Hampshire, 1796

JANE WAS NOT RETURNED to Hampshire above twenty-four hours before she ventured to Busbury Park and found Mr. Mansfield just setting out on his afternoon constitutional. “I confess, as pleased as I am to see you, that I am sorry to hear that the Dashwoods have been so neglected these past weeks,” he said.

“I assure you, Mr. Mansfield, now that I am back in your company, they shall not be neglected until their story is complete.” Jane had not confessed her epiphany about her feelings toward him. There would be time for that later. Now she wanted nothing more than to talk about literature and feel that connection of the intellect she had missed so in Kent.

“I hope, though you will not neglect the Dashwoods, as you say, that you will still have time to visit a poor old man with few friends and empty days.”

“You paint a self-portrait of much pathos, Mr. Mansfield,” said Jane with a smile, “but despite your exaggerations, I assure you I shall return to you as often as the Dashwoods allow me.”

—

AS AUTUMN CAME to Hampshire and the weather turned cool, Jane and Mr. Mansfield often curtailed their walks, instead taking tea by the fire in the sitting room of the gatehouse. Jane was writing more quickly now, as her novel rushed toward its denouement, and her reading often took up nearly the whole of her visit. By the beginning of October she had almost finished, and, as she wished to prolong the pleasure of reading, she was delighted with a sudden turn in the weather—a last bit of summer warmth before the grip of autumn became unbreakable—that allowed them to take a lengthy walk around the grounds.

“I was shocked when you read yesterday of the marriage of Mr. Ferrars,” said Mr. Mansfield as they turned in to a walk between two rows of oaks. “I had thought for certain that Elinor and Mr. Ferrars were destined for one another, but I see it is not to be.”

“The story is not finished, Mr. Mansfield.”

“Yes, but Mr. Ferrars has married a young and healthy woman in Lucy Steele, and even if you were to kill her off, Elinor Dashwood should be no man’s second choice.”

“Mr. Mansfield, I suspect that you are trying to get me to tell you the ending. I certainly would not do so, even if I knew it myself.”

“While I believe, Miss Austen, that you are within your rights as a novelist to withhold the end until it is the end, I cannot believe that, so near the conclusion of your tale, you yourself do not know the fates of all involved.”

“Am I a novelist, Mr. Mansfield?” Jane had never been called such, but found that she rather liked the appellation.

“Certainly one who writes novels is a novelist—I believe even that great lexicographer Mr. Johnson would define you as such.”

“But I can claim no true novels to my credit. No words of mine have been set in type or printed on paper or bound in covers.”

“Do you imagine, Miss Austen, that a novel is a novel only when it is set in type and bound in covers?”

“I imagine exactly that, Mr. Mansfield. Surely you would not call Christopher Wren an architect if he had merely dashed out some worthless sketches that were never turned into buildings.”

“You cannot think that what you have written is nothing but worthless sketches.”

“They are worthless if no one pays me for them,” said Jane. “Is that not Mr. Johnson’s definition?”

“Indeed it is not,” said Mr. Mansfield. “Unless I am very much mistaken, Mr. Johnson’s definition of worthless is ‘having no value.’”

“And what value do my sketches have?”

“Anything that brings pleasure to others has inestimable value,” said Mr. Mansfield. “And your novel has brought great pleasure not only to me, but to all at the rectory who have the joy of hearing you read. But we are straying far from your question. You asked if you are a novelist. Let me ask you this, Miss Austen. Are you able to prevent yourself from writing?”

“Indeed not. I find that my stories will not cease to crowd all other thoughts from my mind until I have committed them to paper.”

“And do you have the utmost respect for both the truth of your characters and the emotions of your readers?”

“Though I cannot claim to have readers in the traditional sense, I believe that I do.”

“Then, Miss Austen, let there be no doubt about it—you are a novelist.”

They walked a little farther in silence as Jane digested this proclamation. “Do you know, Mr. Mansfield,” she said, “how Mr. Johnson defines the word ‘novel’?”

“Indeed I do,” he said. “‘A small tale, generally of love.’”

“‘A small tale,’” said Jane. “Novel writing seems an altogether less intimidating occupation when one considers that one only need produce a small tale.”

“And that brings us back to my grave concern about the fate of Elinor and Mr. Ferrars. For I can see no way that their tale can be of love. You must tell me what you contemplate for them.”

But Jane merely tossed her head, smiled, and remarked, “How lovely it is here in the walk with the leaves turning.”