Just Jane

by Nancy Moser

  In the evening we share the Psalms and lessons and a sermon at home, to which the boys are very attentive; and yet, in their youth, they have had enough. I’m certain God, in His goodness, forgives their inattention and need for normalcy.

  We don’t want for amusement: bilbocatch, at which George is indefatigable, spillikins, riddles, conundrums, and cards, while watching the flow and ebb of the river, and now and then a stroll, keep us well employed.

  Yesterday we had a complete outing. We had not proposed doing more than cross the Itchen River, but it proved so pleasant, and so much to the satisfaction of all, that when we reached the middle of the stream we agreed to be rowed up the river. Both the boys rowed a great part of the way, and their questions and remarks, as well as their enjoyment, were very amusing. George’s inquiries were endless, and his eagerness in everything reminds me often of his uncle Henry. My “itty Dordy” is growing up . . . .

  We now sit in the parlour, where George is most industriously making and naming paper ships, at which he purposes to shoot with horse chestnuts. Young Edward is equally intent over Porter’s Lake of Killarney, twisting himself about in one of our great chairs with book in hand.

  Watching them then and now, I feel an odd gratitude that somehow, in some small way, Aunt Jane is able to help.

  And yet, as effectively and often as I allow myself to forget our grief . . . my thoughts are at Godmersham. I see the mournful party in my mind’s eye under every varying circumstance of the day; and in the evening especially, figure to myself its sad gloom: the efforts to talk, the frequent summons to melancholy orders and cares, and dear Edward, restless in misery, going from one room to the other, and perhaps not seldom upstairs, to see all that remains of his Elizabeth. Dearest Fanny must now look upon herself as his prime source of comfort, his dearest friend, as the being who is gradually to supply to him, to the extent that is possible, what he has lost. This consideration will elevate and cheer her.

  Eventually.

  For I have learned, as she will learn, that life is ever changing, and the roles we play within it also. Whether we play them well or not is a conundrum even the brightest of minds cannot predict.

  *****

  The letters fly about the Austen clan, everyone offering their condolences while trying to be strong and merry when appropriate. I dislike that Elizabeth’s death is the impetus for gaining so many letters, but I relish every one.

  Upon receiving the post, I close the door against the frightful wind. I read through Cassandra’s post where she asks a question that confuses me: What say you in response to Edward’s proposal? I find it most interesting.

  “What proposal?” I ask the parlour.

  Mother looks up from her rug making. “Who is getting married?” she asks.

  Considering the subject is Edward, I know it’s not that kind of proposal. “The letters must be out of order. I have Edward’s yet to read. I will read it next and find out the mystery.”

  “Aloud,” Mother says. “Read it aloud.”

  I do just that.

  “Forgive my tardiness. I should have made thus an offer far sooner, and in my defense I did think it, but there were extraneous circumstances that did not coincide . . . . I wish to offer you women the use of a house on the Chawton estate. The bailiff at Chawton has recently died and his home is vacant and available. Does this prove intriguing?”

  I lower the letter. “Does it?”

  Mother has stopped her work. “It does. Of course it does. I’ve been looking for a home for us. There is one at Wye—”

  I shake my head. “But this . . .”

  “Does seem more ideal.” She removes her glasses to look at me across the room. “I did like Edward’s estate there. If the cottage is of the same merit as Chawton House . . .”

  “It cannot be nearly as grand, Mother. The estate’s bailiff lived there.”

  She shrugs. “Be that as it may, I did find the surrounding country most amiable.”

  I realize my heart beats faster. “Chawton is only fifteen miles from Steventon, and its proximity in dear Hampshire . . .”

  “I wonder what Cassandra thinks of this.”

  I pick up her last letter, again reading the words I find it most interesting.

  As do I.

  *****

  Cassandra, Mother, Martha, and I are of like mind: Chawton Cottage will be ours! We learn that there are six bedchambers—which is just what we wished. Henry wrote to us on Edward’s behalf, speaking of garrets for storage places, one of which Mother immediately plans to fit up for a manservant. The difficulty of doing without one had been thought of before. We discover his name shall be Robert.

  I don’t much care whether his name be Robert, Percival, or Eggplant if it means we move to Chawton.

  I don’t know why this place intrigues.

  Yet it does.

  How can I feel so right about such a place I don’t know? One I’ve never seen?

  Yet I do.

  I ask God to give me an answer but receive only silence.

  And yet it’s a peaceful silence that implores me to accept this gift in spite of what is uncertain or unknown.

  To go forth, on faith.

  And so, we shall move to Chawton.

  *****

  If I could move immediately, I would. Yet Chawton Cottage demands fix-its and fix-ums before we can reside there, and so we wait in Southampton. ’Twill be months and months, but let them fly by, I say! For I am happy. The anticipation of living in the countryside again sustains me. Like a child holding her breath for Christmas Day, I do the same for Moving Day.

  Until then . . . I find myself inexplicably immersed in the joy of celebration. And until Cassandra returns from Godmersham, Martha is my able companion.

  “A ball, Jane?” Martha says, pinning her hair into a bun. “I have not been to a ball in—”

  “In far too long.” I hold my hand in midair as though a gentleman might kiss it as we honour each other before the dance begins. I curtsy—and assume he bows with perfect grace. “But I’m not the least bit tired, kind sir,” I tell him. “Of course I will dance another with you. And another too, if you but ask.”

  Martha laughs. “But what if no one asks us to dance?”

  I take her by the hand and swirl her under my arm. “Then we shall dance together, Miss Lloyd. We shall dance and dance and dance.”

  *****

  We dance and dance and dance.

  Our first ball is more amusing than I expect. Martha likes it very much, and I don’t gape in energy till the last quarter of an hour. The room is tolerably full, and there are thirty couples in the dance.

  We pay an additional shilling for our tea, which we take in an adjoining and very comfortable room.

  No one (not even I) expected that I would be asked to dance, but I am asked by a gentleman whom we met on a previous Sunday outing. We have sustained a bowing acquaintance since, and being pleased with his black eyes, I spoke to him at the ball, which brought about this civility; but I don’t know his name, and he seems so little at home in the English language that I believe his black eyes may be the best of him.

  As for others . . . Captain d’Auvergne’s friend appears in regimentals, Caroline Maitland has an officer to flirt with, and Mr. John Harrison is deputed by Captain Smith (being himself absent) to ask me to dance. Everything goes well, especially after we tuck Mrs. Lance’s neckhandkerf in behind and fasten it with a pin. The melancholy part is seeing so many dozens of young women standing by without partners, and each of them with two ugly naked shoulders. It’s the same room in which we danced fifteen years ago . . . .

  I think much about this and, in spite of the shame of being much older, feel thankful that I am quite as happy now as then.

  In the carriage home, I laugh aloud at the me
mory, causing Martha to ask, “What amuses?”

  “Dark eyes,” I say. “Fine eyes.” I remember a line Mr. Darcy utters in First Impressions and I repeat it with some semblance of the rich baritone I imagine him to have. “‘I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes can bestow.’”

  Martha, who knows my work too well, recognizes it. “’Tis a good line, Jane.”

  “All Mr. Darcy’s lines are good lines,” I say. “He would not accept anything less.”

  We laugh in complete agreement.

  Extraordinary Endowments

  Eighteen

  I will not miss this closet. This wet, bereft closet.

  Nor will I miss the cold winds that blow in from the sea.

  People in Southampton say they don’t remember such a severe winter as this. For my own opinion, it’s bad, but we don’t suffer as we did last year, because the wind has been more northeast than northwest. For a day or two last week, Mother was very poorly, with a return of one of her old complaints. But it didn’t last long and seems to have left nothing bad behind it. She began to talk of a serious illness, her last two having been preceded by the same symptoms; but thank heaven she is now quite as well as one can expect her to be in weather which deprives her of exercise.

  I press the cloth into the closet wetness and squeeze it damp into the bucket. Over and over. Our battle of the closet began last November when we had some very blowing weather and so much rain that it forced its way into this store closet. Tho’ the evil was comparatively slight, and the mischief nothing, I had some employment the next day in drying parcels.

  Now the January wetness offers an encore. We have been in two or three dreadful states within the last week, this time from the melting of the snow. The contest between us and the closet has ended in our defeat, and I am obliged to move everything out of it and leave it to splash itself as it likes. Could my ideas flow as fast as the rain it collects, I might be quite eloquent.

  And yet, even as I dip and damp and wring, I do so with a joy far beyond what is due such a moment. Drip, O house! Apply your worst! Our spirit ’twill not be dampened. For soon, you will be ours no more, and all your vice forsaken!

  ’Tis not a laudable verse but the best I can do while wearing soggy shoes.

  On April third—Easter Monday—we plan to quit this place and rise anew, to a new life.

  An apt and fitting date.

  Alleluia!

  *****

  I don’t know what has got into me, because I’m usually not assertive. I’m not demanding. I’m not . . . a man.

  Yet as I awaken this morning, the fifth of April, still in Southampton, still holding fast to the promise of Chawton, I get out pen and ink and begin a letter.

  A letter that will change my life.

  I only hope.

  And so, with the deepest of breaths to fuel me, and the quickest of prayers to give me wisdom, I write to Mr. Richard Crosby:

  Gentlemen:

  In the spring of the year 1803 a MS. Novel in 2 vol. entitled Susan was sold to you by a Gentleman of the name of Seymour, & the purchase money 10£ recd at the same time. Six years have since passed, & this work of which I am myself the Authoress, has never to the best of my knowledge, appeared in print, tho’ an early publication was stipulated for at the time of sale. I can only account for such an extraordinary circumstance by supposing the Ms. by some carelessness to have been lost; & if that was the case, am willing to supply you with another copy if you are disposed to avail yourselves of it, & will engage for no farther delay when it comes into your hands. It will not be in my power from particular circumstances to command this copy before the Month of August, but then, if you accept my proposal, you may depend on receiving it. Be so good as to send me a Line in answer as soon as possible, as my stay in this place will not exceed a few days. Should no notice be taken of this address, I shall feel myself at liberty to secure the publication of my work, by applying elsewhere. I am Gentlemen & c. & c.

  M.A.D.

  Direct to Mrs. Ashton Dennis

  April 5 1809

  Post Office, Southampton

  I have held my breath throughout the writing and expel it loudly before taking another. I smile at the initials, as well as the persona I created for such a letter. If Crosby is a bright man, he should understand the implication.

  For I am mad. I have waited six years for them to fulfill their promise. That I have not written sooner—nor employed Henry or his lawyer Seymour to do so in my stead—is due to familial circumstances beyond my control. And cowardice. I’ve been too consumed with surviving like a heroine to truly become one by embracing the heroine’s attributes of strength, intelligence, and wisdom in the ways of the world.

  That I now pretend to own those laudable attributes is more playacting than sincere, and yet, with the strength sparked by our upcoming move, I will take the chance. I will take it and not assign it to others to do for me.

  For ignited within my breast is a new fire. I have set aside my manuscripts too long. It’s time they are brought forward and given a fresh start.

  Like the one that is being given to me.

  *****

  I hold the letter in my hand and see the notation of its sender: Messers Crosby & Co. “It didn’t take him long,” I say aloud.

  ’Tis luck there is no one round to hear me.

  In my hand lies my future.

  With a racing heart I break the seal.

  And read the words. And read the words again.

  “He will not do it?” I ask the air. “He implies there was no promise? No stipulation? No contract to publish immediately—at all? He lies! And what is this about suing if anyone else publishes it?”

  As if a masochist, I go over his final words once more: If you would care of the retrieval of said manuscript, company agrees to sell it back to Mrs. Ashton Dennis, in its entirety for £10—its original amount.

  I toss the letter on a chair. “It might as well be one hundred pounds as ten. For I don’t have it.” My usual income—derived a bit here and there from many sources and gifts—is not more than fifty pounds a year. I don’t have the ten just sitting about, waiting for this . . . this cretin to grab it back.

  I snatch up the letter and head toward the friendly fire. “So much for that,” I say. But as I’m poised to consign the letter to the flame, I pull it to safety. Most likely Mr. Crosby would appreciate his words being destroyed, all evidence of his deceit and cunning erased.

  No indeed. I will not burn these horrid words away. I will keep them close to my heart, fueling my own fire within.

  *****

  The time has come!

  Our exit from Southampton reminds me of another day two and a half years before . . . in leaving Bath I felt release and escape. If running alongside the horses would have hastened our departure, I would have done it.

  But this parting is far different, and as our carriage takes us away from Southampton, I peer out the window with fondness. Yes, I’m glad to go, but not for any want of Southampton. It has treated me well, and I set it upon a gentle chair in my memories.

  As city turns to country, I sit back in the carriage. I look across to Mother, then get an idea. “Will you change with me?”

  “What, you say?”

  “Change seats with me.”

  “Whatever for? I can assure you mine here is no more comfortable than yours there.”

  “Please, Mother?”

  With a gruff and grumble she complies. I settle in, feeling oddly triumphant. For ’tis only appropriate that I show Southampton—and my past—my back.

  And welcome Chawton—and my future—face forward.

  *****

  It’s all I hoped for. Dreamed of. All that I need.

  Mother a
nd I arrive first. Martha will come after a London visit, and Cassandra will arrive from Godmersham. And though I yearn for the arrival of my sisters, though I am eager to share this happy time with them, I’m content to be here, just a little, alone. All the better to drink it in.

  Mother has rushed ahead through the house, chattering with a servant who has made things ready. I slip behind to see the house on my own terms, to notice what I notice and linger over what demands me to linger.

  The cottage is L-shaped and was once a posting inn. It has been here near forever—at least one hundred years e’en now. It stands red brick, a tall two storeys, with two attic dormers peeking out beneath the tiled roof. From the road, the house looks larger than it is, because the L is not seen. And yet I don’t mind the illusion, for inside, it’s far large enough.

  The house sits on a busy cross of three roads: one leading to Winchester to the southwest, London, just fifty miles northeast, and Portsmouth and Gosport to the south. The church and Edward’s Chawton House—which we have visited—are but a ten-minute walk along the Gosport road. And the village of Alton, where Henry has a branch of his bank, is but a mile away toward London. Edward has informed us that Chawton itself has 64 houses, 65 families, 171 males, and 201 females—205 now . . . . Many of the men work in agriculture, most for Edward, with many others labouring at the looms at Alton. It is said the calicos and fine worsteds make their way to America. I have yet to test their quality but surely will.

  Edward’s efforts to make the cottage suitable are very amiable. Because of the busyness of the intersection, he bricked a window on the front side and opened another window to the garden. There is plenty of space to dine and relax in the sitting room. He has renewed the plumbing by improvements to the outer pump and privy.

  I climb six steps to a landing, then eight steps more to reach the bedchambers. I’m immediately drawn to the one on my left, for it’s farthest from the main road and overlooks the green garden. It has its own fireplace and, though the room is small, would be enough for Cassandra and me. Although I’ve been told there are enough rooms for each to have her own, Cassandra has already made it known she is agreeable to leave the extra room as the best bedroom for guests and continue to share with me. We are a pair, the two of us. Our niece Anna even chides that we dress too much alike, and seeing us walk up the lane together with matching caps—she cannot tell us one from the other. But the truth be that I know Cassandra’s starched notions, and she is well aware of my queer meanderings. She is the quiet one, while I am full of fool and folly. We complement each other and perhaps together make a proper whole. The family knows this, and there will be no argument. So . . . although I will allow Cassandra an opinion of this room or another, I know her well enough to be assured that I now stand in our room.