by Syrie James
As we strolled through the market-place, we passed several red-faced women in faded dresses purchasing bread and cheese, and two gentlemen haggling over the price of a brown mare; but most of the morning’s business seemed to have been completed. The crowds were mainly gathered around the cockfights, the wrestling matches, the traveling shows and the rope-dancers.
We stood watching a magician for some moments, amused more by the great oooohs and aaaahs emanating from the audience, than from the entertainment itself, when all at once Mr. Ashford let out his own brief exclamation.
“Look, there!” cried he, pointing out a gipsy tent with a sign which read, Palmistry.
“What? Do you mean the gipsy? Do not tell me you wish to have your fortune told?”
“No, I wish to have your fortune told,” said he, smiling; and, taking me by the hand, he began pulling me in that direction.
“Absolutely not!” I cried, laughing. “I would not waste a farthing on such nonsense!”
“It will be my farthing,” replied he, “or pence. Come on, Jane. You do wish to know what will become of your beloved novel, do you not?”
“Nothing will come of it,” I insisted, “and I do not need an old gipsy woman to crush my hopes, or raise them falsely.” But he was determined that I should go, and seeing no harm in it, I curbed my laughter and allowed him to lead me to the gipsy’s tent.
We entered through the open flap and found ourselves in a dim chamber, lit by several candles. I immediately discovered, to my surprise, that the gipsy was not the elderly, dark-skinned, wrinkled woman I had expected. Indeed, she had brown skin and dark eyes, but she could not have been more than five-and-twenty, and was extremely beautiful. She sat behind a small round table covered with a ragged blue cloth; several brightly coloured shawls were wrapped around her shoulders, and her voluminous black, curly hair flowed freely down her back, drawn off her face by a violet scarf.
“Come in,” she uttered in a voice of indeterminate accent, as sweet and musical in tone as the flow of river water. She indicated two chairs opposite her with a bejewelled hand. “Please, sit. Have you the coin?”
Mr. Ashford paid her fee, explained that I was to be the subject, and we sat down.
“Give me your hand,” said the gipsy, stretching her own towards me across the table. I removed my gloves and complied, sitting in silent, repressed amusement as she bent her head and studied my palm intently.
“There will be one true love in your life,” declared the gipsy.
“Only one?” I said lightly, with a glance at Mr. Ashford, who returned my smile.
“Just one.” She fell silent for a long moment, drawing her long, dark fingers along the lines of my palm, then said, “You have a good and clever mind. You think and feel deeply. May I see your other hand?”
I turned over my other hand and gave it to her. The gipsy stroked it.
“There is great energy in these fingers. I sense a heat, a magic in them.” She frowned of a sudden. “Your health line, I do not like the look of it, I do not like it at all. It is too short, and most uneven. But—how odd. Your life line is very long. It is the longest I have ever seen.” All at once, a look of awe crossed the gipsy’s face. She gasped aloud and gripped my hand so tightly as to cause me pain, staring at me in genuine wonder, as if I were the second coming. “You have a gift, my lady! A special gift!”
“I beg your pardon?” I replied, startled, as I struggled in vain to remove my hand from her rigid grasp.
“Madam,” said Mr. Ashford, concerned. “I believe you are hurting the lady.”
“You are not like others, I tell you!” cried she, her eyes wild. “You shall live for ever! You shall be immortal!”
“I see. Thank you. That is most interesting.” I yanked my hand back, my composure rattled.
“Go work your magic, my lady!” cried the gipsy, staring fiercely into my eyes. “Go! Share it with the world!”
The gipsy’s prediction was the subject of much scrutiny and discussion over the next few days. Mr. Ashford was most appreciative of the notion that I should have one true love in my life. Cassandra was concerned for my well-being, but Henry reassured her that he had read about such matters, and that a long life line always took precedence over a health line. Eliza thought it absolutely marvelous that I was to be immortal, and likened me to the Goddesses Diana and Aphrodite. For my part, I deduced that the gipsy woman was entirely mad, or had indulged in one too many nips of gin behind the tent that afternoon.
Mr. Ashford and I returned to the countryside later that week, where we rented a row-boat and floated lazily down the Thames, past thatched cottages, verdant meadows bright with wildflowers, and towering elms.
I sat in the seat across from Mr. Ashford, who had removed his coat and cravat on account of the heat. His sleeves were rolled up above the elbow, and his white linen shirt lay open at the neck, a sight which had brought a flush to my cheeks upon first viewing that had naught to do with the warmth of the summer sun.
“I have a confession to make,” said Mr. Ashford, as he propped up the dripping oars, allowing the little vessel to meander with the current at will.
“A confession?” I enquired languidly, my straw bonnet discarded, my face tilted up to the delicious heat of the cloudless blue sky.
“I have brought you out here to-day, in an effort to provide the very best setting imaginable while I impart some news.”
“Indeed?” From his veiled tone, I could not tell if I should expect to be thrilled or alarmed. “What news?”
“I received a letter this morning from Isabella. Her father returned from his voyage two days past. She has, at last, revealed her wishes to marry Mr. Wellington, and has introduced her father to that gentleman.”
I sat up straight, all attention. “And? What is the result?”
“The result is—these were not precisely her own words, but I think it best to paraphrase—that her father, although apparently gravely disappointed that she would dare to go against his choice, and uncomfortable breaking a vow of such long standing, found Mr. Wellington to be most agreeable. Swayed by their youthful protestations of love, he has given his approval to the match.”
A laugh of pure happiness bubbled up from my throat. “I cannot recall a time when I have ever been so delighted in the announcement of an engagement, particularly between two people that I know so little.”
Mr. Ashford laughed in return, and then grew serious, shaking his head with a sigh. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to be free, at last, of this burden which has been hanging over me for my entire adult life.”
“This whole affair only serves to emphasize how ridiculous and old-fashioned is the practice of the arranged marriage. How any one can have the nerve and audacity to think they know which two people are right for each other, or worse yet, to pair off a couple without their consent, is beyond my comprehension.”41
“I could not agree more. I can only hope my father will be as sanguine as Mr. Churchill when I tell him about us. I count the days until he arrives.”
“When do you expect him?”
“Early next week, according to his last letter.” He touched my cheek with his hand and regarded me very tenderly. “When I see him, my dearest Jane, do you know what I shall say?”
“How was your journey, father?” I replied lightly.
“I shall tell him that I am in love with the most wonderful woman in the world, and it is she that I intend to marry.”
I felt a gentle jolt run through my entire body, and thought it must be my heart, about to burst with joy; then I realised that our little vessel had nudged up against the shore, and had become lodged there, beneath the shade and cover of a weeping willow. Mr. Ashford shifted from his seat, and in an instant was sitting close beside me. With a slow smile, he whispered, “Jane. I just realised what I felt was missing from your book.”
“My book?” My book was the very last thing on my mind. The proximity of his thigh and shoulder to mine, the very nea
rness of his countenance, had caused my heart to beat too fast, and my thoughts to scatter to the wind.
“It is the ending. There is no kiss.”
“No kiss?”
“No.” His tone was deeply serious, but there was a teasing, affectionate look in his eyes. “Elinor gets her Edward. Marianne is consoled with good Colonel Brandon. But there are no verbal manifestations between these lovers, no physical demonstrations of any kind, and no kiss. It is a rather drastic omission in a book about love and courtship, is it not?”
“I prefer to write only about that which I have experienced,” said I. “And my familiarity with that subject, at the time of writing, was rather limited.”
“That is a situation we must remedy,” said he, and there, in the privacy of the leafy green bower, he brought his lips to mine.
It was quite some time before we spoke.
“In your next book, then,” said he at length, in a husky tone, “can we expect to see an increase in passion, and an expression of physical affection, between your hero and heroine?”
“I think not.”
“Why is that?”
“Some things,” I replied softly, “are best left to the imagination.”
Chapter Twenty-five
On the first of October, as I sat down to a lovely dinner in Henry’s dining-room with Mr. Ashford, Henry and my sisters, a very expensive-looking bottle of wine was produced, and Henry’s butler began pouring glasses all around.
“I brought a bottle of my finest red,” said Mr. Ashford, “as we have a toast to make.”
“A toast?” I said in surprise and alarm, wondering if Mr. Ashford had, after all, decided to reveal the secret of our engagement, even before his father’s return.
“Indeed. We have a momentous event to celebrate,” said Henry, darting a conspiratorial smile in Mr. Ashford’s direction.
“An extremely momentous event,” concurred Mr. Ashford.
“One which, I believe, will be of great interest to all assembled,” said Henry.
“It is a moment worthy of French champagne,” said Mr. Ashford, “but try as I might, a bottle could not be had for love or money.”42
“Oh! Look at them!” cried Eliza in irritation. “They are like two smug little boys, just bursting to tell a secret. Out with it, you men! What is going on? What have you been up to all afternoon?”
“What have we been up to?” rejoined Henry. “Why, we have been up to Whitehall.”
“What were you doing in Whitehall?” I enquired.
“Paying a visit to the offices of the Military Library,” said Mr. Ashford.
“Oh, dear,” said Eliza, with a bored roll of her eyes. “Please do not tell me that all this fuss is over some new client you have acquired from the army or the navy or Parliament for your banking establishment, Henry.”
“Hardly, my dear,” said Henry, eyes twinkling. “Go on, Ashford. This is your doing. You tell it.”
“Thomas Egerton of the Military Library is an old friend of my family.” Mr. Ashford glanced in my direction. “I brought him your book a fortnight ago, Jane.”
“My book? But why? What would a library want with an unpublished manuscript? Particularly a military library?”
“Because they are, as it happens, a publishing house—” Mr. Ashford began.
“A publishing house!” interjected Eliza, her eyes lighting up with new-found interest.
“They are known to have a keen eye,” continued Mr. Ashford, “and a predilection for a wide variety of subjects.”
My heart began to hammer in my ears. “But surely you do not mean—a military library would never be interested in—”
“They love your novel,” said Mr. Ashford, “and have offered to publish it.”
I stared at him in silent astonishment, simply stared.
“Are you quite serious?” cried Eliza. “Henry, is this true?”
“Every word, my dear.”
“Jane!” cried Cassandra, reaching for my hand. “How wonderful!”
“What? Have you nothing to say, sister dear?” enquired Henry, smiling. “No witty remark? No droll observation? Has the proverbial cat got your tongue?”
I could not speak. As I bathed in the warmth of the gazes that were turned upon me, every face filled with love and pride, a wave of heat flooded my body, and tears sprang into my eyes. I realised, of a sudden, that I had dreamt of this moment for nearly the entire length of my life. I had desired it, not knowing if it would ever be truly attainable, with a longing far deeper and more fierce than even I had ever imagined; as such, the true meaning of the event could not be grasped in such a brief space of time.
“Congratulations, Miss Jane Austen,” said Mr. Ashford, raising his glass to me, as the others followed suit. “You are to be a published novelist.”
“Do you realise what this means?” I said later, when Mr. Ashford and I found ourselves alone for a few moments in the back drawing-room, and I had thanked him profusely for his efforts in securing a publisher for my book.
“That hundreds, perhaps thousands of people will at last enjoy your work in print?” replied Mr. Ashford with a warm smile, as he sat beside me on the sofa, his arm resting cozily behind me.
“It is more than that.” I felt nearly faint with ecstasy, whether it was from the thrilling news of my impending publication, or from his nearness, I could not say. “It means, for the first time in my life, I shall earn money of my own. I shall be able to contribute to the income of my household, to buy gifts, to travel a bit without guilt, and I shall have more to give to charity. And perhaps, one day, if I am fortunate enough to sell other books, I may be able to support myself if the need arises.”43
“The need will never arise, my darling,” said Mr. Ashford, as he took me in his arms and kissed me.
At that moment, the drawing-room door flew open. We drew apart just as Marie, the French serving-woman, burst in, her face white with anxiety. “Monsieur Ashford, I beg your pardon, sir, but there is a gentleman at the door asking for you, and he will not come in. He seems in quite a state.”
Mr. Ashford and I hurried through the connecting passage, and found his man-servant, John, waiting outside the front door.
“Mr. Ashford, sir,” cried John, bowing and somewhat out of his breath. His hat was askew, his cheeks flushed and his hair wind-blown, as if he had been riding hard; I glimpsed his horse tethered just beyond.
“John! What is it?” asked Mr. Ashford.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I am sorry to be disturbing you, sir. But I was sent most urgently to find you, sir, by your father.”
“My father?” repeated Mr. Ashford in surprise.
“Yes, sir. He is arrived in town, sir, this afternoon. And he requests your presence at the house at once, sir.”
“Thank you, John. I shall be there directly.”
“Very good, sir.”
John returned to his horse and trotted off down the street. Mr. Ashford turned to me in excitement. “Forgive me, Jane. My father—”
“Yes, yes! You must go to him at once.”
“I must.” He took my hands in his. “I shall speak to him this very evening. And when I return tomorrow, we shall, at last, be able to announce our engagement.” Drawing me to him, he kissed me once more. “I love you, Jane.” And then he was gone.
The next morning, the legal documents arrived, containing the details of the proposed publishing agreement between myself and Thomas Egerton of the Military Library, a gentleman I had yet to meet.
As I sat perusing the agreement with Henry after breakfast, he said, “Mr. Ashford seems a most admirable man. And from an excellent family.”
“Indeed, he is.”
“You have been spending a considerable amount of time together.”
“Yes, we have.” I saw, from Henry’s expression, that he hoped for further confidence from me, and I was sorry to be obliged to disappoint him; but as I knew the disappointment would only be of short duration, I replied, with a modest
smile, “We are friends, Henry. I can say nothing more at present.”
“Friends,” he nodded, with a knowing look. “Of course.”
I turned my attention back to the document, and to a paragraph I found puzzling. “Henry, what does this mean? To be published on commission for the author at an estimated cost of two hundred pounds?”
“It means that Mr. Egerton, although willing to publish your book, is not enthusiastic enough to take any financial risk. In consequence, he requires the author to cover all expenses for printing, plus something towards advertising and distribution. In return, you are allowed to keep the copyright.”
I gasped in dismay. “Why has no one told me this? I cannot pay this sum! Two hundred pounds! Why, it is impossible!”
“There is no need to worry, Jane. The matter is taken care of.”
I stared at him in comprehension, then shook my head. “Henry. That is a great deal of money. I cannot allow you to finance the publication of my book.”
“I did not finance it,” said Henry, “although I was quite willing to do so. That help came from another quarter.”
“From whom?” I enquired, stunned, although I knew the answer before he spoke.
“Your friend,” said Henry pointedly. “Mr. Ashford.”
“What if the book is not a success?” I fretted that afternoon, as I sat with needle and thread, repairing a rent in one of my gowns.
“It will be a success, dearest,” replied Cassandra.
“But what if it is not? Two hundred pounds! The book will have to sell a great many copies to return such a sum. I shall scrimp and save every penny of my pocket money for the next two years. If it does not earn a profit, I will repay him.”
“I am certain he does not expect that. And as you are soon to be married, I cannot see what difference it will make.”
“Even so, I am determined. I wonder why I have not heard from him? He promised to call this morning, this afternoon at the latest.”