Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  Perhaps tomorrow.

  *****

  Despite my best intentions to remain aloof, I stand in awe of the Roman friezes, the intricate carvings at ceiling and fireplace, and the elegance of the Yellow and Chintz rooms. I hear that when Edward travels to his other house at Chawton, the governess and nineteen servants accompany him. He has much responsibility to manage his large estate and to see to it that the people who live and work here live well and work hard. I would not want such responsibility. Just a small house with Tom, one or two children, and a quiet garden will suffice.

  My favourite room at Godmersham is not surprising. It’s the library. As I find myself there, alone, I’m in awe that I stand in a room that possesses five tables, eight and twenty chairs, and two fires. I sit in a red velvet-upholstered chair with a book and decide that my largest goal during my visit will be to chuse a different chair each day until all are conquered.

  I should not be in here alone. Elizabeth invited some of her friends to call and they—along with Mother and Cassandra—are in the parlour having tea. I shall pay for my absence by receiving a tongue-lashing from Mother, a soft chide from Cassandra, and a cold shoulder from Elizabeth. And yet, am I not doing her a favour? She has made it quite clear that I disappoint in such gatherings because I don’t fawn and smile and chatter idle nothings for no reason. I know very well that both Elizabeth and her friends see us as the poor relations, and if Mother and Cassandra are willing to accept that role, I would rather be known as the eccentric Jane, off in her own little world. I don’t wish to be a part of this elite who come. And sit. Then go. I know I annoy Elizabeth in my refusal to defer. So it is. My world is more desirable than theirs. At least that is my opinion—albeit unsolicited.

  This is not the first time I have placed myself in this position. When we visit Mother’s brother in Bath, Uncle Perrot, and take the medicinal waters, we come in contact with the upper crust who run in my uncle and aunt’s circle. I find that enough of them is too much. Although their ways have been useful. I used some of their haughty solicitudes for Darcy’s sisters in First Impressions. If only people realized that everything they do, everything they say, is fodder for my stories. And for every slight, every double entendre, every bit of keen wit (or lack of it), my pen extends its thanks. I may not be one of them, but I see all of them. And write them. I dare not use any acquaintance through and through, but I do shop from their actions and character as if at the most extensive store in the land. If I ever do have one of my stories published, and if one of these acquaintances does happen to recognize a certain quality . . . Actually, knowing the unique workings of the human mind, they will probably be more apt to find themselves in places they have not been put. People are odd beings, seeing meaning where there is nothing to be seen and being blind to the obvious.

  My sister-in-law Elizabeth sees herself as lady of the manor. Although admittedly she does hold that title, I find it of interest that those with power and money do not always possess equal portions of intellect and good sense. Elizabeth is a very lovely woman, educated, though not, I imagine, the possessor of much natural talent. Her tastes are domestic, her affections strong, though exclusive. But she does not think to any great advantage. In the evenings, when grand discussions can be had, Elizabeth allows us to read to her—without comment—and Edward goes to sleep. If it were not for Father, I would die of inane conversation.

  And yet, there is also the opposite occurrence . . . to find a person pleasing when one does not expect to do so, when one has resigned oneself to desiring not to find a person pleasing . . .

  My admission of this sin applies to Mrs. Catherine Knight, the adoptive mother of my brother Edward. Before her husband’s death, she was the lady of Godmersham, and though she could have stayed on in that title, she stepped aside to allow Edward and Elizabeth free rein. She remains during our visit now but will take to her house in Canterbury as soon as it’s ready.

  I admit having apprehension in meeting her, assuming that she, having had more years practice as lady of the manor, would own a loftier air than our own Elizabeth. In that I am proven wrong. If ever there be a woman who deserves every elevation of status and position, it is Mrs. Knight.

  I experienced this firsthand this morning when I walked in the rose garden. I didn’t expect to find company there but turned a corner to see Mrs. Knight bending over a rosebush, snipping a pink bud.

  “Oh,” I said, all eloquence eluding me.

  “Miss Jane, how nice to see you this morning.” She motioned to the flowers. “Do you take to gardening?”

  “Only a little. It’s my mother who has the gift.”

  “Ah,” she said. “But you have other gifts, I hear.”

  I felt myself blush, hoping, but dare not assuming, she meant my writing.

  “Have you been published as yet?”

  I thought of the letter regarding First Impressions being returned to sender. “Not as yet.”

  “You must continue to try. It’s important for a young person to use their gifts. And it’s a parent’s responsibility to encourage the transaction.” She snipped another bud. “That is why I move.”

  I didn’t understand.

  At my silence, she gazed at me. “Your brother Edward must assume his rightful place as the head of Godmersham and all that that entails.”

  “He will do a good job of it,” I said.

  “He will do a better job of it with me absent. If I remain at Godmersham . . . although I would not mean to interfere, it would be a temptation. Yet a son must rise or fall on his own merits and does so best when unencumbered by the status quo—or by its mistress.”

  Her smile was delightful. As was her philosophy.

  “You are very generous,” I said. “And very wise.”

  She shrugged. “I seek to be both but assume to be neither. And I have arranged to be amply provided for from the estate. So you see my generosity is not without self-service.”

  Her honesty was disarming. “I stand by my statement.”

  She offered a little bow. “Thank you, my dear.” She scanned the garden. “Now. Which rose should we chuse next?”

  Yes indeed, my sister-in-law Elizabeth has much she can learn from this lady.

  As do I.

  *****

  Elizabeth gave birth to a child on the tenth of October. Her fifth child in six years, her fourth son. William. A good name. Full of history.

  Two weeks have passed since that happy occasion and it’s time to leave. I’m ready but for one point—Cassandra is staying behind to help with the new babe. And so I will return to Steventon alone, as my parents’ only company.

  And they as mine.

  Mother is not feeling well at the start of the trip. I suspect her glee at the endless pork, dumplings, and oyster sauce caused her to imbibe too freely—with bad results. I admit to my own temptation. When one is offered all form of succulent things . . . and it was not just at mealtime. Edward made it clear that whenever we wanted to eat or drink, we had only to ask a servant, who brought the item forthwith. One can easily get spoiled.

  But with our trip imminent, Mother rises to the occasion. Perhaps the anticipation of arriving home has heartened her indisposition. Although she insists on bitters and asks for bread to settle her stomach, they do their work and she survives and revives.

  We stop the first night at the Dartford Inn, and I half expect Mother to take to bed, but she does not. Although she does decide that she and I should share a room, leaving Father to have his own. I don’t object, as I suppose a man does need his space here and there. As it has been a happy trip so far, I will share the room without protest.

  I go up to settle in. Perhaps if it’s a quiet night, I can take some time to write. I enter the room and look for my writing box. It’s not there.

  And neither are the boxes of my clothes.


  I run down the stairs and find the innkeeper. “Sir, my boxes—two leather ones of clothes and papers, and a small writing desk—are not in my room.”

  He looks over my shoulder at the door leading to the street. “Hmm. They ain’t there neither,” he says.

  “Then, where are they?”

  He calls to a boy of about thirteen. “Joseph. Did you bring a wood writing desk and two leather boxes to the room at the top of the stairs?”

  It seems a stupid question. I have searched the room. They are not there.

  “Uh . . . no,” says the boy.

  The innkeeper shrugs. “Must still be in the carriage, then.”

  Good. They are found. “Can Joseph please fetch them and bring them up—”

  Mr. Nottley, our driver, overhears. “There are none left in the carriage, Miss Jane.”

  “Then, where . . . ?”

  The innkeeper points to the right. “Another carriage just left. When they was packing, maybe your boxes got mixed in.”

  My heart stops and I stare at him in utter incomprehension. “Left? Where is it going?”

  He rubs the stubble on his chin. “Gravesend, I think. The people what got on are sailing for the West Indies.”

  I feel faint, my head spinning. The man extends a hand, but Mr. Nottley steadies me first. He calls out for Father. “Mr. Austen! Your daughter! Sir!”

  Father comes running from up the stairs and helps me to a chair.

  “My writing, my desk, my work . . .” It’s all I can manage.

  “Her things are on a carriage heading to Gravesend,” says Mr. Nottley.

  “The West Indies,” I add. I find it hard to breathe. All my life’s work, galloping away, sailing away . . .

  “West Indies?” repeats Father. To the men he says, “You must apprehend that carriage at once!”

  “I can’na leave,” says the innkeeper.

  Mr. Nottley takes over. “I will send a man on horseback. We will retrieve them.”

  He leaves to save my worldly possessions. Although the clothing only counts for six or seven pounds, the work . . .’tis priceless to me.

  Mother appears from the parlour, where she had gone to ask after dinner. “What is all the commotion?”

  I cannot explain. It is my turn to feel ill.

  The innkeeper does it for me. “Her boxes got picked up by another carriage. Your man is going after it.”

  She sighs. “Well, then. It’s taken care of.”

  My breath leaves me and I offer her a look I know is unkind.

  “Well,” she says, looking away. “It is.”

  “Now, now, my dear,” says Father. “You must understand how distraught Jane is.”

  My anger gives me renewed strength and I stand. “If you will excuse me, I will watch for the horseman’s return at the window.” Mother wisely does not follow.

  My thoughts are not generous. That Mother only acknowledges crises if they are her own . . . that she can pass off the tragedy that would ensue—that might still ensue if the man does not catch up with the coach . . .

  It makes me wonder. Although she listens when Father and Cassandra implore me to read my stories aloud, I wonder—and this, not for the first time—if she really cares for what I write, or merely endures it, suffering the time as a disagreeable distraction from a more preferred activity.

  I hear her talking to the innkeeper. “Some boiled chicken would be nice. And beef. Might you have beef for dinner?”

  That she can eat—that she can always eat . . .

  I have no words.

  *****

  Praise God! My prayers are answered.

  The coach heading for the West Indies was only three miles away and was intercepted by the horseman. My possessions are returned. After offering profuse thanks to the horseman and Mr. Nottley, after personally seeing my belongings brought to my room, I close the door and assess the tragedy that was thwarted. I kneel on the floor and open the box that holds my manuscripts, old and new. Hours and hours, days and days of work. First Impressions is tied with a blue ribbon, Susan with green. And Elinor and Marianne—the book I work on even now, which I’ve renamed Sense and Sensibility—is in two stacks tied with red. One already edited and one yet to be.

  I slide a page from under the red ribbon and read.

  Elinor, this eldest daughter whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counselor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellent heart—her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn, and which one of her sisters had resolved never to learn.

  I read the last sentence again. It’s not quite right. Two learns too close together . . .

  I take the page to a desk by the window, get out my quill and ink, and change the last few words . . . had resolved never to be taught.

  Yes, yes. Much better.

  Since I’m seated and since my work lies before me, I chuse to continue my editing. Perhaps Mother will sit with Father by the fire for hours, allowing me some time to—

  There is a knock on the door. “Yes?”

  Father peers in, his eyes finding the lost boxes. “You have them.”

  “I have them.”

  “A happy ending, then?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Come down to dinner. Your mother has ordered quite a feast to celebrate your goods being returned safely.”

  I know my mother’s intent has little to do with the longing to celebrate and everything to do with the desire to appease her appetite.

  I glance at the page before me. “I would rather work . . . .”

  “All well and good, Jane, but you must eat. Eat first. Then I promise I will keep your mother occupied so you will have your time alone. Agreed?”

  Father is so dear. What would I do without him?

  *****

  Mother is ill. Heat in the throat and that particular kind of evacuation which has generally preceded her other illnesses. On the last leg of our journey, we have stopped just miles from home, in Basingstoke. Mother has insisted on seeing Dr. Lyford, and yet, as she sits with him, they discuss the merits of dandelion tea with as much ease as if we were visiting as friends, not patients. In addition, we hear all the news about King George, whom we had apparently just missed as he passed through town on his way back to Windsor. The King is not well either, but we hear it’s a problem of the mind more than the body. Although I don’t voice it to anyone else, I sometimes wonder about his ability to govern. Especially now with most of Europe under the thumb of the French. We stand alone against the revolutionary Republic. I would not worry even this much if not for Frank and Charles off in the navy and Henry connected to the army.

  I digress. Mother. The focus is on my mother and her sickness. Sicknesses.

  As I listen to her laugh and chat I find myself questioning . . . I should not think such thoughts. I’m not a doctor. And Dr. Lyford did prescribe twelve drops of laudanum at bedtime.

  We finish our visit and finally continue home. Home. There is no sweeter word. I could fill a page with but that word and it would still not collect the credit it’s due.

  Once there, Mother goes right to bed, leaving Father and me to unpack. Yet when James stops by from Deane to greet us, Mother rallies and has a good visit before returning to bed.

  I’ve been put in charge of her laudanum, which somehow pleases me . . . . I administer the twelve drops and she sleeps.

  As do I, though I need no medicine to attain that welcome state of peace.

 
*****

  I look at the clock. “But it’s three-thirty and she still sleeps,” I say to Father. The dinner sits on the table before us—set for three.

  Father puts a finger to his lips and with a glance upstairs says, “Don’t wake her. She must need the rest. Let’s you and I sup, just the two of us.” Although I feel a twinge of guilt, I accept his offer and even let him hold out my chair. He moves Mother’s dishes to the settee, making the table look right and complete for just us two.

  He sits. “There,” he says. “Now it’s a proper dinner.”

  Cook has watched all this from the doorway, a platter in her hands. Her face expresses her nervousness, as if she is unsure what to do without the lady of the house in attendance.

  “Come, now. Serve Jane and me your offerings. The mutton smells delicious.”

  So delicious I fear Mother will smell the aroma even in her stupor and come to join us. That I hope against this disturbs but does not stop the sentiment.

  Although Father and I have supped together before—when Mother and Cassandra visited relatives and family—it’s a rare treat, especially at this time, having just returned from many weeks of familial togetherness at Godmersham. To eat a meal, just two . . .’tis a luxury.

  “Well, then, Jane. Let us discuss the books we have read lately.”

  The highest luxury.

  *****

  I am fickle. I admit this as a fault.

  I return from Godmersham, put Mother to bed with her laudanum, and congratulate myself in the silence. With Mother abed, and Cassandra gone, I’m in control of the household—in control of my own time.

  But then Nanny Littlewart, our scrub, takes ill, so we have to hire two charwomen. We also hire a new maid who cooks well and sews well but knows nothing about helping Father with the dairy. She shall learn her new duties.

  As shall I.

  The control which I embraced with such glee after returning from Godmersham becomes tedious. Finding time to work on my stories? After writing to Cassandra, Mrs. Birch, my brothers . . . I am tolerably tired of letter writing. I miss the Dashwood women and dashing Willoughby and the quite amiable Edward Ferras. Even sharing company with the selfish, greedy Fanny holds an appeal. At this moment they pique my interest and vie for my companionship far more than any being of flesh and blood.