Jane in Love

naval officers, might wear when they sailed down the Spanish coastline. Jane ran her hand down the diaphanous fabric. “Such a shade of white,” Jane remarked. “I’ll soil it in the space of a morning’s walk.”
“The whiter the dress, the better,” the shop man instructed. “One does not walk in this dress; one takes a carriage.” He reached to take back the gown.
“See if it fits you,” Mrs. Austen said, moving the dress from his reach and offering it to Jane.
Jane protested, feeling she would destroy it with the first touch of her finger, but relented when her mother’s expression threatened violence once more. She moved behind a chinoiserie screen and changed.
“Good God,” said her mother as she returned.
“What is it, Mama?” said Jane. “Does it fit ill?”
“Jane.” Her mother paused, her face making an expression Jane had never witnessed before. “You are beautiful.”
Jane scoffed. Her mother had never uttered such sentiments about her. No one had. But when Jane inspected her reflection in the mirror, she went quiet. The bone-white fabric brought out the gold in her fawn eyes. Pink flushed her cheeks. She never dressed this way. She pushed her shoulders back; the dress demanded it.
“How much is it?” her mother asked.
“Twenty pounds,” the man replied with a triumphant smile.
Mrs. Austen grabbed her reticule. “We shall take it.”
“Mama, no,” Jane said. Twenty pounds paid their rent in Sydney House for six months. Mrs. Austen could not own such a sum. Yet she pulled a banknote from her bag and offered it to the man.
“Where did you get this?” Jane asked. She glanced at her mother and noticed a change: her neck, ordinarily adorned with heavy gold, now lay bare. “Mama! Where is the baroness’s necklace?” The white skin of her mother’s neck seemed to quiver, newly exposed to daylight. Jane had never seen her mother without this prized piece of jewelry; she seemed plain and naked without it.
Her mother touched her bare neck, then removed her hand. “If my daughter is to go to the Pump Room, she shall be fit to be seen.”
Jane gasped and shook her head. “Mama—”
“Listen now, Jane. This will smooth the deal, for the father especially. This confirms we are not paupers.” She raised her chin.
“Mama, you loved that necklace.”
Her mother seemed to wince. “This is my fault, Jane. I let you sit with your father and read, when I should have taken you to balls and parties. I should have shown you how to make tea.”
“I know how to make tea.”
“You make it very ill, Jane. You forget the leaves until the brew tastes like tin. If we had reprimanded you, helped make the most of your appearance, you’d be married by now. I failed you, Jane. I let you run wild. Let me buy you this dress.”
Jane paused to recall the joy that running wild had brought her. She glanced at her mother’s bare neck once more, shaking her head. She never understood her. “All right, Mama.”
Mrs. Austen smiled for an instant, then returned to her frowns. She gestured for Jane to change, and when she returned, Mrs. Austen placed the banknote in the shop hand’s claw. He grinned and snatched the money before taking the dress from Jane and wrapping it. She took possession of the white dress, having never owned anything so beautiful before.

Chapter Four
As they approached Sydney House, they saw a handsome man of thirty-two, who cut a dashing figure as he waited in front of the building. A black ribbon tied back his sunflower hair. Jane gasped in surprise. “Hello, Henry,” she called to her brother.
“Hello, Jane,” he said with a smile.
Eliza, his wife, held his arm. “Bonjour, Jane,” Eliza said.
“I thought you were at the Dawsons’ until Thursday?” Jane said. Her brother and his wife, who had been visiting friends in Cornwall, were not due to visit the Austens until a week’s time, on their way back to London.
Henry shook his head. “Mama wrote to us express and demanded we change our plans. We shall come with you to the Pump Room tomorrow. We are all so happy for you, Jane. Truly, this is such wonderful news.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Austen said, kissing her son and his wife hello. She nodded, proud. “This is more important than silly Robert Dawson.”
“Mama, no!” Jane cried, her voice panicked. A catastrophic feeling held her. “We get ahead of ourselves. I have met this man once.”
“Jane, do listen,” Henry said with a smile. “You have been invited to the Pump Room. Everyone becomes engaged there. No one goes for any other reason, except to drink that horrid water.” He laughed, his white teeth shining in the daylight. “On top of this, you are Jane Austen, the loveliest, cleverest woman of my acquaintance. You will make the best mother, and the best wife. Sorry, dear,” he added, nodding toward his spouse.
“Don’t apologize,” Eliza commanded softly, in the French accent of her birth. She never spoke, only purred, and exuded an exotic glamour Jane could never have attempted without looking foolish. “I agree with you.” Eliza nodded to her husband. “And now you have the dress,” she added with a smile. “No man will resist you.”
They all dined together. Mama made jokes and Papa opened a bottle of wine that a rich parishioner had given him back in Hampshire.
“What is Darcy up to lately?” Henry asked Jane in the middle of the meal. He offered her a cheeky grin as he shovelled a piece of lamb into his mouth and chewed. A hush swept through the dining room. Everyone knew of Mama’s threats to burn Jane’s writing, and Henry, always the rebel, loved to tease her. They all looked to Mrs. Austen and waited for her reaction.
But if anyone hoped for an outburst, Mrs. Austen disappointed them. Instead of shouting, she smiled. “Nothing you say can vex me tonight, my son. Jane may write as much as she likes when she is married.”
Henry erupted with laughter and applauded. The others joined