Chapter 30
IT WOULD BE THE SEASON’S MOST ANTICIPATED BALL.
AT FANNY’S invitation, Annabel arrived at Norwood Manor the next afternoon for a tête-à-tête about the imminent celebration of her engagement to Henry.
It was to be a grand affair, Fanny assured her, a coming out for them as a couple, announcing themselves to the world of Wakefield and beyond.
And at last, she noted with a mischievous smile, the busybody Lackingtons would have their due.
Annabel was standing, but not standing still, her slow walk in front of the cold hearth a counterpoint to her fast thoughts.
“I’m not interested in revenge, Fanny.”
“Of course not. Revenge is beneath us. It only makes us more like them. Let’s just say we might enjoy seeing them suffer a modicum of discomfort.” Fanny poured black tea into a cup.
“Then why do the Lackingtons still scare me?” Annabel stopped to face her.
“Because they are frightful people!” She held the steaming cup aloft. “Milk or sugar?”
“Maybe neither?”
“Then both.”
Annabel nodded yes, that was what she wanted. Fanny poured milk from a creamer, used tongs to add a lump of sugar, and stirred it gently with a silver spoon.
Annabel stopped to admire her wry composure. “You know, Miss Gidding-Wedmore, you are full of contradictions. It’s what I like most about you.”
“I like it about me too.” Fanny laughed. “But what is the bother with you today? I expected to find you jubilant and restored. Instead, you seem . . . agitated.”
Annabel sat across from her. Fanny handed her the saucer and cup.
“I don’t know what it is. I mean, Henry couldn’t have been lovelier yesterday. He continues to surprise me. Frankly, he takes my breath away.”
Fanny poured herself tea. “Do not make me envy you. It is not a sentiment I permit myself.”
“I suppose I worry that Henry’s of two minds.”
“Is he of two minds, or are you?”
“Maybe I’m the one full of contradictions.” She stared into her tea, then set her cup down.
Fanny sat erect, unsmiling. She spoke slowly, with a stern, sisterly countenance.
“Annabel, you must get hold of yourself. All levity aside, the resolution of our contradictions is how we know we have matured. I resist, because I know what awaits me on the other side. But I know what I must do, and will do it, when I have resisted as long as I’m able.
The truth is, I can only tolerate my own ‘modicum of discomfort’ for so long.
Trust me to err on the side of comfort every time. ”
Annabel tilted her head, unsure. Fanny leaned closer.
“I do not pretend to know what is customary, where you come from, but here, when a man and a woman marry, they become as one,” she said. “That one is he.”
Annabel knitted her brow and nodded.
“In any case, I had hoped the desk would be some small consolation. Even if you only write letters—”
“Oh, the desk!” Annabel slapped her forehead. “Forgive me, Fanny! I should have thanked you the moment I walked in. It was so generous and thoughtful of you.”
“Thoughtful, perhaps. But generous, no. It belonged to my aunt—well, not really my aunt, she’s a cousin twice removed—who, being ill of late, has decided to somewhat simplify her life.”
“But it’s such a dear writing desk.”
“I believe it was in the drawing room, but for years she’s preferred a quite small table in the dining room, which she finds less crowded.”
“I’m sorry she’s ill.”
A brief cloud passed over Fanny’s face. “Sorry, yes. As are we all. Though we don’t see her often, we are terribly fond of her.”
Annabel nodded. “I shall write my very first letter to your aunt to thank her!”
They could hear Lady Gidding-Wedmore’s voice approaching, her inimitable laugh.
“Ah, that won’t be necessary,” said Fanny, standing with an arm extended toward the door. “Here she is now.”
Annabel stood, too, as Lady Gidding-Wedmore walked in on cue with a woman on her arm, around forty, she guessed, in a tasteful cream muslin dress that hung loose on her slender frame; a sheer white Indian shawl hugged her narrow shoulders.
A few tendrils fell gracefully from her cap, framing her delicate features, made more prominent, no doubt, from whatever illness she endured.
Still, she had an air of quiet confidence and seemed to take in the scene with one glance.
Annabel felt an instantaneous tenderness toward her, even found her familiar, but couldn’t think how.
“Miss Blake!” said Lady Gidding-Wedmore. “How delightful to see you!”
“Miss Annabel Blake,” said Fanny, with affection in her voice. “My aunt Jane.”
Annabel locked eyes with her and smiled.
When the woman smiled back, her eyes came alive.
They were bright and expressive, sparkling with intelligence and wit.
They animated the rest of her face, the room itself.
Time stopped, but grew larger, rounder, like the face of the longcase clock.
Annabel blinked, a slow coming to awareness.
She did know her, of course she did. The thin mouth, slim nose, the eyes, the countenance, the topaz cross about her neck.
Annabel knew every word she’d ever written.
She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came.
Before her stood Jane Austen.
***
The gardens of Norwood Manor included an intimate square delineated with neat boxwood hedges grown into one over many years, and a smooth gravel path, of the finest crushed limestone, that graced its perimeter.
A fountain burbled at the center with benches placed north and south, east and west. Annabel strolled the path slowly with Jane Austen on her arm, an instant ease between them.
Lady Gidding-Wedmore and Fanny could see it even through the window. Annabel was gesturing with her free hand as she spoke, put it on her heart when she listened. Their heads were slightly bowed, each toward the other.
“They talk like schoolgirls,” said Fanny. “Old friends!”
“I did hint that she might talk some sense into the girl.”
“Oh, Mother, then she’s quite certain not to.”
Outside, Annabel could tell that Jane was easily fatigued.
When they came near the north bench, she suggested they sit.
Jane closed her eyes and, with some effort, let her lungs expand to take in the soft air, feel the sun on her face.
Annabel studied her thin skin, the bird bones, graying tendrils peeking out, and beneath her cap, the mind she loved more than any she’d ever encountered, from the time she could read well enough to read her.
Her books had always been more real to Annabel than real life.
“Go on,” said Jane, opening her eyes, refreshed.
Annabel cupped the back of her neck. “It’s just that, sometimes I feel like I was born in the wrong century.”
“Hm . . . Yet each century would have its own constraints, and offerings. One can only choose what is tendered.”
“But you chose what wasn’t tendered and refused what was.”
Jane liked her spirit but was surprised this young woman seemed to know so much about her. Perhaps Fanny had been less than discreet, though the extended family kept her secret close, as much for their interest as hers. But she didn’t mind who knew, not anymore.
“Let us not forget, Miss Blake, that I am the daughter of a penniless clergyman and have always enjoyed more wit than means, more sense than suitors. I cared for the writing life far more than the domestic round. And could not have, nor did desire, both.”
“You were never truly tempted, by love?”
A youthful smile flowered on Jane’s lips. “Who, with blood coursing through her veins, has not been tempted?”
Annabel smiled too. She knew far more than she could say, but hearing Jane Austen say it, with that wit and charm that were hers alone and belonged to no one else, ever, flooded Annabel with feeling. Each word carried the carat weight of diamonds.
Jane looked at her, more serious. “But I did never find a young man of such sterling worth that he could accept my bending to the will of another master.”
Annabel sighed. “I envy your clarity of purpose.”
“Some wish, Miss Blake, some prevailing wish, is necessary to the animation of everyone’s mind. But you must know what you wish for.”
“I want to be a writer.” Annabel said it without forethought. It just came out.
“A bold confession, indeed.”
“But wish I didn’t want to be.”
“Ah, yes, it is a great curse.” Aunt Jane put her hand on top of Annabel’s. “But a far greater blessing.”
Annabel was moved by the sight of their hands joined together. “And even wished that one day I might write one-hundredth as well as you.”
Jane shook her head. “Oh, no, Miss Blake. You must be the writer you are. I simply drew a circle around three or four families in a handful of country villages, thinking it the very thing to work on—that there I could discover all of human nature, and every sort of person.”
“I think I’ve met them.”
Jane’s eyes flashed. “Yes, I imagine you have.”
“And how brilliantly you’ve told who they are.”
“But you must draw your own circumference, Miss Blake. Write what you know. Inside and out.” Jane squeezed her hand. “For it is one thing to know what you wish for. It is another to know who you are.”
Tears sprang to the back of Annabel’s eyes.
She didn’t want to cry, not now. It was still a jumble, this unexpected turn, but untangling, too, word by word, breath by breath.
She closed her eyes, filled with wonder and gratitude for whatever had brought her to this moment. She felt the sun’s kiss too.
“What is in that curious mind of yours?” Jane asked.
Annabel opened her eyes. “Honestly? I was thinking . . . wow.”
“What does it mean, ‘wow’?” asked the greatest female lover of words the world has ever known.
“Unbelievable, incredible, fantastic?” Annabel shrugged. “But, really, it’s just a garden-variety exclamation.”
“I like it,” said Jane. “It has economy and precision.”
Annabel smiled. Jane seemed to draw energy from their conversation.
“I think I should like one more turn about the garden. If you would indulge me.”