CHAPTER TEN

‘What have wealth or grandeur to do with happiness?’

Sense and Sensibility – Chapter 17

Almost ten years later, I looked in the mirror and hoped the fifth gala outfit I had tried on wasn’t too tight. I had gained fifty-five kilograms since leaving Chawton, and I was the heaviest I had ever been. I was forty-two and had been obese for over a decade. I had a poor diet and didn’t exercise. Although I was a very busy person and usually on my feet, my knees ached all day, and I was concerned I would develop diabetes or heart disease. I smoked and had dull hair and blemish-prone skin, exacerbated by polycystic ovarian syndrome. I had wanted to lose weight for a long time but hadn’t even got through the first day of a diet. In the moment, after a stressful day at work, the comfort I felt when I ate outweighed any good intentions I had to prevent future illness or disability. This is not a unique story, of course.

It was September 2012, and I had been selected as a finalist for the Telstra Business Women’s Awards in Australia. The awards gala lunch was to be held at the glittering Crown Entertainment Complex on the Yarra River in the centre of Melbourne. I had relocated to Australia for work in 2008 and was living on the outskirts of the city. I had been nominated for the award by a business associate, and I had already completed an extensive questionnaire about my background, career and work achievements—I didn’t mention Jane Austen or Chawton. My boss and other colleagues had provided references, and I was one of eighteen finalists selected from 4,500 nominations. I was interviewed by a panel of judges, and I reflected on the years since I had joined REL Field Marketing in the United Kingdom. I had become the CEO of Australia’s largest food-sampling and product-demonstration agency, responsible for over 1,500 staff, and a board director of two not-for-profit organisations.

How had I become so fabulously successful at my job, yet so horribly unhappy with myself? Back in England in 2003, I had accepted the job at REL Field Marketing and worked with over forty suppliers of household brands. I grew the Sainsbury’s Supermarkets account tenfold in eighteen months and won a gold award at the Field Marketing Awards in the United Kingdom, and I was soon promoted to sales director. I spent my annual bonus on the down payment for a three-bedroom farm cottage in a beautiful village on the Hampshire–Berkshire border, about forty minutes from Alton. At last, I had my own house in a village and with a garden that backed on to open fields. I threw myself into decorating, and my father remodelled the kitchen to incorporate a stainless-steel cooking range. I made friends at the local pub and was happy enough. The house was nice, and the villagers were friendly, but it didn’t feel like home, and I didn’t expect to be there for more than a couple of years.

The year after I moved in, Richard had organised a family reunion at Chawton House. My aunts, uncles and cousins had all been invited for a picnic on the lawn. I had said I would go, but I was not looking forward to it. I didn’t want everyone to see me so overweight and unhealthy, and I didn’t know whether I would have the courage to visit Chawton House—I felt anxious just thinking about it. I didn’t want anyone to see me upset. The morning of the reunion, I woke with an intense headache. I had suffered migraines before, and I knew the only option was to lie down in a dark, quiet room and wait for it to pass, so I rang my parents and made my excuses.

At the end of summer 2006, I decided to buy a horse and keep it with a neighbour who had a three-acre property with paddocks and stables, one of which was empty. I had liked riding as a child and wanted something to keep me busy, other than work. I searched a two-hundred-mile radius and bought Phoenix, a twelve-year-old grey, that I had ridden a couple of times. He seemed safe but with a fun spirit. Although I had never been a talented rider like Paul, I enjoyed it a lot and looked forward to riding across the rolling fields that surrounded the village. Millie, my niece, was fifteen and a gifted horsewoman. She helped me settle Phoenix into his new yard after the transporters had delivered him. After a long and tiring day, we walked up to the local pub for dinner before falling into our beds.

We woke early the next morning, eager to see Phoenix after his first night. He seemed to have adjusted well to his new surroundings. I led him into the riding school and mounted for a gentle walk. After only half a length, he started to buck violently. I tried to hang on, but as we neared the railing, he twisted to the right. I flew off to the left and landed on the thick wooden railings surrounding the school.

I limped into work a few days later. I had not broken any bones but had badly injured my right shoulder. I was bruised black and blue from the middle of my back to almost my knees. I didn’t know what to do with Phoenix while I recovered. If no one rode him for weeks, he would likely be even more of a challenge for me to ride. Roger, a data analyst who also worked at REL, overheard me sharing my dilemma with a colleague and offered to ride Phoenix at weekends. Both of us had worked at the company for a couple of years, but we didn’t know each other well. In his youth, Roger had worked with horses in New Zealand and at Rosehill Gardens Racecourse in Sydney. Roger was of average height and build and didn’t look like a jockey. ‘That was the problem,’ he explained, ‘I was a small kid but shot up at sixteen and got too big.’

For the next few months, Roger came to the village to ride, and we became friends. Then, out of the blue, Phoenix bucked the full length of the riding enclosure, and Roger damaged his hand when he was thrown into the fence. I knew I would never ride Phoenix again. At the beginning of December, I advertised him for sale. He was potentially dangerous, and I couldn’t take the risk that someone else would be hurt, so I told prospective new owners exactly what had happened and sold him to a very experienced horsewoman for a fraction of what I had paid.

Roger and I spent time together over the Christmas holidays. He had an accent that was difficult to place. He was New Zealand born, spent his junior school years in America, returned to New Zealand for his senior years, went to Australia in his late teens and moved to England in his mid twenties. His mother lived in a retirement village in Queensland in Northern Australia. His father was a runner and had represented England at the Helsinki Olympics in 1952 in the 880-yard foot race, but he had passed away a decade earlier. Roger was five years older than me and great fun, and he stayed true to his values. He was intelligent and had a strong sense of who he was, which I admired. It became obvious we were destined to be more than friends, and when we returned to work in January, he resigned from the company.

I needed to do things differently if I wanted this relationship to work. Roger knew me as a driven career woman, and I wanted him to know that my capable exterior hid the truth—my personal relationships didn’t last long. I also wanted Roger to see where I had come from, so my father took us to a public open day at Chawton House. The lawns were freshly mown, and neat edges bordered the new gravel on the driveway. The Victorian extension—and with it, my bedroom—had been demolished, some of the stonework above the main entrance had been replaced, and the ivy had been removed from the south-west face. But the Knight coat of arms remained untouched above the front door, and I was reminded of the eternal connection I will always have with Chawton, no matter what the house is used for.

As I walked into the Great Hall, I was struck with how similar it looked. The walls above the panelling were freshly painted, but otherwise, the same antlers were on the walls, and the smoke-stained stone mantel was still above the fire. I walked through the large oak door at the far end into what had been my family’s living quarters. Montagu and Florence’s wedding anniversary carving still stood proud above the fireplace in our sitting room, but the room had been furnished as it would have been in Jane’s time—as a dining room with Edward Austen Knight’s grand dining table in the centre.

‘But it looks just the same,’ I said to my father quizzically. I had heard about an extensive restoration, and I was puzzled. My father smiled and led me through to the original house kitchen where we had kept the freezers. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The eighteenth-century kitchen bench that the cooks had used to prepare meals in Jane’s time was no longer covered in mountains of dusty boxes, and the old cooking range had been restored and polished. The flaky walls had been plastered and painted. The whole room was bright and had been dressed with old cooking pots and utensils. It looked spectacular, and as we walked from room to room, I could see just how much restoration had been necessary. I hadn’t realised the need when I lived there.

I had so many emotions. I felt numb, as if in a sort of dream world. I was pleased to see the house in such good condition, but it felt difficult to be a guest. The open day was hosted by the team who worked at the house, not by a Knight. My father pointed out historical features of the house to Roger as we walked back to the Great Hall. I was only half listening; I didn’t find any comfort or joy in reminiscing, and I didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary.

A woman overheard my father talk about the old fire buckets that hung high along the entrance hall wall, and she asked whether he had been a Barnardo’s child. Barnardo’s was a charity that had evacuated children from London to the safety of the countryside during the Second World War to avoid air raids from enemy fighters. Chawton House had taken in Barnardo’s children when my father had been an infant. ‘No, I grew up here. I’m Jeremy Knight,’ my father explained, and the woman curtsied, bowed her head low and said how honoured she was to meet him. I had seen all sorts of reactions from Jane Austen fans over the years, and so I wasn’t surprised, but I could see the shock on Roger’s face. He hadn’t expected it at all. We left shortly afterwards and laughed all the way back to Alton.

In 2007, REL Field Marketing was sold to the Photon Group, a large Australian group of advertising, public relations and field marketing agencies. I immediately saw a chance to expand my business experience in a new market and to return to my mother’s childhood home. I was ready for a new professional challenge, and I had wanted to stay in Australia when I travelled with Andy ten years earlier. Roger was also keen to be closer to his mother in her twilight years. In March 2008, we went to Australia for a holiday to visit both our families and to decide whether we wanted to emigrate. I visited a couple of Photon’s field marketing agencies in Melbourne and spent a day at each business, hosted by the CEOs. There were variations in the business models, driven by geographical, cultural and infrastructural differences, but the fundamentals were the same. I was confident I would adapt to the market quickly enough. I was excited at the opportunity to leave England behind and start a new life in Australia, far away from all reminders of Chawton.

A few months later, Roger and I married in a Berkshire register office in front of our family and friends, followed by a party at home for more than sixty guests. As well as a wedding celebration, it was a farewell, as Photon had offered me a job in Melbourne. The flights were booked, and eight weeks later we packed up our belongings and moved.

At the beginning of 2009, after a six-month tour of Australia in a camper van, I started work at DemoPlus, a family business that Photon had bought a couple of years earlier. The business was very successful and had over a seventy per cent share of its primary market. The founder and CEO wanted to retire and needed to appoint and induct her successor. She had remembered me from my holiday visit earlier in the year.

At the end of 2009, the founder retired, and I became the new CEO. I felt validated, as if I were finally living up to my family name and could now hold my head up among my ancestors. I was ‘head of the firm’, just like Elizabeth Martin Knight, and I wanted to make my family proud. I gave it my all and worked tirelessly to ensure a smooth transition and to implement the change I thought was necessary to grow the company and build on the founder’s impressive record. Profits shot up, and in my first full financial year as CEO, DemoPlus delivered the biggest growth of any of Photon’s fifty-plus agencies. I received a handwritten note of congratulations from the head of Photon and was overjoyed. I was thrilled that the head of the entire group had taken the time to recognise my achievements, and I whooped with delight. But the thrill was short-lived. Within a couple of days, I was worried about how I would maintain the company’s performance—and my success. I was still putting on weight.

My professional network grew, and I was invited to join the board of Life Education Victoria, a charity that empowered children and young people to make safer and healthier choices through education. I had made some very poor health choices over the years, and it seemed like the right thing to do, but I was nervous—it was my first charity board position, and I didn’t know what to expect. I enjoyed the commercial business sector, and I had heard the not-for-profit sector was full of people who couldn’t make it in corporate business. But that couldn’t have been more wrong. The chair of the board, Paul Wheelton, was successful in business and, having built his fortune, spent his time on philanthropic endeavours. Paul used his self-made wealth to support charities and causes he felt would improve the community and particularly the lives of children in Australia and the Indonesian island of Bali. Every board member was a professional, highly skilled in their area of expertise, who wanted to give children the best possible chance of success in life. I was inspired.

At the beginning of 2011, Photon appointed a new head for the field marketing division, to whom I reported. Within the year, he had formed an investment team with the agency CEOs and bought the division, with the major financial backing of a Malaysian private equity firm. In October 2011, the Blueprint Group was launched, comprising five agencies in Australia and a couple in the United Kingdom, including REL Field Marketing.

I was excited to be part of it and had to pinch myself; it was hard to believe I could hold my own in such senior levels of business. But the more senior I became, the less I was involved with the grass roots of the business: the people we employed, the individual clients we served and the solutions we delivered. My focus was now cost control, business restructures and financial commitments. The job was stressful and had grown into something I didn’t enjoy nearly as much as I had when I was working my way up the corporate ladder. I started to vomit before work every morning. But I wasn’t going to leave and risk the future I had worked so hard to secure. Instead, I decided to broaden my horizons elsewhere, and at the beginning of 2012, I accepted an invitation to join the board of the Australian Institute of Management, Australia’s largest membership organisation for managers and leaders, and a training partner to over half the companies on the ASX200—the Australian Stock Exchange.

Roger and I had lived in a rented house since we arrived in Melbourne. We had planned to invest in our own property within the first couple of years, but I hadn’t found anything I liked enough to view, despite hours of searching online. Then one day I saw a large character house in a pretty village north-east of Melbourne. It had spacious rooms, high ceilings, an open fireplace and a mature rambling garden complete with lawns, fruit trees, a vegetable patch, rose bushes and a chicken coop. I was curious and arranged a viewing. It needed considerable work and probably wasn’t the best investment, but I didn’t care—it felt like home, and by the end of the day we had made an offer. We moved into our new home just before Easter 2012.

It was a few weeks later that I was nominated for the Telstra Business Women’s Awards. I was honoured to be considered. I hoped that Bapops would have been proud of me, and I wondered what Jane would have thought. What might she have achieved if she had had the same opportunities? In Jane’s time, women were not encouraged to participate in commercial pursuits, and there I was, taking part in a high-profile national awards scheme that celebrated and publicised the success of women in business. The novels published in Jane’s lifetime didn’t even identify her as the author—they were written by ‘A Lady’. By the end of Jane’s life, many in the local community were said to have known she was the mystery authoress, and she probably enjoyed a little praise and recognition from her neighbours. But Jane was able to celebrate her success with only those closest to her; there were no awards, no speeches to write—no public recognition.

Like Jane, I worked in the minority—only fifteen per cent of board pos­itions in Australia in 2012 were held by women. I was keenly aware of the sexism often inherent in the culture and structure of corporate businesses. But while fifteen per cent is a small proportion of the total, many women had come before me, and although it could be challenging, it was a well-trodden path. There had been other women writers who Jane could look to for lessons and inspiration, and Jane had had the support of her family. But she had not had access to the wide range of resources that I had been able to draw on. I had been university educated and supported by mentors, a professional coach, management and leadership publications, courses and online resources. I had listened to Stephen Covey’s The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People and networked with many women and men who had overcome extraordinary setbacks to succeed.

Jane must have been aware that she was a success. Her novels, especially Pride and Prejudice, were well reviewed. She was sought out by the best London publisher, John Murray, and not many writers would have been asked to dedicate a novel to the Prince Regent, nor invited to view his library. It is a pity that Jane didn't know just how popular her novels would become.

I had become more professionally successful than I had thought possible, particularly given the late start to my career, and I had relished each new challenge and responsibility. Roger and I were happily married, and we had our own home. I should have been basking in my achievements, but deep down I felt lost and disconnected.

I defined myself by my job, and my self-esteem depended on my success as an executive. The more I achieved, the more anxious I became that it would all come crashing down—it was a double-edged sword. Who would I be if I were no longer the CEO of DemoPlus? I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my identity again. I took the responsibilities of leadership very seriously and believed that when I took a break, even at the weekends, I had failed in my duties. I rarely went on holidays, and for more than a year, I had been physically sick before work every day. I had ballooned to over a hundred and twenty-five kilograms and didn’t know what to do.

Roger and some friends joined me at the Telstra Awards gala lunch and clapped proudly as I walked up to the stage to collect my finalist’s plaque and have my photograph taken. I had squeezed into a blue tailored dress with matching jacket and was embarrassed by my appearance but nonetheless smiled enthusiastically. It was the best and the worst moment of my life. I was at the top of my career, but a part of me was at rock bottom.

The following week, a trusted friend and colleague came into my office and found me crying uncontrollably. ‘You need to see a counsellor,’ she said firmly, ‘I am not taking no for an answer.’ I usually prided myself on making my own decisions, and I had resisted Roger’s attempts to help me, but I didn’t have any fight left in me and agreed. I needed to pull myself together, or I risked the career for which I had worked so hard. I found a highly recommended counsellor, Marilyn, not too far from home and booked an appointment.

In the first couple of sessions with Marilyn, I told her about the course of my life—growing up in an extended family, my heritage in Chawton, the car accident, years of instability, university, Andy’s death, and my career. I remained detached and unemotional throughout, as if I were telling a story about someone else. I told her that I was professionally successful but often felt anxious. Despite my success, I thought I was failing in my responsibilities. I had heard it said that therapy was like ‘peeling back an onion’ and other such clichés, but I didn’t understand what that meant. I didn’t think I had any layers that needed peeling back. Fear of failure drove me to succeed, but I was exhausted, and my resilience was low. All I needed was help to worry less, so I could focus more on my work. I was sure it would not take too long to resolve.

As I told my story, Marilyn listened and spoke only occasionally to pose a question or make an observation. I thought I could easily explain my thoughts and actions, but it wasn’t long before I realised I had never talked honestly to myself before, let alone anyone else. I began to see patterns in my behaviour and thought processes that were not at all logical. I wanted to make my ancestors proud, but they were all dead, and I would never hear the acceptance I craved. I was lonely, but I didn’t let anyone in. I wanted to be fit and healthy, but I had sabotaged every effort I had ever made to improve my diet or exercise. I wanted to be happy, but I told myself repeatedly that I wasn’t good enough. I was depressed and felt powerless. Even in the quietest moments, my mind raced—it never stopped. I focused on poor decisions I had made in the past and feared what the future might bring—I was particularly afraid of being homeless. I rarely stopped to ‘smell the roses’ and to appreciate what I had achieved.

After a couple of months of weekly sessions with Marilyn, I recognised that I worried about the past and the future so much that I ignored the present. I had a husband and a home I adored, loving parents, a great job and an impressive résumé. I had risen to the top of my career in nine years and been happily married for four. It seemed so obvious, and yet I had never thought about myself in that way before. I learnt to trust that I could and would survive, whatever life threw at me, and to accept failure as a necessary part of exploration and growth. I focused on my talents and achievements, cleared my mind of pointless worry and enjoyed every day. For the first time since I was a young girl at Chawton, I felt calm. I had lived with a knot of anxiety for so long that I had forgotten how it felt to truly relax. A weight had been lifted, and I felt free.

Roger and I settled well into our new home. We cleared the overgrown garden, replaced the bathrooms and redecorated throughout. The main bed­room was huge with a high cathedral ceiling, and I slept soundly—I have not dreamt of walking the streets without a home to go to since. It was a great home for entertaining, and I asked my parents to pack my Dreyfous writing box, canteen of cutlery, dinner service and linen and ship them to me. My father asked whether I also wanted Granny’s kitchen scales. ‘Yes,’ I said, without any hesitation, hardly able to contain my excitement. When making cakes with Granny in the kitchen at Chawton, I had weighed ingredients on those cast-iron scales on more occasions than I could remember. I was excited when they arrived, and I displayed them on a dresser in the dining room.

In November of 2012, Millie, who was twenty, came to Australia for a year with her boyfriend and stayed with Roger and me for the first couple of months. Just after New Year, my mother joined us from England for a few weeks. ‘We want to lend you these to add to your collection,’ my mother said as she handed me a tatty brown cardboard box. I opened the top and peeled back layers of bubble wrap to reveal two plates from the Austen Knight china that Jane had described: ‘the pattern is a small Lozenge in purple, between Lines of narrow Gold;—& it is to have the Crest.’ I hadn’t thought about the china in years and was overwhelmed by my parents’ trust in me.

For the first time since I had started working at DemoPlus, I took three weeks off. I forgot about work; I relaxed and enjoyed every day with my family. I went to the shops with my mother and cooked from scratch with the freshest of ingredients. Millie liked to keep fit and exercised regularly. I was inspired and started swimming again. I had always been comfortable in water, and swimming was one of the few exercises I could do without hurting my knees. I discovered a new Olympic-size pool only five minutes from home, and I began to swim regularly. The combined effect of a break from work, the company of my mother and niece, the warm summer sunshine, a healthy diet and regular exercise was dramatic. I jumped out of bed at the crack of dawn every day to open the chicken coop so that our chickens could roam about the garden for the day. I started to look to the future and feel excited about the possibilities.

After my mother returned home to England, my father called to say that he had met a woman from the Jane Austen Society of Australia at Jane Austen’s House Museum, where he had volunteered as a guide since his retirement a few years earlier. The bicentennial of the publication of Pride and Prejudice was approaching, and my father suggested I attend the celebrations in Australia to mark the occasion.

Other than the BBC Television production in 1995, which I hadn’t watched since my university days, I had avoided Jane Austen for years. I hadn’t watched any other films or documentaries about Jane, or read any articles about her. I didn’t like to be reminded of my former life. None of my work colleagues, fellow board members or friends in Australia knew anything about my upbringing or family heritage. I wasn’t on social media and used the Internet for business purposes only. I was filled with horror at the thought of going to a Jane Austen event. I didn’t want to talk about who I used to be. I caught myself thinking the words, ‘who I used to be’, and I felt sick in the stomach. In an attempt to protect myself from the sense of loss, I had become estranged from my heritage and Jane, but it hadn’t worked—it was as painful as the day I had left. I knew what I had to do.

I found the contact details for the president of the Melbourne society and spoke to a very pleasant woman, Mercia, who said she hadn’t been to Chawton recently, but she would be thrilled if I could attend the Pride and Prejudice anniversary celebrations in March. She then went on to explain that there were three Jane Austen societies in Australia and that my father had probably spoken to the president of the society based in Sydney, but not to worry as she was also due to attend the March event.

I was happy to dress for the occasion. I had lost fifteen kilograms and had a wide choice of clothes in my wardrobe that fit. I had been swimming two-hundred laps a week in the pool and walking the dogs twice a day with Roger. I hadn’t smoked for months, my skin was smooth, and my knees didn’t hurt any more.

It had been a long time since I had talked about Chawton or Jane Austen, and I was very nervous as Roger and I drove across Melbourne with the Austen Knight dinner plates. When we arrived, I was surprised to discover that one of the speakers was Sandy Lerner, whom I had never met. Sandy financed the restoration of Chawton House, and I hoped she hadn’t planned to talk about Chawton; I couldn’t bear it. I was relieved to learn that Sandy had written a sequel to Pride and Prejudice called Second Impressions. Sandy had painstakingly analysed Jane’s writing. She spoke about sentence structure, rhythm and individual word choices, and discussed what these said about Jane’s characters. I was fascinated and gained a new perspective on Jane’s genius—I hadn’t given it much thought. Sandy explained that after she had deconstructed Jane’s writing, she used the same techniques to write her novel, which had just been published. I sat quietly at the back and didn’t tell anyone of my connections.

The other speaker discussed the popularity of Jane’s most famous novel and the explosion of Jane Austen fandom over the twenty years since Colin Firth had played Mr Darcy. Jane’s novels had been translated into more than thirty-five languages, and Jane Austen societies all over the world were meeting regularly to discuss and celebrate all aspects of Jane’s life and works. The Jane Austen Society of North America had grown to over seventy branches. Thousands of online sites and social media profiles were dedicated to Jane, and there were many games and apps from which to choose. Jane’s work had inspired seventy movies and major television productions, and more than ten thousand fan-fiction works. A plethora of Jane Austen merchandise was available, and over one hundred thousand Janeites made the pilgrimage to Jane’s homes each year. ‘Austenmania’ had swept the world—a term I had never heard before.

I was shocked. I had no idea Great Aunt Jane had become such a global star, and while I didn’t doubt the speaker, it was hard to comprehend. Jane had always been famous and appreciated by academics and book lovers, but this was a new type of ‘fandom’ that reached the four corners of the world and attracted people from all walks of life.

Mercia thanked the speakers and thanked me for my attendance. I had intended to stay anonymous, and as she announced my identity to the audience, I recoiled, unsure of how people would react to the granddaughter of Edward Knight III, the fifteenth squire of Chawton, who allowed the house to fall into such disrepair. But, for the second time that day, I was surprised as people approached me with enthusiasm to ask what it was like to grow up in Chawton—Jane’s literary home. They listened intently as I talked about Snap-Dragon in the Great Hall.

‘You’re like a missing link,’ said a middle-aged woman. She had been to Chawton the previous year and had wondered what it must have been like as a family home. ‘You’re an Austen and a Knight and grew up at Chawton House—how fascinating!’

Mercia asked if I would be willing to speak at Janefest, the largest annual event of the Jane Austen Society of Melbourne, held in November. I hesitated for a moment but accepted—I was a practised public speaker, and the society members were keen to hear more.

I felt excited and fearful in equal measure. Later that day I opened my laptop and typed ‘Jane Austen’ into Google. The more I clicked, the more flabbergasted I became. There were thousands of sites, discussion groups and interest groups documenting, analysing and celebrating Jane: her novels, her characters, her life, her family, her legacy and every place she had ever been. There was more merchandise than I could fathom: mouse pads, clocks, aprons, air fresheners and handbags—even a Jane Austen action figure! I found details of hundreds of Jane Austen events, festivals and exhibitions around the world. I felt so proud—Jane had always been a role model to me, and now she had inspired millions of others. Jane was a star.