A long silence followed my remarks, with which, as hardly needs saying, I had just violated a basic directive of our mission. Jane continued to stare at me, eyes bright, expression unreadable.
Figuring I had nothing left to lose, I went on. “But fame has its disadvantages. In the centuries to come, they will want to know everything about you. Everything! They will debate whether being farmed out to a nurse when only a few months old did permanent harm to your relationship with your mother. They will speculate about what was really wrong with your second-oldest brother, George, the one sent away that no one ever talks about.” I heard her sharp intake of breath, but plunged on. “What made you change your mind overnight, in 1802, when Harris Bigg-Wither made his offer of marriage, they will ask. Was Mr. Darcy inspired by a real person, and did you love him? Did your aunt Leigh Perrot in fact steal that card of lace from the store in Bath? Why did you choose never to publish your novel about the Watsons?”
Another long silence followed this. Jane’s mouth had dropped open slightly. “Miss Ravenswood,” she began, and stopped.
“You are correct that that is not my real name.”
“To whom, then, have I the honor of speaking?”
Strange, after all the improper disclosures I’d made, that I should hesitate at this. As I paused, there was a vigorous knock on the door.
“Miss Austen? Is my sister in there? I have a surprise for you both.”
Liam.
I rose to my feet, my heart pounding like mad; we stared at each other, and she shook her head. “I can brook no more surprises today. Leave me. Let no one in.”
“I am sorry,” I said. “Will you ever forgive—”
“I beg you. Go now.”
I went out into the hall so quickly I nearly walked into Liam and Henry. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, summoning all my reserves of acting talent.
“I am delighted to see you again, Mr.—Henry.” I gave him my hand. Casting a look back at the door, I said, “She is very tired right now, and does not wish to see anyone.”
The expectant smile on Henry’s face faded. “Is she, then, so very ill? They have told me—But I must see her, Mary, surely she will see me?”
“I am sure she will want to. Later.”
Liam looked from me to Henry and back, his blue gaze watchful. I felt he knew something was wrong, but this might have been my imagination; I attributed all sorts of powers of intuition to him at that time, which was related to the oddity of our having sex as often as practical but rarely talking, at least out of character, so the simplest exchange—a word, a look, a gesture—could acquire dizzying weight. It was a situation perfect for an actor, I often thought, and indeed he seemed to revel in this role. But what I did not realize until later, until they were gone, was how happy I had been in those days as well.
“Later,” I said again, since Henry was still standing there unmoving. “Let us give her a chance to rest.” I linked my arm in his and pulled him away from the door and down the stairs. “Are you just come from Oxford? How was your journey? Are you very fatigued? Let us all take a walk, and take advantage of the fact it is not raining, for once. For myself, I have been sitting by the bed all morning—a little air would set me up forever.”
Cassandra and her mother and Martha must have been dispersed on their various household tasks; I saw no one but the housemaid as we went outside to the garden. The air was moist and still, the sky full of dramatic clouds. I paused and took a breath. “So beautiful,” I said, conscious that I was acting crazy, unable to stop. “Shall we not take a walk?”
Henry, arm still in mine, assented with a puzzled nod; Liam, who had followed us down the stairs, hesitated. “Perhaps I should stay—” he began, before I grabbed his arm with my free hand and started down the lane.
I feared he would go up and try to see Jane. Rationally, this was not likely, yet it could happen. I had to warn him first, which there was no chance to do with Henry there.
But if I left Henry alone, he, too, might try to see Jane. And then what?
I was thinking all this rapid-fire, walking fast, pulling the two of them along and talking nonstop. Henry’s journey from Oxford—his progress toward ordination—the unusually low summer temperatures—Cassandra’s concern about their donkey’s lameness—an expected visit yesterday from James Austen and his wife that had not, in the event, materialized—there was nothing too random or trivial for me to mention.
And this was not the worst. As we continued down the lane, I dropped Liam’s arm to focus more closely on Henry, the immediate source of danger; I began to flirt outrageously, as I never had in my life. I leaned on his arm and lavished an adoring gaze on him; I asked about where we might live when we would be married and he the curate of Chawton, a few months from now. I mentioned, with unnecessary suggestiveness, that I was hard at work on my trousseau, as if inviting him to envision nightgowns, petticoats, and marital sheets.
I was conscious of Liam as a brooding presence behind us, but I could not look at him, any more than I could stop what I was doing. I feared once I let silence fall, something terrible would happen. And if “something terrible” was as simple as turning and going back to Jane’s house—and the events that would follow—then perhaps my actions weren’t so irrational.
Continuing our speedy walk, I realized we had reached the spot where Liam and I had first had sex, several months ago now. I’d been there since, but today was not like other days. When I reached the actual, historic stile, I rested my free hand on it, and then my head. I had black spots in my vision and had a sense of sound fading in and out, but did not immediately draw the proper conclusion from this.
“I think this is the most beautiful field in all of Chawton,” I said to Henry, taking a step back from the stile.
“So do I,” Liam said in a strangled voice.
“A sweet view,” I went on. “Sweet to the eye and the mind. English verdure, English culture, English comfort. . . .”
As I quoted these lines from Emma, I had the sense of wrongness, of Henry looking at me oddly. He seemed to be speaking, but I heard nothing except a roaring in my ears, and then the world went black.
CHAPTER 17
AUGUST 6
Chawton
I OPENED MY EYES, FLAT ON THE DAMP GROUND, GRASS TICKLING the back of my neck, the worried faces of Liam and Henry looking down at me. Liam had fingers at the side of my neck, taking my pulse, though not in the right place. Mortified, I closed my eyes again.
“There, you see, her eyelids fluttered,” he said. “She is perfectly well. Her heart is strong. She only must rest. I think the nursing of your sister has taken a toll.”