Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  “’Tis the law,” Father says.

  “’Tis a ridiculous law,” I say.

  “The law is not the concern,” Cassandra says. “She didn’t do it. She couldn’t.”

  “She would not,” Mother says. “She and Perrot have plenty of money. She buys what she wishes when she wishes.”

  “I agree,” Father says, perusing the letter again. “Something is not right here.”

  Mother stands. “What is not right is that my brother’s wife is in gaol.”

  Father clarifies. “She’ll be staying in the gaoler’s house in Ilchester until the trial.”

  “When will that be?” I ask.

  “Months. They fear months.”

  Mother looks at Cassandra and me. “You girls. You must go, be with her. Comfort her in this difficult time.”

  “Perrot has moved in with her,” Father states.

  “’Tis not enough. She must feel the arms of our family embracing her. Girls! Go ready your trunks at once.”

  Cassandra and I look at each other, and my sister’s unnerved look certainly mirrors my own. Mother wants us to go to gaol with our aunt? We both look to Father, who blessedly takes Mother’s arm, stopping her traverse from the parlour up the stairs to make ready for our trip.

  “Now, now, dear. We cannot send the girls. Perrot says the conditions are crude, the gaoler’s children loud and unruly . . . and perhaps the comfort we imagine from such an arrangement would be more an imposition—”

  “Ridiculous,” Mother says. “The girls have always been a relief to any in the family who need comfort. Besides, we have both heard stories regarding women of status committing suicide after being accused of shoplifting.”

  Cassandra draws a breath. “Surely not!”

  Mother considers this but a moment. “I would hope not. And I do suppose Aunt’s fortitude and courage will prevent her from even thinking of such a thing.”

  I could add the traits gumption, self-importance, and pride to the list but remain silent.

  She moves toward the stairs. “Cassandra, is your blue dress mended?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  Father interrupts. “My dear, you must not rush into such a thing. You must give us time to carefully consider and—”

  Mother throws up her hands. “Fine. To satisfy you, I will write first and make the offer. Both girls. Or at least one.”

  She departs the room to do just that, leaving the three of us recovering in her wake.

  I am the first to speak. “Father, although I wish to help . . .”

  He raises a hand, stopping further explanation. “I will not send you unwisely, Daughters. I promise you that.”

  I’m relieved. Father always keeps his promises.

  *****

  I ask for God’s blessings on crude gaolers’ houses and gratitude for the wisdom of Aunt Leigh-Perrot. For in spite of Mother’s offer that Cassandra and I join our aunt’s misfortune as she resides at the gaoler’s house, and possibly attend the very trial in which she is accused, Aunt mercifully declines. “I will not allow these elegant young women to suffer at my side.” Our wave of relief is drenching.

  And our aunt’s defense counsel is traitorously inept. His name is Joseph Jekyll, and he himself spreads gossip that she is guilty of the crime to which she is charged and is, in fact, a kleptomaniac. He also very vocally shares his opinion that Uncle Perrot is far too submissive to his demanding wife.

  The latter holds a modicum of truth, but the former is completely false.

  Or so I believe.

  That I even consider the possibility that Aunt would steal disturbs me. I couch these traitorous thoughts in the possibility that Aunt put the white lace amidst her purchase of black lace without thinking. A mistake by a woman who by these very eyes has been seen to pick up numerous items for her perusal as she shops while keeping up a lively banter with whomever her companion might be, as well as the clerks who flock to her service. If she is guilty, it’s surely an inadvertent gaffe.

  I keep all these doubts and dealings to myself. I will allow justice to be done—if there is such a thing. The punishment of death or banishment for so small a theft? I know God’s commandments. I hold close “Thou shalt not steal,” but imposing the same harsh penalty for theft as for murder? This is truly absurd. I pray that someday men in power will remove this offense to common sense. Perhaps as the century turns over . . .

  1800. I still find it difficult to write the number, and too many letters suffer a smudge as I err on the date. This change of year from one century to the next is sobering, as if something more is expected from each of us, as if the chasm between December thirty-first and January first is deep and wide, and in order to pass over it one must take stock with self-probing questions:

  What have I done with my life?

  What shall I do with the rest of it?

  Unfortunately, at age four and twenty I find my life distressingly devoid of measurable accomplishment.

  I am not married.

  I have no home of my own.

  I have no children.

  I write novel after novel . . .

  But to what avail? Beyond family—who patronize me, albeit with love—who cares? Will anyone ever care? Will anyone ever hold a book by Jane Austen in their hands?

  Yet during such times of doubt I remember the failings of Aunt Cooke’s Battleridge and deduce that if that book can be published, then surely . . .

  It’s an arrogant thought, full of traits I’m most apt to shift upon others than accept as my own, traits unconscionable and unflattering as we begin a new century.

  And yet I own them and own the dream that someday my writing will matter to someone beyond myself. If that reveals a pride unbecoming . . . ?

  I accept the fault, even as I dream the dream.

  *****

  For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more.

  I grew up with that verse ringing in my ears. Father still uses it in many a sermon and, more importantly lives the words, inspiring us to do the same.

  As I do today.

  I bundle against the cold, grateful it’s not snowing. We have done our own suffering in the rectory this winter, with cold drafts and too much snow. And James broke his leg and now cannot get out at all—even though he told Aunt Leigh-Perrot that he and Mary (as the heirs) would attend the trial. That is not to be.

  There are so many not-to-be’s during a hard winter. Not-to-be’s, not-to-do’s, and being-too-much—together, that is. It’s a strain upon the most loving family to be with one another too much. The knowledge that one cannot escape, cannot venture out for a walk, an errand, a visit, or a dig in the garden accentuates the condition and makes the walls tilt inward, the ceiling loom low. Air! I need air!

  That is one reason why I venture out today. E’en though the air be bitter, the sky is blue, and the sun shines (I wish to ask the Almighty about this dichotomy when the chance arises). I carry a basket of bread, some baby clothes Mother has made, and a small blanket I’ve bound. The items will surely not revoke troubles but may ease a few.

  The poor are dissatisfied with good reason. Wheat will not be cheap this year, and every other necessary of life enormously dear. The poor man cannot purchase those comforts he ought to have: beer, bacon, cheese. A lack of firewood has even caused the death of a few elderly. Can one wonder that discontent lurks in their bosoms? I cannot think their wages sufficient, and the pride of anyone is hurt when they are obliged to ask for relief. That they can receive what is offered . . . I’m sensible to the task in their acceptance. I wish I could do more.

  I know all the families in Steventon—over thirty there are—and am aware of many sufferings. But today I go to the Wilson family, where
Agnes Wilson bore her sixth child just three months ago. No mother leaves her house—or even her room—before a month has passed, but with the cold, Agnes’s confinement has surely been forced.

  The leafless trees that edge the house are mournful, and I hear a baby cry inside. I knock on the door.

  Mr. Wilson answers, barely cracking the door against the cold. His face is flushed and it takes him a moment to realize who has come. “Ah. Miss Austen.”

  I lift my basket for him to see. “I come with a welcoming parcel for the new child—and for its family.”

  A little girl squeezes in front of her father, eyeing me, then the basket.

  “Come in,” Mr. Wilson says.

  The front room is dark—which strikes me as odd, considering the sunny day, but then I see that a quilt has been tacked against the window, against the cold.

  Four other children rally round the basket, and I realize I could be invisible for all they care. ’Tis the food they want.

  ’Tis the food they will get—though I set it on the table near their mother, who holds baby number six at her breast. I’m ashamed I don’t know its name. I remove the basket’s outer covering. Upon sight of the bread, the children go, “Ahh!”

  I pull out the baby clothes and blanket. “I hope these can be of some use,” I say.

  Agnes smiles and pulls the baby from her breast, buttoning her dress. “You are so kind. Sit, Miss Austen. Please, sit. Would you like a warm drink?”

  I do sit but decline the drink. I don’t wish to take anything from what must be meager stores. “May I hold the baby?” I ask. It has the look of a boy. “What is his name?”

  “John,” she says and hands the baby over. Just fed, he fits nicely into the crook of my arm and looks up at me with brown eyes. I run a finger along his cheek, marveling once again at a baby’s intrinsic softness.

  “Shoo, children,” Mr. Wilson says.

  “We want bread!” the eldest says.

  “Later.”

  I know I am the cause of the delay, and I vow to leave as quickly as is polite. But then Mr. Wilson sits down too. “Wife here has been longing for news of the town—gossip I calls it but—”

  “Jack!”

  “Gossip I calls it and gossip it is, but if it will make you happy, I’m not too proud to ask Miss Austen for a bit of it. After all, we do know we are surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies. Might as well get some fun from it.”

  I try to think of something that will ease Agnes’s boredom and curiosity. “My brother Henry was in Ireland for seven months and met Lord Cornwallis and—”

  “Ain’t he the Governor-General of India?” Mr. Wilson asks.

  “He is.”

  “Then, what’s he doing in Ireland?”

  I have to think. “Quelling the rebellion, I believe.” I realize a political discussion will serve no one well, so I move back to talk of Henry. “My brother arrived back in London this January. Unfortunately, his wife’s young son is not doing well.”

  “I is sorry to hear about the boy,” Agnes says. “What’s wrong with ’im?”

  I regret mentioning Hastings’s problems, yet have no recourse but to reply. “He has fits.” It’s as concise as I can put it.

  Agnes nods. “We’ve known one like that. The fits made the child less than whole.” She taps her head. “It often seems like mental and bodily sufferings are closely sewn.”

  She speaks the truth. I try to think of news less melancholy. “My brothers Frank and Charles are at sea, and Frank is near Egypt and is a commander and—”

  “Have you heard about Lord Lymington?” Mr. Wilson asks.

  “No, I haven’t.” I have not thought about the Portsmouth family in many years. The eldest boy, Lord Lymington, was a pupil of Father’s before my birth. I heard about his stuttering and how he was taken out of school and sent to London to be cured. I didn’t know the results but found it telling that only his two younger brothers went to Eton for their education.

  Mr. Wilson leans closer. “Apparently the family married him off to a woman aged forty-seven—and him only thirty-two.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  Mr. Wilson and his wife exchange a glance. “Sounds to us like they want to make sure he don’t get any children out of the match. Not that Lord Lymington knows the what-all about that.” He checks to make sure no children are listening. “It’s said he thinks it takes fifteen months to born a baby.”

  “He’s obsessed with funerals too,” Agnes whispers. “Likes the servants to make a play of it. And then he beats them.” She shudders.

  Mr. Wilson continues. “He don’t keep track of his own finances neither. Some bigwig does that for ’im.” He sits back. “Seems to me the family is fixing things so the second son can inherit.”

  I have no notion what to say. Such gossip is far from edifying, yet rings true with what I’ve heard. I manage to say, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Mr. Wilson flips a hand. “No sorriness here, not for the likes a ’im. No man like that should inherit Hurstbourne Park.”

  Blessedly, the baby in my lap cries, allowing me the chance to leave. I stand and offer little John to his mother. “I’ll be going now. I’d like to get home before it snows again.” Too late I remember the sunny day.

  I’m let out with the Wilsons’ thanks for the contents of my basket. I notice that while visiting, the sun has disappeared and it does look like snow.

  By whatever excuse, I am more than ready to return home to the rectory, which has the blessing of owning a place in neither the high nor the low of society.

  The middle ground is far good enough for me.

  *****

  Father bursts in the front door as Cassandra and I set the table. Mother helps him off with his coat. “Gracious, George, what’s wrong? You’re flushed.”

  Coat removed, he faces us. “She is innocent!”

  We don’t need an explanation of who “she” is.

  “Aunt’s trial is over?” Cassandra asks.

  “James and Mary are back from the trial. I passed them coming home from the church.”

  “Why didn’t they stop?” Mother asks.

  “James is exhausted. For him to travel with a broken leg to support Aunt Leigh-Perrot . . . he said he will come call tomorrow.”

  Mother pouts. “I would have liked to hear from him directly.”

  Father cocks his head. “Would you rather wait, then?”

  We all exclaim, “No!”

  Father is appeased and continues. “The jury was only out ten minutes.”

  Mother leads him to a chair. “Details. We need more details.”

  We all sit as Father’s audience.

  “Even though Aunt Leigh-Perrot had counsel—”

  “Mr. Jekyll, who speaks against her,” I add.

  Father sends me a look to be silent. “Mr. Jekyll was not allowed to argue in her defense.”

  “Then, what role did he—?” Mother asks.

  Father raises a hand. “At first. He was not allowed at first. It started with Miss Gregory of the store, who had brought the charges. She gave her account, stating how Aunt stole the lace, how she trembled from fright when she was confronted, how her face turned red.”

  “I would be frightened too if accosted in such a way,” Mother says. “Falsely accused by some crazed woman on the street?”

  Father sighs, and it’s obvious he desires our silence but has resigned himself to our commentary.

  “Then it was brought to the court’s attention that the shop’s clerk, Charles Filby, had been bankrupted three times, and there is evidence that seven other customers have found extra items in their purchase bundle—luckily all returned before they were stopped and accused. That is when the tide changed.” He nods once with
satisfaction. “Aunt Leigh-Perrot was allowed to speak in her own defense.”

  Having witnessed many speeches by my aunt, I guess the implication of this statement. “She was eloquent, no doubt?”

  “Indeed she was. According to James, before her discourse was complete, there were many tears in the room—from men as well as women.”

  Mother puts a hand to her bosom. “Whatever did she say?”

  “She spoke of her lifelong reputation and how she would neither risk it nor bring pain to her devoted, loving husband—who apparently sobbed during her monologue. He had to cover his face with a handkerchief so she could continue.”

  The thought of Uncle Leigh-Perrot with a cloth over his face nearly brought a smile. Nearly.

  “Then she brought many witnesses to defend her honour.” Father shrugs. “And that was that.”

  Mother takes a deep breath. “That is quite enough, I would say.”

  Father stands. “I am sorely hungry.”

  We get back to our tasks. And as I place the plates, my thoughts apply themselves to the fact that the deplorable situation just visited by my aunt and uncle has done nothing to dispel my opinion regarding the littleness of Bath.

  To live here, in sane and reasonable Hampshire, is a blessing beyond measure.

  *****

  Summer goes on, as summers do, and I am happy with visits from family—until Edward takes Cassandra home with him. Elizabeth has born herself a namesake and needs help. To the rescue, Cassandra! But the Elizabeths’ gain is my loss, and at the end of October, I pretend to be happy that the weather is fine for my sister’s journey, but only for her sake, not mine. The sun may be shining, but my heart is overcast.

  I wander the rectory with the need to once again gauge and measure this home as it holds one fewer Austen. Where the walls should feel expanded with extra room, they lean close. I know it will take days to push them back again, yet I’ve done it before. It seems Cassandra is perpetually needed somewhere not here; her ability to be calm in the face of chaos, to partake of the what-needs-to-be-done items of any household, makes her presence worth more than gold or fine silver. I, owning no such attributes, am left behind. To fend. To make do. To suffer at her absence.