Cassandra smiled serenely. “It would be entirely untoward for a well-bred lady to publish a novel.”
“Indeed,” said Jane. “I’m afraid you’ve got me confused with someone else.”
“Oh, come now,” said Byron. “We know it’s you. I got old Murray to tell me about you, and I made some inquiries about Henry Austen’s sisters, and I know all about you. I know that here you are, you and your sister, in this house, and that you wrote a book about two sisters sent off to a small house in the middle of nowhere with no hope of marriage and that, by the end, both are happily settled. So, tell me, which one are you? Elinor or Marianne?”
“I thought you hadn’t read it,” said Jane, folding her hands in her lap.
He grinned at her. “It’s very good.”
Jane shook her head at him. “It’s not an epic poem about getting drunk on the continent and chasing skirts and having everything one could ever wish for and yet still being maddeningly melancholy, of course.”
His grin widened. “You’re ever so sharp, really you are.”
There it was again. She was being termed sharp. But this was somewhat different, as if he was admiring of it within her, and she felt herself flush a little, rather pleased by that.
He noticed and waggled his eyebrows at her and she smirked and looked away, wondering at herself.
When she looked back, Lady Caroline had narrowed her eyes at Byron. “We are here because ofme, Georgie.”
“Right, yes, of course we are.” Byron cleared his throat. “Ask her whatever you’d like, Caro.”
“Well,” said Lady Caroline, “which one are you? Elinor or Marianne?”
“I am Jane,” said Jane. “Jane Austen. And I did not write that book, but if I had, I would point out there are three sisters. There’s a younger one. Margaret. And, if I did write something, anything at all, I would have only written it for my own amusement. I certainly wouldn’t have published it. How gauche. I would never do such a thing.”
“Yes, that’s not our Jane,” said Cassandra. “She would never do such a thing.”
CHAPTER TWO
DURING THAT FIRSTmeeting, Lord Byron and his companion stayed for over an hour, ate whatever it was that was made up in the house, inquired about the lack of sweets only ten or so times, badgered Jane endlessly to admit that she was the author ofSense and Sensibility, and then eventually left.
Obviously, Jane was the author of the book, and just as obviously, she could not go about claiming that she was, something that bothered her more and more these days, as the book had become increasingly popular.
It was truly something to be the author of a popular novel and not be allowed to say that one had written it. However, propriety had its own demands, and Jane would meet them without complaint. That was Jane’s life, and Cassandra’s, too, for that matter. Life made demands, they met them, and they did not complain.
After all, it was no use trying to say that they had lived difficult lives or that they were put upon or disadvantaged or anything of that nature. There was no real evidence of that claim. Well, it had been quite awful when Cassandra’s husband-to-be had died at sea, especially when Cassandra was so pretty and so very kind and good and quite obviously marriageable material, except Cassandra didn’t ever get married after that.
Cassandra was twenty-two when she became engaged, and they did not marry immediately so that Thomas could put together the money to support them both. But two years later, they had news that he had died of yellow fever, and Cassandra had been heartbroken. She was still quite young enough then to make another match, though she never did.
But this was the way of things, rather much of the time, Jane knew. Life was brutal to positively everyone. Only the very lucky escaped its pains and punishments.
Jane herself had never had a love quite like that in her life, but she did not bemoan such things, for there was no point in that. She was on the shelf now, and she was not going to get married, and she would much rather think about it in terms of the positives rather than spend all her time feeling sorry for herself.
She and Cassandra and her mother had their brother, after all, and he had provided this house for them, and they had just enough of everything they needed, and there was no need for a husband, none at all.
If Jane had a husband, she would not be able to write and publish her books, and she was working on revising something now, something she had written long ago, practically in her girlhood, calledFirst Impressions. She had written it as an epistolary novel, entirely in letters, because that had been the fashion then, and she was now having to work hard to revise it all out of that format.
Of course, she supposed many people wouldn’t look at the idea of being able to publish books as an advantage. Many people would think a husband would be preferable to an anonymous writing career.
However, Jane was endeavoring to think positively about her situation.
After the first meeting with Byron, they all discussed it over dinner with their mother, Mrs. Austen. She was also named Cassandra. Jane’s elder sister had been named for her.
“I have heard only awful things about that man,” said their mother, contemplating her peas. “However, I am dreadfully sorry to have missed his call, I must say. What was he like?”
“He has a limp,” said Cassandra, taking a sip of wine. “I think it is from some childhood illness or some such.”
“A club foot, yes,” said Jane. “But it wasn’t very noticeable, I didn’t think.”
