If I Loved You Less…

A 'Becoming Jane' story, by Icha

Rating: K

Summary: Conversing with his nephew, the retired Chief Justice Lefroy reminiscing on his past with Jane Austen. Inspired by Becoming Jane the movie. Many grateful thanks to Rachel Kingston for her great beta.

Disclaimer: I do not own Jane Austen and her characters, or any other characters in this story. The story takes place in several time frames, i.e. 1795-1799, 1802, 1817, 1840, and 1867, based on several facts known about Jane Austen and Tom Lefroy. Should gentle readers like to know more of the facts, please visit Becoming Jane Fansite in the 'About Tom Lefroy' section.

-xxx-

Chapter 2. Death of a Maiden

Leeson Street, Dublin, early August 1817

From the light steps and the rustle of muslins, Thomas Langlois Lefroy knew that his wife was approaching the library; his solitary room. He did nothing. Instead, he returned his attention to the letter on the table next to him and fought the heavy weight upon his chest.

'Thomas?' He heard her entering the library. 'Thomas, are you alright? Jane said you were ill.' He ignored her and cast a glance at the last remnants of sunlight in Dublin that fell upon his beloved garden. He attempted to force himself to look up as Mary Paul Lefroy approached him, but he could not. He simply could not. Hence, he just stared at the garden that was bathing in the golden evening sunlight.

'Thomas…?' Mary's voice was rich with concern. She had just returned from visiting her friend in town when she heard from her eldest daughter Jane that her husband was unwell. The fifteen years old Jane knew nothing except that her father had returned home from the court looking exhausted and pale; like he had seen a ghost.

Upon receiving no response from her husband, Mary grew weary. 'Tom… dearest, pray tell me what happened?' She touched his shoulder tenderly. 'Is there something wrong at the Court? You had to punish someone? Did somebody die?'

Upon the word 'die', Tom Lefroy jilted and, as if he had just awoken, looked at his wife a way he had never before. Something in his face caught Mary's attention. Tom's countenance was pale; deprived of his usual spirit and calmness. In fact, he looked like someone who had lost his grounding, unsure what to do or where to go. A hunch struck Mary and, lest someone they knew had died, she intuitively turned her attention to a letter abandoned on the table nearby. Mary Paul Lefroy felt a clog in her throat.

'May I?' she whispered and, without waiting for his response, she reached for the letter and read it silently. The letter was dated a week ago, the end of July, and was written by a Henry Austen from England and addressed to 'Mr. Tom Lefroy'. Obviously, this Mr. Austen was not a court person, for nowadays her husband was addressed appropriately as the King's Counsel.

Dear Sir,

My sincere apology for being late in responding to your letter, which arrived a few days ago, for I was busy taking care of the burial of the most beloved sister of mine.

Indeed Sir, I am at a loss of how to tell such devastating news. Had I not received your letter, I would defer the news for as long as possible. However, recalling the promise I had made almost ten years ago in Dublin that I would relay any important news with regards to my beloved sister, particularly upon your inquiries, I herewith, with very heavy heart, deliver you this report.

My beloved sister, Miss Jane Austen, was taken to death last July 18 at the age of forty one. She left this world very early in the morning before the sunrise as she lay down on the lap of my other sister Cassandra, who would later confess that Jane looked as pretty and peaceful as a sleeping child. Jane's illness, as you have learned a year ago, was irreversible, and her health was too deteriorated for a recovery. Our family thought that we would be ready for this event, but alas, nothing can ever prepare you to face the death of your own sister.

As I said, I just attended the ceremonies of Jane's burial in Winchester. I am now back in London where I shall finish what she began; publishing her two last novels. I am not sure yet what the titles will be, for the beautiful authoress left no such wish in her will. Between Cassandra and myself, we will find the most suitable titles.

I trust you are well and will take this news in the best possible way. I am not sure whether we will meet again soon, or ever, but if you visit England one day, do find me in either Chawton or Hampshire. You can certainly leave notes in Ashe; they will find me. Until then, I wish you all the best.

I remain, dear Sir, sincerely yours,

Henry Austen

Mary re-read the letter several times until she concluded that she was confused as to why Tom was so devastated by the news. Could it be that this Miss Austen was a friend of Tom's? Surely that was the reason, for the death of a friend was indeed sad news. Mary cleared her throat.

'I see. I am sorry, Thomas. It is indeed such discouraging news… the death of a friend. Was she very ill?' She received no response but a faint nod. 'Have you known her for a long time? The letter indicates so.'

Tom Lefroy still made no efforts to reply, or if he did, it was to no avail. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again and returned his attention to the garden. Night had fallen, and the garden was dark now. Mary called her maid to turn on the lights and, ignoring the maid's actions, returned her attention to her husband. The maid had just left the room when Mary recognised the date mentioned in the letter.

July 18. It was more than two weeks ago, but she still remembered it vaguely. She had an important business to attend to that morning (she had forgotten what it was now), but she remembered that she had planned to wake up earlier than usual. She indeed woke up earlier, but not as a result of herself.

Tom Lefroy, a sound sleeper, had awoken hastily beside her, choking and trembling. His shirt was soaked, his breathing was unusually fast, and he looked so scared. She had asked what the cause had been, but he just mumbled something about his father, Mr. Anthony Peter Lefroy, who had been sick. Then, after several attempts to go back to sleep, Tom rose and walked to the library. He did not return until breakfast when he produced a letter from his pocket, to be posted immediately. When she asked of its recipient, he replied that it was for his father. In retrospective, Mary now remembered that Tom had answered reluctantly, very unlike him.

Nonetheless, her business prevented Mary from asking more questions. She returned home that day to find Tom in a much better condition, albeit still looking worried. A letter from his father arrived that afternoon, and Mary was relieved to learn that news from Limerick was not disturbing. The following morning, Mary had forgotten the incident.

Until now. She now realised that it was the morning of July 18 that Tom had awoken in a shocked state; the same day Miss Austen died.

'Who was this Miss Austen?' In her otherwise calm state, Mary would reprimand herself for using such an accusing tone to discuss a dead woman. However, at this moment she just could not bring herself to be calm. She felt inexplicably curious, and she wanted her curiosity satisfied.

'Who was Jane Austen, Tom?' she prompted again. 'A friend of yours?'

Finally sitting down, Tom did not look at Mary as he reached for the letter and caressed it in his hands for a while before answering, 'Yes. A friend.'

'When did you meet her?'

'When I was in England… a long time ago.' He sighed and forced a sad smile. 'It does not matter, Mabs.'

But Mabs, or Mary, had let her Pandora box open. She was now inquisitive and longed to know more. 'Her name sounds familiar. Do I know her?' Then, as if on cue, she cast a glance at Tom's bookshelf. Most of his books in the bookshelf were of law and religion. Only a small section was dedicated to novels. An old copy of Tom Jones was there (so unlike the religious Tom Lefroy to keep such a secular novel and Mary always wondered why her husband possessed it), several poems, and three or four novels written by 'a Lady'; as of late known as a Miss Austen. Miss Jane Austen.

'She was a novelist,' Mary whispered, answering her own questions. 'Jane and you like her books so much.' Jane. Mary stopped, almost suffocated. Jane. Their daughter was named Jane, after her mother. But this novelist was also Jane. Mary tried to breath. 'When did you meet her for the first time?'

'Mary dear…' for the first time in several minutes, Tom spoke clearly. 'Why do you have to ask? My friend has died, I mourn her. Is it not proper behaviour for a Christian?'

'When did you first meet her, Thomas?' Mary had evidently ignored him. 'I want to know.'

'Why?'

'Pray, just answer it.'

'Mary…Mabs…' his blue eyes were begging now. Sadness and remorse were etched on his usually calm countenance. After a time, realising that his wife was not wavered, he sighed and answered with surprising steadiness. 'December 1795.'

December 1795. A quick calculation informed Mary that it had been more than twenty years since the meeting, but apparently her husband could not forget this Austen woman. Not even after her death. December…Wait.

'When in December?' her voice was icily cold; Mary was taking the role of the judge now. Her instinct told her that the feelings her husband held for this women were more than simply respect and she would not let her husband avoid her questioning. Upon noticing that Tom did offer an immediate reply, she pressed further until she received an answer.

'Christmas holiday,' said Tom, diverting his eyes to the pale crescent moon outside, and consequently failing to observe Mary's face turn a pale white as she sat down, attempting to absorb the information.

'Christmas…' Mary whispered to herself several times. She then fell into silence before finally asking, 'Was that why you named our first daughter Jane Christmas?' Her voice was presented accusingly.

Tom turned to look at his wife. 'You know as well as I do, Mary, that we gave Jane her name to honour your mother and your ancestors.'

Mary showed no relent. 'Any other reasons I did not know? Such as homage to your friend, perhaps?' To her dismay, Tom did not reply immediately. Instead, he sighed and fingered his messy hair.

'Does it matter?' he finally spoke, as if to himself.

'Does it matter?!' Mary felt her heart burning. 'It matters for the whole world!'

'My friend has died, Mary. Can I not be spared a moment of mourning on her account?'

Mary could not believe this. 'Thomas…' she blinked and tried to resume, 'Am I to understand that you need a moment of peace for the memory of your dead…friend,' she emphasised the last word as if spitting a bitter seed, ' – while I am wondering the true nature of your friendship? And that I should leave you be?' She opened her mouth to continue, but found no voice. A strained moment passed. 'In all honesty, Thomas, do you not show me any respect?' Upon her husband's desperate sigh, Mary felt her heart sinking. 'Do you… not love me at all?'

'Of course I do!' the speed of Tom's reply surprised her and elated her mood a little. Yet, she was still hindered.

'But did your love for me prevent you from loving her?'

Tom made no reply; all his attentions were now focused on the old rug on his feet. Mary felt her heart resume its sinking.

'Tom…' She tried again. 'Did you love this woman?' She swallowed hard. 'Did you love Jane Austen?'

Tom tilted his head and, clenching his jaws, begged, 'Mary, this is not the right time. She has just died. I need time to meditate. To mourn.'

'And when will the time be right to receive an explanation?' Running out of patience, Mary suddenly snapped, 'Will you be providing me with the explanations that I should have received years ago any time soon? Or will you just continue, pretending that this conversation never existed, and resume with your court business, gardening and preaching of truth? While all this time have been lying to me?!'

'Mary…' Tom was so tired and wished to avoid fighting. 'Please, not now my dear…'

'Do not call me that, Thomas!' Mary leapt to her feet. 'Not now! Not while you're holding the letter from your lover's brother so dearly, and refusing to give me the answers that are within my rights to behold!' This time, Tom retreated into silence. Mary sighed and launched her last attempt.

'Do you love me, Tom?' she dreaded the answer.

Slowly, Tom faced his wife and nodded solemnly. 'You know I do, Mary.'

That did not please her. 'Do you love her?'

He did not answer. Mary felt her clogged throat almost exploding; her tears already welling. Fighting her heaving chest, she exclaimed with faltering voice,

'I shall have the maid send you dinner, Tom. I will skip dinner tonight. Do not send me the tray upstairs.'

With that, Mary Lefroy turned on her heels and left the library. Thomas Langlois Lefroy, King's Counsel for Ireland, sank back into his seat, exhausted, desperate and deprived of all spirit.

He then slowly raised his hands to cover his face and sobbed endlessly.

-TBC-

Author's note:

Henry Austen did visit Ireland from March to October/November 1799. There was no record found of his meeting with Tom Lefroy in Ireland, but the possibility (what with their connections with Jane Austen) is not zilch. I am also assuming that Tom would receive news of Jane's sickness and death from Henry, instead of from other people such as Anna Lefroy (that was not his best acquaintance despite her support to Jane/Tom).

In the 1979 Huguenot Society Paper ('Jane Austen's Irish Friend'), J.A.P. Lefroy suggested that 'Mabs' was Tom's nickname for Mary Paul, hence I used the name here.