Jane in Love

by Rachel Givney

  ‘All right?’ Sofia turned to her.

  ‘Take me home,’ Jane said.

  ‘Truly?’ Sofia said. She took Jane’s hand and kissed it, then wiped a tear. ‘You could take Fred with you?’

  Jane sat back in the chair. She thought of Fred. He had not come looking for her, despite her being gone for hours. Sofia must have said something to him to make him stay away. She wondered what Sofia had told him: a kind lie to keep him in ignorance, at least for a little while longer, or the truth, perhaps.

  ‘I could not,’ Jane said.

  ‘No,’ replied her friend. They walked home as the grey sun set over the hills of Bath.

  Returning to the old rules made the best tactic. Jane stayed indoors as before and risked no further contamination by the modern-day world. Everything to ensure the chance of her returning home.

  ‘You need to accept that the damage might already be done,’ Sofia told her. ‘It may already be too late to get you back to 1803.’ She collected her bag and walked to the door.

  Jane nodded. ‘What are you going to do?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Impose on a person who deserves better,’ Sofia said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Sofia waited out the front of the Bristol University library. ‘Hi, Dave,’ she said as he walked past her to enter the building.

  Dave swung around. ‘What are you doing here?’ He didn’t smile.

  ‘I need your help,’ Sofia said.

  ‘Sorry, no can do,’ he replied, and ran inside.

  ‘I need your help, Dave. Please!’ She ran after him.

  ‘No way. I called you about a hundred times and you never answered. You can’t do that to people.’

  ‘It was not a hundred times,’ Sofia called. ‘It was a significant number. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You are a rude person!’

  He went into an area with a sign that read Library Staff Only. Sofia waited out the front. He didn’t come out. Sofia walked into the staff-only area and hit Dave with the door on the way through. He seemed to have been standing there watching but pretending not to. He now pretended to make a cup of tea.

  ‘Dave. I behaved poorly.’

  ‘I believed you when no one did. When you told me Jane Austen was living with you – no proof, no nothing. Makes me some kind of idiot. But I believed you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you know how many phone calls I made to Sotheby’s to try to get that letter for you? I spoke to a man in a bow tie.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Can you call him again?’ Sofia looked at him beseechingly. Dave blustered and fumed and spilled the tea all over the laminex counter. ‘You did not deserve it. But now Jane needs your help.’

  He harrumphed and shook his head. ‘Sorry, no can do.’

  ‘Okay, answer me one question, and I’ll leave.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said, a little too quickly.

  ‘If Jane Austen had to choose between the heart and the pen, what would she do?’

  He sighed. ‘You are a cunning woman. I go weak for literary hypotheticals.’

  ‘I thought you might. How do you answer?’

  He put the tea down. ‘I think, for a time, she chooses the heart,’ Dave said, crossing his arms. ‘But then, with great sadness, I think the pen.’ Sofia bowed her head. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  ‘As you have said,’ Sofia replied in a sad voice. ‘She chooses the pen.’

  Dave leant back on the counter, nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘She wants to return to 1803,’ Sofia said. ‘I only hope it’s not too late to help her. You said Mrs Sinclair wrote Jane a letter in 1810. Where is it?’

  They returned to the stacks. They sought out the Sotheby’s book once more. Dave turned to the page and gasped. ‘It’s gone.’ He pointed for Sofia. He told the truth. The entry detailing Mrs Sinclair’s letter was no longer on the page. ‘I can’t believe it! This is the correct page.’

  ‘Welcome to my world,’ Sofia said.

  ‘Why is it gone?’ he asked.

  ‘Returned any Jane Austen books to the shelves lately, Dave?’

  He looked upwards, as though trying to remember. ‘Come to think of it, no.’

  ‘Do you know anything about time travel?’

  ‘I may have read one or two things on the subject.’ He coughed and shifted his feet. Sofia waited for him to think, to catch up. His face fell. ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Oh yes. Jane has fallen in love with my brother. She has accepted his marriage proposal.’

  ‘If she marries your brother and stays here, she never goes back to write her books. They’ve vanished.’

  ‘Yup. And the letters?’

  ‘She’s not Jane Austen any more. She’s not famous. Her letters, her personal correspondence, they’re not valued as antiques. No one has collected them. They’re gone.’

  Sofia sat down next to him. ‘What can we do? Does any chance exist we can still get her back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He scratched his head.

  ‘Is this bad?’ Sofia asked.

  ‘It’s not good,’ he said. ‘Wait a minute. How come I still remember Jane Austen if no one else does? Her films are gone, her books are gone.’

  ‘Even the woman at the library didn’t remember her,’ Sofia added.

  ‘Right. No one else remembers her. But we do. Why?’

  Sofia nodded. ‘We’re exempt, somehow. Because we know her.’

  Dave stood up. ‘Maybe I can help. But I need more information.’

  ‘About Jane?’ Sofia asked. He nodded. Sofia grabbed his arm. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’

  Sofia returned to Fred’s house with Dave.

  ‘You must be Dave,’ Jane said to him. She held out her hand for him to shake.

  ‘It’s you,’ Dave replied with a gasp. ‘It’s her,’ he said to Sofia.

  ‘Dave. Meet Jane Austen.’

  He shook Jane’s hand. ‘I need to sit down.’ Sofia fetched him a chair before he fainted. ‘Extraordinary,’ he said when he finally regained the power of speech. ‘You are the spitting image of her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jane said. She smiled. ‘Can you assist me to return home, Dave?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  ‘Are you a detective?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied. He puffed out his chest. ‘I’m a librarian.’

  ‘Do you have questions to ask me?’

  He nodded. ‘Absolutely. What do you love most about writing?’

  Jane smiled.

  ‘She meant about time travel, Dave,’ Sofia barked.

  ‘It’s quite all right, Sofia,’ Jane said. She smiled again at Dave. ‘What do I love most about writing? It takes a chair and gives it a soul. It tells the truth with a lie. It adds one’s voice to the dream of the world.’

  He smiled back at her and looked like he might slip down to the floor, then touched her hand.

  Jane’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Can you help me return, sir?’

  ‘I wish I could say yes.’

  ‘Wherein lies the issue?’

  ‘Your books are gone. Jane Austen, the writer, is gone. Public record of you is gone. Our one hope was the letter Mrs Sinclair wrote to you. No more.’

  Jane frowned. ‘This is less than ideal news.’

  ‘Can we not simply find Mrs Sinclair’s letter somewhere else?’ Sofia asked.

  ‘We can’t,’ said Dave. ‘Jane Austen no longer exists as a famous person, so the letter is lost to history.’

  ‘She still wrote it, though? Mrs Sinclair still contacted Jane.’

  Dave paused. ‘I suppose so.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Might anyone else have kept the letter?’ Sofia asked.

  ‘If there was even the slightest chance the letter survived, there’s only one way.’ He gave a grim laugh. ‘It happens in such an unlikely set of circumstances you will laugh when I say it.’

  ‘Try us,’ So
fia said.

  ‘Jane Austen the writer has disappeared, yes. But Jane Austen the parson’s daughter hasn’t. People used to write each other letters. Loads of them. Certain families used to keep these letters as heirlooms. Someone might have kept Jane’s letters as part of a family collection. But even if by some miracle they did so, to find the letter, you must track down every Austen in the country – many won’t even carry the surname Austen. One of those families might have preserved their letters. As the Austen name is no longer famous, those families will have no idea why you’re calling on them. It’s a one-in-a-million shot, needle-and-haystack stuff. Where are we going?’ he said to Sofia, who had stood while he talked and now dragged him to the front door.

  ‘Stay here, Jane,’ she said on her way out the door. Jane nodded.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Dave asked again as she pulled him towards his car.

  ‘To London.’

  ‘What’s there?’

  ‘A one-in-a-million shot.’

  Dave turned out of the street onto the A36 in his Volkswagen Beetle.

  ‘You’re a terrible driver,’ Sofia said.

  ‘Sorry. Too fast?’ said Dave.

  ‘Too slow.’ A man in a station wagon hurled abuse out the window as he overtook them. They drove in silence for a while. She turned her face to the window as they trundled down the M4 and willed the ancient car to go faster. Two hours and twenty-seven minutes later they arrived in Notting Hill. Dave pulled up to a white Georgian terrace.

  ‘That looks expensive,’ said Dave, pointing to the grand facade.

  ‘It is,’ Sofia said, realising she might be about to lose it. She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘I’d better go by myself,’ Sofia said. ‘Back in a few.’ She exited the car and knocked on the front door.

  ‘What do you want?’ Jack Travers, in a designer tracksuit, stood in the doorway of the house bought with Sofia’s earnings.

  ‘I will sign your divorce papers,’ Sofia said, ‘on two conditions.’

  Jack rolled his shoulders back, the way he always did when trying to listen. ‘Name them.’

  ‘One. If there is ever a role you think I’d be great in, offer it to me.’

  ‘Done,’ said Jack. ‘You’re a talented actress, Sofe.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Two?’ said Jack.

  ‘There is a box of letters in the attic. I want them.’

  Jack squinted. ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you still have them, or not?’

  ‘That bunch of dusty old letters in the shoebox? I still have them.’

  ‘The ones your mother left you,’ Sofia pressed.

  Jack nodded, irritated. ‘I know them. What’s the catch?’

  ‘No catch,’ Sofia said.

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Jack. ‘You’re giving me half your money, plus alimony, for some letters? This is a trick. They must be worth something.’ He scratched his head.

  ‘They’re worthless.’

  ‘Why do you want them, then?’

  Sofia scowled and searched for an answer. ‘I always liked them,’ she said. ‘They reminded me of us. Old love letters . . . who knows what’s inside? It’s romantic. It will make the separation from you easier.’ She tried not to gag.

  Jack sighed and looked at her with wistful eyes. ‘Fine.’ They shook hands.

  ‘Can I have them?’ Sofia said.

  Jack’s eyes widened. ‘You want them now?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’

  Sofia darted upstairs to the attic. She found the shoebox, kissed it and returned downstairs.

  Jack waited in the doorway. ‘Find them? Good. Did we do okay, Sofe? By each other, I mean?’ He shifted his feet.

  Sofia smiled. ‘We did okay,’ she said.

  Jack nodded. ‘We had some good times,’ he said.

  ‘That time with the fruit,’ Sofia said.

  He laughed. ‘Or the time we were three days down on Batman and that Turkish gymnast walked off set.’

  ‘I strapped a wig on, and we got the cutaway.’

  ‘You saved the film.’

  ‘We saved it,’ she said.

  He flashed her a smile. ‘God, you look good. Stay for a drink? We can reminisce.’

  ‘Another time,’ she said.

  ‘I guess this is goodbye, then,’ he said.

  ‘Take care, Jack. See you around.’ She touched his arm, took one deep indulgent breath and left.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  She joined Dave in the car. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked in a nervous voice.

  ‘Great,’ Sofia said. She handed him the shoebox. ‘I hope it’s in here. I just agreed to a divorce for these.’ Dave stared at her and inhaled sharply. He nodded and seemed to require a minute or two to compose himself.

  ‘Dave, are you still with us?’ Sofia asked finally.

  ‘Yep,’ he said. He exhaled. He turned to the shoebox. He threw the lid open and peered inside. The contents smelled of vanilla and almonds. He gasped. ‘What a stupid man. The lignin and cellulose have broken down. These should have been preserved.’

  ‘Jack doesn’t know these are Jane Austen’s letters, remember,’ Sofia said.

  ‘Even still. They are hundreds of years old. Letters from his own flesh and blood. They’re in a shoebox.’

  Inside the cardboard box lay thirty dried yellow pages of various sizes and shapes. Dave lifted out the top one with great care.

  ‘Is it Jane’s?’ asked Sofia.

  Every inch of the square page was covered in a brown cursive hand.

  Dave nodded. ‘This is Austen’s handwriting; I’d know it anywhere. See the long curlicues and the sloped—’

  ‘Dave,’ Sofia interrupted. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but can we move on?’

  ‘Right you are. Sorry. It is beautiful handwriting.’

  ‘Praising Jane Austen for her handwriting is like praising Sylvia Plath for her baking,’ Sofia said. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It is a letter to her sister. It reads, “My dear Cass, another stupid party last night . . . Miss Langley was like any other short girl with a broad nose and wide mouth, fashionable dress and exposed bosom”.’

  Sofia smiled. ‘Witty. Go on.’

  ‘“Bath is vapour, shadow, smoke and confusion. I cannot continue to find people agreeable.”’ He read the next lines to himself.

  ‘What is it, something juicy?’ Sofia said. She craned her head to read.

  ‘The opposite,’ said Dave. He put the letter down.

  ‘What is the matter, Dave? Why have you gone all misty-eyed? Get a grip, man. Time is of the essence.’

  ‘These are so sad,’ Dave said. ‘She hates Bath. Are you sure we want to send this woman back to a place that makes her feel like this, just so she can write some books?’

  Sofia sat back in the car seat. She knew what fate awaited Jane in 1803. Derision and solitude. ‘We do,’ she replied. ‘She will be sad. It will be the making of her.’

  Dave nodded and sifted through the next pages with gentle hands. He read the first line of each only before handing it to Sofia.

  ‘What if it’s not here?’ Sofia asked in a low voice.

  ‘Jane Austen will be gone,’ he replied, bowing his head. He read on. In the next letter, Jane wrote to her brother James, declining an invitation to attend his anniversary party. In the next, she wrote to her younger brother Frank, thanking him for a pair of silk stockings.

  ‘Only two letters left,’ said Dave. He surveyed the next page. ‘Jane’s mother writes the first. She’s not happy about something.’ He handed the letter to Sofia. She read it and agreed.

  ‘And the last?’ Sofia said, anxious.

  Dave snatched the letter up. ‘Written in a new hand.’ He read aloud.

  June 18th, 1810

  Dear Miss Austen,

  How is your health? How are your parents? I enclose a recipe for cabbage soup which may ass
ist with your stomach complaint.

  Life in the capital is full of drudgery but if you ever desired a laugh at my expense, it may please you to hear I had a recent excursion to the Old Bailey. An ongoing dispute with a pugilistic neighbour reared its head and I found myself in the dock. The court erupted into laughter when my neighbour from nowhere accused me of witchcraft. The magistrate and everyone laughed. I noted their laughter and decided to run forwards. I asserted I was a witch. I said this all in the voice of a lunatic. When the lawyer for my complainant then asked me for examples of my warlock creed, I decided to continue the farce and proceeded through a list of my daily maleficent business. I composed spells for the judge and even gave advice on casting them; for instance, to reverse any spell, repeat the incantation, then to the blood of the talisman add the blood of the subject.

  In any case, the tactic worked, for the judge seemed to take pity on me for my gross insanity. He handed down a sentence leaner than I expected, and I spent the afternoon in celebration. My penalty involves a journey to a faraway land. I shall write again when I arrive, but in the meantime, you may wish to read this letter again for diversion if you ever find yourself stranded indoors on a rainy afternoon. But the cabbages are boiled, and my house begins to smell.

  Yours sincerely,

  Emmaline Sinclair

  Sofia smiled. Dave put the letter down, turned over the Beetle’s engine and commanded it to return to Bath as quickly as its bald tyres could spin.

  ‘If you need me to help get any other stranded authors back to their own time, let me know,’ Dave said as they trundled back down the M4.

  ‘I don’t know any other authors, sorry,’ Sofia replied.

  ‘Or maybe we could get a drink sometime,’ he said.

  Sofia scoffed and turned her head to him. ‘Why have you never told me I am beautiful?’ she asked accusingly.

  ‘What?’ His eyebrows shot up.

  She swallowed, aware she may have sounded a tad strange. She had good reason; she still felt a little raw from giving away her house and her marriage to Jack for a shoebox of letters. She decided to express her anger by irrationally taking things out on the man next to her, who had been nothing but annoyingly kind and helpful. ‘Why did you never tell me I have a “banging body”?’