Lucy's Steele's Sense--and Jane Austen's Sensibility
Wednesday, 24th April, 1811
No. 64 Sloane Street, London
The
mail coach was incommodious and distressingly full; she was quite crushed
against Anne, her ugly ill-favoured and elderly sister, as the poorly-sprung
equipage lurched over the ruts in an attempt to gain Exeter; but such
misfortunes must be immaterial to Miss Lucy Steele, in her eagerness to attack her zealous regard for
duty. Intelligence of the Miss
Dashwoods’ removal from Norland to the environs of Barton Park having lately
reached her ears, by the extraordinary good luck simple expedient of Mr. Edward Ferrars’ most recent letter missive—alarmingly replete with
phrases of unconcealed admiration for the eldest Miss Dashwood—she was
determined to scrape an acquaintance with such appalling delightful young ladies by any
means possible. A moment only was
required, to seize upon consider of her relation Mrs. Jennings, an intimate of the
Park—and so desirous, too, of being of use, to every young lady of passable
merit! To use, Lucy Steele should
certainly put her; for Lucy detected a danger in Mr. Ferrars’ flowing periods
of praise; and having endured with agonies admirable patience the spectre of his
formidable mother’s nastiness displeasure these four years at least, she was most
unwilling to allow any harpy to sink her claws give pride of place to a girl who could claim a mere cottage as
domicile, and so paltry a sum as a third-share of three thousand pounds, as
inducement to marriage.
“Jane!”
I started, and set down my pen.
My sister Eliza stood in the bedchamber
doorway, almost entirely obscured by a quantity of linen freshly supplied by
her housekeeper, Madame Bigeon—who is so burdened in years, that she may no
longer ascend the stairs without grasping the handrail, rendering such tasks as
the disposition of linen, entirely beyond her powers.
“Only say that you are not writing, dear one!”
The expression of horror suffusing
Eliza’s countenance might well have been ridiculous, did not a healthy respect
for pounds and pence inspire it. I
glanced away, conscious of the debt I owed my brother—who has franked the
publication of my dearest child, my romantickal romp of Elinor and Marianne, my
cautionary fable of gentlemen’s wiles—my Sense
and Sensibility. I am come to London
in the spring of 1811 on purpose to proof Mr. Thomas Egerton’s type-set pages—and
having seen my plaintive words in print, cannot restrain myself from constantly
amending them.
“It is only a very little writing,” I
offered hurriedly. “A scene, perhaps, to
elucidate the terms under which poor Edward committed his lamentable folly, of engaging
the affections of Miss Lucy Steele.”
“Conniving little beast,” Eliza replied
dispassionately. “She ought to be
whipped. Perhaps Colonel Brandon might
supply the office. But Jane, you are aware that Mr. Egerton has
expressly forbidden you to change another word, without you incur the severest
charges on Henry’s purse! Dearest, do
not say that you have struck out the
type!”
I had.
The evidence was visible to every eye, in my firm blue scrawl. I did the only thing possible—I seized the
laundress’s bill from Eliza’s grasp.
“The charges on linen are extortionate in
London,” I mourned. “We cannot contrive
to spend a quarter of this sum in Chawton village.”
“--Which is why I am forever bringing my
own sheets, dearest, when I chuse to visit your mother.”
I slipped the laundress’s bill over my
errant pages, but not swiftly enough for Eliza’s eagle eye. In high dudgeon, she deposited her pile of
linen on my writing table.
“How am I to tell Henry that you have
altered the text again? He shall be wild with disapproval!”
“Henry is never wild.”
“That is an utter falsehood, Jane. He is by far the most whimsical and
intemperate of your brothers. He should
never have granted the Prince a loan, else--for you know we cannot hope to see a
farthing of that silver back again; it is all gone in gambling and
waistcoats. And I have set my heart on
the most charming jockey bonnet of leghorn straw, with eglantine ribbons-- and
it must be impossible if you are to break Henry’s bank with paying Mr. Egerton
for fresh type!”
“Eliza,” I said with remorse, “I assure
you that I shall endeavour to mend my vicious habits. Not a penny more shall Mr. Egerton have, to
repair my misshapen prose; and you may have a score of jockey bonnets…provided
I may save Edward from Lucy Steele’s toils.”
“I am excessively tired of Edward,” Eliza
declared. “He lacks all charm, address,
and common sense, too—for how else should such a man be taken in by a vulgar
chit with the name of Lucy? I am out of all patience with him and his love. Let Willoughby seduce Miss Steele--and there
is an end to it!”
All speech was suspended by the
appearance of Manon, Eliza’s personal maid; she frowned her disapproval, for
Eliza’s hair had not yet been dressed and she was looking most unwell, from the
effects of a persistent cold and exasperation with my spendthrift ways. Manon seized the clean linen, and with a
muttered imprecation of disapproval, departed for Eliza’s bedchamber.
“Willoughby cannot always be seducing
everybody,” I retorted crossly.
“You know so little of the World, Jane.”
“You know so little of the World, Jane.”
“Surely you must apprehend that Edward’s
actions are...entirely honourable,” I
attempted. “That he must pursue the only course of action open to a gentleman, and pursue it in
stoical silence. That every reader of sense must admire his steadfast scruples, and his breaking heart--”
“—But every reader of sensibility would
wish him to throw Lucy Steele in the Serpentine, and clutch Elinor to his
bosom!” Eliza threw up her hands. “It is as I declared—you know so little of
the World!”
“Hence the altered text,” I said
flatly. “It is intended to provide some
verisimilitude to Edward’s motives. A
greater appreciation of his sorry dilemma.”
“His sorry backbone, you would mean,”
Eliza muttered. “Very well—let me see
what you have set down.”
I turned to my writing table.
But the type-set pages were gone.
“Manon,” Eliza whispered. Her countenance was all apprehension.
I moved swiftly to the door, to be met by
the French maid.
“You have need of me, mademoiselle?”
“Of the pages you secured,” I said, “on
the writing table. They were obscured by
the linen.”
“Ah,” she said wisely. “The laundress’s bill. But madame
is never to be oppressed by such trifles.
They make her ill. She is forever
thinking of all the bonnets she could buy, did she content herself with soiled
sheets. It is as well to cast such
things on the fire.”
“And that is what you have done,” I observed.
“Mais,
oui, mademoiselle--What else would you?
She is not to be oppressed, madame. On the fire it goes. ”
She made her curtsey and moved away along
the passage, serene in the happy performance of duty.
“Poor Jane,” Eliza murmured. Already she had an idea of her leghorn straw,
and how becomingly she should appear in it.
“Poor Edward,” I replied. “Yet another scene lost.”
And returned to my lamentable prose.
* * *
I
hope you enjoyed Part Three of Austenesque
Extravaganza's Touring Thursday! Readers familiar with my Jane Austen Mysteries probably found themselves on familiar ground in the fantasia printed above--from the timing, Jane was in the thick of events recounted in Jane and the Barque of Frailty, not to mention her Sense and Sensibility page proofs from Mr. Egerton.
If you've missed the earlier parts of this "lost scene," by all means stop by these talented authors' websites:
Part
One - Edward Visits Barton Cottage - Susan Mason-Milks
Part
Two - Flashback! Edward and Lucy Reach an Understanding - Amanda Grange
Thanks for reading!
Stephanie
