The Last Gift #3
Elinor nodded. “Her story, The New Prometheus, first appeared in 1819.”
Astonishment reshaped Jane’s features. “How can you know that? The last I recall was 1817’s summer!”
A wry smile was her answer. “Once you set us free in a place with Time unbound, it is akin to giving Mr. Bennet unfettered access to Pemberley’s library and every book acquired by the Darcys thereafter. Those of us you sketched in detail can learn all we need or want.”
Jane whispered, “Poor Mary.”
Elinor was gentle, sensing Jane’s disquiet.
“I think you do not refer to young Mrs. Musgrove but Lizzy’s next younger sister, Miss Mary Bennet.
You gave her less than ten lines of speech in a book of 122,000 words.
She was constantly judging all others despite burying her nose in the Scriptures.
She poorly played the pianoforte, and her singing was painful, to say the least. Worse, her father treated her dreadfully, compounding her mother’s disdain with mocking solicitude. ”
Elinor poured balm onto Jane’s contrite blush. “All of us understand that, like Colonel Fitzwilliam, who did not merit a first name, Lizzy’s younger sisters were literary devices to facilitate your story. And they never appeared here until...”
“Until?”
“Until other authors began composing their stories.”
“I do not understand.”
“Your tales fired the imagination of millions. Thousands of them were dissatisfied that you only completed six novels and began composing stories based on yours, notably Pride and Prejudice. After about fifteen or twenty years, some authors decided to step outside the Our Dear Couple model and create stories turning the secondary characters -the three younger Bennets, Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, and even the Gardiners- into heroes and heroines. They appeared here when they became something other than two-dimensional caricatures.”
Jane was excited that her little stories inspired others to enter the arena.
“That explains an idiosyncrasy like the lake. I wrote of a stream transecting Pemberley but not a lake, although I will admit I may have implied a widening, which might lead some to think of still water. For this to exist, someone must have written of a pond.”
Elinor gave an unladylike guffaw. “Oh, Jane, you have no idea how often fan fiction writers placed Pemberley overlooking a lake. You would also find amusing their inspiration for that.”
As Miss Dashwood’s mirth subsided, Jane decided not to press her.
She shifted direction. “May we forego further discussion about this place? You dispatched Miss Bennet -I assume that if her treks take her over the hill, she becomes Mrs. Darcy- on a special task. Are you prepared to reveal her mission?”
Elinor gave her a sly look, appearing feline. Jane half expected her to lick her whiskers clean of the cream she had snatched. “I think we have delayed long enough. Come, let us walk back to the house. You are too astute to be fooled that this has nothing to do with you.”
***
16th December, (unknowable)
Approaching her home, Jane heard a babble of conversation rising from the rear where her mother’s kitchen garden and rose bushes lay.
A buxom blonde adolescent hanging around the rectory’s portico caught sight of the pair and hared away through the front door, skirts flying.
The buzz of voices died beneath a decidedly undemure shout, “She is here. Let’s start the party,” followed by a motherly admonition, “Hush, Lydia!”
A loud cheer washed over Jane and Elinor as they rounded the building’s corner.
In a flash, a multitude had crowded around, shunting Miss Dashwood away from Jane’s seeking fingers. All were smiling and laughing while wishing her a happy birthday. Eventually, small groups drifted to trestle tables laden with food.
“You seem rather surprised at the reaction to your arrival.”
Jane turned to see Elizabeth Bennet at her elbow.
“I do confess to a level of amazement since my last thoughts before awakening here were of the unseasonably damp July hanging over Winchester. My birthday is in December. I beg of you, though, no explanations of time’s unusual nature.
Elinor just spent the past hour going on about that and solipsism. Any more, and I will get a headache.”
Elizabeth’s crystalline laugh echoed across the back garden, catching the attention of a ruggedly handsome gentleman standing off to the side.
He drifted toward Jane and Elizabeth, although he gave them a broad enough berth to signal no desire to join them.
Lizzy leaned in and lowered her voice. “Poor Mr. Darcy: his heart tugs at him, drawing him toward me like iron filings to a lodestone. I suppose I ought to act coolly polite. You did detail his execrable insult. How I dislike crossing over Oakham Mount, not that I would avoid your party, just that life with my husband at Pemberley is so interesting.”
Jane was mulling over a new idea that had just presented itself. “Madam, are you certain that you are not married? Perhaps you and Mr. Darcy are visiting Longbourn after your nuptials? One of those Austenesque authors Elinor spoke of must have written of that.”
Elizabeth blinked and opened her mouth to cry, “Jane, you are a genius -well, of course, you are. Fitzwilliam, my love, come over here. Our dear Miss Austen has just resolved our Pemberley/Longbourn conundrum.”
The gentleman approached, his eagerness to stand by Elizabeth readily apparent.
“I am always prepared to answer any command issued by my beloved wife.” He stopped and gabbled out, “Wife? In my imagination, I always thought you to be the perfect mistress for Pemberley. Wait -this is no figment- you are my wife on this side of the hill, too.”
Standing with the Darcys, Jane cooled her throat with a syllabub she had captured from Mr. Hill’s tray. While putatively December, the air carried more of Spring’s freshness and warmth than she had noticed upon awakening.
Perhaps that Old One Elinor mentioned took note of my chill and added a scoop of coal to whatever fires warm this realm.
“Jane... Jane... Miss Austen!” Elizabeth’s voice dragged her back from her musing.
Chagrined, Jane apologized. “I am sorry, Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy; I was woolgathering. So many new ideas in a short time leave me somewhat out to sea. Might I ask you to repeat what you were saying?”
Elizabeth gave her a saucy look. “Well, my dear Lady, you must pay close attention as this is just the beginning! Your birthday is when we traditionally begin three full sennights of celebration, all the way through Twelfth Night. Never let it be said that in the universe you created, we do not know how to mark the greatest of days: the anniversaries of our ‘she who made us’ and ‘he who saved us’! Old Mr. Fezziwig cannot hold a candle to us. Oh, sorry, that would be Mr. Dickens’s tale.
He came after your time. However, his folk always stop by to partake in the festivities.
Between you and me, I do hope for Little Dorit this year.
Mr. Marley’s Ghost would not sit still last time.
All that rattling and clanking put Mama into a dark mood. ”
As she listened to Elizabeth, Jane felt a wave of loneliness sweep over her.
This time of the year was always when the family gathered.
True, even here, Jane was surrounded by her children.
They were birthed by her as much as if they had been of her womb.
She loved them just as well. But she had only ever needed one.
Jane desperately missed Cassie. If her sister were here as she always had been, Jane’s existence-she was unsure if the word life worked for this place- would be bearable, nay, complete. She recalled Miss Dashwood’s words about writing and reality. Perhaps...
“Please, dear Elizabeth, lead me to pen and paper.”
She sat at the octagon table and took up her quill. After repairing the nib with a penknife, Jane Austen began to write.
My pain was unbearable. The only tolerable path was opened by my sister, Cassandra...
As Cassie’s name appeared on the paper, a gentle touch stopped Jane. Glancing onto her shoulder, she saw fingers, gnarled with age, knuckles swollen, resting lightly on the cloth. Suddenly, the wrinkles and liver spots vanished, leaving behind younger, if still careworn, digits.
That welcome voice she had missed for so long intoned, “Happy birthday, my dearest...”