane protested and shook her head, laughing. ‘No, thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Why not, Jane? It will be fun!’ Sofia said. ‘This is the best thing about getting engaged.’

  ‘Sofia. I was only engaged two days ago,’ Jane said. ‘I don’t need wedding clothes just yet.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Jane. This is exactly the time. Wedding dresses take months, and these women are the gatekeepers to our dreams. You have to get in early with these people or you will be left behind.’ She drained her coffee and grabbed her giant reticule. ‘This is going to happen, Jane. It’s better if you don’t resist.’ She pulled Jane out the front door and they walked into town.

  An agreeable-looking man waved to them as they arrived in the centre of the village. ‘This is Derek, my consigliere,’ Sofia said. ‘He will help us find the best gowns on the planet.’

  The man held out his hand with a smile. Jane shook it.

  ‘Now, Derek, when we get inside and try things on, if we look hideous, do not hold back your commentary,’ Sofia commanded him.

  ‘Yes, Ms Wentworth. Though I am sure you will look beautiful.’

  They toured five dress shops in six hours and emerged empty-handed. Jane felt exhausted. They tried on dozens of gowns, all beautiful, but none of them met Sofia’s standards. ‘We’ve been to every rag shop in Bath,’ Sofia said with dismay. ‘I say we jump on the Eurostar and hit Paris. I have friends there.’

  Jane begged instead to be allowed to return home to rest her feet, but Sofia remembered one final shop in the village. ‘An older place.’ She dragged Jane and Derek down the laneway, ignoring their protests and rounding a corner onto Westgate Street. Sofia halted and pointed at the shop’s facade. ‘Here it is.’

  Jane gasped at the sight of the shopfront. ‘I have been here before.’ The sign had changed but the name remained the same: Maison Du Bois, the shop in which Mrs Austen had bought Jane her dress. The Royal Warrant still sat on a brass crest by the door.

  ‘Shall we go inside?’

  Jane nodded earnestly and they went in.

  It looked as it did before. The white plaster roses still lined the ceiling, the brass cornices still gilded every surface, the glass cabinets still sparkled with a recent polish. The gowns had changed, but the room of two hundred years ago remained as Jane remembered. The attendants still wore red cravats, though they were women now. Sofia ordered one to bring her their finest gown. A woman nodded and ran for a measuring tape.

  The woman measured Jane and presented them all with flutes of champagne. Another brought Jane a dress on a silk hanger to try.

  One of the women helped Jane into the dress. ‘Made in the art deco style. We’ve cut the silk crepe on the bias.’ They returned to Sofia and Derek, and Jane peered at her reflection in the mirror. A white angel peered back at her.

  ‘What is this wet stuff coming out of my eyes?’ Sofia was smiling at Jane.

  ‘What colour is this?’ Jane asked, gazing at her reflection. The wedding dresses from her own world abounded in shades of blue, striped with gold, cream, lemon.

  ‘Ivory. Perfect for a May wedding,’ the shop assistant said.

  ‘You’ve made all the dresses in white,’ Jane said.

  ‘Yes. They are wedding dresses, miss,’ the woman replied.

  ‘Jane, wedding dresses are white now,’ Sofia said. ‘White means purity. It symbolises that the bride is a virgin.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Jane said, blushing.

  ‘We like to pretend.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jane said. She bowed her head.

  ‘How do you feel?’ one of the women asked Jane.

  Jane shrugged and checked her reflection once more. How did she feel? The beautiful white dress seemed to float across her body. Although her life up until this point was preoccupied with procuring and acquiring a husband, she had never imagined what it involved once she achieved the elusive prize. She had never before pictured herself in wedding clothes, nor as a wife.

  ‘How should one feel?’ she said.

  ‘Triumphant?’ Sofia said. ‘You look stunning. Fred will love it.’
She winked at Jane and turned to the shop assistant. ‘Now. My bridesmaid’s dress. If we’re going art deco, then I want Gatsby – the seventies one. I want classy. I want diamond brooches, I want pearl earrings, I want Bonnie and Clyde. Show this to me.’

  The woman rushed off and Sofia followed her with more directions.

  Jane stared at her image in the mirror.

  ‘You do look beautiful,’ Derek said to her. ‘No lies.’ He smiled and nodded his head towards Sofia on the other side of the room.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jane replied. ‘Are you married, Derek?’

  ‘Four years,’ he said with a smile. He held up his hand. A gold wedding band graced his finger.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Jane said. ‘And your wife. Did she wear something similar to this on your wedding day?’ She pointed to her dress.

  ‘My husband, actually.’

  ‘Oh,’ Jane said. She inhaled, staring at him.

  ‘And he did want to wear something similar, but luckily I talked him out of it.’ He chuckled with a kind voice.

  Jane’s head whirred. ‘You married . . . a man?’

  ‘Yes. Are you okay?’

  ‘Uncle Anthony,’ Jane replied. She found herself overcome with such a feeling she heard herself make a little gasp.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I had a godfather named Anthony. A friend of the family. My favourite. He practised the law and was an adroit man. He wrote great letters. Everyone feted him at parties; he entertained all with his warmth and good humour and his generous gifts. He had a friend, a gentleman named Matthew. One day, a neighbour . . . discovered him and Matthew. His business went under. They went abroad. I was told not to write to him. His name was never mentioned again by any of us.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Derek said. His face bore a surprised look, and he seemed to study Jane with new eyes.

  Jane smiled at him. ‘Have you known such things, Derek?’

  He shrugged. ‘My father has never spoken to me since I told him.’

  ‘Goodness.’

  ‘But I do live with the man I love.’ He smiled.

  Jane looked at her reflection once more. The attendants placed her on a pedestal, so all could view the full length of the dress. She felt like a statue.

  ‘Uncle Anthony stayed with his friend,’ she said. ‘I believe they were happy.’ She forced her face into a bright smile. ‘I wish you agency and joy in your life, sir. You are living the life you choose, regardless of what other people think. May the rest of us possess half your courage.’

  ‘Oh,’ Derek replied. ‘Thank you.’ He smiled.

  Sofia and the others returned. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Jane wiped a tear. Derek did also. The shop people cooed. ‘Look at her! She is so happy,’ they sang.

  ‘Would the mother of the bride approve?’ one of them asked.

  ‘I don’t know. What do you think, Jane?’ Sofia asked in a soft voice.

  ‘I think she would smile,’ Jane said.

  ‘Where is she?’ one attendant asked.

  ‘She is not here,’ Sofia answered in a stern voice, halting any further questions on the subject. Jane did not meet her eye.

  ‘Let’s take a picture for your mum.’ They placed a veil on her head and gave her a flower. Jane posed for the picture. Derek took her hand as she did so and squeezed it, and she found herself wiping another tear.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  The next morning, Fred bundled through the front door with a pile of envelopes.

  ‘What is this?’ he said. He held an envelope up to Jane’s face.

  ‘It appears to be the post,’ Jane said. She read the address on the front of the envelope. ‘It’s a letter. Addressed to you.’

  ‘It’s from Blackheath James,’ Fred said.

  ‘If you say so,’ Jane replied.

  ‘Why am I getting a letter from a publisher?’ Fred asked her, eyes wide. ‘I’ve never sent them anything.’

  ‘And yet here we are,’ Jane said. She raised her chin and said nothing more.

  Fred looked at the envelope once more. ‘How dare you,’ Fred said, his voice filled with outrage, though he stared at the envelope longingly.

  ‘Will you open it?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I’m going to throw it in the bin,’ he replied. He did as such, though his action resembled more a careful placing in the receptacle, away from food scraps.

  ‘You feel no curiosity as to its contents?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Nope.’ He looked at the rubbish pile with a mournful stare.

  ‘It looks foolish, lying there in the refuse, unopened,’ Jane said.

  Fred paced about the room. He snatched the envelope up, harrumphed at Jane and tore it open.

  ‘Read it aloud,’ Jane said. She inhaled and chewed her lip. She hoped she had showed wisdom in sending it.

  ‘Dear sir, thank you for your recent submission of Land’s End. I would be delighted to read the whole manuscript. Please call my office via the details below to arrange a meeting at your convenience.’ Fred sat down. ‘They liked it.’

  ‘They are but human,’ Jane said. She wiped a line of sweat from her brow and thanked whatever god might be listening for such an extension of mercy. Publishers were likely as capricious now as they had been in her own time.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Fred replied. His face wore a suitable look of confusion and disbelief.

  Jane shook her head. ‘Can you not see what I see?’ she asked. ‘You are brilliant. The book is wonderful.’

  Fred embraced her. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. Then he broke the embrace. ‘But I haven’t written the whole manuscript!’ he said, panicked.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Jane replied. ‘Yes, that poses a problem.’ She panicked a little herself. She had overlooked that part when sending half a manuscript.

  ‘This is a disaster,’ Fred exclaimed. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘You shall have to finish it,’ Jane said.

  ‘But when? How? I have a job.’ He paused. ‘I do have school holidays next week. But only for two weeks.’

  ‘How many words do you need to write to finish?’ Jane asked him.

  He swallowed. ‘About fifty thousand.’

  ‘Fifty thousand words,’ Jane repeated in a concerned voice. She checked herself when she saw his expression. ‘Not to worry,’ she said in a bright tone. ‘How many days is the school break, did you say?’

  ‘Fourteen days, if you count weekends.’

  ‘Very well. Fifty thousand words in fourteen days? That’s’—she tilted her head—‘about three and a half thousand words a day.’

  He laughed. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Do you think you can manage it? Write three and half thousand words a day, for two weeks?’

  ‘No.’ He laughed again.

  ‘Do you think you can try?’ Jane paused. ‘I offer my help,’ she said. ‘If you want it.’

  Fred chuckled.

  ‘What is it?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Jane Austen is going to help me write a novel.’

  The fortnight of writing began. Ironically, Jane’s greatest help to Fred would not come from advising him on character, or assisting with dialogue. She did not help him with structure, or where to put the chapters. Instead, Jane cooked and cleaned for him.

  She made him breakfast, lunch and dinner; she brought him his daily coffee, his clothes, breakfast. The never-ending tasks of drudgery – dusting, sweeping, washing clothes – she took them on. She taught herself how to use the contrivances of the kitchen. She filled her days like never before. This amused her; she never laid claim to being a goddess of the hearth in her old life, but she did so now. It might seem the obvious choice for one writer to help another by counselling on word choice and sentences, but Jane knew better.

  In her previous life, Jane’s singular task in the domestic sphere had been to prepare the breakfast items. It required but ten minutes every morning. Jane was obliged to place the foodstuffs and crock
ery on the table. She was not even required to clear the things away afterwards; Margaret the housemaid did that.

  Between breakfast and lunch, Jane walked the fields for hours, writing and editing. In the afternoons, she met Cassandra and Mama for afternoon tea, then walked in the village. Time for supper arrived, and afterwards, her sister and parents attended a play or assembly. Jane was rarely invited. Cassandra bore the gloss of agreeableness and good manners, an asset at balls and parties. Jane remained insolent and refused to entertain fools. She felt more than happy to be left at home, and her family agreed. She would write some more in the silence of the house.

  Jane spent every day pleasing only herself, walking and thinking, and writing. First Impressions, her novel, took four years to write and revise in this way. She worked on it consistently, every day. She came to rely on the time alone and felt annoyed when company or politeness denied her some seclusion. She embroidered no cushions and darned no socks. She cared for no husbands and raised no children. She spent the majority of her time alone. Her mind made its greatest leaps in these stretches, when silence and solitude freed it to roam.

  These were the conditions necessary for great writing: hours of time alone to oneself. No time spent on washing, chores, domestic tasks, no space of brain wasted on menial things. So she took on all the things herself, to unburden him. Every great writer had a great woman behind them, she recalled. She had read the biographies of many authors and knew this to be true.

  He was not as fast as she at writing. She had never witnessed another writer at work, but she observed he took longer than she did. He had not the knack for knowing exactly where words should just go. He also lacked some drive, which had always come easily for her. She pushed through terror and doubt. She knew she would never stop writing, despite rejection, despite censure. He frequently took breaks and chopped wood, tried to help with the chores. That was fine; other writers worked differently. A few times she asked to see what he had written, and he admonished her and told her to go away. She laughed and left him to it and took care of the house.