Chapter One: Hampshire England, 11 December 1795 By moonlight, Jane hitches up the hem of her sprigged muslin gown and darts across a neatly scythed lawn. The fireworks are over, but the musky tang of gunpowder lingers in her throat. The din of a raucous crowd, shrieking with laughter, floats above the harmonious tones of a string quartet drifting from the black and white Tudor mansion behind her. It is ten o''clock in the evening and the ball has hardly begun. Jane, accompanied by two of her elder brothers, James and Henry, arrived less than an hour ago. Already, the finest society in all of Hampshire are half-cut and braying at each other over the melody. As she traverses the manicured garden, Jane crouches behind each colossal tower of neatly clipped yew to check for onlookers. She is breathless, and her heart pounds at the ruinous prospect of being spotted.
God forbid, she is caught sneaking away from the party to meet her secret lover. Her feet are cold, and damp is seeping through her shell-pink silk slippers. They are made for pirouetting on polished mahogany floors, not dashing across frosty grass. Her breath turns to steam in the air. The bare branches of the laburnum reach out like the bony arms of a great skeleton. Her stomach quivers, and her long white limbs tingle, but she races on regardless. Tonight, she and her clever young man will come to their agreement. He will make her an offer of marriage.
She is sure of it. From within the glasshouse, flickering lamps illuminate the silhouettes of tropical fronds. As she places her gloved hand on the cold steel handle, a delicious shiver runs through her abdomen. Which words will Tom select for his purpose? My dearest Jane, you must allow me to tell you. Miss Austen, I offer myself to you. She must listen carefully and commit each phrase to memory. It could prove useful the next time one of her heroines receives a proposal. She presses down gently on the handle, yet it creaks and the hinges groan as she opens the door.
Inside, exotic orchids perfume the misty atmosphere. She raises a hand to her coiffure. Her maid coiled her chestnut hair into an elegant chignon, with ringlets framing her face. If her curls turn to frizz, her brothers will guess where she''s been, and report her antics to their mother. "Mademoiselle." A lean figure steps out from behind a desert pine. He is fair with distinguished features and dressed in an ivory swallow-tail coat with a starched linen collar and cravat. The deep timbre of his voice dissolves Jane''s heart to molten lava and propels her body towards him.
Pausing just out of his reach, she gazes upwards through fluttering eyelashes. "It was most wicked of you to make me come." His bright blue eyes sparkle and his mouth curls into a seductive smile. "You understood my message then?" "I understand you perfectly, Monsieur Lefroy." Jane''s gaze locks on his lips. They are soft, parted. Her own mouth moistens, and her breath quickens. She lets herself be gathered tight in his arms.
His mouth hovers over hers, and she tips her head back to accept his kiss. She is almost, but not quite, as tall as he. Their relative statures are designed to aid their amour. Glued together, they stumble into a row of shelves. Beside Jane, a terracotta pot tumbles and smashes at her feet. Dark earth spills across the clay floor tiles. She breaks free, stooping to pick up the tangle of roots and placing the plant carefully back inside its damaged pot. Tom bends down onto one knee, cupping her face in his palm.
Her heart thumps. Is this the moment he''ll propose? He directs her eyes back to his. "Leave the wretched weed, Jane. It doesn''t matter." The beating inside Jane''s chest returns to a regular rhythm, as she places the orchid back on the shelf beside its neighbours. "But I must, we''re guests - it''s only respectful." Tom kicks broken shards of terracotta beneath the cabinet with the toe of his dancing pump. Jane fingers the tall stem, lined with papery chartreuse flowers, until the plant looks as if it was never disturbed.
"Besides, someone will know we''ve been in here." Tom silences Jane with kisses. Slowly, he peels one silk glove down her arm and pulls it free. Jane presses her naked palm to his, their fingers interlacing. Through half-closed eyes, she watches drops of condensation drip down the misted walls of the glasshouse and waits for the strings to strike up again. Her stomach clenches. "Wait. Something''s wrong.
I can''t hear the music." She reaches for the nearest pane of glass, rubs a spot clear, and squints through. The doors of the great hall are open to the terrace. Guests are standing about, heads bent together. The dancefloor is clear. Tom releases her, straightening. "You''re right, it''s too quiet. Sir John can''t be making the toast already? Not this early in the proceedings?" Jane creases her brow.
"I expect Mrs Rivers is refusing to wait any longer. She''ll be chomping at the bit to be congratulated on her daughter''s engagement. I''d better get back. James and Henry will be looking for me. I bet them half a crown, weeks ago now, that Sophy would be the one to snag Jonathan Harcourt." Tom''s shoulders sag in defeat. "You go ahead. I''ll follow.
" "We can meet again, afterwards?" Jane''s chest tightens. She is reluctant to let the moment pass without she and Tom coming to a resolution about their future together. The glasshouse is the perfect setting for him to declare his love for her. Yet if her family discover she''s missing from the ball, she risks having her limited freedom curtailed even further. "Back here. As soon as the dancing strikes up again?" Tom shoots her a rueful smile. "Go on then, give me a few moments to compose myself." Jane flushes as she turns towards the door, pressing her fingers over her lips to prevent herself from laughing.
"Wait!" He waves her white silk elbow-length glove at her. Jane runs back into his arms, giggling freely. She''d look a fool returning to the ball with only one glove. Her brothers would be furious if they guessed she''d lost it in an amorous tryst with a young man so recently of her acquaintance. As much as James and Henry may approve of Tom, Jane is their little sister, and it''s their duty to guard her virtue. A lady''s reputation is her most precious asset. Especially a young lady like Jane, who has scant enough resources to recommend her. She reclaims her stolen token, leaning in for one last kiss before heading out into the night.
Tom may not have proposed, but from the look of wonder in his bright blue eyes and the passion in his rapturous kiss, Jane is certain of his most ardent affection for her. Jane hesitates on the York flagstones laid across the threshold of Deane House. Beneath the gothic archway, the enormous, studded oak doors to the great hall are wedged open. Heat and light radiate from the crush of well-heeled guests inside. There are grass stains on Jane''s shell-pink silk slippers and along the hem of her best muslin gown. Cass, Jane''s elder sister, to whom the gown officially belongs, will be livid. But Cass cannot reproach Jane for ruining her gown, or for her wanton behaviour with Tom in the glasshouse, as Cass is not here. In preparation for joining her new family, the Fowles, Cass is keeping Christmas in Kintbury with her fiancé.
Hence, Jane is playing fast and loose with her virtue to secure a fiancé of her own, lest she become the only one of the Austen''s eight grown-up children to remain stuck at Steventon rectory. She cannot imagine a fate worse than remaining a spinster all her life, and being forced to play nursemaid to her aging parents in their dotage. She fills her lungs with one last deep breath of cool night air and slides inside. Beneath the high, vaulted oak ceiling of the Elizabethan hall, over thirty families mingle and murmur to each other. Heavy-lidded ladies whisper behind fans, while gentleman frown and shake their heads. Jane''s stomach churns. Surely, they cannot have discovered her impropriety already. With her back to the tapestries, she sidesteps along the edge of the throng.
Above her head, enormous torches, placed at lofty intervals, burn bright in their iron sconces. On the balcony, the musicians drink and chatter, their instruments silent and strewn across their silk laps. Snatches of conversations float in the dense air. "An incident. Sir John called away ." . Jane releases her breath and swallows to moisten her dry mouth. Something other than her own misdemeanour has disrupted the party; one of the guests will have knocked over the punch bowl or dropped an eyeglass in the soup tureen.
Sophy, the eldest of the Rivers sisters, sits on a sofa, staring at the dazzling white shoe roses on her slippers. Really, she could muster up a little more enthusiasm. What any of the Rivers girls, with their insipid beauty and twenty thousand pounds apiece, could have to frown about, Jane does not know. Especially Sophy - she has snared one of the most sought-after bachelors in the county and wears an ethereal robe embroidered with real gold thread. Yet Sophy''s dark grey eyes are hard, and the corners of her mouth turn down. The widowed Mrs Rivers stands over her daughter, making up for Sophy''s moroseness by yapping loudly. The late Mr Rivers'.