Jane Austen Made Me Do It

by Laurel Ann Nattress

  “Yes, it was mentioned in church, where we’d often prayed for him. I gather he’s at the Hall for Christmas.”

  “To our great pleasure.”

  He wasn’t passing over the basket, so she had to say, “Please come in, Sir Nicholas.”

  Alas, the door opened directly into the kitchen, which was disordered by Christmas preparations. On Sundays she always left it tidy.

  He put the basket on the table. “A few seasonal delicacies I thought might please your daughters, Mrs. Carsholt.”

  “It’s too kind of you, Sir Nicholas. There really is no need.”

  She was being ungracious, but she could smell oranges, and they made her want to weep. In happier days she’d not have thought oranges to have such an aroma, but after a year without them, it seemed pungent as a bouquet of roses.

  If only she had something to offer in return, even a jar of jam, but she was not so provident. An almost-finished pink reticule would hardly serve.

  She was struggling for the appropriate way to conclude the conversation when Amy ran down the stairs, all bright eyes and bouncing curls. “Oh, Sir Nicholas! How lovely to see you, sir.”

  He bowed again. “And you, Miss Carsholt, in such fine spirits. Are you ready for the morrow?”

  “Almost, sir. My sisters and I are finishing our gifts for Mama, and later we’ll be going out to gather holly and ivy for the house.”

  “And mistletoe?” he asked, with a mischievous smile.

  He must wreck hearts in all corners, Elinor thought, with those fine blue eyes and the dimples. Astonishing that at thirty-one he was still unmarried.

  “Of course we’ll have mistletoe,” Amy said.

  “That wouldn’t be appropriate, dear,” Elinor said. “We are still a house of mourning.”

  “Only for two more weeks,” Amy muttered.

  Elinor chose to ignore that. Life was difficult enough without squabbles.

  “Your attention to your husband’s memory does you credit, Mrs. Carsholt, even though it has deprived Danvers Hall of your presence at Christmas dinner. I hold hopes of next year.”

  Elinor smiled, but she couldn’t imagine ever dining in a place that must remind her of the home, the life, she had lost.

  He turned to Amy. “If you decide you’d like a spray of mistletoe for tradition’s sake, Miss Carsholt, there’s ample in my apple orchard. You’ll have to hurry, though. My brother plans to lead our guests on a raid.”

  He went to the door, but then turned. “Ah, yes. Given the small size of your oven here, I’ve instructed my cook to roast an extra goose. It will arrive tomorrow at about noon. Merry Christmas, ladies!”

  He made his escape before Elinor could react, and then she could hardly run after him, shouting her rejection.

  She closed the door fuming. “A goose indeed. That is far beyond what is acceptable!”

  “But a goose, Mama! Only think how delicious it will be.” Amy pulled the cloth off the basket. “Oranges. And sugar plums! Now we’ll have a real Christmas. Just like Fortlings.” She turned to run up the narrow stairs. “I’ll tell the others. They’ll be so excited!”

  Just like Fortlings.

  This time last year she and the girls had been decorating Fortlings Hall with holly, ivy—and yes, mistletoe—while cook and her helpers labored over the lavish feast for the next day. The village children had come to sing Christmas songs and been rewarded with mince pies and pennies.

  Barnie had distributed those treats. He’d thoroughly enjoyed the holiday traditions, so it had been one of their best times together.

  Of course, his high spirits had also been from anticipation of the hunting season—the heart of Barnie’s life. That had been how he’d met his end in January last year—leaping a hedge with an unanticipated ditch beyond and breaking his neck. It had been instantaneous, she’d been told, and she’d taken comfort from that. He’d died without pain in the midst of his greatest delight, but she could curse him for carelessly leaving his wife and daughters in such straights.

  She’d had no idea. No idea how much his careless generosity and magnificent horses cost. No idea that the income of the estate had dwindled under his neglect. Gross carelessness on her part, and she was justly punished by having to live in penury. But her darling daughters had committed no sins, and they were trapped in penury with her.

  Amy ran back downstairs, her sisters behind her—ten-year-old Margaret a little awkward in her coltishness, and six-year-old Maria, a wide-eyed precious angel.

  “Sugar plums,” Maria breathed, leaning close to the basket.

  “And a goose tomorrow,” said Amy, as if she feared Elinor might snatch that treat away.

  “Sir Nicholas is too generous,” Elinor said.

  “Is there such a thing?” Amy challenged. “It’s a Christian duty to be charitable, especially at Christmas.”

  And blessed are the poor who make it possible, Elinor thought. That was in the Bible somewhere, but it didn’t say that the poor must like it.

  “May we please go up to the Danvers Hall orchard to collect mistletoe, Mama?” Amy begged. “It won’t be Christmas without a kissing bough.”

  “No. Even if we weren’t still mourning your father, what use would a kissing bough be to us?”

  Amy opened her mouth as if to argue, but she must have recognized that Elinor’s patience was growing thin. “Come along,” she said to her sisters. “We must finish our projects before hunting ivy and holly.”

  Uncomfortably aware of being the villain of the piece, Elinor unloaded the basket. She put the oranges in a china bowl, and the sugar plums on a high shelf, out of the way of small fingers. There were nuts of all kinds, some French nougat, a canister of tea and another containing chocolate, already grated. The girls could have the treat of chocolate to drink with their Christmas breakfast, and she could offer Sir Nicholas tea without being aware of how little she had left and the cost of replenishing her supply.

  Of course, Sir Nicholas wouldn’t escort them home after Christmas service tomorrow. He had family and friends at the hall. He’d been away for a few weeks, and she’d missed their Sunday walks, when he’d talk about the wider world, about political and international affairs, even sometimes sharing some society gossip. They’d often chuckled like friends, but a lady couldn’t have a single gentleman as friend, especially not one five years her junior.…

  She shook away her drifting thoughts and sat to quickly finish the reticule. Once she and the girls returned with the greenery, the rest of the day would be spent in decorating the house, and she still had mince pies to make.

  Elinor sighed as she worked the final stitch. When would Amy have an opportunity to use her gift? They all still wore black, because the lavenders and greys of half-mourning would have been an expense. They couldn’t wear black forever, but what else?

  Their Fortling gowns were packed in trunks, but what would fit? Amy had filled out in the bosom so much that Elinor had had to help her add panels to the bodices of her mourning wear. Margaret and Maria had needed extra bands at the bottom of their skirts.

  Clothing was only part of it, however. Her small widow’s jointure couldn’t support four people, even if they continued to live rent free at Ivy Cottage. She was already eating into her modest savings.

  There was nothing for it. In time, the girls were going to have to leave to find work, and for Amy, that time was now. Elinor had put it off until mourning was over, but after Christmas Amy would have to go as a governess or companion. If she could send some of her pittance of wages home, Elinor could educate the younger girls so they could find similar employment rather than go to work as kitchen maids or such.

  It broke her heart. Lovely Amy, with her sparkling looks, high spirits, and generous heart, to become a spinster drudge all her days.

  Elinor stared at the whitewashed wall, struggling again for a way out.

  Heaven knew, she’d marry again in order to give her girls the life they deserved. She’d marry any wealthy man,
no matter how unappealing, but what man wanted a woman of thirty-five with three daughters? She’d been a beauty once, very like Amy in appearance, but that was long, long ago.

  Her best hope was that if she could be especially frugal she might in time be able to buy a small shop where they could all work. At least they’d be together and she could see to her girls’ welfare. The world was full of dangers for pretty, penniless young ladies.

  She touched one of the pink rosebuds she’d embroidered around the edge of the reticule. Perhaps Amy would go as governess to a kind family who would include her in some family activities.

  Enough of this. She quickly wrapped the gift in a piece of plain white cloth and tied it with a ribbon. She’d already wrapped the slippers she’d made for Margaret and Maria. She’d give her darlings the best Christmas she could. Sir Nicholas’s goose would help there, and the chocolate, oranges, nuts, and sugar plums. The house needed the traditional trimmings, however, and bringing greenery into the house on Christmas Eve was supposed to bring good fortune.

  “Girls! We should go out to cut the greenery before the sun begins to set.”

  In moments, they poured down the stairs, already in their cloaks, cheeks rosy with excitement.

  Elinor picked up the basket Sir Nicholas had brought. “This will serve to carry our haul. Amy, find the shears.” She put on her black cloak and plain bonnet, and slipped a sharp knife in her pocket in case it was needed. “We can start close to home. We have ivy on the wall here.”

  “Mama!” Amy protested. “That’s no adventure. We most go further afield.”

  “And we have no holly here,” Margaret said.

  “Please, Mama!” Maria begged.

  “It’s a lovely day for late December,” Amy argued. “A long walk would do us all good.”

  Elinor surrendered. “Very well,” she said, opening the front door onto the lane. To the right lay Danvers Hall, but she turned left. “I think I remember holly near Dike’s Field.”

  Maria ran ahead, and Margaret went after, but Amy stayed with Elinor.

  “Mama, why did you refuse an invitation to eat Christmas dinner at Danvers Hall?”

  “It would have been inappropriate.”

  “But why?”

  “We’re still in mourning, Amy.” Before her daughter could protest, she added, “And I knew he’d have guests. There’s no place for a group of black crows there.”

  “They wouldn’t have minded.” Amy dropped the argument, however, and said, “Did you hear that Captain Danvers is home, all recovered?”

  “Sir Nicholas mentioned it.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful to have a Waterloo hero in the village!”

  “England owes much to her gallant soldiers,” Elinor agreed, touched by her daughter’s hero-worship, but saddened, too.

  Captain Danvers was the sort of young gentleman Amy might have danced with at assemblies, or even perhaps married. Now he might as well be a Prince of Araby.

  “Other gentlemen serve their country, too,” Amy said. “Sir Nicholas, for example. He serves in Parliament, and that’s important.”

  “Very important,” Elinor agreed, but her mother’s instincts stirred. What was Amy working up to?

  “Sir Nicholas spoke so movingly of the plight of the returning soldiers. Of the lack of employment.”

  “That is unfortunate …” But then Elinor realized she’d never heard him speak on that subject. “When did Sir Nicholas speak of that?”

  The roses in Amy’s cheeks turned red. “A few weeks ago,” she said with guilty carelessness. “I was gathering the last of the rosehips down the lane.”

  Elinor had sent Amy on that errand, but she’d heard nothing of this. “And you spoke together? Amy, that was improper.”

  “Mama! He was riding by. Were we to ignore each other?”

  Elinor couldn’t honestly say yes, but the situation made her uncomfortable.

  “I was reaching up, and he was on horseback, so he pulled down a briar for me, and we spoke a little. I don’t know why you’re cross.”

  “I regret that you must wander the countryside alone.”

  “It’s better than sitting at home all the time.”

  Amy’s tone was close to impertinent, but Elinor was more concerned about other things. She knew her daughter.

  “Have there been other encounters?” she asked.

  “A few,” Amy said, in a tone that suggested more than a few. “Margaret and Maria have been with me sometimes. He’s very kind to them.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “You know he is. Remember when he came in after church and let Maria talk him into playing spillikins?”

  “Claiming that it was something he liked above all,” Elinor remembered with a smile.

  “And when he taught us that card game.”

  “A gambling game.” But Elinor couldn’t frown. It had been fun.

  “Only for beans. And he brought some spelling books for Maria.”

  Sir Nicholas had been consistently kind, but Amy’s sparkling eyes unsettled Elinor. She’d swear that Sir Nicholas Danvers was a good man, but pretty girls were often rich men’s prey.

  “He said that Margaret and Maria could use the library at Danvers Hall,” Amy said.

  “I doubt there’s anything there of interest to Maria, and Margaret isn’t at all bookish.”

  “Very well, I’d like to borrow books from there. I’m starved of new reading. Please, Mama.”

  “No.” But then Elinor sighed. “When there are no guests, perhaps. You must not go alone, however. You must take your sisters with you.”

  “Mama! They’ll be restless and I’ll have to watch them all the time.”

  “It simply wouldn’t be proper, Amy. You’re a young lady now and must consider such things.”

  To Elinor’s surprise, Amy nodded. “You mean some men might have wicked intentions.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like Wickham in Pride and Prejudice.”

  “Yes,” said Elinor, wishing she’d not allowed Amy to read that book.

  Sir Nicholas had brought it to Ivy Cottage as a gift. It was an amusing representation of family life, but Elinor considered the heroine pert and one of her sisters positively wicked. Their both being rewarded with marriage—in one case, a brilliant match—was designed to put fanciful notions into young women’s heads, and she’d said as much to Sir Nicholas, adding that the authoress must be a little too flighty in her ways.

  He’d chuckled and said that he knew the “Lady” credited with the work. She lived here in Chawton. He’d revealed in strictest confidence that the book had been written by Miss Jane Austen, who lived with her widowed mother and older sister in a handsome house near the center of the village.

  Elinor had been astonished. Miss Jane Austen, well past the age of being flighty, seemed a sensible woman, and her father had been a clergyman.

  “And,” Sir Nicholas had added, “their situation is a fanciful story, but true. They could be living in poverty had not one of their brothers been adopted by wealthy relatives, and now have possession of fine estates, including Chawton House.”

  “Not a blessing to be depended on,” she’d pointed out. “Better management by their father would have been preferable.”

  She’d been perfectly serious, thinking of her own situation, but Sir Nicholas had laughed as if she’d been a wit.

  Had that novel put notions into her daughter’s head?

  “Please remember, Amy, that it’s only in novels that young ladies like Lydia Bennet end up married and embraced by family and friends. In reality, they fall into ruin.”

  “I know that, Mama. You can’t imagine I’d run off with a penniless soldier.”

  “What’s more, it’s only in such novels that gentlemen of fortune offer marriage to penniless young ladies, no matter how pretty they are. Their hearts might be touched, but good sense and duty will direct them elsewhere.”

  “But Mr. Darcy could afford to marry Lizzie, Mama,
and Mr. Bingley to marry Jane, so why shouldn’t they?”

  It was as she’d feared.

  “They simply don’t, Amy. But if a young lady behaves with modesty and discretion and avoids being alone with gentlemen at all times, she can’t come to grief.”

  Amy’s disgruntled face showed her warnings might have been just in time. Had she begun to spin dreams about Sir Nicholas? Her vitality earlier on seeing him had been marked, and the dangers lurking in employment seemed even greater. A governess could be prey to the brothers of her pupils, and even to their father.

  Oh, Barnie, why were you so careless!

  “Let’s catch up to the others,” she said, hurrying on as if she could outpace her problems. But one—Amy—kept up easily.

  “Sir Nicholas is like Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley, isn’t he, Mama? He’s rich enough to marry whom he pleases.”

  Oh, Lord, could Amy have been putting herself in Sir Nicholas’s way on purpose? How mortifying.

  But then Elinor remembered the warm smile Sir Nicholas had bestowed on Amy today, and the increasing number of his kindnesses to the family. Was it possible? If he and Amy had been meeting, had it been by shared intent?

  He was almost twice Amy’s age—but mature men were attracted to youth.

  It was a dazzling vision. Amy, dear, darling Amy, would have security, comfort, and the best possible husband, and the younger girls would be well provided for, too. Too dazzling.

  “Sir Nicholas is in a position to marry as he wishes, Amy, but it would be very foolish for him not to marry a woman with a substantial portion, and so I would tell him if he were my son.”

  “Your son, Mama! He’s not much younger than you are.”

  “Five years, which is quite enough.”

  “It’s as if you don’t like him, Mama, and I can’t imagine why. He’s so kind and you were so cross about the goose.”

  “I was a goose to be cross about it,” Elinor admitted, “and I intend to enjoy every delicious morsel. I do like Sir Nicholas, Amy. If I seem sharp sometimes, it’s because I resent charity in general, because I’m not used to having to be grateful for it.”