Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  I am nothing but air and matter.

  And matter, I don’t.

  *****

  Although our income is workable, it’s not enough to stay on in the Green Buildings. We must move to furnished lodgings at No. 25 Gay Street. It being wartime, and this being Bath, prices are high. Ever a frugal family, we now face a different layer of frugality.

  Mother has let the servants go.

  Now it truly is just us three.

  Three women, left to fend for ourselves. Living on the charity of others.

  Mother has large plans to spend the summer months visiting relatives, sponging off their kindness, and I accept that plan as essential and preferable to staying here, in these rooms that offer no inspiration beyond my aspiring to be away from them. The stone facade and stately pediment above the door belie the less than stately rooms inside.

  No inspiration to write, that is a certainty. But I determine to try again, for it’s the one thing that has any chance of earning an income.

  I pull out the manuscript about the Watson family, intent on continuing the story. I sit at my desk and try to take my thoughts to that place rather than this.

  I had left off with my heroine, Emma, who is visiting her family’s meager home after growing up in riches elsewhere, deciding that sitting at the bedside of her dear father is preferable to other company. For all he requires is gentleness and silence.

  I close my eyes a moment, attempting to find the image of Emma and her father that I had last left in my mind. Ah . . . there it is. I begin to write:

  In his chamber Emma was at peace from the dreadful mortifications of unequal society and family discord; from the immediate endurance of hard-hearted prosperity, low-minded conceit, and wrong-headed folly, engrafted on an untowards disposition. She still suffered from them in the contemplation of their existence, in memory and in prospect; but for the moment, she ceased to be tortured by their effects. She was at leisure; she could read and think, though her situation was hardly such as to make reflection very soothing. The evils arising from the loss of her uncle were neither trifling nor likely to lessen; and when thought had been freely indulged, in contrasting the past and the present, the employment of mind and dissipation of unpleasant ideas which only reading could produce made her thankfully turn to a book.

  The change in her home, society, and style of life, in consequence of the death of one friend and the imprudence of another, had indeed been striking. From being the first object of hope and solicitude to an uncle who had formed her mind with the care of a parent, and of tenderness to an aunt whose amiable temper had delighted to give her every indulgence; from being the life and spirit of a house where all had been comfort and elegance, and the expected heiress of an easy independence, she was become of importance to no one—a burden on those whose affections she could not expect, an addition in a house already overstocked, surrounded by inferior minds, with little chance of domestic comfort, and as little hope of future support. It was well for her that she was naturally cheerful, for the change had been such as might have plunged weak spirits in despondence.

  I lift my pen, finding myself troubled by these words, yet not quite knowing why. I continue with a few lines more, then stop suddenly.

  It’s not right. The words I write today, the words I’ve written on previous days, are full of dark foreboding and bitterness. Emma is always right and is quick to find fault in all others. But where it could be presented otherwise, there is no light or comedy in her world. She despairs of her situation as a visitor in her family’s home, being welcomed but ungrateful. She is destined to become a victim. Her fear of what will happen when her father dies, her fear of being penniless, is . . . is . . .

  My fear. And too closely, my reality.

  I, Jane Austen, who grew up living with enough, have now dipped below that measure.

  I’m living what Emma fears! I’m . . . I read the last lines again: . . . important to no one—a burden on those whose affections she could not expect, an addition in a house already overstocked, surrounded by inferior minds, with little chance of domestic comfort, and as little hope of future support. It was well for her that she was naturally cheerful, for the change had been such as might have plunged weak spirits in despondence.

  At this moment I acknowledge a new truth. I cannot continue with this book. To do so would be to indulge in a darkness I dare not contemplate or even acknowledge. The emotions are too unpleasant to visit.

  I put my pen down. I slip the page which I’ve just written to the bottom of the stack. I stare at the multitude of pages, contemplating what I must do.

  I must . . .

  I must let it go. I cannot write this book, this book about a father’s death and the dire consequences to his daughters. I cannot write the scene where he takes his last breath. I cannot write about the grief of their present and fear for their future.

  I take up the pages and put them in the trunk with my old manuscripts. Yet I know this one will not be removed to be revised and pampered into a better result. This one will remain here forever. Unfinished. A thing to be escaped from. For I cannot visit it again. I cannot go to its place and speak for its characters or feel what they feel.

  I close the trunk and lock it. I stand back, my heart pounding.

  Start something else, my mind tells me.

  But I sense such a thing is not possible. I can do but one thing here, in this place, in this time of my life. I can either live or write.

  I cannot do both.

  Fifteen

  Cassandra has not been well since Father’s death. Although we discuss it privately, neither one of us knows if it’s due to a physical ailment or grief, for we do know it is possible to make oneself sick.

  Whichever the cause, she has gone off to Ibthorpe to visit Martha and her mother, hoping the change of scene will help. I write gay and witty letters, trying to cheer them and feel a part of their camaraderie. And yet, last night I received word that Mrs. Lloyd is gravely ill. Moving from one bastion of grief to another was not Cassandra’s intention. Sometimes I don’t like growing old, for age brings with it the irrefutable and unstoppable fact of others growing even older. And becoming ill. And passing on. Although we all know death does not discriminate by age . . . .

  I continue the letter I write to my sister:

  I received your letter last night and wish it may be soon followed by another to say that all is over, but I cannot help thinking that nature will struggle again and produce a revival. Poor woman! May her end be peaceful and easy, as the exit we have witnessed! And I daresay it will. If there is no revival, suffering must be all over; even the consciousness of existence I suppose was gone when you wrote. The nonsense I have been writing in this and in my last letter seems out of place at such a time; but I will not mind it, it will do you no harm, and nobody else will be attacked by it. I am heartily glad that you can speak so comfortably of your own health and looks, tho’ I can scarcely comprehend the latter being really approved. Could traveling fifty miles produce such an immediate change? You were looking so very poorly here; everybody seem’d sensible of it. Is there a charm in a hack post chaise? I assure you, you were looking very ill indeed, and I do not believe much of your being well already. People think you in a very bad way, I suppose, and pay you compliments to keep up your spirits. At any rate, as a companion you will be all that Martha can be supposed to want. And in that light, under those circumstances, your visit will indeed have been well-timed, and your presence and support have the utmost value.

  I look up from the page, finding it exhausting to act merry and sarcastic when one feels frightfully neutral. I try to think of some question I can ask that has nothing to do with death and sickness. I am only partially successful:

  You told me some time ago that Tom Chute had had a fall from his horse, but I am waiting to know how it happened before I begi
n pitying him, as I cannot help suspecting it was in consequence of his taking orders as he was going to do duty or was returning from it.

  I have little compassion for men who avoid their duty. It’s nearly a year since that lout Napoleon declared France an empire and three months since he declared himself Emperor. The audacity of that little man, making up for his lack of stature with grand aspirations. He needs to be dealt with. Completely. I’m ever so proud of Frank and Charles and the supremacy of our Royal Navy in protecting us from Napoleon’s acts of bravado and greed.

  Which reminds me, I must write them next, to encourage them in their work for our empire.

  God save the King!

  And my brothers.

  And dearest sister.

  *****

  On April 16, 1805, Martha’s mother passed on. It was not unexpected, yet somehow death still elicits a blow. I’m glad Cassandra is there to comfort and assist.

  The good coming from the bad (for I do look for such things) is that Martha is now free to move to Bath. She is a dear sister, in my heart if not in blood, and I look forward to having her here. It has long been my wish. That the benefit comes later than I had originally hoped is accepted with open arms. Although it will take Martha a few months to address the move, our attention is diverted toward this happy occasion.

  It is now June, Cassandra has returned to us, and we are all on our way to Godmersham for a visit with Edward and family. We stop at Steventon and gather our niece Anna, since Mary has just given birth to her second child, Caroline. Unlike our own parents, who sent us out as babies to be weaned and attended, Mary is a different sort of mother and nurses her own children with great fervor. To see her cuddle and coo the baby against her breast . . .

  I’ve been told that after I was christened at the age of fourteen weeks, I was sent away until I was nearly two and more manageable. All of my siblings were done so as well. Of course, I don’t remember this, and yet . . . I’ve often wondered if I would have become a different sort if I had owned a mother who doted and coddled me. Cuddled me. Cooed to me. Would Mother and I be closer now? Or would I have become too dependent on love instead of feeling the need to guard myself from its very existence? It’s not that I don’t need love. I do. But I’m wary of it. Once given, will it be accepted? Or will it be removed? Of course, I’ve always had Cassandra to love me. As a sister and a mother.

  Perhaps such a different upbringing would have been for the better, perhaps for the worse. Our dear Eliza and her mother were as close as bosom friends. So who fared best? Who became the better adult? It’s an unanswerable question owning too many unequal variables. Life is what it is.

  I sound like Father.

  This Austen pragmatism was learned through being brought up the way I was brought up.

  So . . . it’s not all bad.

  *****

  With my own brothers dispersed, and our household down to just the three of us, the chaos and merriment we find at Godmersham is an elixir to frazzled nerves and frayed emotions. My sister-in-law Elizabeth comes from a large clan of ten brothers and sisters, many of whom live nearby in Goodnestone with their widowed mother, Mrs. Bridges. Edward and Elizabeth already have nine children of their own.

  Although I am the sort who embraces silence and solitude, on this visit I embrace every trampling footfall and every joyous peal of laughter. In the evenings we often take a quiet walk round the estate, with little George and Henry to animate us with their races and merriment. We are also putting on a play called The Spoiled Child, which is a monstrous hit in London. Whether it will be a hit in Godmersham will be determined by our greater—and lesser—talents.

  Although I enjoy these happy moments with the children, I’m more than willing to let Elizabeth, Cassandra, and the governess, Anne Sharp, take care of their cries, both plaintive and pouty.

  Speaking of Anne Sharp . . . I can say that a highlight to my stay is our new acquaintance. I find her bright, well-read, and able to converse rather than chatter. I seek her out whenever I can—as I do now.

  I climb the back stairs to the children’s nursery with a book for Anne. Fanny, age twelve, grabs my free hand, pulling me into the room.

  “Auntie’s come to play!” Fanny says.

  Ten-year-old George (always my favourite, my “itty Dordie”) runs forward to touch me. “Tag!” he says. “You’re it!”

  I make after him, dodge Henry and William, aged eight and seven, sidestep little Lizzy, five, and Marianne, four, and end up being assaulted by two-year-old Charles, who runs into my legs with arms wide.

  “Oomph!” I say, picking him up.

  Louisa, just one, crawls across the carpet at record speed. I extend hugs and kisses all round and receive many more in return. Only little Edward, age eleven, is absent, as he does not feel well. His papa and mama have determined to consult Dr. Wilmot. Unless he recovers his strength beyond what is now probable, his brothers will return to boarding school without him.

  Although my sister, Cassandra, is the true nurturer between us two, I’m the one my nieces and nephews seek to play games or rough and tumble. Yesterday (though starting out a very quiet day with my noisiest efforts being writing a letter to Frank), William changed all that as he and I played at Battledore and Shuttlecock. We have practiced together two mornings in total and have improved a little; we frequently keep it up three times, and once or twice, six.

  “Welcome, Jane,” Anne says (for we are on a first-name basis, at least in private).

  “I don’t mean to interrupt,” I say, making Fanny twirl beneath my arm again and again.

  Fanny lets go and bobbles in her walk. “I an dizzy!”

  “Me! Me!” William says.

  Marianne jumps up and down. “Me! Me!”

  Louisa cries because Marianne has jumped on her hand. Anne goes to the rescue, kissing tiny fingers, making them well. “There, there,” she says. “Let’s go find your blocks.”

  Suitably distracted from the crisis, Louisa is set down and begins to play. And, as it’s a rule that what one sibling has, the others want, Henry and William join her to show the proper way to build a tower.

  Three down . . .

  Fanny takes my hand again, wanting more twirls, but Anne saves me by sending her off to ask a servant to bring us some tea.

  We sit in the window seat that overlooks the grounds. Unwittingly, we both sigh at the same time—and laugh at the happenstance.

  “Well,” Anne says.

  “Well,” I say. I bring the book front and center. “I found a book in the library I thought you would enjoy. Gisborne. Cassandra recommended it, and having begun, I’m pleased with it—and I had quite determined not to read it.”

  Anne accepts the book but does not open it. “I would rather read your stories, Jane.”

  “I wish Cassandra would stop telling you about them.”

  “As do I,” Anne says. “I would rather you do the telling. And let me read—”

  I shake my head vehemently. “No one reads my stories.”

  “But Cassandra said you used to read them aloud at Steventon.”

  “Godmersham is not Steventon. Here the audience is . . . more discerning. Besides, Steventon was a lifetime ago.”

  “But I, who discern much . . . do you not have them with you?”

  “I always have them with me. I could no more leave them behind than a mother could leave her children.”

  Anne cocks her head and smiles. “So . . . ?”

  Although I know Anne will be forthright and honest, I cannot let her read my work—perhaps because she is so forthright and honest. “I make you this promise,” I say. “Perhaps someday. If one of my stories gets published—”

  “When.”

  Her support touches me. “When. I shall send you a copy of your very own.”

&nbs
p; “Signed by the author, I hope?”

  “Of course,” I say. “’Twill make it worth a penny more.”

  As we laugh, Elizabeth enters the room. Anne stands. I do not.

  Elizabeth’s eyebrows rise. “Jane.”

  “Good afternoon, Elizabeth.”

  I can tell that the next question she begs to ask is, What are you doing here? but to her credit, she doesn’t voice the words.

  Instead, she says, “Mrs. Austen would like to see the children after tea. Would you make them ready?”

  “Of course,” Anne says. “Right away.”

  Elizabeth turns to leave but hesitates in the doorway. “Jane? Are you coming for tea?”

  “We have sent Fanny to bring us some here,” I say.

  She blinks, nods, then leaves us.

  Anne slowly returns to the window seat. “Jane . . . please don’t feel you need to stay when you have been summoned—”

  I put a hand on her arm. “I don’t stay because I need to, but because I want to.”

  “But Mistress Elizabeth . . . I know she does not approve of your befriending me, a mere servant.”

  “You are not a mere anything, Anne. And I will befriend whom I please—to be pleased.” I look toward the door and, in spite of my bravado, feel a stitch in my stomach, but I offer a smile. “By her reaction you would think I was nurturing our friendship on purpose.”

  “I don’t wish for there to be friction on my account.”

  “Not on your account. If any friction is to be had, it will be on mine.” I look out the window at my brother’s vast estate and long for the more intimate garden at Steventon. The more intimate house. “You are the only friend I have entirely to myself, Anne. I will not discard such a blessing to earn points with anyone.”

  Fanny defers any argument by coming in the nursery, followed by a servant with a tea tray.

  “Ah,” I say. “Tea is served.”

  *****

  Elizabeth comes into the library (where I’ve found a slice of solitude) and says, “My mother would like you and Cassandra to come visit her at Goodnestone, by turns.”