Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  That delightful woman who took me under her loving wing and led me into adulthood? I had long ago forgiven her for being the one to send her nephew Tom away lest our attraction go too far. She was correct in her action and thought only of the Lefroy family and even me. If I had been married to Tom all these years . . .

  I may have been happy, but probably not. Not in Ireland, removed so far.

  As I had been removed so far from Anne here in Bath.

  In many ways I had abandoned my friend. Not that I could have prevented her horrible accident, but to have been close enough to be able to spend more time with her before this tragic end . . .

  I look to the letter again, hoping the words magically changed.

  . . . she died at three o’clock in the morning on December the sixteenth.

  I gasp. December the sixteenth was my birthday. I remember the clock in my room. Three o’clock . . . it was the time when I awakened!

  My legs are weak. I seek the strength of a chair.

  It is meager comfort compared to the strength Anne gave to me.

  No more.

  I can take no more.

  *****

  Father wants us to move. And so we do. To Green Park. It’s damp here and not as amiable as Sydney Place. Although Father has not said so—indeed has said we moved because our lease on Sydney Place has run out—I do believe our move is an attempt to save money. Bath is not a place where one can live on frugal means.

  We don’t have the view of the fields behind us as we did on Sydney Place. Am I being punished for complaining about that natural aspect in comparison to Steventon? Is that why I’ve lost any view of nature? It does me no good to think in such a way. Father didn’t move to vex me, nor is my heavenly Father punishing me.

  I vex myself. I’m in a mood of late. Anne’s death still weighs upon me, and Father’s health is variable and worrisome. The war is going again (will Napoleon ever be completely defeated?) and I fear for Charles and Frank. And my writing is not going—going well, at least. In addition, neither Henry nor I have heard a word from Mr. Crosby regarding the publication of Susan. It has been a year . . . .

  As I say, I’m in a mood. Justified or not, I find no pleasure here.

  *****

  Father joins us at breakfast. Cassandra and I both jump from our seats to greet him and help him get settled, for his presence has been rare of late.

  “There, there,” he says, setting his walking stick against his chair. “Don’t fuss over me. I’m not an invalid, you know.”

  It’s his pride that makes the statement, for in the first weeks of the new year he has been visited by a variety of doctors. William Bowen has visited to offer him medicinal comfort for his condition, and just yesterday morning, Father was stricken in exactly the same way as heretofore: an oppression in the head, with fever, violent tremulousness, and the greatest degree of feebleness. The same remedy of cupping, which had been so successful, was immediately applied—but without such happy effects. Apparently, the warm cups didn’t extract the bad blood to enough extent. The attack was more violent, and at first he seemed scarcely at all relieved by the operation. However, toward the evening he got better, had a tolerable night, and here appears this morning as if nothing transpired.

  I pour him some tea and he takes the cup with trembling hand. He sets it down again, the threat of spills imminent.

  “Here. I’ve filled it too full.”

  He allows me to adjust the cup’s measure and drinks. Cassandra brings him the plate of scones and ham and he takes a serving of each, though one far smaller than he used to chuse. We return to our seats.

  “You are feeling better today, Father?” Cassandra asks.

  “I am. I feel no fever.” He points to the ham. “Would you pass me the ham, please? I think I would like a piece.”

  We are silent. We don’t wish to be rude but . . .

  He sees his own error. “Oh. I see I have a piece already. My forgetfulness is because I’ve not had course to read lately, not as I usually do. I’ve always said: a mind disengaged with vital thought gets used to blankness.”

  I laugh softly, wishing to make light of yet another example of his recent loss of memory. It worries me. I don’t like seeing my father less.

  Suddenly, he pushes back his chair and rises and, taking up his stick, walks to the window. The day is bleak. The sun casts no shadows.

  But he sees otherwise. “A fine day. Fine indeed.”

  *****

  Mr. Bowen descends the stairs to join our trio of women who await news on Father’s condition. “I don’t know how he does it, ladies,” Bowen says. “It appears that the Austen constitution is admirable. Every symptom is so favourable that I’m sure of his doing perfectly well.”

  Mother’s sigh is more extravagant than Cassandra’s or my own. She shows Mr. Bowen the door. “There,” she says upon closing it. “It will be all right.”

  I say a silent prayer of thanks—and hope—and go about my day.

  But as the day advances, all these comfortable appearances change. The fever grows stronger than ever, and our sighs of relief change to sighs born in fear.

  As the evening progresses, I send for Mr. Bowen. He comes at ten.

  Cassandra and I wait outside the closed bedroom. I’m tempted to put my ear to the door to hear their words more plainly but don’t, for in truth, I don’t want to hear. If I could leave completely and not have to see Mr. Bowen or Mother when they exit the room, I would be most pleased. To hear will be to know and be asked to accept, and I wish to do neither.

  “Let things be as they were this morning,” I pray.

  Cassandra slips her hand through my arm. “He was not well e’en then, Jane. Not completely.”

  “At this moment I will accept ‘not completely’ as far better than . . .” I cannot say it.

  The voices in the room go silent, but footsteps come close. My heart races as the door opens. Mother is crying and falls into our arms.

  Mr. Bowen softly closes the door and faces us. His countenance shows his reluctance to speak. But he does. He does.

  “I’m sorry, ladies. But I must pronounce his situation to be most alarming.”

  Mother sobs. I shake my head no.

  It’s Cassandra who finds words. “Is there no hope?”

  “There is always hope, but . . .”

  He shrugs and I find it a disconcerting action. How dare he shrug my father’s life away!

  “There must be something we can do!” I say. The anger feels a far better alternative than defeat.

  “I will come back tomorrow morning. I plan to bring a physician with me. Dr. Gibbs.”

  “Bring as many as you can,” I say. “Certainly Bath has more than its share of those adept at healing. I want them all here. All.”

  Cassandra gently nudges Mother toward me, where I take up her comfort. “I will show you out,” she tells Bowen.

  I don’t regret my outburst. Certainly the reputation of this place must be good for something. It is time for it to prove its healing claims.

  Cassandra returns to us. “One of us must be with him at all times,” she says.

  “All of us,” I say.

  Mother nods and dabs at her eyes. “Yes, yes. We must all be there with him. And we must pray. Pray without ceasing.”

  That we can do.

  *****

  This morning Mr. Bowen has brought with him Dr. Gibbs. They have asked that we leave the room.

  Cassandra and I stand in the hallway, supporting our mother. She has a handkerchief clutched in her hand, much used during the difficult night, where sleep was fitful and worries large.

  “What will we do?” Mother asks. It’s a question we all ask, if not aloud, within ourselves.

  “He has come round bef
ore,” Cassandra says. “Perhaps—”

  “No,” Mother says. “Not this time. I feel it.”

  Even as I’m about to say, Don’t say such a thing, the door opens and Bowen and Dr. Gibbs come out. They close the door behind them. Bowen only glances at us, his eyes finding the floor as quickly as possible.

  And I know.

  “How is he?” Mother asks, but surely she also knows.

  Dr. Gibbs takes her hands in his. “Only a miracle, Mrs. Austen.”

  She looks to Mr. Bowen, who has seen Father the most often. “William?”

  He is forced to look up, to meet her eyes. His are full of frustration and apology. “I’m so sorry. It’s a lost cause.”

  Although I expect Mother to wail, screaming, “No!” into the rafters, she does not. She only nods once, her eyes ahead, unseeing, as if, for this one moment, she is alone, accepting the fate that is being played out before her.

  She turns toward the door. “I must go to him.”

  Cassandra and I begin to follow, but Bowen gently holds us back with a touch to our arms. “Give them a moment.”

  “But only a moment,” Dr. Gibbs says.

  “We will be downstairs,” Bowen says, and the men retire.

  My head begins to shake no, no, no, no, no.

  “Jane, are you all right?”

  No, no, no, no, no.

  “We have been prepared. He has not been well for months.”

  My head continues of its own accord. “There is no real preparation.”

  She slips her hand through mine and we wait for our turn to say good-bye.

  “I’m not sure I can do it,” I say.

  “You must,” Cassandra tells me. “If not for his sake, to prevent regret.”

  I know she is right, yet I’ve never been at a deathbed. Although James lost a wife, Eliza a son, and my dear Anne was lost to me, I’ve never been there, to see, to witness the transition from this life to the next.

  Heaven. Father will soon be in heaven with God, the Christ, angels, and all those who have gone before him. I will see him there one day. Yet such comfort is fleeting. I want him here, now, for many, many more days and years.

  The door opens. “Come in, girls,” Mother says. Her face is red, her cheeks damp, but there is a strength of her chin that reveals her determination to get through this whole.

  Hearing the commotion, Bowen and Dr. Gibbs hurry up the stairs and follow us inside. We go to our father’s bed, one on either side. He is not awake and breathes heavily.

  I take his hand. It has no strength. “Can he hear?”

  “Only God knows,” Mother says, “though it is well if you speak to him as if he can.”

  Cassandra leans near him, speaking close to his ear. I cannot hear what she says and have no need to hear. I will have my own chance to say what must be said.

  And yet, as she kisses his cheek and rises, giving me my turn, I find words elusive. Me, who holds words as my dearest friends. Yet what does one say to the rock of my life, the one stable constant no matter where we have lived? Father is my encourager, my champion, my guardian. He epitomizes all things Austen. Without him, who am I? Who are any of us?

  “Jane . . .”

  I know. I must do it now or relinquish the chance. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull his hand to my breast. “I love you, Father.” I feel the slightest movement in his fingers, as if he has heard. I squeeze his hand, acknowledging. I search his face for a smile, an opening of the eyes, e’en an attempt to open his eyes . . . .

  But it’s not to be.

  Father takes a sudden intake of breath, lets it out, but does not return it with another.

  Breathe, Father! Breathe!

  Mother rushes close. “George? George?” She jostles him as if he is in deep sleep. “George! Wake up!”

  Dr. Gibbs slides beside me, takes Father’s hand, and feels his wrist. He puts his ear to Father’s chest. Then he stands and says the words we despise: “He is gone.”

  Inadvertently, we take a step back, as though giving him room. Giving his soul room to rise to heaven?

  I look above Father’s head, wondering if something transpires that I cannot see.

  Mother speaks first, directing her question to Dr. Gibbs. “He didn’t suffer, did he?”

  “He did not. Being quite insensible of his own state, he was spared all the pain of separation. I would say he went off almost in his sleep.”

  “It’s twenty past ten,” Cassandra says.

  “Midmorning,” Mother says. “He always liked midmorning.”

  I’m not sure how valid this observation is but realize the moment of death is probably not a time where thoughts observed contain sense. One must say something and so . . . so it is.

  But if one must say something, why have I said nothing?

  After having such a revelation, I say, “I must write to the brothers.”

  I kiss Father’s forehead, take a final look, then leave to attend to my task. Run to attend to my task. For I do not wish to be in attendance when . . . whatever happens next, happens. Death is already present in this house. I don’t need to see it linger.

  Am I a coward?

  Absolutely.

  *****

  Henry is here. And James. And the other brothers have been notified of our loss—their loss. The service at Walcott Church is simple and to the point. Father would have found it quite acceptable. Even as a rector he was not one to go on and on as others I’ve heard. More words don’t necessarily mean the best words.

  He is gone from us, but it’s not the end of life. He is without strife. He is happy. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

  I shall try to be happy also. Not happy that he is dead, but happy for . . .

  It will take time.

  *****

  “So how much do I have to live upon?” Mother asks.

  We, Mother, we. For there are also Cassandra and I who must survive.

  James sits back from the table scattered with papers containing financial facts and figures. “With Father gone, his clerical stipend ends and you are left with but two hundred ten pounds.”

  “But your father said we have investments,” Mother says.

  James ruffles through the papers and pulls out one. “Which in a good year could bring another one hundred twenty per annum.”

  “I say we need a few more zeroes at the end of those numbers,” Henry says.

  “Care to make that happen?” James asks.

  Henry reddens but says, “Presently my income from the bank is a bit tenuous, but I could offer fifty a year.”

  “As will I,” James says.

  I wonder if James has cleared his offering with his wife. If not, surely Mary will have plenty to say about it, none of it charitable.

  “And Frank has offered one hundred,” Henry says. He covers his mouth with a hand. “He wished for it to be a secret.”

  Mother shakes her head. “Secret or not, I will not accept it. It’s far too much considering he is engaged to a Ramsgate girl with no means of her own.”

  The “Ramsgate girl” has a name: Mary Gibson. Although we have not met her, we find her haltingly acceptable. She is only nineteen to Frank’s thirty and comes from no wealth whatsoever.

  “Let him give what he has promised, Mother,” Henry says. “For he is now appointed Flag Captain of the Canopus. It’s a captured French ship that Frank is going to use to chase other French ships. He has the money, Mother. Or will have.”

  She shook her head. “He needs the income for his own family, such as it is. I will only accept fifty from him. I will not be the source of hardship for a
ny son.”

  What about daughters?

  Although I’m more than willing to take Frank’s hundred for the sake of our cause, I know the look on Mother’s face. She is intractable. At least in this.

  “Edward is good for a hundred,” Henry says. He lifts his glass. “Vive Edward!”

  “Do you really think we can speak for him?” Cassandra says.

  “I was just there. I am sure of it,” Henry says. “Godmersham brings in that amount with nary a labor done.”

  We have not heard from the youngest, Charles, off at sea watching the Atlantic for American ships wanting to trade with France. He is just starting out in his career and cannot be expected to donate any excess.

  “But I can help,” Cassandra says.

  “How so?” James asks.

  “I have the interest from what my Tom left to me,” she offers.

  Henry claps. “Excellent! How much is that?”

  “Fifty per annum. Give or take.”

  James does the figures. “That equals around . . . four hundred fifty pounds a year.”

  “Bravo!” Henry says. “Certainly enough for three women to keep a house.”

  “Not well,” Cassandra says.

  “Well enough,” Mother says. She looks round the table, skimming over me. “Thank you, dear children, for coming to my aid at such a difficult time.”

  The meeting disperses, save for me.

  No one comes back to the room to say, “Jane? Are you coming?” No one notices that I didn’t say a word during the discussion of a future that includes me. Just as no one asked, “Jane, what do you think of this?” Or even, “Jane, what can you give to the pot?”

  Of course my answer would have been “Not much” and “Nothing.” For I have nothing to give. Our family is crippled without Father. And I am the offending appendage, hanging limp and without use. A burden. Something to be cut off and tossed away.