Jane Fairfax

by Joan Aiken

  “You are silent, Miss Fairfax,” said Emma. “But I hope you mean to take an interest in this news? You, who have been hearing and seeing so much of late on these subjects —”

  Now, what in the world can she mean by that? thought Jane.

  “— who must have been so deep in the business on Miss Campbell’s account — we shall not excuse your being indifferent about Mr Elton and Miss Hawkins!”

  Emma’s eye, clear and sparkling hazel, seemed to pierce Jane’s secret like the thrust of a needle into an abscess.

  “When I have seen Mr Elton,” replied Jane, with all the calm she could muster, “I daresay I shall be interested — but I believe it requires that with me. And as it is some months since Miss Campbell married, the impression may be a little worn off.”

  Fortunately for Jane, her aunt continued to descant upon the subject of Mr Elton’s engagement, and her own silence and absence of mind went unremarked until Miss Bates inquired, “Have you heard from Mrs John Knightley lately, Miss Woodhouse? Oh, those dear little children! Jane, do you know I always fancy Mr Dixon like Mr John Knightley.”

  Jane started violently. “Quite wrong, my dear aunt,” she said in haste.

  “I mean in person, you know — tall, and with that sort of look — and not very talkative.”

  “There is no likeness at all, I assure you. Mr Dixon is talkative — very talkative, with an Irish cadence to his conversation which — which some people, I believe, find attractive.”

  “Mr Dixon, you say, is not, strictly speaking, handsome?”

  “Handsome? Oh, no — far from it — certainly plain. I told you, Aunt Hetty, that he was plain. Black, shaggy hair, you know, and a long countenance —” Her voice shook a little.

  “My dear Jane, you said that Miss Campbell would not allow him to be plain — I remember at one time you wrote me — and that you yourself —”

  “Oh, as for me,” said Jane quickly, observing Emma’s eye still upon her, Emma still taking a deep interest in this interchange, “as for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have regard, I always think a person is well-looking. I gave what I believed the general opinion when I called Mr Dixon plain.”

  Despite herself, Jane could not avoid her voice lingering on those two words Mr Dixon. I shall never see him again in this world, she thought. I may allow myself the luxury of speaking about him, occasionally, if people inquire.

  “Well my dear Jane, I believe we must be running away. The weather does not look well and Grandmamma will be uneasy. Jane, you had better go home directly — I would not have you out in a shower. — Oh, Mr Knightley is coming too. Well, that is so very —! I am sure, if Jane is tired, you will be so kind as to give her your arm as far as —”

  Jane found herself being hurried home upon the arm of Mr Knightley.

  “If you can sustain this pace, Miss Fairfax, you will just reach your door, I believe, before the rain commences. It was not wise of your aunt to bring you out on such a threatening morning. But I know her love of news! When the days are longer, I hope we shall have you out on horseback again? You look — if I may say so with the blunt kindness of an old friend — somewhat in need of fresh air and building up.”

  Jane blushed and — such was the friendly solicitude of his tone and the turmoil of her own feelings — felt the ready tears spring to her eyes.

  “There!” he said. “I had no intention to offend you. You are still knocked-up from your journey. Go in, go in! In a few days our good air will have restored you.”

  And he strode off down the street with a quick, kind salutation, as the rain commenced pelting down in good earnest.

  Chapter 12

  After ten days passed in Highbury, Jane began to receive letters from her friends in Ireland. They were attentive and kind correspondents; seldom did two or three days pass but she had a note from Colonel Campbell, or a slightly longer letter from his wife who, even in Baly-Craig, retained her public interests and her correspondents abroad or in London; while Rachel and Mrs Dixon supplied long, weekly informative and loving epistles, the former ending, sometimes, with a little note: “Matt asks to be remembered.”

  “We are growing very happy,” Rachel wrote presently. “I think that in time we shall do very well together. And I become fonder and fonder of Matt’s mother; we have invited her to make her home with us always, since Baly-Craig is such a huge barrack of a place, half farm, half castle. I have not been into all the rooms yet, I believe. I draw continually — the hills, the little houses, and the fisher-people! They love Matt, and he loves them. I cannot understand their language. Matt is glad to be back in his own place. A sorrow and lowness, only natural when you consider that he has never been here without Sam, are slowly lifting from him.”

  And he is forgetting me too, Jane thought. And that is well. I wonder if all men’s memories are so short?

  But she was to be surprised and comforted by the frequency and affection of Frank Churchill’s letters.

  “My word, Miss Fairfax, you do have a deal of correspondents!” often wonderingly remarked old Mrs Standen, the postmistress, peering over her spectacles in the small steamy office as she handed Jane yet another letter. “Almost every morning there is summat for ye! But there, young folks, they’ve a deal of time for writing.”

  And Jane, walking homeward by the longer and more roundabout way, past the George and Dragon Inn, and Mr Cole’s livery stables, would have sufficient time to read and absorb Frank’s tender words before hiding the folded paper away at the bottom of her reticule. His letters were amusing too — full of gaiety, friendship, and warmth — he described his activities — hoped he might be able to persuade his aunt and uncle to remove to London — perhaps next month — inquired with genuine solicitude after Jane — was her cold better? — had she been obliged to take to her bed? — was she managing to obtain the necessary air and exercise? — had she time to read? work? play the piano? — was there pleasant company in Highbury? — he had already had charming descriptions of her from his father and stepmother — and he was hers devotedly, hers entirely.

  The arrival of such letters, besides the more infrequent, cautious business of replying to them, did indeed help to cheer Jane’s days, and the frequency of mail received from Ireland made the concealment of Frank’s communications easier to manage. Since there were several letters a week to read aloud from the Dixons or Campbells, an extra one or two from Bath or Yorkshire could pass unregarded among the rest, and Jane’s morning walk to the post office before breakfast became the time of day that she valued most, when she was alone, could think, be herself, plan, recollect, and hope.

  As the days passed, she became more and more signally aware of how large a part Frank Churchill now played in her life; how important he had become to her; what a difference he, and his projects and promises, made in her otherwise bleak future.

  Mr Elton returned from Bath to be fêted, congratulated on his betrothal, and to preen himself a little in the faces of the females of Highbury. — Jane could not like him. She thought he was on the verge of being vulgar — handsome in a pink-faced, obvious way, no doubt, but a smooth, self-satisfied young man, with a genial word, a joke, a smile for everybody; still there was something about him that failed to please. Superficial, thought Jane; I do not believe he has ever thought deeply on any subject as a clergyman ought. And he is vain; he is making a parade of himself and his new engagement; he is showing off in order to attract somebody’s notice; I wonder whose? Could it be that of Emma Woodhouse? If so, she has worse taste than I would have credited her with; but then she has so little experience.

  To Jane, Mr Elton was civil enough; and she had to admit that he paid very proper and friendly attention to her grandmother and aunt, inviting them always to sit in the vicarage pew, because of Mrs Bates’s deafness. But she could not warm to him; compared, for instance, with Frank Churchill, so quick-witted and considerate, he seemed lumpish and over-effusive; and she felt it no loss when he returned, as he very soon
did, to Bath, where his marriage to Miss Hawkins would shortly be celebrated.

  The day after his departure came more interesting news.

  “My aunt and uncle expect elderly guests for two weeks at Enscombe,” Frank wrote. “As soon as they have arrived and are settled in I shall post off, spend a night at Oxford, and hope to arrive in Highbury next Tuesday for a whole fortnight! I can be spared for that long! What joy to see you again, and so soon! And in a place of such affectionate interest to us both. Your devoted F.C.”

  The letter felt like a little nugget of warmth in Jane’s muff as she hurried homeward. All day she was in a glow. In the last weeks she had begun to realise how deadly quiet and dull Highbury could be, how she missed the intelligent conversation, the easy communication, interchange of ideas, the daily discussion of books and public topics that she had shared with Rachel and the Campbells, with Frank and the Dixons. In Highbury there was gossip: the old ladies paused in the street to discuss Miss Augusta Hawkins’s ten thousand pound dowry and the probable colour of Mr Elton’s new carriage; but there was virtually no well-informed, stimulating talk. Frank’s talk, she now reflected, had been that; though it could not be compared, perhaps, with Matt Dixon’s poetic flights and occasional flashes of genius, yet it was the conversation of a thoroughly sensible, well-educated young man, conversant with public affairs, well-read, well-bred, and, besides that, amusing and witty. What a treasure he now seemed, in retrospect! Perhaps, thought Jane hopefully, Mrs Elton will be a sensible, conversible woman, somebody who may become a real friend, to fill a little of the dreadful gap left by Rachel’s loss; now I begin to understand better what poor Aunt Hetty means when she rejoices over the arrival of a new neighbour. In Highbury people were to absorbed in their own affairs to spare much interest for what went on abroad: though, for instance, Jane was known to have visited the West Indies, very few people had invited her opinions or descriptions of the places she had seen, and, of those, even fewer troubled to wait and listen to her answers.

  Soon came Mr Weston to proclaim and exult over the news of his son’s imminent arrival; and now Jane might feel free to be aware of it and discuss it with her aunt and grandmother.

  “Poor Mr Weston had been so disappointed at Christmas when the young man could not come. To be sure, Mr Knightley said he might if he were truly resolved, but then, it is not easy to flout the wishes of rich relatives! Mr Knightley was a little hard on the young man. Mr Knightley has his own views about many things — such as the friendship between Miss Woodhouse and that little Miss Smith. Mr Knightley’s standards are very high.”

  Privately Jane agreed with Mr Knightley’s views of this particular friendship. She thought that it reflected no credit on Emma Woodhouse. She had observed the two friends together on a number of occasions, and saw how almost slavishly little Miss Smith looked up to, and doated on Miss Woodhouse, agreeing instantly with every word she uttered; and how complaisantly Miss Woodhouse received this uncritical admiration. Mr Knightley shows his usual sense in disapproving of such a relationship, thought Jane; and then, with a slight chill: I wonder what Mr Knightley will think of Frank Churchill, when they meet?

  The day came that was appointed for Frank’s arrival, and now Jane began to be secretly, anxiously calculating. Then she tried to laugh at herself. It is only Frank Churchill! In Weymouth, often, I hardly noticed whether he was present or absent. — But in Highbury, matters were otherwise. His image had been insensibly changing through the weeks of separation, and she was surprised at the strength of her own wish to see him again. — Prudently, she tried to damp these feelings down. — He will tell his father that he met a Miss Fairfax in Weymouth, whom he believes to be now resident in Highbury; how soon may he call? Perhaps in two days? Perhaps in three? Or might there be a chance of an accidental meeting in the High Street?

  But, to her utter amazement, on the very day itself there was heard a knock at the street door, and a moment later Patty the servant came, big-eyed, to announce that an unknown young gentleman, giving his name as Mr Churchill, was asking for Miss Jane.

  “Well! What a thing! I wondered — I did wonder!” exclaimed Miss Bates. “Do you recall, Jane — oh, no, I think you were downstairs in the kitchen just then — but, twenty minutes ago, I saw Mr Weston pass by in the street with a strange young man. Oh! said I to your grandmother, I wonder if that can be Mr Weston’s son that he is expecting? But no, it cannot be, for Mr Churchill would hardly come on his friends before they thought to see him, and that was not to be until this evening — only, if it is not Mr Churchill, who else in the world can it be?”

  By this time Mr Churchill himself had come smiling up the stair and was waiting to be introduced to the two elder ladies.

  “Grandmother, Aunt Hetty,” said Jane, blushing, “this is Mr Frank Churchill — of whom you may have heard me speak —”

  All the time, while Aunt Hetty was bidding him an effusive welcome, and the old lady offered quieter kindnesses, while he was being pressed to take a slice of sweet cake from the beaufet — or a baked apple, one of Mr Knightley’s, a particularly excellent batch — or a glass of spruce-beer, which they had made themselves — Jane kept her eyes carefully away from Frank’s countenance. Indeed she dared not look at him. I ought not to be ashamed of my home, she was thinking miserably. I ought not to mind that this place is so different from the house in Manchester Square, from the house in Weymouth. That the room is so tiny, that you can hear the barber talking to his customers down below, that Aunt Hetty is — what she is. I ought not to feel ashamed. If I do so it is a fault in me, not the place.

  She looked unhappily out of the window at the narrow cobbled street, where two dogs were fighting over a bone, where an ostler chewed a straw as he dawdled in gossip with a carter, outside the Crown Inn.

  She heard Frank say, “Indeed no — I am particularly fond of sweet cake, and this looks particularly excellent. Caraway seed, is it not? Did you make it yourself, Miss Bates? I must beg the receipt from you for my aunt’s housekeeper.”

  With a strong effort, Jane turned at last to meet his eye, and received from him such a friendly sweet smile of reassurance that her spirits, which had been as low as possible, suddenly went soaring up.

  He was explaining that he had reached Randalls on the previous evening, having changed his plan in order to travel faster and for longer stages.

  “I hate to dawdle,” said he, “and there is great pleasure in travelling fast when it is to see friends.”

  “And you found your father well? And Mrs Weston?”

  “They both send their best remembrances. My father has gone to transact some business about hay at Mr Cole’s stables. And then he has an errand for my stepmother at Ford’s, where I am to meet him shortly. Perhaps you, ma’am, can tell me where Ford’s is to be found?”

  He was immediately and copiously informed, but seemed to find the directions hard to comprehend. “I turn left at the George — or is it right?”

  “Perhaps,” said Miss Bates, recollecting, “Jane, you might accompany Mr Churchill, then you could ask Mrs Ford, you know, about the gloves that she is ordering for me; the morning is bright, I believe the walk would do you good. Do you find my niece pale, Mr Churchill? You have been used to seeing her in the sea air of Weymouth; do you think she appears paler than she did there? Some people have remarked on it. ‘Oh, Miss Bates,’ said Mrs Goddard only the other day, ‘we do think that Jane grows very pale — does she take enough exercise in the fresh air?’ ‘Oh, Mrs Goddard,’ said I —”

  Frank assured the anxious aunt that her niece was by no means pale. At the moment, indeed, this was true, for Jane’s cheeks were suffused with the glow of consciousness; but when the couple were liberated, and in the street, walking as slowly as possible in the direction of Ford’s, Frank remarked in a tone of real concern:

  “But you are pale, you know; paler by far than you were at Weymouth. How comes this about? Are you ill? Does the air of your native place not agree with you?”


  “It is nothing,” she answered quickly. “I am well — perfectly well.”

  “And happy?”

  “I shall learn to be. Very happy in being back here — with my grandmother and dear Aunt Hetty. It is just — the confinement in so small a place — the loss of so many and such dear friends —” She paused and bit her lip.

  He ventured to touch her arm, guiding her past a puddle, glancing at her heedfully.

  “I know, I can comprehend. But —” in a rallying tone “now I am here I hope that may be partially amended. I hope that we can be meeting often?”

  “Not too often,” Jane said in a stifled tone. “Or tongues will start to wag. This is such a place for gossip. And that is the very last thing you can afford.”

  More acutely than ever, she felt the evil of her position.

  “Oh,” said Frank cheerfully, “but I have already thought of a ruse to gloss over the fact of our friendship. There are several other young ladies in this village, I find; one of them, in fact, I have already met. I shall cultivate their acquaintance most assiduously, so that it may not be said that I distinguish one particularly with my attentions. If I acquire the reputation of a sad flirt, what does that matter? Do you not think this a clever scheme?”

  “Very,” said Jane, trying to ignore a slightly hollow, sinking sensation. Had her feeling for him changed as much as that? Could this be jealousy? Was she so mean-spirited that she could begrudge even such diversionary tactics? “Which young lady did you meet?” she inquired politely.

  “A Miss Woodhouse. My father took me to her house. I imagine you must know her? A very self-satisfied young lady — satisfied with her looks, her fortune, and her wit — she will do excellently well as a stalking-horse!” He laughed. “Indeed I could see at once that Papa would be happy for me and Miss Woodhouse to make a match of it.”

  “And to that I am sure your relatives in Yorkshire could have not the least objection,” Jane could not help remarking rather coldly; and then wished that she had held her tongue.