She derived pleasure in life from doing something well, an affliction perhaps she shared with many. She wondered if she could deny herself the thing that came to her most naturally, that lit her up, for the rest of her time. She recalled the white heat moving through her after what had happened with Mr. Withers, the writing that came. Terror and glory had gripped her. She would feel happiness with Fred, but she would never feel that. And another thought struck, from the cunning and nasty part of her, which she hated herself for having but couldn’t resist admiring the honesty of: not only did separating from Fred allow her to be her true self, but she could put the pain it would cause to good use.
No question existed of their love for each other. They were two good people. But she could not live here, and he could not live there. Jane could not be a writer and be someone’s wife.
That night she went to his bed again. If possible, this time was more lovely than the first. Afterward, he held her close and said nothing. It was over, and she knew he knew it, too, because he held her tight and desperate, like one did when one knew the holding was for the last time. In the morning, she expressed a desire for some fresh air and, dressing quickly, departed the house.
Chapter Fifty-Two
She wandered Bath, going nowhere in particular. She sought the time and panicked; hours had passed. Fred would come looking for her soon. She walked into a clearing of green grass. She turned and found to her surprise not Fred but Sofia, walking toward her with a smile.
“What are you doing here?” Jane asked. “How did you find me?”
Sofia shrugged and smiled. “I thought you could use this. It’s turning cold.” She handed Jane a coat. Jane put it on, and they walked in silence. They arrived at the edge of a forest. It was up here in the woods, around the trees, that this world smelled closest to her own.
“I never marry, do I?” Jane said after a time.
“I beg your pardon?” Sofia said. “You have a wedding dress. You have a ring.”
“If I return to 1803, I mean. I never marry.” Jane stopped walking and waited for a reply.
Sofia sighed. “How should I know?” she said. “What a ridiculous inquiry.” Though from the way she laughed and moved her hand, Jane sensed Sofia had expected the question.
“You owned all my books, before they disappeared,” Jane said. “You told me yourself you learned of me during your education. Are you saying you have no idea of Jane Austen’s biography?”
Sofia did not speak.
“Tell me what happens to me, if I go back,” Jane said.
“Everything has changed now that you’ve stayed here, so what’s the point of telling you?” Sofia said. “Why torture yourself, and everyone?”
“I cannot help myself,” Jane said. “I’ve asked the question. Please tell me. Tell me what happens to the Jane Austen you once learned of.”
Sofia sat down on a park bench. Jane joined her and waited.
“Okay.” Sofia looked up to the sky. “Like I said, everything has changed now that you’ve decided to stay here, in this time. But I will tell you what I know.”
“Thank you.”
“The Jane Austen I learned of? Whose books I read as a child. No, she never marries.”
Jane bowed her head. It was as she expected. That did not dull its feeling.
“She also never has any children,” Sofia added. Her voice wobbled.
“I see,” Jane said. She forced a smile.
“But she does become one of the greatest writers in the English language.”
Sofia and Jane both stared straight ahead. Sofia touched Jane’s arm and seemed to sense where the conversation was headed.
“Jane. You won’t be famous in your lifetime. You will receive some small recognition, but you will never know the reception that celebrates you now. You will never know what you become.”
Jane nodded and gazed at the ground. “But I will write?”
Sofia sighed and fixed her face in a sad smile. “You will write.”
TWILIGHT FELL. AFTER much staring and sighing, Sofia spoke. “You have to go back.”
“But I could write books here?” Jane said.
“Could you?” Sofia replied.
Jane already knew the answer. She sighed. “I must be unhappy to write? That’s no life.”
“Could you be happy the other way?”
Jane frowned. “But I hate it there,” she said. She cringed at the memory of how happy everyone had been when marriage with Mr. Withers seemed imminent. How would she tell them that she wouldn’t marry, but write instead? She could not face such a conversation. In hearing that she chose spinsterhood, they would disown her, like they had Uncle Anthony. “I do not fit in my world,” she protested.
“There’s something exquisite about the way you don’t fit,” Sofia told her. “You are responsible for more than books.”
“I do not see how. I do not see a path.” Though she had seen her books in print, felt their fabric, she could not see how she could return to that place and make such things happen. That role belonged to some other Jane.
“There is no path,” Sofia replied. “You make the path. Then you leave a trail. You protest now, but I see it in your face. You’re already thinking of all the things you want to write.”
“I will be miserable,” Jane declared.
“Yes,” Sofia said. “You will rise at three A.M. in terror and write until dawn to chase the demons away. You will write so that happy, boring people can buy your books and escape for a time. You will write about it, so they feel like they live it. They will consume your pain and pay you for it. That’s the transaction. And you will be more alive than most people combined.”
“But I will be without love.”
Sofia shook her head. “You will be the furthest thing from that,” she whispered. She smiled and
