“Read it aloud,” Jane said. She inhaled and chewed her lip. She hoped she had showed wisdom in sending it.
“Dear sir, thank you for your recent submission of Land’s End. I would be delighted to read the whole manuscript. Please call my office via the details below to arrange a meeting at your convenience.” Fred sat down. “They liked it.”
“They are but human,” Jane said. She wiped a line of sweat from her brow and thanked whatever god might be listening for such an extension of mercy. Publishers were likely as capricious now as they had been in her own time.
“I don’t believe it,” Fred replied. His face wore a suitable look of confusion and disbelief.
Jane shook her head. “Can you not see what I see?” she asked. “You are brilliant. The book is wonderful.”
Fred embraced her. “Thank you,” he whispered. Then he broke the embrace. “But I haven’t written the whole manuscript!” he said, panicked.
“Oh dear,” Jane replied. “Yes, that poses a problem.” She panicked a little herself. She had overlooked that part when sending half a manuscript.
“This is a disaster,” Fred exclaimed. “What am I going to do?”
“You shall have to finish it,” Jane said.
“But when? How? I have a job.” He paused. “I do have school holidays next week. But only for two weeks.”
“How many words do you need to write to finish?” Jane asked him.
He swallowed. “About fifty thousand.”
“Fifty thousand words,” Jane repeated in a concerned voice. She checked herself when she saw his expression. “Not to worry,” she said in a bright tone. “How many days is the school break, did you say?”
“Fourteen days, if you count weekends.”
“Very well. Fifty thousand words in fourteen days? That’s”—she tilted her head—“about three and a half thousand words a day.”
He laughed. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Do you think you can manage it? Write three and half thousand words a day, for two weeks?”
“No.” He laughed again.
“Do you think you can try?” Jane paused. “I offer my help,” she said. “If you want it.”
Fred chuckled.
“What is it?” Jane asked.
“Jane Austen is going to help me write a novel.”
THE FORTNIGHT OF writing began. Ironically, Jane’s greatest help to Fred would not come from advising him on character or assisting with dialogue. She did not help him with structure, or where to put the chapters. Instead, Jane cooked and cleaned for him.
She made him breakfast, lunch, and dinner; she brought him his daily coffee, his clothes, breakfast. The never-ending tasks of drudgery—dusting, sweeping, washing clothes—she took them on. She taught herself how to use the contrivances of the kitchen. She filled her days like never before. This amused her; she never laid claim to being a goddess of the hearth in her old life, but she did so now. It might seem the obvious choice for one writer to help another by counselling on word choice and sentences, but Jane knew better.
In her previous life, Jane’s singular task in the domestic sphere had been to prepare the breakfast items. It required but ten minutes every morning. Jane was obliged to place the foodstuffs and crockery on the table. She was not even required to clear the things away afterward; Margaret the housemaid did that.
Between breakfast and lunch, Jane spent every day pleasing only herself, walking the fields for hours, writing, thinking, and editing. In the afternoons, she met Cassandra and Mama for afternoon tea, then walked in the village. Time for supper arrived, and afterward, her sister and parents attended a play or assembly. Jane was rarely invited. Cassandra bore the gloss of agreeableness and good manners, an asset at balls and parties. Jane remained insolent and refused to entertain fools. She felt more than happy to be left at home, and her family agreed. She would write some more in the silence of the house.
First Impressions, her novel, took four years to write and revise. She worked on it consistently, every day. She came to rely on the time alone and felt annoyed when company or politeness denied her some seclusion. She embroidered no cushions and darned no socks. She cared for no husband and raised no children. She spent the majority of her time alone. Her mind made its greatest leaps in these stretches, when silence and solitude freed it to roam.
These were the conditions necessary for great writing: hours of time alone to oneself. No time spent on washing, chores, domestic tasks, no space of brain wasted on menial things. So she took on all this labor herself, to unburden Fred. Every great writer had a great woman behind them, she recalled. She had read the biographies of many authors and knew this to be true.
Fred was not as fast as she at writing. She had never witnessed another writer at work, but she observed he took longer than she did. He had not the knack for knowing exactly where words should just go. He also lacked some drive, which had always come easily for her. She pushed through terror and doubt. She knew she would never stop writing, despite rejection, despite censure. He frequently took breaks and chopped wood, tried to help with the chores. That was fine; other writers worked differently. A few times she asked to see what he had written, and he admonished her and told her to go away. She laughed and left him to it and took care of the house.
At the end of the two weeks, they reconvened for the unveiling. Sofia had travelled to London to attend auditions for other films to perform in, now that Northanger Abbey had vanished. Jane waited patiently in the kitchen for Fred to emerge from his bedroom. He finally showed his face, an hour later than the agreed time. Jane did not mind; genius required patience. He shuffled toward the table, looking exhausted, and presented her with the pages. She sifted through them eagerly. He scratched his head and said nothing.
“There’s only fifty pages more here,” Jane said. She turned them over
