Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  But we did lose Lord Nelson. He died late in the battle, assuring his hero status. He has become a demigod. And though I take nothing away from his character, I am not alone in growing weary of the mania which has swept the nation these past months. Everything is “Trafalgar.” It seems no polite gathering can avoid a replaying of the battle, with even women knowing details usually kept from their more delicate sensibilities. There is even a “Trafalgar stitch.” And according to this public aggrandizement, Lord Nelson saved us from Napoleon’s invasion, while in truth, Napoleon had backed away from such an idea months before. I find it interesting that human nature is so well disposed toward those who are in interesting situations that e’en a person who either marries or dies is sure of being spoken of kindly. The entire thing is quite the phenomenon and, though enjoyed at first, becomes tedious.

  Victories notwithstanding, the war is not over, and I fear it will never be. Seventeen years and counting, it alters direction upon Napoleon’s whim. We have won the sea, but now he bothers Europe inland. How can one man impose so much turmoil upon so many nations? Once we are rid of him, I pray history never repeats itself.

  In this lull before what will surely be another Napoleonic storm, Frank marries. Huzzah! Huzzah! And one more huzzah!

  Indeed, my dear brother is the most courageous man I know—e’en beyond his naval career. For in the wake of his marriage he has brought forth the most splendid prospect. He has asked Mother, Cassandra, me, and even Martha Lloyd to come join him and his new bride in renting a house in Southampton! Situated there, he will await new orders and will be close to the port of Portsmouth. If any man claim bravery, I dare it to be lifted beside my brother’s bravery at volunteering to share a house with five women.

  The fact that Mother has agreed so easily to take leave of Bath surprises me, but when I inquire after her reasons, she only says, “It’s time.”

  Beyond time.

  On October 10, 1806, we move into lodgings with Frank and his young bride, Mary Gibson—temporarily, while we search for a house to lease. Mary, married but three months, is already pregnant. Alas, my brothers are certainly doing their part in bringing new Austen children into the world. November brings Edward and Elizabeth’s tenth child. Her name is to be Cassandra Jane. In this—as in all things—I’m quite willing to let my dear sister take first billing. Soon after our move, Cassandra leaves us to visit Godmersham for Christmas, to offer aid as only she can. As she leaves I wish to call her back. You cannot go! Not when we’ve just found a good place to be.

  For Southampton is a good place, and I am happy. Happiness is such a flighty occasion that one cannot always discern its requirements nor its measure. For here we are in a cramped lodging that is no better than what we had left on Trim Street, and yet, here I am happy. Here I feel release and hope, like an escaped prisoner breathing deeply of fresh air after a long confinement.

  I’m content and merely wish for everyone to stay in place so we can enjoy it. But alas, it’s not to be. Cassandra’s defection to Edward’s is followed by Martha’s visit to the Fowles’ through the holidays and into February. I’m left with Mother and her string of illnesses, perceived and real, and my new sister-in-law, little Mary Gibson. Mary suffers fainting fits that I notice usually occur after eating too much.

  Hmm.

  I say if one plus one equals a dislikable two, then stop the addition. But it’s awkward for me to offer such advice, for she doesn’t know us. Yet I vow to eventually bestow all my vast wisdom upon her. Fortunate girl.

  In the absence of the two most able domestic mavens, and in the presence of two other women—one old and one young—who suffer various ailments and complaints, I am left to handle the household.

  I do my best, which cannot be measured well by any lofty standard.

  Unfortunately, we receive a visit from two who have no qualms about telling me my shortcomings.

  We have a New Year’s visit from James, his Mary, and their newest child, Caroline. Where is my breath of free air? Where is my moment to bask in the sun of sanity and serenity?

  Some place very far from here.

  I love my brother. I love my niece, in her cuddly newness. And I . . . I . . .

  I will not put words to my feelings about my other sister-in-law Mary. Two sisters-in-law named Mary . . . I wonder what I should call them in private. “Little Mary” for Mary Gibson, and “big Mary” . . . no. That is unkind. Perhaps “little Mary” would suffice for Frank’s bride and “the other Mary” for James’s. “The other Mary” is a well-suited name, saying more, and yet less, than I might imagine.

  At any rate, they come and I do my best (though certainly not good enough) to entertain and offer every creature comfort.

  Surprisingly, in the case of the other Mary, I do better supplying creature comforts than entertaining. During our evening readings, we suffer a misstep as Alphonsine proves unreadable. We are disgusted within twenty pages, as, independent of a bad translation, it has indelicacies which disgrace a pen hitherto so pure. So we change it for The Female Quixote, which now makes our evening amusement to me a very high one, as I find the work quite equal to what I remembered it. Little Mary, to whom the story is new, enjoys it as one could wish. The other Mary, I believe, has little pleasure from that or any other book.

  What subject does intrigue the other Mary?

  Money.

  “It’s too bad you are forced to live like this,” she says one evening, scanning a disgusted eye over our lodging—our temporary lodging, which is not meant to hold three extra visitors.

  “We are very happy here,” Frank says. “It’s a good arrange—”

  “I’m so blessed to have a husband like James, whose provisions exceed any wife’s expectations.”

  I don’t believe her. For though she has no trouble heralding her husband’s income, I cannot fathom it will ever exceed Mary’s expectations. I fear her expectations flow toward the Godmersham way of life more than the finest life available in the Steventon parsonage.

  I soon find myself wishing that only James had come to visit, and yet . . . too soon I find that he is not as amiable a guest as I had imagined. The company of so good and so clever a man ought to be gratifying in itself; but his chat seems forced, his opinions on many points too much copied from his wife’s, and his time is spent walking about the house and banging the doors or ringing the bell for a glass of water.

  Who is this man? Where is my James, who could entertain me with his great thoughts and humour? Where is this fine eldest son who emulated our father? Father would not have been so weak and ineffectual, nor as demanding, as this strange visitor I don’t know.

  Or particularly like.

  I blame the other Mary for his new deficits, though if I admit a larger fact, I know there is plenty of blame for James to share. A man does not grow browbeaten and tetchy without assent.

  I wish I could say their parting comes too soon. But I’m greatly comforted that it will not come later, especially after having witnessed the full extent of their house-guest shortcomings. As it is, I hope my memories will fail by the next time they develop an inclination to come call.

  Upon our good-byes, I lean against the door. Relief tops the exhaustion of my bones—and soul. I take solace in knowing I have been left to the comfortable disposal of my own time. There will be no more torments of rice puddings and apple dumplings. And perhaps—upon a length of time—I will even come to regret that I didn’t take more pains to please them.

  “’Tis none too soon,” Mother says. “James didn’t seem to mind the expense their visit produced—and me, on a short income.”

  “James didn’t mind it, and his Mary encouraged it.”

  She shrugs, which, all in all, is the limit of what one can do at such times.

  “I do manage—with the finances,” she says. “Would you like to see?”


  “Of course.” That Mother has been forced to deal with numbers when they were never within her vocabulary is a sad fact of widowhood. She leads me to a small table, which she has confiscated as a desk, and pulls out a booklet of paper.

  “See here? I began 1806 with 681 pounds and begin 1807 with 991. All this after spending 321 to purchase stock. Frank has also been settling his accounts and making calculations, and we both feel quite equal to our present expenses; but much increase of house rent would not do for either of us. Frank limits himself, I believe, to four hundred a year.”

  I nod, having little knowledge about such things, yet wise enough to know Mother’s increase in income (in spite of having to entertain James and company) is a fine hope for our future.

  If only I had something to offer.

  *****

  We find a house to let in Castle Square. The landlord is the Marquis of Lansdowne. His own home has been newly built alongside. It looks to be a mock-Gothic castle. I leave him to his home and gladly take his leftovers. Our space includes a pretty walled garden where we can grow fruit and vegetables. And we are near the sea. Second to the rolling green of Hampshire, I do love the sea.

  I miss Cassandra and want her home again. I try to cajole her return by telling her that Frank and Mary wish her home in time to help them with their choices for the house, and that they desire me to say that if she is not home straightaway they shall be as spiteful as possible and chuse everything in the style most likely to vex her: knives that will not cut, glasses that will not hold, a sofa without a seat, and a bookcase without shelves. All teasing aside, we do want her here to help chuse the final details of our home.

  Beyond the house, we are very much pleased at the prospect of having a garden. To be privy to our own green just out the door will be a salve to all our constitutions. The garden is being put in order by a man who bears a remarkably good character, has a very fine complexion, and asks something less than the first man we asked. He informs us that the shrubs which border the gravel walk are sweetbriar and roses, but the latter of an indifferent sort. We mean to get a few of a better kind, and at my own particular desire, he procures us some syringas. I could not do without a syringa. We talk also of a labumum . . . to have the mix of the lilac and yellow sprays . . . I can think of nothing lovelier. The border under the terrace wall is being cleared away to receive currants and gooseberry bushes, and a spot has been found that should prove very proper for raspberries. Fine prospects and fine berries. With such I shall surely find contentment.

  The alterations and improvements within doors also advance very properly. The garret beds are made, and Cassandra’s and mine will be finished today. I should like all the five beds completed by the end of this week. There will then be the window curtains, sofa cover, and a carpet to be altered. Martha’s rug is just finished and looks well, tho’ not quite so well as I had hoped. I see no fault in the border, but the middle is dingy. Mother plans to knit one for Cassandra as soon as she returns to chuse the colours and pattern—another incentive for her to find no more delay in leaving Godmersham.

  Finally, our dressing table is being constructed on the spot out of a large kitchen table belonging to the house. We do so with the permission of Mr. Husket, Lord Lansdowne’s painter—domestic painter, I should call him, for he lives in the castle. Domestic chaplains have given way to this more necessary office, and I suppose whenever the walls want no touching up, he is employed painting the face of m’Lady. ’Tis common knowledge that she was the Marquis’s mistress before she became his wife, and all know the extent such women embrace to showcase their wares.

  I’m being petty. I have no cause to disparage the Lady of the castle, for she is nice enough and regularly drives by in a phaeton drawn by eight very small ponies, which greatly delights the children of the neighbourhood. Surely the ability to delight children makes up for past, less seemly, habits of delight.

  There are many acquaintances to be made here. In fact, such acquaintances increase too fast. Although we previously lived in the world of rectories and rectors, socialites and hopeful wannabes, in Southampton we find yet another environ, for we are in Frank’s world. The world of the navy.

  They are, all in all, an enjoyable and gracious lot, and by our relation with Frank our lowly status is elevated. In most eyes at least . . .

  I enjoy being around people who are my opposite. People who replace my reserve with exuberance. People who have the ability to make everyone feel at ease, to make everyone feel as if their place in society, as well as their temperament, is something to be accepted. It’s a gift not many people (young or old) possess. Such people are genuine in who they are and allow others like me to be the same. There is no playacting. Only gracious acceptance.

  To such people I sing high praises. To the few who make me feel as though their friendship is but charity, I am mute.

  Regarding my muteness? It’s to their benefit.

  *****

  We sit together in the evening. We always sit together. For there is no recourse. When he is home Frank sits with us, one stallion amongst five mares. Little Mary embroiders some nit-nat for the baby, Mother dozes, and the rest of us read Clarentine, by some relative of Fanny Burney.

  The relative does not succeed, and I suffer quite enough. I stop my reading and hold the opened book as evidence. “I must say I’m surprised by how foolish this book turns out to be. I liked it much less on the second day of reading than at the first, and it does not bear a third day at all. It’s full of unnatural conduct and forced difficulties, without striking merit of any kind.”

  I wait for someone to argue with me, to fight for the merits of Clarentine, but Mother barely opens one eye, Mary rethreads her needle, Cassandra picks another book from the table nearby, and Martha yawns.

  Another rousing evening in Southampton.

  I close the book with a snap. If truth be known, I think we are all of us too full of merit, which if pressed can be found to be the most unnatural conduct of all. We are too polite, too full of sisterly accommodation. There is never a raised voice or, heaven forbid, full-out hysterics. Although I have often witnessed as much from Mother or me or even occasionally Cassandra (when sorely vexed), in the presence of these two new sisters, we contain ourselves.

  Contain ourselves too tightly. If cordiality could maim. Or kill . . .

  I know Martha would forgive me if I were to push decorum aside and reveal my true self—for she has seen glimpses of that horrid creature in past visits, but little Mary . . . we are still too new in our acquaintance, and her condition too delicate, and her breadth of experience too shallow, to accost her with any full display of feeling—sincere or not.

  And then there is Frank. My dear, dear brother who is so different from the stodgy James, the vivacious Henry, the businessman Edward, and the adventurous Charles. Frank is . . . constant. Looking across the room at him now, I can nearly see the cogs of his mind working as he sits with one leg crossed, one foot bobbing slightly to its own rhythm. His gaze is toward the window, which is dark in the winter night. It’s as though he sees beyond it. To the sea. The constant sea, that comes and goes without bidding or direction.

  Yet Frank is completely unlike the sea in that he does not storm. I’ve heard the tale of Frank at sea, where another seaman was swimming in the ocean and my brother calmly said, “Mr. Pakenham, you are in danger of a shark—a shark of the blue species.” His words were so calmly stated that the man thought Frank made a joke. He did not.

  I watch him change the direction of his gaze from the window to the fire grate. Ah! I see a bit of kindling has escaped to the carpet.

  I gasp and stand, ready to act, but Frank acts first—I cannot use the term swifter, because he simply strides across the room and shoves it back to the grate with the toe of his boot, not e’en missing a footfall as he continues his gait to the bookshelf, where he peruses the s
helves.

  To the surprise of all, Frank—of the frigates, blue sharks, and navy—is also in the process of making a very nice fringe for the drawing room curtains. He is too perfect.

  We are all too perfect. Every company needs one person to hate, one who appalls others by their selfish ways, their candid remarks, or their bad taste in bonnet or boot. To have no one who offends vexes my nerves. I’m not one to demand adventurous agitation, but I could sorely use a dose of domestic animation.

  Yet what right do I have to complain about decency and decorum? No right. And yet I do.

  Will I ever be satisfied?

  *****

  See what happens when one complains?

  My perfect brother of the even temper left us: Frank received a command on the St. Albans, taking convoy duty to the Cape of Good Hope and traveling on from there to China! While he is gone making preparations . . .

  Little Mary of the shallow experiences has her child—and not by easy birth. It’s a girl born on April 27, 1807. Her name is Mary Jane, an honour I take with a good deal of humility and self-chastisement for everything ill I’ve thought (though, with God’s blessings, have not spoken aloud).

  And then, to make my humiliation complete, Mary does not recover well. She falls into bad fainting fits (having nothing whatsoever to do with what she had for dinner), causing us to rant and worry. And pray. Frank has left Mary in our care. Surely four women can be trusted to keep her ever safe.

  I hold the child, watching her tiny lips move in a sleeping suckle. Like her weakened mother, she is delicate. And fine. “Dear little Mary Jane. You have many here to love you.”

  God is good and merciful to us all, in spite of our faults. For little Mary recovers, and I am saved the pinnacle of regret that would have been mine had she and the child incurred any permanent suffering and harm.

  We are thrilled when Frank comes home for the christening in May and is with us through June, when he sails for the Cape.