by Syrie James
“I cannot imagine that is so,” said Cassandra. “Still, I find this very difficult to understand. It does not seem in Mr. Ashford’s character to behave in this manner.”
“Oh how I wish I could hate him! But—”
“You do not?”
“To be tied for life to that self-important girl—who is so young and unaccomplished, and has no feelings for him—it is a travesty! Can they possibly be happy together? I think not. No, I cannot hate him. I feel sorry for him.”
“I feel sorry for them both,” said Cassandra, “and my heart bleeds for you, Jane.”
“How could I let this happen? How could I have allowed myself to feel so much, and to be so deceived?”
“Do not berate yourself. You have done nothing wrong. His every word, every action seemed to speak of his intentions to you.”
“If any one should find out, I would die of shame.”
Cassandra took my hand and squeezed it tightly. “We shall never mention his name again.”
Misery, I discovered, is a great inducement to art.
Whereas my previous confusion and sadness had inhibited my creativity, now my ability to write returned with a vengeance. Never before had I felt such a burning desire, nay, a requirement to put pen to paper. For days, I wrote in a blind rage, pausing only when need overcame me to eat or drink or sleep.
No longer did I feel any compulsion to soften my character of Willoughby. The world, I had been reminded, was not fair where love was concerned, and never would be. No matter that Marianne loved her Willoughby deeply, no matter that her heart would be broken. I could paint him as a cad and rascal, bereft of conscience, ruled by selfish interests, and be justified. When he married another woman, Marianne could suffer all the pain of rejection and humiliation that I was now feeling.
Of Edward and Elinor’s fate, I experienced a similar awakening. At last, I knew what terrible secret Edward harboured, which kept him from declaring his love to her.
“Good God!” cried Cassandra, when she had finished reading the newest chapters of my book, in which I added two brand-new and quite unlikeable characters, the Steele sisters. “This secret engagement of four years standing, which you have introduced between Edward and Miss Lucy Steele—”
“Do not you think it a brilliant and inspired touch?”
“I do,” agreed Cassandra, “but it is so—”
“Sad? Infuriating? Familiar? A case of life begetting art?”
“I was going to say dark. Your story is much darker than before.”
“Darker fits my mood,” I replied.
A few days before we removed from Southampton, a letter arrived for me. I recognised the handwriting at once as Mr. Ashford’s, and, indeed, the direction indicated that it came from Pembroke Hall, Derbyshire. Whereas I might have once received such a missive with great joy, the sight of it now produced only pain and sickness of heart, followed by coolness and resolve.
“I beg your pardon,” said I, as I turned to the postman and handed the letter back, “but there must be some mistake. This was not meant for me. Please return it to sender.”
“Yes, Miss,” replied the postman, as he took the offending letter and disappeared down the street.
“Whatever possessed you to send it back?” cried Cassandra, when she heard what I had done. “Perhaps he meant to offer an explanation for what has passed. Were you not interested in what he had to say?”
“Not at all,” said I vehemently. “I know the truth already, and however prettily he chuses to word his explanation, it can make no difference. He is bound to another, that is a fact. He will marry her, of that we have no doubt. What can he offer me now, but apologies and a promise of friendship—which would, after the deep attachment I have felt, be quite impossible. No; if my heart is ever to mend, if my mind is ever to be clear again, I must go back to what I was before I met Mr. Ashford, and banish him from my thoughts.”
“I applaud your strength and resolve, dearest,” said Cassandra, her expression replete with sympathy and kindness, “but not to think of some one for whom you have embraced such deep feelings, that is easier said than done.”
She spoke the truth; but what other course was open to me? Indeed, not five minutes later, as I was engaged in assembling several dozen new manuscript pages into a sort of book, and sewing the seam to bind them, Mr. Ashford’s voice, and his pretty words from the preceding weeks, kept repeating in my head : “Your work is charming and witty and romantic—in a style entirely new—I have never read or heard any thing quite like it before—You shall be published; you must be.”
Was it all just idle flattery? I wondered. He had seemed so sincere in his praise. Well, I thought, in a sudden fit of temper, there is one way to find out. It would be a long while before Sense and Sensibility was finished, but I did have another book, complete, which should have been published years ago.
I picked up my pen, deciding, at that very instant, to address a subject which had been plaguing me for some time. Preserving my anonymity by adopting the name “Mrs. Ashton Dennis,” I dashed off the following letter to the publisher, Crosby & Co., in London:
Wednesday 5 April 1809
Gentlemen
In the Spring of the year 1803 a MS. Novel in 2 vol. entitled Susan was sold to you by a Gentleman of the name of Seymour, & the purchase money £10 rec’d at the same time. Six years have since passed, & this work of which I avow myself the Authoress, has never to the best of my knowledge, appeared in print, tho’ an early publication was stipulated for at the time of Sale. I can only account for such an extraordinary circumstance by supposing the MS by some carelessness to have been lost; & if that was the case, am willing to supply you with another copy if you are disposed to avail yourselves of it, & will engage for no farther delay when it comes into your hands.—It will not be in my power from particular circumstances29 to command this copy before the month of August, but then, if you accept my proposal, you may depend on receiving it. Be so good as to send me a line in answer, as soon as possible, as my stay in this place will not exceed a few days. Should no notice be taken of this address, I shall feel myself at liberty to secure the publication of my work, by applying elsewhere. I am
Gentlemen &c &c
MAD—
The initials of my fictitious signature formed a word which perfectly reflected my sentiments and state of mind of the day.
The reply, which arrived at the post office on the very morning of our departure, was as follows:
Saturday 8 April 1809
Madam
We have to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 5th inst. It is true that at the time mentioned we purchased of Mr. Seymour a MS. novel entitled Susan and paid him for it the sum of 10£ for which we have his stamped receipt as a full consideration, but there was not any time stipulated for its publication, neither are we bound to publish it, Should you or anyone else, we shall take proceedings to stop the sale. The MS shall be yours for the same as we paid for it.
For R. Crosby & Co
I am yours etc.
Richard Crosby
I was both saddened and infuriated by this correspondence. I could, in no way, produce the sum required to buy back my book. Susan, I realised, was dead to me; the sooner I finished Sense and Sensibility, the better.
But that task, I knew, could not be attended to for quite some time. All our furniture and possessions were now packed and boarded upon several wagons, which had, earlier that morning, embarked for Steventon, where they would be stored until the cottage at Chawton was ready. With a heavy heart, I knew that I must yet again say good-bye to independence, privacy, and writing, for a time.
Chapter Fifteen
Dear, dear Steventon,” I said, gazing out the window of my brother James’s carriage, as we turned up the rutted drive towards the parsonage where I had passed all the happy days of my youth. Our drive through the familiar, rolling green hills and meadows, dotted with elms sprouting tiny new leaves of early spring, had inspired a
much-needed sense of peace and quiet within me. “It will be good to be home again.”
“Steventon is no longer our home,” Cassandra reminded me. “It belongs to James now, and has for quite some time. He may be pleased to host us, but I am not so assured of a gracious welcome from Mary.”
James’s second wife, Mary (my brothers seemed to make a habit of marrying women named Mary), was sister to our dear friend Martha Lloyd, and had been a favourite of my mother’s upon their marriage; but this Mary had proved herself to be a less than a congenial wife and stepmother. Mrs. James Austen seemed permanently scarred by her pock-marked face (ruined by smallpox) and by the knowledge that James had not only been married once before (his first wife had died, leaving a lovely daughter, Anna) but had also once had a passion for Eliza de Feuillide, now Henry’s wife.
Although James seemed content enough in his marriage, I believe the rest of the family shared my opinion that Mary’s jealous insecurities had rendered her irritatingly tactless, ill-tempered and overbearing, and she was less than kind to poor Anna. (Not to mention her greatest fault, in my eyes: she distrusted books, and read very few of them.) Still, despite complaints from my mother in her recent letters, I had hoped for a kind reception from Mary, considering that my mother had been ill, and had hoped to rest and recover in the home that had been hers for nearly four decades.
As we emerged from the coach, however, my mother swept through the front door and met us with open arms and a foreboding warning.
“How glad I am that you girls are here, at last! I have missed you so!” My mother embraced us in turn, wiping tears of joy from her eyes; then, glancing behind her to the open door, she added in a low voice, “Do not expect a hearty greeting from that Mary; she has been in a most foul temper all month.”
At that moment my young nephew Edward burst through the door, with all the energy and enthusiasm that a youth of nine can possess. “Aunt Jane! Aunt Cassandra!” cried he, throwing himself into our arms. “Wait until you see the fort that I have built in the garden! It is a marvel, and a most wonderful place. You shall tell me stories while you are here, will you not, Aunt Jane? There is a bird in a tree outside my window, which I have never seen before. You must come, Aunt Jane, and tell me what kind of bird it is.”30
I laughed, promising to tell him stories, and to look at the bird as soon as ever I could. My brother James welcomed us with his usual gravity, expressing concern that we had not been overtired by our journey. The other children soon appeared to greet us. Anna, at fifteen years of age, was a lovely, intelligent young woman of whom I was especially fond, and Caroline was a shy, darling little girl of four.
“La, and where are we to store all this,” cried Mary disagreeably, as the wagons containing all our worldly possessions drew up behind us.
“It will only be for a few months, dear,” said James. “I am certain we can find room in the shed and barn.”
As my mother expressed her great appreciation for their help during this interim period in our lives, Mary turned to my sister and me with a frown, and said, “You shall have to share one of the attic rooms, as your mother has already taken over Anna’s bed-room, and all the other rooms are spoken for.”
“I am certain we shall be very comfortable,” I replied. “We are indeed fortunate to have family to take us in so graciously.”
“Look what Aunt Jane and I found in the meadow to-day,” said Edward proudly at dinner that evening, as he opened his hand to reveal three tiny, empty robin eggshells for inspection.
“A fine addition to your collection, son,” observed James.
“Put those filthy things away!” cried Mary, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “We are at table! Last week, it was a dead mouse. Before that, the most grotesque beetle. The things that little boys will play with, it is absolutely appalling.”
Edward’s face fell, and he quickly replaced the offending objects in his pocket. James fell silent and busied himself with the task of eating.
“The boy delights in nature,” said I, with a reassuring smile to my nephew.
“He delights in vexing me,” said Mary. (Turning now to her step-daughter) “Anna, stop frowning! And sit up straight when you eat.”
“If she sits up any straighter,” declared my mother, “she will be standing.”
“I am only trying to make a lady of her, which is not easy, given her proclivity for indolence and self-indulgence.”
Anna’s face went scarlet with mortification at this statement; but before any of us could rush in to defend her (for Anna was, in fact, a very dutiful child, with a generous temper) Mary turned to Edward, who was just then serving himself from the dish of potatoes, and sternly cried, “One potato, Edward! There will not be enough to go around.”
There seemed to be plenty of potatoes. Edward faltered, then dutifully put one of his potatoes back, as Mary turned to my mother, my sister and myself with a tight, sweet smile. “How long did you ladies think you might be staying?”
“I feel like an unwanted parcel,” said I that evening, in the privacy of my mother’s bed-room, as she sat softly weeping.
“We all do,” replied Cassandra, unsmiling.
“Would it not be best if we went straight away to Godmersham, mamma?” I enquired. “Surely we would be more welcome there.”
“If only we could,” replied my mother, drying her eyes, “but I am not well enough to travel; my nerves would not be equal to the effort. I have been suffering from a fierce throbbing in my head of late, and six leeches a day for ten days together has done nothing to relieve me. I feel so languid, some mornings it is all I can do to climb out of bed; I fear for my liver. In my present state, even five minutes in a coach would probably be the death of me. So we must make the best of it, and remain here for another few weeks at least, I imagine. But a very, very hard thing it is, to stay where you are not wanted.”
On Sunday morning, as Carolyn and Edward, attired in their best clothes, waited impatiently in the nursery for their mother to finish dressing in order to depart for church, I entertained their earnest request to tell them a story. Anna, on passing by the room and overhearing the other children’s laughter, slipped in quietly to listen in the doorway. I quickly added a character of her name and description to the tale, which elicited from her a smile of quiet delight.
“When Anna opened her eyes, she thought herself in a great forest. But what seemed like trees were actually a bed of brilliant bellflowers. For the sorcerer’s potion had worked its wonders, and Anna was now no bigger than a dragonfly.”
Carolyn gasped. Edward laughed and shook his head. “Aunt Jane, that is impossible.”
“All things are possible, Edward, if only you believe.”
He fell silent for a moment, pondering that concept, and then enquired, “Do you mean to say, that if I believe in your story as you have told it, then it is as good as if it were true?”
“You understand my meaning precisely, Edward.”
He smiled.
“When she saw that she was even smaller than a flower, was she frightened?” enquired Anna.
“She was too amazed to be frightened. Most amazing of all was the tiny fairy prince she saw reclining in the fold of a bright green leaf, as if it were a sofa. He was very handsome, with thick golden hair and dark blue eyes, precisely the colour of the bellflower which he wore as a cap. “‘Welcome to my kingdom,’ said he in a deep, soft voice. ‘I am the Flower Prince. Will you join me in a cup of dandelion tea?’ ‘Join you in a cup of tea?’ enquired Anna in surprise. ‘Would that be to drink it, or to swim in it?’”
The children laughed. At that moment, their mother burst through the nursery door, dressed in her Sunday best, with a sour look on her face. “What is going on in here? What is all this laughter?”
“Aunt Jane is telling us a story,” answered Edward, attempting, without success, to hide his smile.
“It is the Lord’s day, not a day for stories and frivolity,” declared Mary sternly. “Come now, chil
dren. Let us to church.”
“But Aunt Jane has not finished,” cried little Carolyn in dismay.
“I shall finish it at bed-time,” I whispered solemnly, “I promise.”
At church, I was delighted to see Alethea Bigg and her sister Elizabeth Heathcoate in attendance. After the service (at which my brother James delivered a very fine sermon), while Elizabeth dashed off after her son William, who was hurling stones over the rectory wall at the grazing cows, Cassandra and I chatted amiably with Alethea. She reassured us that Harris and his wife and children were doing well, and that her sister Catherine, who had been married the previous October, was quite content in her newly betrothed state.
“I am so pleased for them,” said Cassandra.
“I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you two have returned to the neighbourhood,” exclaimed Alethea, “even if it is only for a short time.”
“The shorter the better,” said I, “for Mary has made it plain that she does not wish us here.”
“I always thought her a most disagreeable woman,” replied Alethea. “I wish I could invite you to stay with us at Manydown, but Elizabeth leaves tomorrow to visit friends in Sussex, and my father and I depart not two days hence on a holiday of some weeks.” All at once she let out a little gasp, and cried, “Oh! I have had the most inspired idea. You must both come away with papa and me!”
“Come away with you?” I replied in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“We are touring to the north; papa is resolved upon a sightseeing party, while he is still well enough to make the journey. The furthest destination is to be a stay of a week’s duration with my father’s cousin, Mr. Lucian Morton, a clergyman who resides in Brimington, in Derbyshire. I have never met the man, nor has my father, since he lives such a great distance away, but papa is anxious to make the acquaintance. From all accounts, Mr. Morton is a very decent sort of person and lives in a beautiful part of the country. I am certain he would be delighted to have two more ladies among the party.”