She did not have to ask. “Girls, I am going to call upon Madam Lefroy,” called their mother. “Do you have any message I can take to her?”
“Only our love, as usual,” returned Cassandra.
“Mama might ask her if she has any opinions upon the endings of novels,” added Jane, aside to her sister, “since she has an opinion upon everything else.”
“Observe, my dear,” Papa said to Mama as they and their daughters entered the Rectory one winter evening after a visit to the Biggs. “I believe this is Henry’s hand.”
Picking up a letter from the hall table, he showed it to his wife.
“Indeed it is,” she confirmed, busy with her cloak-strings.
Cass went to her father’s side. “Open it quickly, Papa. Henry almost never writes.”
“Exactly,” said Papa. “The occasion must be momentous. Or perhaps he wants to borrow money.”
“Let us go into the drawing-room to hear it, whatever it is,” suggested Mama. “My feet are ready to drop off from cold.”
The candles had not been lit in the drawing-room. Kitty was with her mother in the village, as always on a Saturday night, and Travers was probably asleep by the kitchen fire. Dick would have been found in the tavern at Deane, if anyone had cared to look for him. The fire threw across the room the mobile half-light that was one of Jane’s favourite wintertime sights.
The room seemed smaller than usual, with its farther reaches in darkness. The family sat down in a circle around the hearth, Jane seizing the opportunity to take her childhood place on the footstool. Papa, adjusting his spectacles, held the opened letter before the glowing logs and read the first words.
“My goodness!” he exclaimed. “Henry is to be married!”
Mama let out a small shriek. “Not that red-haired baggage who has been following him about for the last six months? George, tell me immediately who is to be my next daughter-in-law!”
Papa’s face, lit by the full blaze of the fire, was full of astonishment and relief. “My dear, he is to marry Eliza!”
“Eliza?” repeated Mama, astonished. “Do you mean our Eliza?”
Cassandra was sitting in the chair nearest to Jane’s footstool. Her hand crept out from under her skirt, where she had been keeping it warm, and rested upon Jane’s shoulder. Jane looked at her. She was smiling joyfully.
“I do indeed,” said Papa, consulting the letter. His surprise had quickly given way to smiling approval. “They are to be married in London next month. It is all settled.”
“But Henry is ten years younger than she is!” protested Mama.
“If he were ten years older than his bride, Mama, you would not even mention it,” interjected Jane.
“Do not be impertinent,” said Mama. She looked suspiciously from Jane to Cassandra. “Has Henry ever spoken to either of you of his intention to court Eliza?”
“No,” answered Jane truthfully. It was, after all, Eliza who had spoken of it. “We are as surprised as you.”
“But we are sure it will be a happy match,” said Cassandra warmly. “Is it not delightful when two people already related, and beloved by their family, join together in marriage?”
“Indeed it is,” agreed Papa, looking very satisfied. “You will accustom yourself to the news, I have no doubt,” he said to Mama, rising. “I shall fetch a bottle of wine, so that we may drink the health of the engaged couple. Then we shall compose a reply, congratulating Henry on his good fortune. This is a very happy outcome, after Eliza’s sufferings. The Lord has worked his wonders, you see.”
When he had gone, and Mama was busily reading Henry’s letter for herself, Jane pulled Cass’s hand. Her sister bent down to hear her.
“Do you see?” whispered Jane gleefully. “I had nothing to be anxious about. Men do propose a second time, and women do change their minds!”
When Jane had made a fair copy of First Impressions, placed all the pages on top of one another and tied them up with string, she was surprised at the height of the pile.
“But when it is printed, you know,” reflected Cassandra, inspecting the bundle, “it will be a normal-sized book.”
“It looks like the food parcels Mama sends to Frank and Charles,” said Jane doubtfully. “I cannot believe it will ever be a book, normal-sized or otherwise.”
“Papa insists upon writing to a publisher about it, though,” Cass reminded her, “and when Papa insists upon something it always comes to pass, as you have probably noticed.”
“Indeed.”
Cass, who had picked up her sewing again, glanced at her sister knowingly before she made the next stitch. “You are nervous about Papa’s plan.”
“I confess I am,” said Jane, fingering the string around the first volume. “I want my work to be seen, and yet I fear ridicule.”
“That is understandable.”
“Only to you, because you always understand me. To other people it seems fanciful, even absurd. I can hear Mary, for instance, saying, ‘but if you write it, Jane, surely you want people to read it. Otherwise, you have wasted your time.’”
“And Mary’s opinion is the only one worth listening to, of course,” said Cassandra.
Jane hung her head.
“And as for ‘other people’ in general,” said Cass, “when they produce novels as accomplished as this one, then let them regard your reticence as absurd. Now, take your precious parcel down to Papa and rejoice in your imminent appearance among the literary lions.”
Jane picked up the manuscript. “However many books I publish, I shall never, ever be a lion. I am quite content to be a literary lamb, if there is such a thing.”
In the study Papa handled the tied-up papers as tenderly as if they might crumble at his touch. “I have decided, my dear,” he told Jane, “to write an introductory letter to Messrs Thomas Cadell & Company, a publisher in London. I understand that is the correct way to approach this matter, rather than send the whole manuscript.”
Jane tried not to show her disappointment. “When shall you send it, then?”
“When I receive a reply inviting me to do so. I am told that if one sends the work without an introductory letter, the publisher merely sends it straight back, and I do not wish to risk your novel twice in the post for nothing.”
“Are you sure, Papa?” Jane wondered who had told her father this, and on what authority.
“Quite sure. I shall wait until Messrs Cadell request it. Then they will be much more likely to accept it for publication.”
“Very well.” Jane once more gathered the manuscript into her arms. “And you will inform me the instant you hear anything?”
“Of course. I shall write today. I predict we shall hear by the time a fortnight has passed.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
A fortnight seemed to Jane a very long time. Every day she went to the post office herself, only leaving Kitty to collect the letters when circumstances decreed. Kitty’s habit was to leave the letters on a silver tray on a table just inside the front door, weighting the pile against windy weather by a small, solid glass globe Frank had brought home from one of his voyages. After her search for a letter bearing the Cadell seal, Jane would replace the paperweight and walk away, her brain already busy with the following day’s collection and inspection. And a little more than a week after Papa had sent his letter, the reply from the publishers appeared on the silver tray.
Her heartbeat quickening, Jane turned the letter over and over. She knew her father would be working on his sermon, but she knocked on the study door nevertheless.
“Please read it, Papa,” she begged, holding out the letter to him. “Read it now.”
Papa broke the seal and read aloud, “Sir, we thank you for your proposal but regret we must decline your offer of a manuscript for publication. We remain your humble servants, etc., etc.”
“May I see the letter?” asked Jane. She felt hot and cold at the same time. Disappointed, yet relieved. “It was written by a clerk, was it not?”
“I fear it was,” said Papa. “I am sorry, my dear. But we can try another publisher. Mr John Murray, I understand, is a competent one.”
“Please do not write to him, Papa,” requested Jane. “I do not mind in the least if none of my stories ever finds a publisher.”
“But Jane…”
“I am in earnest,” insisted Jane. “The world will be no different for the lack of First Impressions, you know. Thank you for trying, but it is of no consequence to me.”
Upstairs, she opened the cupboard door, took her boots off the lid of the box and put First Impressions at the bottom, under Elinor and Marianne.
Foolish, foolish girl, she reprimanded herself. Regard this blow to your vanity as a reminder that parental pride, not objective judgement, was in operation here. Do not let yourself be fooled by it again.
Catherine
Marriage might be in the air, but so was its natural successor, childbirth. Everybody, it seemed to Jane, was having babies. The confinements of several Steventon women kept Mama and Cassandra busy visiting, and Jane was put to use helping to mend, sort, replace and augment the stocks of baby clothes and blankets to be lent to needy parishioners. Meanwhile James and Mary’s first child was expected, and in Kent, five-year-old Fanny was soon to be presented with an addition to her collection of three younger brothers.
We pray, wrote sister-in-law Elizabeth to Cassandra, for a sister for Fanny this time. It would make Edward and me very happy if she were to forge with her sister as close a tie as you, my dear Cass, have forged with Jane. I have long been persuaded that sisterly friendship is selfless, noble and affectionate beyond all other.
“Selfless, noble and affectionate!” cried Jane, picking up her basket and scissors. Cass was reading her letter in the garden, where she and Jane were gathering lavender for scent-bags. “To be sure, I sometimes wonder if having all these babies is weakening Elizabeth’s brain.”
“Jane! I sincerely hope you do not speak so harshly of me when I am not in your presence. In my opinion, Elizabeth’s sentiment is rather beautiful.”
It was now over a year since Tom’s death, and, true to her bargain with Jane, Cass had removed her deep mourning. Of her two new gowns, however, one was plain dove grey and the other a colour Jane described to herself as “fieldmouse”. Her hopes of ever seeing her sister clad in white sprigged muslin, with her bright beauty framed by a straw hat trimmed with pink ribbons – always a favourite summer combination – had vanished.
“Then I take back my unkind words,” said Jane lightly, “and you will forgive me, as you always do. But, you know, I greatly look forward to seeing Fanny next week. She seems to me an uncommonly intelligent child.”
“She is,” agreed Cass with a mild smile, “and a lucky one. Her father is rich, her mother is accomplished and well-connected, she is pretty, and she is musical. ”
“And she may soon have the opportunity of experiencing sisterly friendship!” added Jane. “What further delights could we wish upon our niece?”
Cassandra put Elizabeth’s letter in the pocket of her apron. Jane knew that her sister was watching her stoop and cut and lay the lavender sprays in the basket, but she did not return her look.
“Jane, is something amiss?” asked Cassandra. “I fear you are not well. Let us go and sit in the shade, and I shall ask Kitty to bring some cordial for you.”
Jane straightened up to face Cass, but she did not put her basket down. “I am perfectly well,” she said. “I merely feel…” She looked around the garden, as if it would provide the words to describe the restlessness in her heart. “I feel … left behind, somehow.”
“Left behind?” Cassandra was puzzled. “But you are to accompany us to Kent.”
Jane hurried to explain. “No, not literally left behind. I mean that I want to do things.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose what I want is my own Fitzwilliam Darcy, complete with blazing intelligence, strict morals, a handsome figure and a country seat, so that I can be mistress of my own house and family.”
Cass did not speak. The small frown had appeared. From long experience she waited for her sister to frame her thoughts, and share them without further prompting.
“It is all these new babies, Cass, which are disturbing my peace,” complained Jane. “Do you remember how excited we were when Fanny and Anna were born, and we first became aunts? But by the end of this year we shall be aunts seven times over, and that figure can only increase. Why, Frank and Charles are not even married yet, but when they are, we shall be aunts to yet more children.”
“And one day you shall be mother to your own, too,” said Cassandra.
“I hope so,” said Jane gently. Then, after a pause, “Does it not pain you, dearest, that you will never have a child?”
“No,” replied Cassandra decisively. She pressed her lips together, to stop herself betraying even the smallest tremble, before she spoke again. “My children were buried with Tom. I have mourned them already.”
Jane could not bear to hurt her sister by voicing her deepest anxiety. Since that dreadful day when the news from the West Indies had come, had not her own prospects of marriage and motherhood materially diminished? She and Cass had each loved only one man, now torn away from them by death and distance. Cass had decided not to look for another love, and Jane, after two years without a word, had accepted that Tom Lefroy was lost to her. Was she indeed left behind, doomed to spinsterhood by association? Would she for ever be one of the Misses Austen, invited out of politeness and seated next to the Samuel Blackalls and John Lyfords of this world?
She fell back on flippancy. “Twenty-two and ready for marriage!” she cried. “Young lady for sale! Roll up, roll up! What will you wager, pretty miss, on your sister’s prospects? A bright new sixpence?”
“Oh, stop that,” said Cassandra, going back to her cutting. “We are going to Godmersham next week, where there are always parties. And did you know that Mama is plotting to take you to Bath? If you do not meet a suitable gentleman in that notorious marriage-market, it will be because there is not one there who deserves you.”
But Jane’s spirits refused to revive. “I detest Bath, and I do not want to be ‘deserved’,” she said frostily. “I want to be loved by a man who understands the world and is prepared to laugh at it. In fact, not like Mr Darcy at all, who never laughs at anything. Is that too much to ask?”
“No, not at all,” said Cass, mystified by Jane’s bitter tone. “You have every cause to be optimistic. Observe the happy ending to Eliza’s search.”
“Eliza and Henry?” exclaimed Jane, clapping her hand to her forehead. “What comedy! What charm! Anything can happen to anyone, and not only in novels!”
Cassandra did not smile. “I remain convinced that you need that cordial. You are overwrought.”
“Perhaps I am.” Jane put her basket down abruptly and gathered her skirt. “If anyone is looking for me, I shall be lying down. I feel a sick headache coming on.” She turned to go into the house, then back to her sister, who stood nonplussed beside the lavender bed. “Oh, and if I should die, you may write upon my tombstone, ‘Here lies one whose youthful cynicism disgusted her family, but whose pretty stories delighted them.’”
“Jane, dear… ” began Cass, very concerned.
“No more, Cass. Leave me be.”
Cass did not dissent. She left her sister alone, and Jane lay on the bed with her feelings too tightly strung for sleep. Refusing dinner, she slipped out of the kitchen door and cried for a quarter of an hour among the shadows of the larches at the bottom of the garden. Then she joined Mama and Cass at Friday evensong.
Papa prayed for the family’s safe journey into Kent, as well as for his ailing parishioners and the health of the King. Cass slid Jane a sideways glance as she took her place in the family pew, and twitched a small smile. Whether or not she understood Jane’s reasons for her outburst was not certain. But she bore no ill will, and Jane was absolved.
The whole family was going to Godme
rsham. Mindful of her sister’s words, Jane packed her white dresses with as light a heart as she could, and included her writing materials. Her mornings would be free of chores. In the afternoons there would be outings, and the evenings would be passed pleasantly in company. She would begin to write again, she was sure.
Elizabeth’s swollen figure betrayed the nearness of her time. Jane kissed her with real feeling, struck by how thin her face had become. She did not resemble very closely the peach-fleshed young matron who had admired Canterbury Cathedral with them only three years before. Jane knew she should not confuse fact and fiction, but she wondered whether, once engaged in producing the heirs to the Darcy fortune, that other radiant Elizabeth would lose her sparkle so soon.
A little girl stood shyly by the door, holding tightly to her nurse’s hand. Her smaller brother held the woman’s other hand. Both children were dressed “for company”, their eyes bright with excitement at the promise of sweets and treats which Grandpapa and Grandmama’s visits always brought.
“Fanny, Edward!” cried their mother, holding out her hands. “That will be all, Susanna,” she instructed the nursemaid. “You may collect the children in half an hour.”
Fanny was bolder than three-year-old Edward. At her grandmama’s smiling invitation she climbed upon the sofa and settled at her side, her feet dangling some inches above the floor. She smoothed her skirt. “I have a new dress,” she announced.
“So I see,” said Mama. “And has your hair been curled? How grown-up you look.”
“Her hair curls naturally,” said Elizabeth, her arms around little Edward. “Just like her aunts’.”
“I am going to be a writer, like Aunt Jane,” was Fanny’s next announcement.
Her father guffawed. “Then you had better make the most of Aunt Jane’s visit, and find out how to do it. Though since you are still learning your letters, I predict we shall wait some time for your first manuscript.”
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