Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  ’Tis rude, but ’tis the truth.

  I’ve come to hope (strange but also true) that Mother will have more spurts of healthfulness than time in bed. Yet alas, so far it’s an idle wish. Mother has developed amazing symptoms, complaining of asthma, dropsy, water in her chest, liver disorder, and unsettled bowels. Poor Dr. Lyford. I fear he is quite perplexed, as the symptoms don’t match any known illness and change with distressing regularity. I make every attempt to be a good daughter, compassionate and kind, and for the largest part, I manage. As Mother comes up with ever more elaborate symptoms, there is humor in it, if one takes measure to seek it out.

  And so, as the only child at home, the only woman in charge, I indulge in an ample sigh, give orders in the kitchen, make the menu, oversee the cleaning, and make purchases usually left to Mother. The Overton Scotchman was kind enough to rid me of some of my money in exchange for six shifts and four pairs of stockings. The Irish is not so fine as I should like it, but as I gave as much money as I intended, I have no reason to complain. It cost me three shillings and six per yard. However, it is rather finer than our last, being not so harsh a cloth.

  Also with Mother indisposed, I am privy to Father’s dealings. Apparently he gave twenty-five shillings apiece for his last lot of sheep and is wanting to get some of Edward’s pigs—to which he was enamored on our visit to Godmersham.

  Yet it’s Father who saves me from total domestic oblivion. He has recently purchased Fitz-Albini, actually bought it against my private wishes, for it does not quite feel appropriate that we should purchase the only one of Egerton’s works of which his family is ashamed. That these scruples do not interfere with my reading can be easily believed. We have neither of us finished the first volume. Father is disappointed—I am not, for I expected nothing better. Never did any book carry more internal evidence of its author. Every sentiment is completely Egerton’s. There is very little story, and what there is, is told in a strange, unconnected way. There are many characters introduced, apparently merely to be delineated. We have not been able to recognize any of them hitherto, except Dr. and Mrs. Hey and Mr. Oxenden, who is not very tenderly treated.

  We have also bought Boswell’s Tour to the Hebrides and are to have his Life of Johnson; and, as some money will yet remain in the bookseller’s hands, it’s to be laid out toward the purchase of Cowper’s works. I look forward to that.

  So, in lieu of being allowed time to work on my own stories, I am privy to the stories of others. Whether they are worthy of my time, and whether I feel my own stories have as much merit as they . . . I cannot say the latter without boast, yet I do make the statement with fullest hope. One day. One day people may read my stories by the fireside after tea. And one day (I must acknowledge this next), they may complain and deprecate my attempts with as much vehemence, glee, and assumed superiority as is exhibited during literary discussion in our humble—but very opinionated—home.

  A bell rings from upstairs. It was Father’s idea to supply Mother with such a cruel instrument. One evening, when particularly tired, I plan to ask him, “What were you thinking?”

  Until then, I head for the stairs. “Coming, Mother.”

  Six

  I put the breakfast dishes in the cupboard. Nanny usually does this, but she is busy at the back door talking to a peddler. I’m glad she is finally well and able to ease my domestic burden. How I wish Mother would follow her example. Although I can excel at all things domestic, I’m not sure I would chuse to on a regular basis. It makes me wonder if I would make an acceptable mother and wife, taking care of family as well as house and keep up my writing. ’Twould be a challenge, no doubt. I take solace in knowing that since Tom has been called to the bar, he will be able to provide the servants needed to make a household run well.

  I hear Nanny talking, and the peddler stop, and the door close. I expect to see her come with the rest of the dishes. She does not.

  I call to her. “Nanny? Will you bring the teacups, please?”

  I hear the clinking of china. She appears in the doorway but, instead of entering, stops, as if venturing into the dining room would be painful.

  I feel my impatience rise. I have much to do. “Come, now. Bring them here.”

  She blinks, as if remembering the dishes in her hands. She brings them to the cupboard.

  “Did you make a purchase?” I ask.

  “No. We have no need for tin right now.”

  I nod. The conversation feels wrong. Nanny’s face is active, as if she has much more to say but the words cannot find exit. “Is there something else?”

  She draws in a breath, then lets it out.

  I set the last bowl in place and face her. “Nanny? Is something wrong?”

  Her eyes meet mine but for a second. “I heard news.”

  “From the peddler?”

  She nods. “He travels the county. Extensively.”

  I know this. Peddlers travel so we don’t have to. Better they battle the November chill than us. “And . . . ?”

  Her next sigh is one of surrender. “And he was at the Lefroys’ last week and your Tom was there at Ashe, visiting, but now he is gone and . . . well . . .”

  She didn’t need to finish.

  Tom was home and didn’t come the scant two miles here? To see me? Nor did he send word so I could go there, to see him?

  Nanny offers excuses. “Perhaps he was called away suddenly. Perhaps he had to go back to London to do . . . something.”

  “Perhaps,” I say. I glance at the teacups. “Will you finish?”

  “Of course.”

  I exit the room and find myself at the foot of the stairs. I turn full circle, unsure where to go. Father is in his office, the parlour is too open to whoever might walk by, the garden is cold and can be seen from the house, and my room upstairs passes by Mother’s room . . . .

  I need escape but have nowhere to go.

  My heart pounds in my chest. My throat is tight. Tears threaten.

  Needing solitude more than warmth, I grab my coat and bonnet and flee through the front door. To the left lies Steventon. I turn right. I turn away.

  I run down the lane.

  *****

  I refuse to let my mind grasp the news. And thankfully, it doesn’t fight my will. It thinks of nothing as I button my coat and tie my bonnet, as I dig my gloves from my pocket, as my lungs gasp for air, unused to movement beyond a stroll.

  A path leads to the left, off the lane. Fallen leaves try in vain to hide its existence. But I know this path. Since returning from Godmersham, I know many of the paths around Steventon that had previously been unknown to me. Who would suspect (not I) that I would discover the joys of walking alone at the age of twenty-three?

  Perhaps those walks were but a preamble to today’s excursion, a subtle gift from God, preparing me for my present need for escape by showing me the way . . . away.

  But no. Surely God could not be involved in this awful day.

  Suddenly, my mind tosses aside inane busyness and grabs on to the awful news, forcing me to stop my walk and seek the stump of a tree for support.

  I sit heavily, as if the news has added weight to my being. Tom was here and did not seek me out. Did not send a message. Did not send an invitation.

  Did not want to see me.

  “But I’ve been waiting.”

  My plaintive words assail the air in awful desperation. And truth.

  For I have been waiting—nearly three years waiting.

  I shake my head, finding the ideas unacceptable. As Nanny said, there has to be a reason. A good reason. What Tom and I experienced that Christmas season at the balls . . . it was not nothing. It was special. It was meaningful. We had exchanged much more than simple pleasantries. The way he looked at me—really looked at me—far more intently than any man had ever done. He made me bl
ush, feel beautiful, and feel loved.

  Were those feelings misguided? Am I completely ignorant of what is real and what is false?

  No. I cannot be so naïve. I write about love every day. I recognize what it is and how it comes about. I cannot be mistaken about this. I cannot.

  There has to be good reason Tom did not come to call.

  I stand and head back home. Somehow, I will find out why.

  *****

  I sit at my desk, paper and quill in hand, ready to write to whoever is capable of ending my pain and offering me the happiness I seek.

  Yet I have no idea how to find the truth. I cannot write to my dear friend Anne Lefroy—who is Tom’s aunt—and blatantly ask her about Tom. The very fact she has not contacted me . . .

  And though I’m tempted, I cannot lower my dignity and spill my heart to Nanny and ask her to tap into the servants’ grapevine. I will not become a morsel of Hampshire gossip.

  Mother is enraptured within her own play, enjoying her part as the invalid. And Father, though dear in his own right, is not one I can go to about issues of love.

  I need Cassandra. I need her here. Hasn’t Elizabeth had her in Godmersham long enough? William is a month old and by all accounts hale and hearty. Surely, with all their servants, with the help of the governess, with the help of the other children, and Edward, and Mrs. Knight, Elizabeth can relinquish the one person I have to turn to for comfort. Cassandra is my confidante, my life’s constant, my sister, my friend, and alas, in many ways, my mother. Only she knows my true heart. Only she is aware of my true love for Tom and how I’ve waited. She knows every detail of what transpired between us that Christmas and has agreed we are engaged in all ways but public declaration. If she had not believed it so, I trust with my true heart she would have set me right by now. Sisters do such things for each other. Sisters help each other see the truth, no matter how painful.

  The fact she has not set me right means I am correct in my thinking. Tom and I are to be married.

  Aren’t we?

  Nanny knocks on my door with a letter. “It come by courier, Miss Jane.”

  I recognize the hand. It’s from Anne Lefroy. “Thank you, Nanny.”

  She does not leave. “The courier says he’s to wait for a reply.”

  I nearly tear the page undoing the seal. The note is short: I would love to come call, tomorrow at ten? Send word with the courier. I so long to see you, dear Jane.

  “Tell the courier I look forward to Mrs. Lefroy’s visit tomorrow at ten.”

  Nanny’s eyebrows rise; she dips a quick curtsy and leaves the room.

  I read the note again. My heart is light. All will be well.

  *****

  Anne takes my hands and kisses my cheek. “Dearest Jane. How have you been?”

  I help her remove her coat and brush off the snow, and lead her to the parlour. “I’ve been tolerably well—but chilly. Come sit by the fire and warm yourself. I’ve asked for some hot chocolate, for I know how much you enjoy it.”

  “I do. How special.” She sits in the wing chair by the fire, leaning close, extending her cold hands.

  For her to come visit, in spite of the snow . . . she must deem the task most important to risk cold feet and hands. I have high hopes for the visit. Since she befriended me when I was only a child, our relationship has been special. To me, Anne embodies the ideal woman: wise, compassionate, witty, courageous, and utterly at ease with herself and everyone else. Anne, from the well-placed Brydges family, is as much at ease with me, a lowly parson’s daughter, as I imagine she is with the King. There is no pretension within her, no tension about her. Beyond Cassandra, she is my dearest friend.

  A friend who is here to tell me about Tom?

  I am quick to mentally say, I hope so, yet I immediately withdraw from the bravado. To know . . . in mere moments I might be drawn to the highest heights.

  Or plunged to the lowest depths.

  A frightening thing, to know.

  Suddenly, I want to flee, to leave my guest, run upstairs, slam shut my door, and dive under the covers where nothing ill can reach me. I feel the child again, afraid of the dark, of unseen monsters, and of any truth that dare threaten my happiness.

  “Jane?”

  I’ve not been listening. “Yes. Sorry.”

  “I asked after your mother. Is she doing better?”

  Talk of family was a good tack. Talk of family would open the door to talk of her nephew . . . “She has her good days and bad, often according to the weather or what I’ve cooked for dinner.”

  “Ah,” says Anne. “And Cassandra? When will she return?”

  “Not soon enough. I miss her terribly.”

  “For your sake, I also wish she were here. I know she is such a comfort to you.”

  Her words take me aback. And why will I need comfort? When I next look at her, she quickly averts her eyes. My stomach clenches.

  She is your dearest friend. Just ask what she means.

  My heart beats at a higher rhythm as I seek courage. Three words. All I need say are three words: How is Tom? Yet to say them could open a floodgate of other words, other questions: Where is Tom? Why didn’t he come to see me? Please tell me a reason why he could be so close, yet not seek me out. Please make the world all right.

  “My husband and I are planning a trip to Italy,” Anne says. “I’ve always wanted to see Rome. Remember that book we looked at when you were small? The one with the drawings of the Colosseum and St. Peter’s?”

  I nod and realize the conversation has moved on from inquiries after our family’s health and activities to things far removed from Steventon and Ashe. Far removed from Jane and Tom. From love. From engagements. From marriage.

  I realize I’ve been distracted again when Anne repeats, “Remember, Jane? Remember the wonderful visits we’ve had?”

  “I remember them all.”

  She reaches across the space between us and touches my knee. “You have always been very special to me and I love and cherish you as a daughter—as more than a daughter. As a friend.”

  Her eyes are intensely blue and full of sincerity. But something else. There’s a desperation there, a request, a plea . . . for me to understand something beyond her words? The very fact she is not speaking of Tom when he has so recently visited is telling. The normal aside, “And we had the most delightful visit from Tom,” is absent, the natural sharing of visits past giving way to future travels.

  A diversion. An act of mercy?

  I pull from a store deep inside. “When do you leave?”

  “Soon, soon,” she says, leaning back, looking at the fire again. She is more relaxed. My response has given her indication that the conversation has been successfully turned. “None too soon.” She offers me the quickest glance. “I am weary of family right now, of wishing they would . . . or would not . . .”

  Ah.

  She pulls out a letter. “But here. I have news from a mutual friend, Samuel Blackall.”

  I cringe. Last January, people tried to pair me with this man—who made it very clear that he was in want of a wife because he was getting his own parish. He much liked the sound of his own voice and blessedly did not seem in dire need of hearing mine. Yet he made it very clear that I should be greatly honoured at his attention—and intention.

  I was not, although I did find our meeting profitable. My Mr. Collins in First Impressions benefited much from the flaws and foibles of the forward Mr. Blackall. And though I did not find myself affronted with such a direct proposal as my poor Lizzy, I allowed her to say what I would have said if Mr. Blackall had been given the chance.

  Which he was not.

  And now, for Anne to want to read to me any letter containing a single one of his words . . .

  Yet as she continues, I recognize the le
tter for what it is—another distraction. And so I accept it as such.

  Anne adjusts the letter to the light. “Here it is. Mr. Blackall says, ‘I am very sorry to hear of Mrs. Austen’s illness. It would give me particular pleasure to have an opportunity of improving my acquaintance with that family—with a hope of creating a nearer interest. But at present I cannot indulge any expectation of it.”

  I feel my eyebrows rise. This is good news. I had expected to hear Mr. Blackall’s entreaty for a deeper bond, the thought of which had the power to send me abed next to Mother. “Ah,” I say.

  “You are not distressed?” asks Anne.

  “I will survive the disappointment. It’s most probable that our indifference will soon be mutual, unless his regard, which appeared to spring from knowing nothing of me at first, is best supported by never seeing me.”

  She smiles, and through her smile I distinguish her true motive. Although I have been spurned by two men today, one was by choice, and that knowledge offers some—however small—satisfaction.

  Father chuses this moment to come into the room, carrying a book. “Well, well,” he says upon seeing Anne. “What a delight! Jane told me you were coming to visit, but I had forgot. Forgive me, dear Anne, for not welcoming you sooner.” They exchange kisses to their cheeks. “And how is the family? I hear your nephew Tom was at Ashe. Is he well? How are his studies progressing?”

  I must have gasped because both Anne and Father look at me before returning to their dialogue.

  “He is well,” says Anne.

  She avoids my eyes; I know she does.

  She continues. “He has finished his studies, and after his visit, he returned to London. From there he is going back to Ireland to begin his career in law.”

  “My, my. All grown up.”

  “In some ways,” says Anne.

  She looks at me now, and I read the disapproval in her voice. I see the compassion in her eyes.