Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  Henry leans forward and lowers his voice. “We barely made it out with our lives!”

  Eliza rolls her eyes. “Your son exaggerates—although we did have to resort to subterfuge to escape.”

  Mother pulls in a breath. “Escape? So you did have to escape?”

  Eliza quells her concern with her hands. “No story should be told from back to front.” She flashes Henry a look.

  He tips an imaginary hat and sits back, giving her free reign. “I ask extreme forgiveness and defer,” he says.

  “As you should.” Eliza sets her hands in her lap and begins. “Since the peace with Napoleon was declared last year, Henry and I thought it would be the proper time to return to the home I held with my late husband and claim the lands and the de Feuillide assets. It’s only fitting that such properties be released now that our countries are not at war.”

  “You would think,” Henry adds.

  “It didn’t go well?” Mother asks.

  Eliza glares at her husband. “See? They guess the ending because of your intrusion. Now, hush!”

  I offer encouragement. “Please tell. Tell all of it, in any order.”

  Eliza begins again. “Once in France, we discovered that since my dear husband died as a confessed murderer—though he was completely innocent, I assure you—”

  “He was beheaded for those crimes,” Mother says.

  “Mother!” Cassandra says.

  “But he was.”

  Eliza raises a finger to make a point. “Many innocent people were executed during the horrors of the Revolution. It was not always guilt that led to death, but proximity, breeding, and bad luck.”

  “We know that, my dear,” Father says, patting her knee. “Please continue.”

  “So . . . as my husband was treated with injustice, so was I. My claims as his wife were null. Our house, our land, our accounts are all gone, eaten up by the greed of those who took what was not theirs.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Cassandra says.

  Eliza shrugs. “C’est la vie.”

  “We could have used the money, my dear,” Henry says.

  “That is a universal statement, dear one, and as such, not worth stating.”

  I have heard that Henry’s banking venture in London is not going as well as he had hoped . . . . For his sake, I try to get the story backed away from finances. “You mentioned escape?”

  “Oh yes, indeed,” Eliza says. “For once the French disappointed us with the news, they took no time in informing us that, as we were British subjects, they had a right to intern us in Verdun. As prisoners!”

  “No!” Mother says.

  “Yes,” Eliza says.

  “And so we made our escape,” Henry says.

  “Henry, be quiet,” Father says. “Let Eliza tell it.”

  Henry harrumphs and pretends offense, but I see the glimmer of humor in his eye. I imagine they have perfected the bantering in many tellings of this story.

  “Although Henry’s use of the term escape is overly dramatic, there was the essence of danger in our returning home. I took charge. We agreed that Henry should be relegated to an invalid role under the cover of our traveling carriage. No one at the posting stations could detect my nationality, as I have a perfect command of French. I speak as those at Napoleon’s court and disarmed all suspicion.”

  “Bravo!” Father says, clapping.

  “Soldiers stopped you?”

  “Of course. The country is still in upheaval,” Eliza says. “And let me tell you how pained I am to see the tricolour flags waving in place of the beloved fleur-de-lis.”

  “Talk like that could get you beheaded, my love,” Henry says.

  “I will say what I wish.”

  “In England,” I say. “Say what you wish in England.”

  She does not argue.

  “At least you are home!” Mother says.

  Eliza looks at me. “You have my permission to use this, Jane. If you ever need such a scene in one of your books.”

  “Actually, you have much in your life that is worthy of a novel’s plot,” I say.

  Henry laughs. “That belies the believability of a novel’s plot.”

  Eliza pretends to be offended. “You married me.”

  He blows her a kiss. “And you married me.”

  They are a pair. That is not fiction.

  *****

  I sit at my writing desk. It has been far too long. I credit—or blame—Eliza’s words for my position: You have my permission to use this, Jane. If you ever need such a scene in one of your books.

  Intrigue in France after a war, a masquerade for one’s life, deception, lost fortunes . . .

  I place my pen on the page and will my mind to engage.

  It does not.

  Certainly I can build a story on this scenario. Two impulsive lovers risking all to raise their station in life?

  I think of Eliza’s true background.

  A woman ten years her husband’s senior.

  With a disabled child—who, in spite of her best efforts, dies.

  A woman whose father was not the man her mother married but most likely Warren Hastings, a ranking official in the far-off land of India.

  A woman who married a Frenchman she didn’t love—for money.

  A husband who cared little for his imperfect son.

  A revolution.

  Flight to a safe land.

  The husband returns to regain his property.

  He is caught, tried for murder, and beheaded.

  In a far-off land, the wife woos one brother, yet marries another . . . .

  I cannot write this. No one would believe it.

  In truth, I cannot write anything.

  I put the blank page away.

  *****

  I am exhilarated as the carriage leaves Godmersham and heads to Steventon. Cassandra and I have just spent time at Edward’s. With seven children and an eighth on the way, we helped Elizabeth rather than let her play weary hostess. On our part I will complain and say the pleasure and fun usually present in our visits was set aside for more practical occupations.

  In Elizabeth’s defense . . . the poor woman. Her time between pregnancies shortens. I wish I could talk to my brother about such things, but I cannot. Anyone can see she is being worn out. A woman’s place may include birthing babies, but receiving a deep breath between them seems the least of fair.

  Cassandra sits across from me and taps her toe against mine. “You glow.”

  “I am happy with the prospect of seeing Hampshire again.”

  “And James and Mary?”

  I smile. “Hampshire has much to anticipate.”

  “Ah. You think ahead to our visit to the Biggs in Manydown, do you not?”

  I raise a hand. “I confess.”

  “I have missed Catherine and Alethea.”

  “I have missed everything.”

  But not for long. Soon, soon, I will be home, among true friends.

  *****

  Manydown is an estate that breathes history. The Bigg-Wither family and their ancestors are listed in the legendary Domesday Book, that book commissioned by William the Conqueror in 1086 to appraise the depth and breadth of England’s land and resources. Since 1679 Manydown has only had three owners, including the present lord of the manor, Lovelace Bigg-Wither.

  He himself greets us at the door, his portly body capped by an abundance of white hair. His life is so useful, his character so respectable and worthy, that I’ve never met a more generous country squire. “Welcome, girls. Welcome! My own daughters have been waiting for you with bated breath.”

  “And impatient hearts!” Alethea comes down the elegant staircase to embrace us. Dear Catherine comes right after
. The foyer chitters with greetings.

  There are six daughters in the Bigg family (there had been seven, and two sons, until a son and daughter died years ago). But we count the three oldest as our dear friends. The eldest of the three is Elizabeth Heathcote, who—like her father—is widowed, though her grief is quite new. Just last spring her husband died at age thirty. She lives at Manydown now with her son. They are not here to greet us, but I know we will often have the pleasure of their society.

  Without anyone’s bidding our luggage is taken upstairs to our rooms—we each get our own, one next to the other. Our coats and bonnets vanish as if by a magician’s trick, and we are whisked away up the grand stairs to the elegant drawing room that affords a grand view of the estate’s fifteen hundred acres. The leaves of the trees have fallen, allowing us to see farther, between the branches.

  As we continue our chatter, suddenly the brother Harris lifts up from the settee where he has been lying. He trips as he tries to stand and I can see that he has grown even taller. Although twenty-one, he moves like an adolescent, uncomfortable with his gawky frame.

  “Harris!” I say. “You frightened me.”

  Instead of verbally responding, he runs a hand through his blond hair and asks forgiveness through a bow. He is a man of few words by habit and necessity. In his youth he suffered horribly with a stutter and was sent to a special teacher to overcome it. Which he has. To some extent. I am of the opinion that with such consuming attention being given to his speech, he has never felt at ease and so either says the wrong thing rightly or the right thing wrongly. And yet there is a charm about him . . . in many ways he is a stumbling, fumbling puppy you wish to cuddle and comfort.

  Catherine once intimated a story about him. On one occasion Harris had instructed a wine punch to be created—with awful results. When his guests made faces at the concoction, he reportedly said, “Gentlemen, my punch is like you. In your individual capacity you are all very good fellows, but in your corporate capacity you are very disagreeable.”

  Although often too blunt, I do admire his wit as well as the content of his observation. For I too have witnessed such a phenomenon. People, by their very nature, offer diversity regarding whether their strength is shown in solitude or company. Eliza and Henry are the sort that prosper in a crowd. Cassandra and I prefer our own society—or the combined asset of simply being with each other. Neither penchant can be called all good or all bad. Full benefit can be accomplished by learning to find contentment in both situations. Father has often quoted St. Paul in the hopes of aspiring us to achieve such a goal: I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I have heard the words often enough but find the application a challenge.

  The Bigg-Wither family fills the room, and we feel completely welcomed.

  Old friends are the best friends.

  *****

  Five women. In one bedroom. On one bed. We sit in our nightclothes with pillows in laps, shawls about shoulders, blankets askew to warm cold feet, and candles flickering with our movement and chatter. In the company of these women, I am content. They are family to me. Sisters. Confidantes. I often wonder if men bond in this way. I will never know.

  There is a knock at the door, and Catherine climbs off the bed to answer it. It’s her room . . . . As we are not properly attired, she merely cracks the door.

  Harris pushes the door wide with his foot. He carries a massive silver tray with teapot, cups, and cake upon it. “Food for the frivolous!”

  “Harris! You cannot come in here,” Elizabeth says.

  “It appears I can.”

  He sets the tray on a chest, and I notice he wears a butler’s jacket—as well as he can, considering it’s many sizes too small.

  He displays the cake plate. “Miss Jane asked for this. Pumpkin cake.”

  “I did no such thing!” I say.

  “Well, then . . .” He takes the cake toward the door.

  “No! Don’t take it away!” I say.

  He turns toward me. “So you did ask for the cake?”

  “No, I didn’t. You know very well I didn’t, but . . .” I look at my friends. They are all smiling. This is not the first time in the past week that Harris has singled me out. “But I will eat it. We must not let it go to waste.”

  He bows and brings the cake to me as I sit on the bed. Cassandra, Alethea, and I scramble to get ourselves more covered, but he seems not to notice. He simply places the whole of the cake in front of me upon the covers, then bows and leaves, closing the door behind him.

  Catherine goes to the door, opens it, and yells into the hall, “You forgot the lemons for the tea!” She quickly closes the door and puts a chair in front of it. “There,” she says. “We are now safe from my brother.”

  “I don’t believe one of us is safe from him,” Elizabeth says. She pours the tea and hands cups and saucers all around.

  I pretend I don’t know what she is talking about. I get off the bed, go to the tray, and cut the cake to serve. “Does everyone want a piece?” I ask.

  “You are evading the question,” Alethea says.

  I serve the first piece and lick a crumb from my finger. “I heard no question.”

  “We all have noticed his attention this week,” Catherine says as she takes the first piece.

  I determine to feign ignorance and don’t respond.

  “Jane . . . ,” Elizabeth says.

  “I still hear no question.”

  They all moan at my evasion. “Fine,” Elizabeth says. “You force us to speak plainly.”

  “It’s what I prefer,” I say. Actually, it’s what I desire. For I know of what they speak. I have seen Harris pay me particular attention. I’ve enjoyed it. But I wish for others to tell me what they have seen and what their interpretation might be.

  Catherine takes the cake knife away. She holds me by the shoulders, her blue eyes intent on mine. “Harris shows great interest in you, Jane.”

  “I would hope so. I’ve known him my entire life.”

  She sighs with exasperation. “He prefers you above all others.”

  “All other what?” I ask. Their faces reveal their frustration. I’ve taken the ruse far enough. I take Catherine’s hands in my own. “Forgive me. Yes, yes, I’ve noticed his attentions.”

  “You’ve encouraged them,” Cassandra says. There is a hint of censure in her voice.

  “I’ve merely been kind.”

  “More than kind,” Elizabeth says, finishing the cake service. “I know my little brother. He has spoken more in the past week than he has spoken in mixed company in years.”

  “Ever,” Alethea says.

  Catherine leans forward, our foreheads close. “I would love to have you as a real sister,” she whispers.

  The others hear and concur. “Oh yes!” Alethea says. “It would be the ultimate perfection.”

  I look to Cassandra. She does not frown. She does not shake her head against the notion.

  “He has not asked,” I say.

  “He will—if we encourage him,” Elizabeth says. She sets her cake aside and heads toward the door.

  I run after her, holding her back. “You will do no such thing.”

  “Little brothers need sisterly encouragement. It’s a fact.”

  “But not about this,” I say.

  “’Twould be so perfect,” Catherine says. “Since our older brother died, and the rest of us are girls, Harris is due to inherit Manydown and all that it entails. As his wife, it would all be yours.”

  Alethea raises a hand. “Would you let us stay until we find our own mates, O Jane, lofty mistress of the manor?”

  “No, no,” Elizabeth says. “That will never do. Harris and Jane will need all the bedrooms for their many children.”

  I feel myself blush, but the idea is not unp
leasant—although but a few children would suffice. I never wish to be like Edward’s Elizabeth, having child after child to her own disintegration.

  “You cannot make such plans for her, Elizabeth,” Catherine says. She turns to me. “How many children have you wanted, Jane?”

  “Two or three would be fine, but—”

  “That will not do!” Elizabeth says. “You come from a family of eight children, and we had nine. You must keep up, Jane!”

  I look to Cassandra and find her smiling. “I would be happy to help care for them.”

  I’m surrounded.

  In a loving embrace.

  *****

  Catherine moves to the library doors and surprises me by shutting them as she leaves. “I must go see Father about something. If you will excuse me.”

  It’s the poorest of excuses and so thinly veiled that both Harris and I can see through it.

  For she has left us alone. All have left us alone.

  Although no one has spoken of our nocturnal marriage discussion all day—at least not in my presence—I have heard whisperings and have witnessed Catherine and Elizabeth halting all talk when I came in the room. I suspect a conspiracy has been set in place. And now, alone with Harris, with all family safely tucked elsewhere (or with their ears to the door), I suspect what is coming.

  And find that I accept the idea, if not embrace it.

  I sit on the blue and gold brocaded settee and retrieve a book from a nearby table. I open it but don’t look at its pages. Harris stands by the fireplace, fingering a candlestick, making the lit candle jump and jerk. Although I’ve never felt awkward with him before, knowing what might transpire has changed my ease to dis-ease.

  I wish for him to speak first. But by his nervous actions it appears he wishes the same of me.

  I, who can write dialogue for characters with a lucidity and speed of water going over a falls, cannot think of a word to say. But finally, as the silence threatens to consume the very air in the room, I burst out, “I so enjoy being here at Manydown. Your family is—”

  “Would you marry me?”

  I steal a fresh breath, then let it out. And then I say, “Yes, I believe I will.”

  To his merit, he removes his hand from the candlestick—thereby preventing any further topples—and comes to me. He sits beside me and takes my small hand in his large one. “Will you, r-r-really?”