Adventures with Jane and her Legacy 01 Jane Austen Ruined My Life (11 page)

T
he warm weather turned decidedly hot as I made my way across Hyde Park, too cheap to spring for another ticket on the Underground even in my flight from Barry. Now I headed east toward my next goal and the completion of Mrs. Parrot's second task.

Through the center of London, the parks connect in links of green from Kensington in the west to Trafalgar Square in the east. I crossed Kensington Gardens into Hyde Park, then through the subterranean passages under Hyde Park Corner until I emerged onto Piccadilly, a five-lane nightmare of taxis, buses, and delivery trucks. Here, I followed the road along the edge of Green Park until I saw the Ritz Hotel looming in front of me in all its chateau-style glory. Not much farther now.

I could feel a blister forming on my heel, but I ignored it. Past the Ritz, and then the Wolseley, an exclusive restaurant where
Edward and I had once taken afternoon tea; past Fortnum and Mason, grocers to Her Majesty, and then, finally, I saw the sign.

Hatchards

Est. 1797

I felt a frisson of excitement, not unlike the one generated when Barry laced his fingers through mine. It was the electric buzz of intimacy and connection, only this wasn't romantic but deeply personal. The multipaned, bowed windows; the tiled entry; the brass knobs; the history--they all beckoned to me. I opened the door and stepped inside.

Dark paneling, floor-to-ceiling shelves, and a large twisting staircase dominated the small space. Books were everywhere-- on a round table in the midst of the room, piled on the landing of the staircase, tucked into the highest shelves. For all its modern amenities--the cash registers to my right, the electric lights, the whir of air conditioning--I didn't think Hatchards had changed all that much from Jane Austen's day.

"May I help you?" an elderly salesclerk asked.

I couldn't speak. My throat was too tight. I shook my head and darted through the doorway to my left. The ground floor was a little warren of nooks and crannies. Travel books here. Local interest there. New releases and biographies.

I took my time, running my fingers along the spines of books, stopping to pull a title from the shelf and inspect it. A sense of well-being flowed through me as I circled the ground floor. It was better than meditation or a new pair of shoes-- or even chocolate. My life was a disaster, but there were still
books. Lots and lots of books. A refuge. A solace. Each one offering the possibility of a new beginning.

Had Jane felt that way when she came here? She'd apparently not been all that fond of London, but she would have appreciated the riches in a place like this. Her father's library, to which she'd been given free access early on, numbered five hundred volumes. Still, no doubt she'd come here with the same motives as any modern shopper: to pick up the newest best-selling novel, the most promising memoir, perhaps even an improving book of sermons.

The classics lined either side of a small passageway between the two main rooms. I found the A's and perused my choices. All of Austen's novels were now in the public domain, so numerous publishers put out their own editions of her works. I pulled a copy of
Emma
from the shelf and flipped it open. For the last ten years of my life, since I'd begun my graduate studies, I'd made a practice of rereading each of the major novels annually.
Sense and Sensibility
.
Pride and Prejudice
. Her first two, and in many ways, the most successful. Then
Mansfield Park
, followed by
Emma. Persuasion
and
Northanger Abbey
hadn't been published until after her death at the age of forty-one, but there they all were almost two hundred years later, in their various incarnations, still on the shelves of Hatchards. Still on bookshelves everywhere in the world.

The old dream, the one Barry had resurrected only an hour before on the grass in Kensington Gardens, clawed its way up from the depths where I'd relegated it. I ran my hand over the
cover of
Emma
, then reached up to trace the other titles on the shelves. The Brontes. Defoe. Dickens. I had never aspired to be in their league, of course, or in Jane Austen's, but Barry had led me to remember that once upon a time, I'd spent hours writing in notebooks and composition books and legal tablets. What had happened to all of them? I'd kept them in a box for a long time, but where was that box now? I'd started numerous stories, dabbled in poetry, tried my hand at a little memoir, but over time, I'd gotten the message that creating my own work wasn't nearly as important as studying and teaching that of the real writers. The ones who surrounded me now.

Jane Austen's family had encouraged her efforts from an early age. Her father, despite his limited financial means, kept her supplied with writing paper, just as he kept her artistic sister, Cassandra, stocked with drawing supplies. He was the first one to approach a publisher with one of Austen's novels, although nothing ever came of that transaction.

Later, her brother Henry served as what today would be called her literary agent. He was the one, after her death, who saw her final two novels through to publication. And it was clear, from her existing letters, that her family all read her manuscripts more than once and had particular favorites among them. I could envision the Austens in the evening, gathered around the fire while Jane read aloud from her latest efforts. I could not imagine, however, my parents or Edward doing the same with anything I had written.

But wasn't it childish to blame the loss of a dream on other
people? I looked down at the copy of
Emma
, ran my fingers over the old-fashioned portrait of some nameless woman who graced the cover. No one had forbidden me to write, or threatened me with abandonment or humiliation if I did. At least, not in so many words. But their wishes for my life, their ideas of what was appropriate for me, had been clear as crystal.

I stood up from my perch beside the classics and made my way to the front of the store, where I parted with some of my precious pounds for the copy of
Emma
. Whatever my dreams had once been, I had only one goal now. I had to complete Mrs. Parrot's tasks. I had to gain access to those letters. I had to publish them and regain whatever I could of my academic reputation. The past was over, just as my relationship with Edward was over.

Sure, old dreams might still tempt me, but that didn't mean I should give in to them. On the contrary, I should fight the allure all the more, be even more determined in my course.

There was no way, at this juncture, that I was going to let myself regret any more than I already did, and if I allowed those dreams of being a writer to be reborn, I was afraid that my regrets might finally crush me beyond redemption.

With that thought firmly in mind, I took the small paper sack emblazoned with the Hatchards logo from the salesclerk and headed for the Piccadilly Underground station. The sooner I got back to Anne-Elise's house and began reading
Emma
, the sooner I could attain my goal, and the less likely I would be to fall prey to the allure of old dreams.

Adam wasn't there when I returned to Hampstead. He'd left another of his terse notes that simply said,
Don't wait up
. I laughed, but it sounded a little hollow. As if I was going to keep watch for his return.

Truly, I was delighted to have the house to myself. I kept telling myself how much I enjoyed the solitude as I made a cup of Earl Grey and settled in on the sofa for a marathon session with
Emma
. I was sure that whatever Mrs. Parrot wanted me to notice, it would be some obscure reference, perhaps even hidden in a scholarly footnote or in the preface by an Oxford professor.

Even though I was determined to expose Jane Austen as a a fraud, to use those lost letters to illuminate the gap between her own painful single state and the fantasy-laced happy endings of her novels, the magic of her writing entrapped me as quickly as it ever had. I was happily reconnecting with the village of Highbury and its principal residents--of whom Emma Woodhouse and her father were the most principal--and I was keenly alert for any subtle clue that Mrs. Parrot had intended.

Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of somebody
. The line introduced the young woman whom Emma would take under her wing, give airs far beyond her station, and try to match-make several times before realizing how badly she'd bungled the whole affair. The character of Harriet Smith was a pretty, sweet, not-too-bright young woman, an illegitimate child of an unknown gentleman who evidently cared enough to pay for her schooling but not enough to make himself known. She was a pupil in the local girls' school.

Harriet Smith. Jack Smith
. Was it simply a coincidence? Jane Austen's father had, for a number of years, taken in the sons of respectable gentlemen and schooled them along with his own sons. Through letters and diaries, the identities of a number of them were known, but not all of them. If Jack Smith had been an actual person, and not merely a figment of Jane's teenage imagination, might he have been a student of her father's? Might he have lived at the Steventon rectory, growing up beside young Jane?

The thought sent me diving for the few research books I'd brought with me. I pored over them, trying to piece together a reasonable scenario. And an hour later, I had the beginnings of a theory in place. What if the unknown Jack had been the inspiration for Harriet Smith? Only in this case, the pupil in question was the illegitimate son of a respectable gentleman who had been entrusted to the Reverend Mr. Austen for his education? What if he had lived, read, eaten, played cricket alongside the young Jane? Surely she had fancied herself in love with one or more of her father's pupils from time to time. Any girl in that situation would have.

Don't be stupid
. Edward's voice intruded on my thoughts.
You're making this up because you want to find something spectacular. You'll be laughed out of academia
. Except I already had been. Well, not laughed out so much as kicked out. Surely this was the trail Mrs. Parrot had set me on.

I spent the rest of the evening alternating between Emma and my research books, and while I could find no means of proving my theory, I couldn't find any means of disproving it
either. I hadn't finished the entire novel before my curiosity got the best of me and I reached into my purse for the second envelope that Mrs. Parrot had given me. I couldn't wait any longer. With trembling hands, I opened it and drew out the photocopy I knew awaited me inside.

The letter was written to Cassandra from London in late August of 1797. It began with the usual flowing, almost breathless account of whom Jane had seen and what she had purchased, and then there was a passage that practically leaped out at me from the page.

I scanned the rest of the letter as quickly as I could, but there was no further mention of Lieutenant Smith or the book she'd purchased for him there. My heart raced in my chest. I wanted to jump up and run all the way to South Kensington so I could pound on Mrs. Parrot's door and demand that she stop toying with me.

Was Jack Smith really the love of Jane Austen's life? Buying him a book at Hatchards was not exactly an undying declaration of devotion, and it was clear from Austen's letters that whenever anyone went to London, they performed all manner of errands for friends and neighbors.

But the coincidence ... It had to be more. I felt it in my bones, even if my head wasn't quite convinced. But as anxious as I was to fly back to Mrs. Parrot's, I had agreed as part of my task to reread the entire novel. If I stayed up all night, I could probably finish it by early the next morning.

With renewed determination, I made myself a second pot of tea and settled back down on the couch to read Jane Austen as I had never read her before.

I
arrived on Mrs. Parrot's doorstep bright and early the next morning, outdoing even my own expectations of how quickly I could finish the novel. I had heard Adam leave before breakfast, and I had left myself soon after.