I OPENED MY EYES TO THE FAINT LIGHT OF DAWN AND THE SOUND of rain: I’d left my window open, letting in cold air and the smell of coal smoke, the sounds of London waking up. My dream—Henry Austen, a carriage, a waterfall—was slipping away, and with relief I let it go. It’s true though, I thought, still half asleep, as if answering a question or justifying myself to some imaginary listener, Jane herself perhaps. I’ve never been in love.
I don’t want to settle, or lie to myself, to dwindle into the compromises of coupledom, chasing an illusion of happily-ever-after. My parents’ marriage was a happy one until my father’s untimely death, so I can’t be said to lack role models.
I’ve been intrigued, in lust, craved unsuitable men, been bored by the attentions of differently unsuitable men, had sex as often as I could. Silly crushes, torrid affairs, tedious boyfriends, and close male friends, with and without benefits: elements that never coalesced.
Maybe I’ve never met the right person; maybe I never will. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me.
CHAPTER 7
OCTOBER 21
33 Hill Street
MY MOOD AFTER THAT TEA AT HANS PLACE WAS WARY OPTIMISM: Henry was attentive; Jane, if not exactly won over, seemed to like us a little. The next morning, Liam wrote to him, repeating his promise to come and inquire after his health whenever asked. Forty-eight anxious hours passed without a reply.
“Is it possible the letter was lost?” Liam said. He was making slow circles around the library, pausing to look out at the gloomy day. I was supposedly sewing a shirt, but I kept forgetting and stopping. “Or we’ve offended him. I did something wrong.”
“Enough,” I said. “Order the carriage. If he’s well and he’s already left for the bank, we’ll see her, is all. And that’s worth doing, too.”
I HAD A SENSE OF WRONGNESS AS SOON AS I WALKED INTO THE house. Richard, happy to see us as ever but looking tired, showed us into the drawing room.
Jane was alone, standing, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. “Oh,” she said. “I am very glad you are come, Dr. Ravenswood.” She acknowledged me with a look, and turned back to Liam. In dress, she was as tidy as usual, but her eyes were red-rimmed, with new dark circles under them. “My brother was so much better, the night you came to tea, and he has grown sensibly worse ever since. I have been quite distracted.”
“Too distracted to ask for aid?” Liam asked gently. “I would have come much sooner. Why did you not send word, Miss Austen?”
“May I impose on your good nature, and ask you to go and see him? He has not left his bed since the day before yesterday.”
“It will not be an imposition but an honor.” He bowed.
“You are kind, sir. Richard will show you upstairs. Richard?” He appeared from the hall to lead Liam off, and Jane turned to me with a weak smile. “He is very good, your brother. But I do not need to tell you that.”
“Come and sit down,” I said. “Forgive me, but you look tired.”
Looking surprised, she obeyed. I sat down, too, and gave her a long look. “Have you been sleeping properly, or have you been up half the night nursing?” Her expression was answer. “And eating? When did you last have a proper meal?”
“I have been—”
“But you must eat, and you must sleep. You will do your brother no good by falling ill taking care of him.” I touched the bell. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“I cannot think about food at such a time.”
“I take that to mean no.” When Richard appeared, so quickly I supposed he must have been out in the hall listening to us, something to keep in mind, I said: “Could we have some tea?” I turned to her. “Or do you prefer coffee?”
“Tea,” she said faintly.
“And . . . something. Whatever the kitchen affords. Is there any cold meat, Richard? Perhaps the cook could make Miss Austen a roast beef sandwich? Could we prevail upon her to boil her an egg? Is there any cake?”
Richard’s startled gaze went from me to Jane and rested there. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod. “Very well,” he said, and vanished.
We looked at each other for a moment. “Forgive me, Miss Austen, one more question. Have you washed your hands since you left the sickroom? That is very important, though not a thing people are always aware of.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You are quite decided in your opinions today.”
“It is only out of concern for you.”
“I shall go and wash them.”
Alone in the drawing room, I stood up, more restless than usual, and made a circuit of the room, noticing in a corner a portable writing desk—a sort of small box with compartments—sitting open on a table. Hers. I had last seen it behind glass at the British Library, along with her wire-rimmed glasses and a manuscript chapter of Persuasion, the one she ended up not using. I stopped and stared. Of all the amazements of 1815, this struck me the most: her actual writing desk. A few sheets of paper were partly under it, one covered with her unmistakable handwriting, tiny but precise: perhaps one of the letters to Cassandra I had come to steal. Hearing footsteps approaching, I whirled away and sat down where I had been, just in time, as Jane returned.
“So kind of you to come,” she said in a newly formal tone, sitting down. She picked up a piece of work from her sewing basket nearby, glanced at it, and let it fall. “Not necessary, but kind. I am sure he will improve soon. The apothecary was here yesterday, and he took some blood. That has to help.”
“Oh, immensely.” I was unable to keep the irony entirely out of my tone.
She gave me a sharp look. “He has a sound understanding of the case.” I heard a knock, and then Richard’s steps, headed to the door. “That may be him now; he said he would come back today. Mr. Haden. So conscientious.”
She held up a hand in apology and disappeared into the hallway, from where I heard the soft murmur of her voice and a man’s but could distinguish no words, then footsteps going upstairs as she came back into the room.
Mr. Haden, clever and agreeable, became a fixture at Hans Place during Henry’s illness and recovery. At least one biographer suspected Jane of a flirtation with him, though he was a decade younger. Others contend that if any flirting took place, it was between Mr. Haden and Fanny Knight, a niece of Jane and Henry’s. In either case I had been curious to meet him. Well, Liam would get to.
Jane sat down, saying, “I have some thought to write to my sister and brothers to inform them of Henry’s condition, yet I do not wish to alarm them needlessly.” She stood up again and made a circuit of the room.
“Why not see what my brother has to say?”