Hampshire, 1796

THE COACH BEARING Jane and Cassandra from Bath stopped at Devizes and did not reach Deane until nearly eight o’clock, by which time it had long gone dark. Jane was surprised to find a gig and driver waiting for them.

“Are you Miss Jane Austen?” asked the driver. When this was answered in the affirmative he continued. “Lord Wintringham says I am to bring you straight to Busbury Park.”

“Oh, Jane, your friend must be quite unwell for them to send for you at this hour,” said Cassandra, gripping her sister’s arm. “We shall go at once.”

But Jane did not move for a moment, though Cassandra pulled her toward the gig. Then, laying a hand on her sister’s arm, she spoke. “I must go alone, dear sister.”

“But surely you will want me with you at such a time.”

Jane could not think how to explain to Cassandra the intimacy of her relationship with Mr. Mansfield, or the depth of her desire to be alone with him once more. It had nothing to do with romance but everything to do with love. She had found in him a mind so in sympathy with her own that when the two of them were together there seemed to be no one else in the world. If she could, she hoped to experience that feeling once more.

“You must deposit my sister at Steventon rectory on the way,” said Jane, climbing into the gig as the driver hoisted up their trunks.

“Are you sure?” said Cassandra, taking her seat next to Jane.

“I am quite sure,” said Jane calmly, and they rattled away into the darkness.

Jane did not alight from the gig at the rectory, though her family came out to greet the returning sisters. She leaned down to kiss her mother, then asked the driver to make all haste to Busbury Park. She could not bear the thought that she might not be in time, for now her mind was focused on a single aim—to make that confession to Mr. Mansfield that she had delayed making ever since her return from Kent. That she loved him—not with the love of a wife but with a love of the mind that, she imagined, was as deep as any other.

When they turned in to the east drive, the driver did not stop at the gatehouse. The windows were dark, and the gig continued up the drive until the main house came into view. Jane had not yet met the earl, but this impending introduction seemed not in the slightest momentous as the driver helped her down. She thought only of Mr. Mansfield.

In the light of the open door stood a middle-aged man, dressed for dinner, and wearing a look of fatigue on his face.

“Miss Austen, I presume,” he said.

“Miss Jane Austen, at your service, my lord. I am most indebted to you for sending for me. I hope you will pardon my traveling clothes and take me to see Mr. Mansfield at once. I am desperate to speak with him.”

“I shall take you to see him as you request, Miss Austen, but I am grieved to inform you that you will not be able to speak with him. Mr. Mansfield died not an hour ago.”

Jane felt her knees buckle beneath her, and thought for a moment she would swoon, until the surprisingly strong arm of the earl steadied her.

“I am so sorry, my dear. I know it must come as a shock.”

“Indeed it does, sir,” said Jane, who had forgotten how to breathe for a moment. Now, as she forced herself to pull air into her lungs, it seemed to expel tears from her eyes. No gasps and sobs for her, just a steady trickle down her trembling cheeks. Her confession was not to be.

“But come in, Miss Austen. How cruel of me to keep you here on the doorstep. Will you sit for a moment?”

“No thank you, sir. I am quite well now. It was only the shock of the news. Will you take me to him?”

“If that is your wish, you may follow me, Miss Austen.”

The walk up stairs and down corridors seemed to last forever. In other circumstances Jane might well have stored away the details of the house for use in some future story, but now she could think only of her friend. If only the letter had come the day before; if only the coach hadn’t stopped at Devizes; if only Mr. Mansfield had lived a few more hours. That she should never again hear his gentle voice or walk with him to the lake or read to him by the fire seemed impossible, and yet it was so. She had heard the expression “an aching heart,” yet never could she remember experiencing quite such a physical pain in her chest as this dreadful news had brought.

At long last they arrived at a closed door, outside of which the earl paused. “He is laid out here in the blue bedroom,” he whispered, as if his voice could still disturb Mr. Mansfield. “I’m afraid I must go down to dinner, but you may ring for the upstairs maid to show you out. My man will drive you back to the rectory whenever you are ready.”

“You are most kind, sir.”

“It is the least I can do,” said the earl. “Mr. Mansfield was among my oldest friends, though he preferred his books to social intercourse. When he did dine with us here, he spoke very highly of you. I believe your acquaintance was one of the great joys of his final months, and for being such a pleasure to an old friend, I shall always be indebted to you, Miss Austen.”

“I assure you, my lord, he was a better friend to me that I could ever hope to be to him.”

“He was a good man,” said the earl with a quaver in his voice, and he turned and walked back down the corridor.

Jane turned the handle and pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit with candles and a lamp by the bedside. The elegant blue and gold drapes had been pulled shut. Mr. Mansfield, or the mortal husk of Mr. Mansfield, thought Jane, lay in the center of the wide bed. She sat on the edge of the bed for several minutes, looking at his serene face. He looked so well rested, she thought. She reached out and took his hand in hers. His skin was cool and dry. So often had she accompanied her father to funerals and burials that she knew most of the words of the service by heart. As she sat by the man she had loved so dearly, holding his hand in hers, she spoke aloud, once more reading to him, this time from memory:

I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, from henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord: even so, saith the Spirit; for they rest from their labours.

“So let it be with you, my love,” she said, tears once again flowing freely down her face. “Rest. Rest in God’s peace.”