Jane in Love

by Rachel Givney

  At the end of the two weeks, they reconvened for the unveiling. She waited patiently in the kitchen, for him to emerge from his bedroom. He emerged an hour later than the agreed time. Jane did not mind; genius took time. He shuffled towards the table, looking exhausted, and presented her with the pages. She sifted through them eagerly. He scratched his head and said nothing.

  ‘There’s only fifty pages more here,’ Jane said. She turned them over to check if they contained writing on both sides. They did not.

  He made no remark.

  ‘How many more words did you write?’ she said.

  ‘Another ten thousand,’ he said. ‘Give or take.’

  ‘But you need fifty thousand more.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, what happened?’

  ‘I didn’t write them,’ he said angrily. He crossed his arms.

  Jane shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. Why not?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Fred?’ She began to panic. She couldn’t understand it. ‘Why did you not tell me, when you were struggling? Before it reached this stage?’

  ‘Because I knew you’d be mad,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not mad,’ she said with a laugh.

  ‘Yes, you are! You’re mad and you’re judging me. You pushed me to do this.’

  ‘I object to that. I did not push you.’ She could not believe what she heard.

  He scoffed. ‘You sent the letter to the publisher! I never asked you to.’

  ‘I thought you’d be grateful. Instead, you’ve squandered this opportunity.’

  He glared at her. ‘I didn’t want to do anything else with this. It’s not working.’

  She softened. ‘I know it’s difficult, but this is merely a blip in the road. This is the time—’

  ‘The darkest before the dawn, I know.’ His voice was cruel.

  She squinted at him and began thinking cruel things herself. She recalled his time as a child when he walked 200 of the 800 miles required to cross England. She admired his bravery, but she also thought, I’d keep going. I’d let naught and no one stop me until I walked the eight. ‘Don’t be angry at me because you failed,’ Jane said. She realised she may have gone too far.

  ‘I’m getting out of here,’ he said. He stood and grabbed his coat.

  ‘Wait, Fred. I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know what you want from me,’ he said, putting his coat on. ‘I don’t know if I can give you what you want.’

  She gasped, horrified at the words and his tone. ‘I don’t want anything from you,’ she replied meekly.

  ‘I don’t believe that. I think you want many things I can’t give you.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Jane said, her voice growing desperate.

  ‘Anywhere but here.’ He left.

  It took several hours for Jane’s anger to subside. When it did, Fred had still not come home. She stood in the kitchen, inert, and watched the door. She began to worry he might never return at all. Pain gripped her, a feeling like she had never felt before. She had never quarrelled with someone like this; she had never quarrelled with a man she loved. She felt torn to pieces, and could focus on nothing except wanting him home. Another hour passed and still there was no sign of him.

  She worried that he had gone for good. She collapsed onto the floor; her body seemed to fold into a neat pile of bones and skin. She stared at the pages on the table, the new ones he’d written, and felt ashamed. It was just a book and she had pushed him. She regretted this now: what were words on a page compared to him going?

  So, this was love, then: a horrid, tremendous quickening, something terrible and sweet, painful and fierce. Nothing mattered but him coming back.

  She was his slave: happily, she realised. A picture of her life stretched out before her. She would spend large parts of her time in a state of flux, wondering where she stood with him, wondering if he would leave, if he would do what she said, if he would hurt her. He would come first; she would set herself on fire to keep him warm. She would spend a part of her life trying to make him happy, and her success on that score depended entirely on him. She was signing her heart over to another human being. If he could only return, she promised to love him every day. She would do nothing else of value in that time.

  Then the door opened, and he walked inside. Fred pulled off his coat and lay it on the hook. He turned to face Jane. Relief and joy washed over her. She had never beheld a sight so wondrous as him walking through that door. He looked at her and smiled. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Fred,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry too.’

  She ran to him and they embraced. ‘I thought I would never see you again.’ He held her. She found herself lingering in the warm hold. He seemed to respond to this; she felt his arms tighten around her. A new feeling swelled in her. She buried her head in his shoulder.

  Fred broke away first. His breath was ragged. He cast his gaze at the floor; he seemed unable to look at her.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Jane asked him. She searched his face.

  He looked up and met her eye, then shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know what I am thinking,’ he replied.

  She stared at him. She took his hand and led him to his room.

  Once inside, she raised her fingers to a button. He moved and stopped her with his hand. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked her.

  Jane had been advised from her cradle about society banishing her if she came to know certain things outside marriage. A living death awaited. Those women who indulged in the unsanctified union were non-people, punished with disease and scorn. It was some terrible thing, for certain. She looked at his face, so glad to have him back.

  ‘Never ask me that again,’ she replied.

  The next hour passed in seconds. A series of moments burned in her head.

  The way he said ‘Jane’, with a furrowed brow.

  Him bending to untie her boots. His knuckles brushing the bone at the floor of her throat. The scent at his ear, which she knew was put there with her in mind. The weight of him.

  Towards the end, there was a moment when he looked at her. It was the same look he gave her when they’d first danced together. Jane knew not what it meant then, and she was no wiser to its meaning now. It was something alien and masculine, full of shame and desire, and she felt sure she would live her whole life never understanding it.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked her. He swallowed.

  ‘The way you look at me now. I will remember it forever,’ she replied.

  Afterwards, she lay beside him and he held her.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked her.

  She nodded and smiled. ‘We should not have done that.’

  ‘We should do that, and only that, for the rest of our lives,’ he said. He wrapped his arm around her. She heard herself choke and laid her head back.

  It came to a head on a Sunday evening, as things usually do. Jane went quiet for a time.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.

  She insisted she felt fine, never better.

  ‘That’s the third time you’ve said that,’ Fred replied. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’ She walked away from him with a smile, not wanting to delve into it. This tug of war had persisted for several days already, her insisting her felicity and calmness, him asking with increasing worry towards his suspicions of the opposite. Finally, she served him dinner, and her placing of the plate in front of him may have been more of a drop than a place, for the dish fell and cracked as it hit the table.

  ‘Enough,’ he said, sweeping up the food which had spilled onto the tablecloth. ‘What’s the matter, Jane? I’m not moving until you tell me.’

  ‘I don’t want to make you dinner!’ she cried. ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘I don’t want you to make me dinner, either,’ he replied. ‘You’re a terrible cook.’ He laughed again.

  ‘All my books disappeared,’ she said glumly, without looking at him.

  ‘Oh, Jane.
’ He took her hand and nodded, as though it all made sense to him now. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He pulled up a chair. She sat on it. He knelt down in front of her. ‘Jane. I’ve been making my own food, washing my own clothes, for about twenty years now. You don’t need to do anything around this house.’

  ‘What shall I do then?’

  ‘Write,’ he said. ‘Write new stories.’

  She laughed and admitted she had never considered such a thing. ‘Yes. Why couldn’t I?’ she said. ‘I could write here.’ They embraced again and a warm feeling radiated through her.

  Fred provided her with some paper and a self-inking quill. ‘Or will you prefer my laptop?’ he asked her.

  She scowled at him and he explained to her what it was. She inhaled with wonder at his description, but then shook her head, thanking him. ‘Clean white paper and a pen will suffice as more than enough modern tools at this point,’ she said. She would try the other object later.

  ‘When shall you return?’ she asked him as he headed out the door.

  ‘I won’t be back for hours,’ he said. She thanked him and he left. She felt a little leap of pride. Her turn now. She would show him how one did it.

  Jane sat forward in her chair and perched the pen over the paper. She smiled. What new things could she write about? The possibilities remained endless. She laughed. She looked up into her head and found it empty of ideas. No matter. Inspiration took time. She sat until she thought of something.

  An hour later, she remained perched in the same position as before. The blank page of pristine white mocked her. What occurred? New words always came slowly, but after an hour she had usually written at least something. She could not even think of a line, a droll thing to say.

  Another hour passed, and she confirmed the new truth. The buzzing ideas which once filled her mind had departed. No stories remained.

  She heard Fred’s footsteps approaching the front door. She panicked; hours had passed, and she had written nothing. She had admonished him heartily for the same crime. She felt wrapped in a ball of agitation. Fred opened the door and she plastered a smile onto her face.

  He looked at her hopefully. ‘How did you go?’ he asked her. He removed his coat and hung it on the hook.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. She found the lie easier to say than the truth. ‘Thank you, Fred,’ she added, in genuine appreciation. Guilt gripped her at not having made use of the time. She felt lazy and horrid, but she embraced him. He excused himself and told her to keep writing, promising he would not disturb her for the rest of the evening. She thanked him and watched him go.

  The fact that he struggled to write was bad enough. But the fact that she could not write was intolerable. When she had laid with him, she recalled having felt given over to two opposites of feeling. The first was warmth, the greatest relief and calm. The second was a random terror she could not put away. The act had failed to still a growing demon inside her; rather, it performed the opposite. It created a new yearning within her, another hunger to compete with all the others. The act did nothing to inspire her either, she had noted with curiosity and horror at the time. Now afterwards, she could confirm this fact. Her head remained empty. Her communion with the dream of the world had ended. In this condition, she was no writer. Would it always be like this? Would she never be able to write? Surely things would change.

  The realisation crept inwards as the memory now returned. The concern which crept forward in recent days, the small wave of confusing dread which built, in the dress shop, at the christening, and in his bed, now became realised. She had brushed aside the warning Mrs Sinclair gave her in Cheapside. She wrote off those words as theatre, a portentous statement the woman made to make things seem deep. Now it hit her: the deal she had signed, the bargain she had struck. The fate she had sealed for herself. You cannot have both. Jane comprehended now the choice those words had offered and blinked at the selection she had made. She closed her eyes.

  She derived pleasure in life from doing something well, an affliction perhaps she shared with many. She wondered if she could deny herself the thing that came to her most naturally, that lit her up, for the rest of her time. She recalled the white heat moving through her after what had happened with Mr Withers; the writing that came. Terror and glory had gripped her. She would feel happiness with Fred, but she would never feel that. And another thought struck, from the cunning and nasty part of her, which she hated herself for having but couldn’t resist admiring the honesty of: not only did separating from Fred allow her to be her true self, but she could put the pain it would cause to good use.

  No question existed of their love for each other. They were two good people. But she could not live here, and he could not live there. Jane could not be a writer and be someone’s wife.

  That night she went to his bed again. If possible, this time was more lovely than the first. Afterwards, he held her close and said nothing. It was over, and she knew he knew it too, because he held her tight and desperate, like one did when one knew the holding was for the last time. In the morning, she expressed a desire for some fresh air and, dressing quickly, departed the house.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  She wandered Bath, going nowhere in particular. She sought the time and panicked; hours had passed. Fred would come looking for her soon. She walked into a clearing of green grass. She turned and found to her surprise not Fred, but Sofia, walking towards her with a smile. ‘What are you doing here?’ Jane asked. ‘How did you find me?’

  Sofia shrugged and smiled. ‘I thought you could use this. It’s turning cold.’ She handed Jane a coat. Jane put it on, and they walked in silence. They arrived at the edge of a forest. It was up here in the woods, around the trees, that this world smelled closest to her own.

  ‘I never marry, do I?’ Jane said after a time.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Sofia said. ‘You have a wedding dress. You have a ring.’

  ‘If I return to 1803, I mean. I never marry.’ Jane stopped walking and waited for a reply.

  Sofia sighed. ‘How should I know?’ she said. ‘What a ridiculous inquiry.’ Though from the way she laughed and moved her hand, Jane sensed Sofia had expected the question.

  ‘You owned all my books, before they disappeared,’ Jane said. ‘You told me yourself you learned of me during your education. Are you saying you have no idea of Jane Austen’s biography?’

  Sofia did not speak.

  ‘Tell me what happens to me, if I go back,’ Jane said.

  ‘Everything has changed now you’ve stayed here, so what’s the point of telling you?’ Sofia said. ‘Why torture yourself, and everyone?’

  ‘I cannot help myself,’ Jane said. ‘I’ve asked the question. Please tell me. Tell me what happens to the Jane Austen you once learned of.’

  Sofia sat down on a park bench. Jane joined her and waited.

  ‘Okay.’ Sofia looked up to the sky. ‘Like I said, everything has changed now you’ve decided to stay here, in this time. But I will tell you what I know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘The Jane Austen I learned of? Whose books I read as a child. No, she never marries.’

  Jane bowed her head. It was as she expected. That did not dull its feeling.

  ‘She also never has any children,’ Sofia added. Her voice wobbled.

  ‘I see,’ Jane said. She forced a smile.

  ‘But she does become one of the greatest writers in the English language.’

  Sofia and Jane both stared straight ahead. Sofia touched Jane’s arm, and seemed to sense where the conversation was headed.

  ‘Jane. You won’t be famous in your lifetime. You will receive some small recognition, but you will never know the reception which celebrates you now. You will never know what you become.’

  Jane nodded and gazed at the ground. ‘But I will write?’

  Sofia sighed and fixed her face in a sad smile. ‘You will write.’

  Twilight fell. After much staring and sighing, Sofia spoke. ‘You have to g
o back.’

  ‘But I could write books here?’ Jane said.

  ‘Could you?’ Sofia replied.

  Jane already knew the answer. She sighed. ‘I must be unhappy to write? That’s no life.’

  ‘Could you be happy the other way?’

  Jane frowned. ‘But I hate it there,’ she said. She cringed at the memory of how happy everyone had been when marriage with Mr Withers seemed imminent. How would she tell them that she wouldn’t marry, but write instead? She could not face such a conversation. In hearing that she chose spinsterhood, they would disown her, like they had Uncle Anthony. ‘I do not fit in my world,’ she protested.

  ‘There’s something exquisite about the way you don’t fit,’ Sofia told her. ‘You are responsible for more than books.’

  ‘I do not see how. I do not see a path.’ Though she had seen her books in print, felt their fabric, she could not see how she could return to that place and make such things happen. That role belonged to some other Jane.

  ‘There is no path,’ Sofia replied. ‘You make the path. Then you leave a trail. You protest now, but I see it in your face. You’re already thinking of all the things you want to write.’

  ‘I will be miserable,’ Jane declared.

  ‘Yes,’ Sofia said. ‘You will rise at three a.m. in terror and write until dawn to chase the demons away. You will write so that happy, boring people can buy your books and escape for a time. You will write about it, so they feel like they live it. They will consume your pain and pay you for it. That’s the transaction. And you will be more alive than most people combined.’

  ‘But I will be without love.’

  Sofia shook her head. ‘You will be the furthest thing from that,’ she whispered. She smiled and wiped her eye. ‘You will carry this love with you for the rest of your life. It will tear your heart in two. You will use it to write symphonies.’

  The singular ray of English sun dropped behind the horizon. A breeze blew and made Jane shiver; she buttoned the coat Sofia had given her. ‘All right,’ she said.