Chapter Thirty-Seven
Godmersham Park
“Give me that!” cried a young boy.
“I shan’t! Fanny said I could keep it!” hissed a young girl.
“But I want to-”
“What are you two doing in here?” Entered a young lady. “I leave to relieve myself for two minutes, and you are in here fighting! What will father say?”
“Fanny…” Jane moaned.
“Aunt Jane!” cried Fanny. “She is waking up! Where is Aunt Cassy?”
“Fanny…” Jane croaked, clawing out desperately with both hands, attempting to open her eyes. “Fanny!”
“What is it, Aunt Jane?” her niece begged. “Allow me to find my aunt-”
Jane found her niece’s hand and grasped it tightly. “Do not leave me, Fanny,” she begged. “Hold onto me.”
Fanny turned to her younger siblings. “Get Aunt Cassy! Find Papa!”
Two hours later, Jane was sitting up in her bed at Godmersham Park, still clinging tightly to Fanny’s hand.
She had slipped briefly back into unconsciousness just after waking, which was what she had been terrified of.
She feared that she would slip away and wake up again at Netherfield, and all she could think was to beg her niece, “Hold onto me.”
She had learned that somehow she had travelled through time again, and that the date was again the twenty-first of December.
Elizabeth and Darcy’s wedding had been on New Year’s Eve.
It was at that moment that she knew that despite the terrible gash on the back of her head that had rendered her unconscious for four days, that the well magic was indeed the powerful cause of her experience.
The well, and the one in Meryton, had done exactly as she had asked of them.
They had given her something more that festive season, and then generously allowed her to return to her family for Christmas.
She could hardly believe how blessed she had been.
The final piece of evidence of the well’s incredible gift had come when she snagged her finger on something scratchy. She looked down at her right hand on the sheet to see nothing other than Lydia Bennet’s reed ring from Amwell.
Fanny noticed her toying with it–tears welling in her eyes–and said, “We did not recognise that, but did not wish to remove it, in case it was dear to you.”
“It is dear indeed, dear beyond nearly anything I possess.” When her niece directed her attention to the items beside her bed that had been in her pockets when she was found, Jane wept openly.
Next to the reticule she had been carrying when she was injured, was a tiny annotated volume of Wordsworth with the initials EB inside the cover, and a neatly folded handkerchief with the folly at Netherfield embroidered in one corner.
Fanny watched her aunt with trepidation, hoping that all was well with her head. The doctor said she would take time to recover her strength, and Fanny prayed that when her aunt recovered, she would once again be her old self.
Three nights later, Jane was carried downstairs by two of her nephews, and she sat by her brother at the table on Christmas Eve.
She smiled as she looked about the table at her many relations.
This was all she had wanted. To be with dearest Cassandra and Fanny again.
To celebrate the festive season as one ought, among her family, who loved her best.
Jane awoke before dawn the following morning, which impressed her, for the festivities had gone on late, and she could not bear to bring herself to retire, though she avoided spirits, which the doctor said could not help her head.
She had not experienced a single megrim since awaking in her bed.
Other than the general tenderness of the injury itself, Jane was grateful not to be constantly begging for headache powders.
She had taken a few days to recover her strength, for sleeping for four days would weaken anyone, but early today, she rose from her bed and went to a table in her room, where she opened her writing desk.
After taking her manuscript out of its place, she riffled through the pages, reviewing them in her mind.
After reading through the last page or two, she gave in to the ideas chasing each other around in her mind, and began to write.
Four hours later, her sister entered the room to inform her that the family was leaving for church.
Jane wished to attend, but her brother was firm the night before when he insisted that the doctor preferred her to wait at least one week, perhaps two before she went out, for she might set herself back.
Instead she remained in her room, and a maid was nearby if she required anything.
Later that day after dinner, the family joined one another in the drawing room for their typical holiday frivolity, but before they indulged in any more wassail punch or party games, the family settled down quietly for a favourite pastime.
A reading of Aunt Jane’s work. When everyone was comfortable, Jane began to read.
Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just reached her eighteenth year, when the society of the village received an addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss Crawford, the children of her mother by a second marriage.
They were young people of fortune. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the daughter twenty thousand pounds.
As children, their sister had been always very fond of them; but, as her own marriage had been soon followed by the death of their common parent, which left them to the care of a brother of their father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she had scarcely seen them since.
In their uncle’s house they had found a kind home.
Admiral and Mrs. Crawford, though agreeing in nothing else, were united in affection for these children, or, at least, were no further adverse in their feelings than that each had their favourite, to whom they showed the greatest fondness of the two.
The admiral delighted in the boy, Mrs. Crawford doted on the girl; and it was the lady’s death which now obliged her protegee, after some months’ further trial at her uncle’s house, to find another home.
Admiral Crawford was a man of vicious conduct, who chose, instead of retaining his niece, to bring his mistress under his own roof; and to this Mrs. Grant was indebted for her sister’s proposal of coming to her, a measure quite as welcome on one side as it could be expedient on the other; for Mrs. Grant, having by this time run through the usual resources of ladies residing in the country without a family of children—having more than filled her favourite sitting-room with pretty furniture, and made a choice collection of plants and poultry—was very much in want of some variety at home.
The arrival, therefore, of a sister whom she had always loved, and now hoped to retain with her as long as she remained single, was highly agreeable; and her chief anxiety was lest Mansfield should not satisfy the habits of a young woman who had been mostly used to London.
Miss Crawford was not entirely free from similar apprehensions, though they arose principally from doubts of her sister’s style of living and tone of society; and it was not till after she had tried in vain to persuade her brother to settle with her at his own country house, that she could resolve to hazard herself among her other relations.
To anything like a permanence of abode, or limitation of society, Henry Crawford had, unluckily, a great dislike: he could not accommodate his sister in an article of such importance; but he escorted her, with the utmost kindness, into Northamptonshire, and as readily engaged to fetch her away again, at half an hour’s notice, whenever she were weary of the place.
The meeting was satisfactory on each side.
Miss Crawford found a sister without preciseness or rusticity, a sister’s husband who looked the gentleman, and a house commodious and well fitted up; and Mrs. Grant received in those whom she hoped to love better than ever a young man and woman of very prepossessing appearance.
Mary Crawford was remarkably pretty; Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance; the manners of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately gave them credit for everything else.
She was delighted with each, but Mary was her dearest object; and having never been able to glory in beauty of her own, she thoroughly enjoyed the power of being proud of her sister’s.
She had not waited for her arrival to look out for a suitable match for her: she had fixed on Tom Bertram; the eldest son of a baronet was not too good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with all the elegance and accomplishments which Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and being a warm-hearted, unreserved woman, Mary had not been three hours in the house before she told her what she had planned.
Miss Crawford was glad to find a family of such consequence so very near them, and not at all displeased either at her sister’s early care, or the choice it had fallen on.
Matrimony was her object, provided she could marry well: and having seen Mr. Bertram in town, she knew that objection could no more be made to his person than to his situation in life.
While she treated it as a joke, therefore, she did not forget to think of it seriously. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.
“And now,” added Mrs. Grant, “I have thought of something to make it complete. I should dearly love to settle you both in this country; and therefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Bertram, a nice, handsome, good-humoured, accomplished girl, who will make you very happy.”
Henry bowed and thanked her.
“My dear sister,” said Mary. “If you can persuade him into anything of the sort, it will be a fresh matter of delight to me to find myself allied to anybody so clever, and I shall only regret that you have not half a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry to marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English abilities can do has been tried already. I have three very particular friends who have been all dying for him in their turn; and the pains which they, their mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt and myself, have taken to reason, coax, or trick him into marrying, is inconceivable! He is the most horrible flirt that can be imagined. If your Miss Bertrams do not like to have their hearts broken, let them avoid Henry.”
“My dear brother, I will not believe this of you.”
“No, I am sure you are too good. You will be kinder than Mary. You will allow for the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious temper, and unwilling to risk my happiness in a hurry. Nobody can think more highly of the matrimonial state than myself. I consider the blessing of a wife as most justly described in those discreet lines of the poet—‘Heaven’s last best gift.’”
“There, Mrs. Grant, you see how he dwells on one word, and only look at his smile. I assure you he is very detestable; the Admiral’s lessons have quite spoiled him.”
“I pay very little regard,” said Mrs. Grant, “to what any young person says on the subject of marriage. If they profess a disinclination for it, I only set it down that they have not yet seen the right person.”
Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Crawford on feeling no disinclination to the state herself.
“Oh yes! I am not at all ashamed of it. I would have everybody marry if they can do it properly: I do not like to have people throw themselves away; but everybody should marry as soon as they can do it to advantage.”
“How intriguing,” Fanny spoke first when Jane finished reading. “These Crawfords are going to make the story quite interesting I think.”
“I believe I agree with you, my dear,” Jane answered.
“I can hardly wait to hear what will happen next.” Her sister Cassandra smiled at her.
“Neither can I, Cassandra.” Jane reached out and grasped her sister’s hand as one of the children opened the pianoforte and began to play a cheery Christmas carol. “Neither can I.
~ The End ~