“Thank you, Miss Thornton,” said he, though the scrunching of his face indicated confusion.
“Do you make for Kent soon? Or do you plan to travel first?” she asked with a cringe, feeling fresh humiliation to inquire about the honeymoon plans of the man who had spurned her.
“I plan to stay in Somerset for several weeks more,” he replied, with another perplexed face.
“Is Mrs. Wilson keen to enjoy the upcoming assemblies?” offered Isobel, growing more exasperated by the second. “There is a revival of a Cowper play next month, if to her standards.”
“My mother is fond of Bath but shall remain in Kent for now. But I thank you for the wishes for her theatrical pleasure.”
Isobel furrowed her brow and winced at the indignity of being forced to clarify this most sensitive of topics. “I beg pardon,” Isobel said. “I refer to Mrs. John Wilson. Your new wife.”
The gentleman ceased his scarf inspection and looked up; a glimmer of hope seemed to dance across his face. “Ah. Perhaps you refer to Mrs. Francis Wilson. My new sister.” He moved toward Isobel.
“Mrs. Francis Wilson!” repeated Mrs. Turner from behind the counter.
John Wilson continued his path across the shop. Isobel, breathing heavily, turned away from him and grew fascinated with a mound of lace.
“Miss Isobel, I was detained in Bristol to celebrate the engagement of my younger brother, Frank, to Miss Bernadette Martin.”
“Then you are not engaged?” Isobel said.
“I am not engaged. There was a frost in Bristol, and I was apprehended for the night. I sent word via express. Considering the roads and the state of the English post, it shall reach you sometime next week. I rode through snow to find you.”
Isobel was relieved of the power of speech.
“We arranged to visit the Pump Room, Miss Thornton,” he said with a tender smile. “Isobel. If you will do me the honor, we shall go there now.”
He held out his arm and Isobel took it, and she and John Wilson proceeded to Stall Street. While her face remained still and she said nothing, she allowed her heart a small leap of what a sentimental person might claim to be joy.
Jane put down her quill and cracked her knuckles. She read it back. She would improve the words later, but for the moment, the pain in her chest had departed. The revelation that it was the man’s brother who married offered a brilliant solution. This story lay in its infancy—she did not know where it would go and what words and characters would lead up to it—but this climactic scene would make a fine ending to a novel. A miscommunication tore lovers apart. The confusion now cleared up, the man and woman could reunite. The bond repaired, happiness restored.
The effort of willing new words from a blank page had the quality and consistency of torture. Jane knew the horror of painting oneself into a corner on the paper, and the ecstasy of escaping with no smudges made on the floor. She smiled at the speed at which the words had entered her head. She laughed at how they fell to the paper and almost wrote themselves. She wondered how many more words waited. Inspiration like this came rarely. Her mind lapsed into a thought of Charles Withers, of what he might be doing. She surrendered the pages to the desk and climbed back into bed.
JANE AWOKE TO a companion in her bedroom.
“You will ruin that gown if you sleep in it,” Mrs. Austen said. Jane looked down at her twenty-pound dress and winced at the sight. Creases devoured the delicate silk overdress, some gold ribbon had come loose, and Jane’s blanket had crushed the petals of the embroidered roses.
“What time is it?” Jane asked.
“After three,” Mrs. Austen replied. She did not look up but read from a page in her hands.
Jane sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What are you reading, Mama?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. “Give that to me,” she said. The words caught in her throat.
“You told me you wrote no stories,” Mrs. Austen said.
“Aye. That is old work, Mama,” Jane protested.
Mrs. Austen scrutinized the pages. “These are the stories your father sent to London. That was cruel of him to put ideas in your head, to give you false hope. Why have you kept these and tortured yourself, daughter?” She turned the page over. “And this?” Mrs. Austen held up the last page of the manuscript, which contained the fresh scene. Jane did not answer. “You are a grown woman,” her mother continued. “Do you disagree?”
“No, Mama,” Jane said. “I am a grown woman.”
“I came to see if you were all right. Clearly you are.” She stabbed the page with her finger as she read. “While the rest of us know how serious this situation is, marriage remains a joke to you. You have little idea how low you will sink when we are gone. But while we run our nerves ragged trying to help, you please yourself.”
“That is untrue, Mama. Please give me those pages.” But Mrs. Austen gathered the pages into a pile and rose to her feet. “Where do you take them?” Jane begged.
“This is for your own good,” Mrs. Austen declared, then dumped the novel into the fireplace.
Jane screamed. The fire, which had died earlier, roared to life with the added kindling. Jane dashed to the hearth. When she was a child, words describing fire had entertained Jane. She preferred incalescent: growing hotter or more ardent, set ablaze. Cassandra and their father had little interest in candles and flames, but Jane loved to observe things burning, as did her mother. She stuck her arm into the flames and managed to snatch out a single scrap of paper, as well as the now-charred pink ribbon that had once tied the pages together. The flames devoured the other pages in a gleeful roar. A ball of heat seared the room, the dry pages seemed to explode, and the
