Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  I find it harder and harder to play nice with visitors, or to even wish for their presence. I am content to escape to my high room and bar the door from all who would call and interrupt my . . .

  What do I do up here?

  Pout.

  I pout.

  And conspire regarding how to bring justice to my plight. Perhaps if I run away, back to Steventon, and put a herb in the tea of the new tenant to the farm, Mr. Holder . . . with Martha’s knowledge of medicinal preparations, she could offer advice for something that would make him ill. Not deathly, just ill enough to find that taking on the trials and tribulations of a new farm is beyond his bearing.

  To relieve him of his plight, he would beg my father to return.

  Oh, the satisfaction I will have moving Mary’s possessions from the rectory and onto the road. Once they are cleared, I will march inside, give her the smallest curtsy as my farewell, and shut the door.

  Actually, Father and Mother don’t need to come back with me. I will live there alone. Or with Cassandra. The two of us could make do. Somehow.

  I know it’s folly and a waste of time and energy. I should be writing.

  I peer at my trunk of manuscripts but cannot bring myself to open its lid and take them out. I’m not sure why I’m so restrained. Is it because my thoughts are disjointed, flitting from this to that without lighting for more than a moment? Is it because my emotions are raw and as variable as my mother’s taste in real estate? Is it because I feel inept at creating a satisfactory story for my characters when I cannot even create a satisfactory story for myself? Is it because I’ve no confidence in my own desires? After all, my desire to stay at Steventon meant nothing to the world. Why should I believe my desire to be published carries any more weight or is any more valid?

  I know the answer lies in all those reasons, and their overhanging presence is a cloud that threatens to push me lower and lower into a place . . .

  From which I dearly hope I can recover.

  *****

  I’m bad. Very bad.

  Mother has just told me the news that Marianne Mapleton has died. When we last visited Bath, I privately disparaged the girl, saying she was not one I wished to nourish as a dear friend.

  And now she is gone.

  “How?” I ask.

  “She had a bilious fever. She was believed out of danger on Sunday, but a sudden relapse carried her off the next day.” Mother shakes her head. “Such a kind girl. The most beautiful. Intelligent. And charitable too, I hear.”

  “It seems you have all manner of attribute covered.”

  “You wish to dispute me?”

  “No, no, Mother. It’s just that . . . I find it interesting that on early death, many a girl has been praised into an angel. Many on slighter pretensions to beauty, sense, and merit than Marianne.”

  At first, she does not respond. Then she says, “Bitterness does not suit you, Jane.”

  I pull within an extended breath, knowing she is right and wondering why this new, bitter Jane has emerged.

  But I know the answer to that.

  *****

  They have arrived! My loneliness is over!

  I hug Father and smell the musk of his travel that is accentuated by the warm days of June. But it’s Cassandra I need to embrace, and I go to her and cling to her as a drowning woman clings to a buoy in the water.

  “I’m so glad you are here,” I whisper in her ear.

  “As am I,” she whispers back.

  Mother waves a handkerchief at the door. “Yes, yes, my turn now.”

  She embraces the travelers and leads them inside her brother’s home—which will certainly be filled to capacity with the number of guests suddenly doubled. Secretly I hope Mother and Aunt feel the tightness of the air. Perhaps it will be instrumental in nudging our removal from this place to a place of our own. I do so desperately wish for such a place in hopes that somehow, once settled, I will regain a notion of my former contentment.

  I fear I will not.

  But hope I will.

  *****

  We have found lodging!

  It’s more expensive than what Father originally wanted to spend, but at least it’s not too cramped. Nor too damp. But I worry. He embraces optimism again, yet our finances seem to state he should be holding on to what he can, buttoned tight within an inside pocket.

  No. 4 Sydney Place is only nine years old and faces Sydney Gardens. Our rental stands in a row of terraced houses that are four stories tall. The city, with its Pump Room and commerce, stands close across Mr. Pulteney’s bridge along the wide Great Pulteney Street.

  Out the back is land that is (so far) undeveloped, offering us at least a glimpse of green country vistas. Like those we left behind in Steventon? Far from it. Perhaps if I squint my eyes when taking perusal of the green, I can imagine and remember . . . .

  “There!” Father signs the papers in Uncle’s study with the solicitor. “Three years accounted for.”

  “Accounted for?” I ask as he comes into the hallway.

  “Leased. We are leased for three years.”

  My legs are weak. I lean against the wall, making a painting of St. Paul’s Cathedral go askew.

  “Jane? Are you unwell?”

  Completely. Absolutely.

  Cassandra takes my arm. “Come. Let us get some air.”

  She leads me outside, and after a few breaths I do feel better. Physically.

  But emotionally?

  “Are you all right now?” asks Cassandra.

  I ignore her question for one of my own. “Three years? We are to be in this detestable place three years?”

  Her look is quizzical. “Father is retiring here. You knew that, Jane. The lease should not be unexpected.”

  And it isn’t. If only I will admit as much.

  I take her arm and walk. “I, more than anyone, know of their commitment here. But hearing the words: three years . . . I am stifled already.”

  “You feel stifled from being cooped up in Uncle’s house.”

  “With old people.”

  She nods once. “I’m here now. And we are to have our own home. We will manage, Jane.”

  We have no choice.

  Which, in itself, is the real problem.

  *****

  We are moved. As I meander between sitting room and bedroom, up stairs that creak (from some hidden damp, no doubt), I admit that our new residence on Sydney Place is elegant. And very fashionable.

  The details of cleaning and unpacking distract me.

  Momentarily.

  *****

  As we are now settled, I have no excuse.

  I open my trunk of stories and take out Susan. Since the story is set in Bath and I am in Bath . . .

  I untie the bundle and look down at the thousands of words lying in wait upon my lap.

  In wait for what?

  For me to diddle and piddle with them?

  Toward what end?

  Although I was isolated from any sort of publishing in Steventon, it seems a place closer to my aspirations than here, where real contacts might be made.

  Odd.

  I am diverted by a noise outside and look out the window as a young child screams. Yet I’m relieved to see he isn’t hurt, just willful. He wants a candy, and his mother has said no.

  A cart goes by, loaded with wooden boxes. As the little boy bolts from his mother in front of the horse, it blessedly halts its forward movement but rises up with a fierce neighing, causing the cart to roll backward and two boxes to fall from its back.

  Beautifully suited gentry give the accident a passing glance and do not offer the poor driver help. He jumps from the cart and tries to calm the horse. His eyes are on the fallen boxes. Does he fear some hoolig
an will snatch one?

  Such commotion. Did those boxes contain something of value?

  He manages to move the horse and cart to a post, where it’s tied. With great effort he gets the boxes back on board. He is on his way. The crisis is over.

  Like the driver returned to his mission, I return my attention to the pages before me. I pick up the first page and begin to read. Yet after a few lines, I realize I have not retained a single word. My eyes skim across the alphabet but do not allow the scribbling to be formed into cognizant thought.

  Cassandra comes into the room and, upon seeing the trunk open, and seeing the pages in my lap, says, “I’m sorry to disturb you. Carry on.”

  She begins to leave but I call her back. “There’s no need to go,” I say. I retrieve the string and retie it around the stack of pages.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Putting it away.”

  “But why? I think it’s a fine idea that you begin your work again.”

  “A fine idea, to be sure, but a useless one.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  I gaze out the window at the people strolling by. They should be an inspiration to me. I should take the accident I’ve just witnessed and place it among the folds of my story. I could do that. I have done such a thing.

  But I don’t want to.

  “Jane? Tell me what you mean.”

  It’s frightening to put the truth into words, but I will do it. For my sister’s sake.

  “They don’t speak to me, Cass.”

  She intuits who “they” are. “Not at all?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “As my will has been silenced, so have theirs. They don’t wish to speak.”

  “But can you not wake them? For surely they will give you comfort and companionship. They are family to you.”

  At this moment, I’m not too keen on family.

  “Perhaps one day, when it’s an extremely good day, when I feel energy instead of this dreadful lethargy . . .”

  “You must awaken them, Jane. You must.”

  Twelve

  We suffer the commotion of leaving Steventon and moving to Bath, yet near as soon as Father and Cassandra arrive, he wishes to be off again. “To the sea!” he proclaims as often as we let him.

  I don’t argue with him. I love the seaside towns of Devon and Dorset. I love taking long walks, smelling the salt air, and watching the seagulls dive and dip. And the ships . . . If a man, I would have been a sailor like my brothers. I know it.

  Mother does argue. “But we cannot leave Bath! We have only just arrived!”

  She is right, of course, and I see her view with more logic than Father’s, but I don’t wish to stay here, and so I urge Father on, using my enthusiasm to aid him in achieving his way.

  Which he does. Repeatedly, and as often as he can.

  In these towns, many that we visited on holiday when we lived in Steventon, I can momentarily lift reality aside and pretend that the home we will return to is the rectory. It’s a silly game I play with myself, but if it aids me getting from one day to the next . . . I see no harm in it.

  Today, as we do during as many days as possible, Cassandra and I go sea bathing. We stand on the edge of the ocean, the breeze making the curls around our caps dance.

  A man signals us forward. “Come now, ladies. It’s your turn.”

  Cassandra and I ascend the steps into the wood box of the bathing machine, our swimming clothes in hand. Two other women follow. The doors close and we begin to undress. It’s awkward to keep our balance, especially when the horse draws us into the sea until the surface of the water is on a level with the floor of the dressing room.

  I feel the movement of the water against the cart and hear the attendant unhitching the horse and moving him to the other end to be ready when it’s time to be pulled to land again.

  “I cannot see!” says one of the other women. “Why don’t they put a window in these things?”

  “For privacy, silly,” says her companion.

  Although the lack of a window makes perfect sense, I cannot help thinking a window in the top of the bathing box would be a logical solution. Until men can fly, there would be no threat of a voyeur.

  But no one has inquired as to my opinion on the matter.

  “There is no air! It’s unbearably hot,” complains the first woman again.

  “Then hurry your change so we can go out!” says the second.

  I agree. This transitional phase from street to sea is never pleasant. It’s no time to dally. Or complain, as there is no remedy but speed.

  I feel a hand on my arm and assume it’s Cassandra. “Give me your dress. I’ll put it on the high shelf with mine.”

  I do as I’m told and quickly put the bathing dress over my head. It’s made of linen. Other years we rented one, but since Father has informed us that he plans on much travel to coastal places, we have been allowed to purchase our own, ready-made. I much prefer this, as wearing what someone else has worn is in many ways disagreeable. The least of reasons being the deplorable fit. One size for everyone is not fashionable. Although, fashion has not a thing to do with sea bathing. After all, look at the great pains made to keep us from ever seeing anyone else but those in our cart. Vanity, thou art frivolous.

  “Ouch!” says the first voice. “You stepped on my toes.”

  “If you will be ready we can open the door.”

  “I am, I am. You other two?” she says, implying us. “Are you ready?”

  “We are,” I say.

  The door is opened and I squint at the sudden sunlight. The other two women perch at the end of the box as if having second thoughts. Their discussion proves my impression.

  “It will be cold. I know it will.”

  “Of course it will. But it will be good for us. Three dips is the normal prescription.”

  A robust woman comes into view, standing in the water by the back steps. She is the Dipper. I’ve seen her before. She is very strong.

  She holds out her hand to the woman. “Come on now, dearie. Don’ hold up the lot by being timid.”

  The swimmer-to-be shivers, yet the air is warm. “But I cannot swim,” says the woman.

  “No need,” says the Dipper. “I’ll ’ave ’old a ya. One, two, three dunks, an’ you’re done.”

  “I’ll go,” says the other woman.

  “Thata girl.”

  She descends the step with her companion watching after her, hand to mouth. Her fear is ridiculous. We are in but three feet of water, and though the waves come at a steady but unpredictable pace, they are not such to elicit fear. Neither Cassandra nor I know how to swim, but that does not stop us from traversing each afternoon to the shore, where we put our names on the list, hoping to get our turn. We don’t do so for medicinal reasons. We go for the sheer joy of it. There is something freeing in feeling the power of the waves crashing around my legs and the tide pushing, swirling, pulling. It’s a battle of sorts. I come so often because I’m not allowed to stay long enough on any one dipping to truly satisfy. And perhaps, just perhaps, it’s the fact that my two brothers have taken the sea as their lives that I enjoy it so. Somehow, so far away, we can share this common element.

  After much dialogue, the companion is shamed into going and makes quite a squealing spectacle as she is dipped—only twice, because she begs for it to stop.

  Finally, it’s our turn. I let Cassandra go first. She goes without a single squeal and with a dignified composure I cannot hope to match. For I find it difficult to come up from the dip and not sputter and rub my eyes. Although seawater may be medicinal, neither my sight nor my taste appreciate its saltiness.

  Her dunking complete, Cassandra sits in the water as I take my turn.

  “Take a deep ’un, dearie. Here we go.”


  The Dipper does her thricely duty amid the waves. I am released. I don’t know where the prescribed three dips originates but cannot help but find a parallel between its restorative power and the early Christian baptisms where people were immersed in water and dipped under, thrice. Restored in body. Restored in soul. Restored in mind? Father, Son, and Holy Ghost?

  As I come up I hear the second woman call to the first, “See, Abigail? I’m swimming.”

  The swimming woman stands with one foot on the ground and does the arm stroke, getting quite a respectable distance by a series of little hops, yet deceiving no one.

  “You pretend,” Abigail says.

  The swimmer drops her arm, stands still, and says, “I challenge you to do better.”

  The Dipper chimes in, “You’ll do no such thing. Come o’er ’ere where I can see ya. I don’ need no drownings today.”

  I agree completely.

  *****

  “Hello.”

  Cassandra and I, rejuvenated from our sea bathing and back in our street clothes, turn toward the masculine voice. A handsome face greets us. And a lovely smile.

  He tips his hat. “I saw that you walked in from the seaside?”

  I put a hand to the curls that peek out from my bonnet. The damp curls. “We have returned from sea bathing.”

  He looks in that direction. “I’ve never indulged.”

  “You should,” I say. “It’s very invigorating.”

  “Does it heal one’s constitution, as they say?”

  Cassandra answers. “I would think the results are variable. According to the degree of one’s illness—”

  “And expectations,” I say, then risk adding one more word. “And gullibility.”

  He laughs. “And how high are your levels of those . . . attributes?”

  I feign a frown and shake my head. “Oh, low, very, very low.”

  “So you are neither expectant nor gullible?”

  “Nor ill,” Cassandra adds.

  “Although we are quite healthy,” I say. “I will admit that we desire to be expectant and conspire to hold gullibility at bay.”

  “A good plan to aspire to.”