A FEW DAYS AFTER THAT, LIAM WENT TO LONDON ONCE MORE, TO break the lease on the Hill Street house and to settle things with the servants. I said it made no sense for me to go, that my time would be better spent overseeing the work at our new home. In reality, I could not imagine being stuck in a carriage for hours with him, or spending another overnight at a coaching inn.
“But Henry will be there,” Liam said, as if this were an argument for going, instead of another reason not to. I was not sure how I felt about Henry just then, except not in a hurry to see him again. It was certain to be a painful scene, with the lost thirty thousand pounds between us, and my need to assure him I still loved him and wanted to marry him, only not yet, and that we still needed not to tell, even though the point of secrecy was far less clear now that we’d failed to save his bank. I did not feel up to all the duplicity required.
Instead, I wrote him a letter trying to say some of this—I could do that now; we were engaged—which I gave to Liam, not yet sealed.
“Read it so you know where we are with him,” I said. “I have no secrets from you.” We were in the library again, a rare moment alone.
He gave me a look. “Everyone has secrets.”
“Okay, but none I put in this letter.”
“I don’t want to read your letters to Henry!”
“Can you just tell me if you think I’ve expressed myself properly? It’s kind of tricky.”
“Only if you insist.” With a frown, he started reading.
THE MORNING AFTER LIAM WENT TO LONDON, MR. PROWTING’S steward stopped by Chawton House with a large key and a message: the work was complete, and the cottage ours whenever we were ready to move in. I grabbed my pelisse and headed down the hill, eager to see the place again and to try to imagine my new life there. I’d felt uneasy around Edward Knight ever since the conversation I’d overheard, but the thought of moving to Ivy Cottage, living in such a confined space with Liam, was disconcerting too.
Pausing at the gate, I saw a woman down the lane heading my way: Jane.
“Ah,” she said when she drew close, her gaze traveling from me to the key. “So it is yours? How delightful. Have you just been inside?”
“Not yet. Will you join me?”
I managed the key with difficulty, pushed the heavy door open, and stepped into dimness, smelling limewash and old wood. Next to me, Jane looked up and down, nose twitching discreetly, taking everything in.
“Not as bad as I feared,” she said at last.
“It makes me think of what the Dashwood ladies must have felt when they arrived in Devonshire to their new home.”
“You are kind to think of my work.”
“I nearly always do.”
“But you have not, like the Dashwoods, lost—That is, I hope—” Unexpectedly she took my hand and squeezed it. The hand that wrote Sense and Sensibility was larger than mine, shapely and cold, and like her face, oddly bronzed. “Henry has told me what happened. That you and your brother gave him money, and that now it is gone. I hope it was not—I hope it was not more than you can afford to lose. I could not bear to think that, after everything else that has gone wrong.”
“Do not trouble yourself.” My hand squeezed hers back as we went into one of the front rooms. The walls were fresh and white; the floors sloped a little, but the wide boards were clean. Two comb-back Windsor chairs sat on either side of a sturdy round table. With a shudder I anticipated the awkwardness of sitting here alone with Liam.
“We must get more chairs,” I said. “Then we can invite you for tea. I wish I could offer you some now, but there is no teapot. Nor tea. Do you buy yours around here, or in town?”
“Do not change the subject. I have asked you a serious question and I want the truth. Even if I fear it.”
“We gave him nothing we could not afford to lose.” I wondered if Henry had revealed the amount; thirty thousand pounds was a staggering sum. “Please stop thinking about it.”
She sat down, leaning forward. Her wince caught my notice. “Does your back pain you?”
“Oh, a little. I am rather old, after all.”
I sat down, too, and studied her. “Is the pain constant? Only when you move in certain ways?”
She ignored my question. “May I be quite honest? I am so happy you are going to be my sister. We knew Henry must remarry eventually; he is ill-suited for the life of a bachelor, even if he was one for so many years while trying to win Eliza. But I was afraid that—I am so very glad it is you.” She looked into my eyes, smiling but serious too, and I felt a thrill of shame at my own deceit.
“He must have loved his first wife very much. I cannot expect to take her place in his heart. Or in your family.” I paused. “Do you think Mr. Knight will be very shocked, Miss Austen?” I wondered if he had written his letter to Jamaica yet.
“Edward must not think he can command everyone’s life.” She paused. “We will be sisters soon enough. Do you think it would be too hasty—Shall we, then, use our Christian names?”
She paused, as if really concerned about what I might answer, as I concentrated on trying to look happy but not excessively so, when I wanted to jump up from my chair, throw my head back, and laugh. This was a far bigger triumph than a proposal of marriage.
“Jane,” I said, trying it out. Leaning over and kissing her on the mouth would not have felt more intimate, or more daring. “I would be honored.”
We sat in peaceful silence for a moment before she said: “In general, Mary dear, secret engagements are wicked things, though when it comes to the particular, I find it hard to disapprove of Henry. And there is a certain delight in being in on the secret, I must confess.”
She spoke kindly, but I felt a cold sensation wash over me. “Yes” was all I could say.
“I understand a need for discretion, so soon after the bank crash. Who knows if his creditors might not go after you, if they thought the alliance had already been contracted?”
In my wildest flights of worry, lying awake and thinking of things that could go wrong, this one had never occurred to me. “Would they?”
“It is not likely, but it is better to be cautious. Still.” She reached out and patted my hand. “Do not wait too long to tell, or scenes might arise unpleasant to everyone.”
I didn’t want to talk about this. “You show the dangers of this very well in Emma.”
“I had not realized you had read it already.”
“Did I not say? I loved it. Your best work yet. It is marvelous, how you hide the truth in plain sight.”
She blinked. “An interesting way of putting it.”
“Is that not what you did? The secret engagement—Emma’s unrecognized love for Mr. Knightley—it is all there.”
“But I did not expect people to see it, so easily. Perhaps I am sadly transparent.”