Jane in Love

by Rachel Givney

  Margaret nodded and exited with a smile. Jane’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Mrs Austen? Truly?’ said the Reverend.

  ‘I love you, Mama,’ Jane whispered, for the first time.

  Mrs Austen wiped a tear from her own eye. ‘What now then?’ she asked.

  Jane smiled and shrugged.

  Jane stared at the wall. Six weeks had passed since she had returned to her own time. Insomnia took her. Every night she pleaded with herself, ‘Tonight we shall sleep, for we are so tired.’ The clock struck eleven, then twelve, then one, all without slumber. By two a.m., she resolved to get up, drink tea, walk. By three a.m. she was back in bed, as wide-eyed and awake as if she had rested for a week. By four a.m., the problems of the world rested on her shoulders. By five a.m., she accepted there would be no sleep tonight. By six a.m., she dozed off, only to be woken at seven by the house stirring, to endure the day, a walking ghoul.

  She cried for hours on end, soft weeps on the floor in her room and angry wailings by tree trunks in the forest. Items slipped from her mind. She forgot his breath. She misplaced the bend of his fingers. A pain in her chest refused to go. In the darkness, while the house slept, Jane stared at the ceiling and thought of him. The enormity of what she had done gripped her.

  What business did her inexperienced heart have mixing itself up in love for another human? Before she knew him, she existed on a tolerable plain. She was lonely, but it was paradise compared to this. The love she had read about was all summer’s days, crackling fires and honeyed almonds. Now she had experienced it for herself, she knew this to be a falsehood, written by men to sell volumes of poetry. Love was not spring buds and fluffy meadows. Love was laudanum. The first dram of it flooded into the blood and took away a pain one never knew one had. Then it exited and left a hole deeper than the one it had been sent in to fill.

  She walked to the Black Prince to buy a ticket to London. She would visit Mrs Sinclair once more. She would procure a new spell, then hold him again.

  ‘Return to London, please,’ she told the driver.

  ‘Six shillings,’ he said and held out his hand. ‘Welcome back, miss.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Jane said. She eyed him curiously.

  ‘You have been in my carriage before,’ he explained.

  Jane stepped back and wiped her eyes. She asked the driver for a moment and never went back. Instead, she walked to the Pump Room and stood outside. She stared at the honey-coloured facade and returned to the night Fred had taken her there. She sat down on a stone bench and cried until her eyes formed two red welts. People passed her and no one inquired of her wellbeing. A woman weeping in front of the Pump Room surprised no one.

  When her eyes ran dry of tears, she picked herself up off the cobblestones and walked to the house. She climbed into bed and went to sleep.

  When she woke at three a.m., the blackness returned. She did not run this time. She rose out of bed and sat at her desk. She picked up her quill. She gripped its spine until her knuckles turned white and began a new story.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Sofia burst into Fred’s bedroom and kicked him in the foot.

  ‘Ouch,’ Fred said. He was lying on the floor, the duvet covering his head.

  ‘It smells like a brewery in here,’ Sofia said. She kicked an empty beer bottle along the floorboards.

  ‘Is there something I can help you with?’ he asked.

  This is how he had been when their mother died. Sofia knew how it went. He collapsed in a heap, then took years to recover.

  ‘Why did you give Jane your blood?’ Sofia kicked him again.

  ‘Ow. I don’t know.’ He pulled the duvet away from his face.

  ‘You could have refused and kept her here. She’d be okay, too. Relieved, even. But you sent her back. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Because you knew she could only be happy doing the thing she loved. You loved her so much you gave her up.’

  Fred shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘This is not what Jane wanted.’

  ‘Shush,’ Fred grumbled.

  ‘Okay, so she’s gone. I miss her too. You can drink yourself to death – I can see the appeal. I could give you pointers on how to do it. You could pick up a hobby to pass the time, like trolling or collecting your fingernails in a jar, and you could rant about how Jane Austen did you wrong. Living like half a person. Not living – just breathing. A great option. Do you choose it?’

  Fred rolled his eyes. ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, good. We won’t shut the door on that option, we’ll shelve it for now. There is a second option.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Fred muttered.

  Sofia sat on the windowsill. ‘It’s sappy and gross and mushy. You don’t want to hear it.’

  Fred groaned. ‘I do want to hear it,’ he said in an unwilling tone.

  She cleared her throat. ‘Okay, here goes. You could honour her.’

  Fred met eyes with his sister.

  ‘Say, “I saw the sun once and it was beautiful,”’ Sofia said. ‘“But it’s gone now and that’s sad, but some people go their whole lives never seeing such a thing. I’m going to thank the universe for showing me that, and do the same service to myself I did to her. I’m going to stop scowling that she’s gone and smile that she was here at all.”’ Sofia grimaced. ‘Mushy, huh?’

  ‘Disgusting,’ Fred replied.

  ‘So those are your two options. Sad, drunken hobo, or smiling and living. Which option will you go for?’

  ‘Probably the second,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Good choice.’ Sofia gave him a thumbs up.

  ‘It hurts,’ he said then, in a soft voice.

  Sofia frowned. She sat down on the floor next to him. ‘It’s going to hurt tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And the next day. Then one morning, you’ll wake up, and it will hurt less than it did the day before. Hang on for that day.’

  Fred nodded. He got up off the floor and walked to the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Sofia.

  ‘To do option two,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you going to give me a hug? After that epic speech?’ Sofia said.

  Fred rolled his eyes and embraced his sister. ‘Thank you, Sofe.’

  ‘You did a noble thing letting her go,’ she whispered into his ear.

  The first day of shooting arrived. Northanger Abbey returned to the production listings, with no one the wiser except Sofia. She stepped into the makeup truck and greeted her old friend. ‘No makeup today, Derek,’ Sofia announced as she hugged him hello. ‘Put away the concealers. Jettison the potions and unguents. Today I shall be wearing my own face.’

  ‘Ms Wentworth, do you feel okay?’ Derek asked.

  ‘I am well, Derek.’

  ‘Are you sure I can’t give the crow’s-feet a touch up?’

  ‘Leave them be, Derek. Strip down the plaster. Let’s show the ruined castle within.’

  Derek grimaced. ‘But the no-makeup makeup,’ he whispered in a reverential tone. ‘We had such good times.’

  ‘Yes. Those are gone now. Pour yourself a drink. You’ll be needing it.’

  Afterwards, when Derek had stripped her existing makeup away, Sofia dressed in the lime-green velvet gown. Lines covered her bare face. Dark half-circles hung below her eyes. Her skin, once soft and even, bloomed with splotches of red.

  ‘There, Derek. What say you now?’

  Derek’s face bore a strange look. Like he felt both happy and sad. Happy-sad. ‘It’s possible you look lovelier now than before.’ He wiped a tear.

  ‘We both know that’s not possible, Derek, but I accept the compliment anyway.’

  She walked onto set. Jack looked at her. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you,’ he said.

  ‘Well, this is what I look like,’ she said. ‘Will this be a problem for you?’

  ‘No,’ he replied and said no more. He escorted her to her mark.

  Sofia waited for action, then delivered a three-
minute monologue about muslin. Every line written big, she played small. Every line that felt small, she played big. The words she thought to shout before, she now whispered with a grand smile. Her lime-green dress, rather than evoking mocking – though it did that, too – added a Shakespearean-fool, tragic wisdom to her virtuoso, a grand irony, a pit of sadness. When the time came for her immortal line, ‘we none of us have a stitch to wear,’ she said it with resignation, as though the character had said it for years, in places not shown in the film, and saying it once more now placed her on the brink of polite despair.

  She did not say it morosely or bitterly, or go for the crotch and deliver it in cheap parody or schtick; she did not sneer or cackle as she spoke. Sofia said the line with kind, knowing eyes, as tears wetted them. She might have been a woman having a nervous breakdown, or she might have been bored with it all. Who knew for sure? But with a little help from some eye bags, divorce papers and advice from the film’s author, that day Sofia took Mrs Allen from one dimension to three.

  She returned home that night and poured herself a drink. She toasted farewell to her career; it had brought her millions and served her well. She wiped a tear from her lined eyes, for her friend. No one treated her like a star now. No magazine crowned her hottest woman. She raised her glass and went to bed.

  Some months later, Sofia was enjoying a quiet afternoon of sprawling on her sofa when the telephone rang. Max Milson called her. ‘Are you sitting down?’ her agent said.

  ‘I’m lying down. Does that count?’

  ‘You are up for Best Supporting Actress,’ said Max.

  ‘Up for what?’

  ‘For an Oscar! For Mrs Allen in Northanger Abbey. Break open the champagne!’

  Sofia choked on her drink. She was already nursing a bottle of prosecco; close enough. ‘How?’ she spluttered into the phone.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure of the exact process but I believe the Academy creates a longlist, then consults with its members.’

  ‘No,’ she interrupted him, ‘how did I get nominated? I played an old bag! I’ve done scores of films where I was beautiful, sexy, promiscuous – none of them got me anything. Now I get the nod for wearing a lime-green sack? This is bad.’

  ‘It is not bad,’ said Max. ‘It’s good. You played her well, Sofia. You played her true.’

  ‘I do not accept the nomination,’ Sofia huffed.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ said Max. ‘People will suck up to you and you’ll get loads of free stuff.’

  ‘Fine. I accept the nomination.’ Sofia hung up the phone and smiled.

  The next few weeks passed in a blur of congratulatory texts, phone calls and visits from the industry. The texts came from people she’d prefer a phone call from, the phone calls from those she’d prefer a text from, and the visits came from people she hoped never to see again. Sofia had practised her Oscar acceptance speech every night in the bath since the age of four. Sometimes she chose a gushing and tearful exhibition, thanking everyone who had ever helped her, including her Barbie dolls and her hairbrush. As she’d grown older, the sentiments evolved into a spiteful hate speech, naming the people who pushed her down and thanking them all for sweet nothing. But in the end, when she stood at the podium that February and collected her trophy for Best Supporting Actress in Northanger Abbey, her thankyou speech consisted of five words only.

  ‘This is for you, Jane,’ she said, then walked off stage. The crowd seemed so hushed with shock, their faces so fixed in unedifying stares, they had no choice but to give her a standing ovation.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Fred walked up Praed Street in Paddington to board a train back to Bath. He was heading into the station when something caught his eye. Piles of books lined the dusty window of a second-hand bookshop. Fred chuckled; Jane had teased him about never reading any of her books. He stepped inside. It was a ramshackle room, filled floor to ceiling with books. A rumpled man approached him. His name tag read George. ‘Something to read on the train home?’ he said.

  ‘Do you have anything by Jane Austen?’ Fred asked.

  George smiled. ‘Indeed.’ He escorted Fred to a shelf of classics.

  Fred scanned the book spines. Jane was the author of many of the titles. ‘What do you recommend? Sorry if that’s a stupid question.’

  ‘Not at all. I get asked about her often. Delighted to help.’ George rolled up his sleeves. He selected a title and skimmed through its pages, taking his time. He furrowed his brow, then picked up another and tapped the cover. ‘This.’

  Fred took the book. ‘Persuasion,’ he read aloud.

  ‘It’s not as flashy as P and P or Emma, with the zingers and wit. Those are Jane showing off. Showing why she is the best that ever was,’ George said. ‘This one she wrote as she got older. It’s quieter. It’s the last book she wrote before she died.’ Fred frowned and went quiet. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ George said then.

  ‘Yes,’ Fred said. ‘It’s . . . she’s dead.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said George. ‘Austen died long ago.’ He tapped the cover. ‘Give this one a go. This is the real Jane.’

  Fred flipped through the pages. ‘What’s the book about?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s about regret,’ George replied. He offered him a sad smile.

  Fred nodded. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Good,’ said George. He led Fred to the register. ‘If you’re an Austen fan, perhaps join our mailing list. We often have Jane Austen nights, book clubs.’

  Fred smirked. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Splendid. What is your name, sir?’

  ‘Wentworth,’ Fred said.

  George typed the name on a dusty keyboard. ‘And your first name?’

  ‘Fred.’

  George stopped typing and stared at Fred. ‘Your name is Frederick Wentworth?’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Fred said.

  George smiled and handed Fred the book. ‘No. Enjoy your book, sir.’

  Fred rode the train back to Bath. His meeting finished at three p.m. and, at first, he stood among crowds of schoolchildren and tourists. By Maidenhead they alighted and the carriage grew empty. He found a place by the window and sat. He pulled out Persuasion from his bag and turned to the first page.

  Afternoon light streamed in from the window. The countryside whirred past outside.

  Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage . . .

  Fred winced. It was a slow, old-fashioned novel, a tome from the canon they forced you to read at school. The students always rolled their eyes when he set a text like this. He stumbled over the archaic words and long sentences. He googled ‘baronetage’. He read a few more paragraphs and found his mind wandering over the drawn-out passages, taking nothing in. He put the book down and stared out the window. The fields whizzed past him in a blur of emerald green.

  He picked the book back up again and forced himself to persist. Read ten pages. He read through the next page with gritted teeth and breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the final word. He exhaled and nodded; he could do this. He was determined to get through it, for Jane. He arrived at the top of the next page. The first sentence was easier to get through now he knew what to expect with the semicolons and clauses. Her sentences were passive, with the meaning end-loaded. She waited until the final moment to reveal her intention. It was a frowned-upon technique these days. Every guru taught to put the point upfront, for all to see. But as his comfort grew with the style, the point emerged. Each sentence came with a punchline. He read on about Sir Walter Elliot.

  He smiled. A handsome arrangement of words, clever and droll, showed themselves at last. She set up a character in a few lines. Fred had never met him, yet he had met someone like him a hundred times before. He read the second chapter in half the time. By the third chapter, a transformation had occurred: reaching ten pages was forgotten; instead of forcing himself to plough through Jane’s work, which he endured only because he love
d her, he now forgot Jane had authored the book at all and read simply to discover what happened next. Fred smiled. Damn. Something he’d long suspected was now confirmed. He had stood in the presence of greatness. How he must have bored her.

  He felt a pair of eyes on him and looked up. A familiar woman about his age sat in the opposite seat. She held up her book. She read Persuasion also.

  ‘Simone, right?’ he said. ‘St Margaret’s. Wing attack.’

  ‘That’s me,’ she said. He shook her hand. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked. She pointed to the book.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ Fred said. ‘Witty.’

  ‘She’s the master,’ Simone said. She smiled.

  The train pulled up to Reading station.

  ‘Enjoy,’ Simone said. ‘This is my stop.’ She alighted the train and waved at Fred as it pulled away from the station. He waved back.

  The train continued its way to Bath and Fred read on.

  The next part contained a description of the middle daughter, Anne Elliot. She was an intelligent and dutiful spinster, at the financial mercy of an extravagant father. Further chapters revealed her to be a devoted aunt and a good listener. She had rejected a young man in her youth who loved her and now, older, she regretted it. Fred reached the end of the chapter and looked out the window. A sea of green fields rushed by. This was a sad book.

  Fred turned the page. A new character was introduced, a naval captain. His gaze drifted out the window and he thought of Jane’s love for her seafaring brothers. His eyes darted back to the page and locked onto two words.

  The book hit the floor with a crack, which echoed through the carriage and startled awake a labourer who dozed in the vestibule. Fred apologised with a nod. He picked up the book once more and double-checked.

  The naval captain’s name was Frederick Wentworth.

  Fred exhaled. He raced through the page, then turned it over. The next page contained no text. Instead, a line drawing illustrated Captain Wentworth. He wore a uniform of King George’s navy, and a ribbon held back shoulder-length tresses. He wore no beard but sideburns. Beneath the Georgian epaulets and long hair, Fred’s own face stared back at him.