If I Loved You Less…

A 'Becoming Jane' story, by Icha

Rating: K

Summary:Conversing with his nephew, Chief Justice Lefroy reminiscing on his past with Jane Austen. Chapter 4: Would Mary forgive Tom for what he did in the past? Special thanks to Rachel Kingston for her excellent beta, and my humble apologies for the late update. Life has been extra busy than usual!

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 would like to know more of the facts, please visit Becoming Jane Fansite, particularly in the 'About Tom Lefroy' section. This story is inspired by Becoming Jane the movie.

-xxx-

Chapter 4. Love and Understanding

Leeson Street, Dublin, August 1817

The scorching sun had reduced its intensity for the afternoon, and the soft summer breeze was soothing the inhabitants of Dublin on this hot summer day. Tom Lefroy still sat on the grass, subconsciously switching between picking grasses and shredding leaves. His wife Mary sat down rigidly beside him, her gaze wandering across the pink grey clouds coming from the north. She had just listened to his story about Anthony and his elopement, and what it cost to Tom's plans.

'It will rain again,' she spoke out of the blue. As her husband gave his consent, she resumed, 'Your potatoes will be happy.'

Tom smiled. 'I hope they will. The grey clouds will bring hard rain.'

'Did she like gardening like you?' Unexpectedly, Mary prompted again.

'Jane Austen?' Tom had accepted that Mary would not finish talking about Jane Austen. Not today, at least. Upon Mary's affirmative nod, he shrugged. 'Tolerably, but she'd rather read books and write. Or needlework.'

'How did you first meet?' Mary's voice was now truly a curious one, without the accused tone she used to cast when talking of Jane Austen.

Tom wiped his face with his dirty hands. 'You truly want to know, Mary?'

Mary nodded. 'Not during my first days after I learned of her existence… and death. But now, I do. Especially now, after learning of Anthony's circumstances. Miss Austen has died anyway, Tom, the truth will make no difference for you and her. But –' she leaned toward her husband, '– it will make a lot of differences to us Thomas, if we are to resume the marriage without pretence.'

There was a long pause before Tom Lefroy spoke again. 'Mary, what I am about to tell you will not be pleasing. But let me say this again, despite you not believing in me, I love you Mary, I sincerely love you. The love may not have existed when we first became engaged, but it grew and now you are an integral part of my life.'

'As is Jane Austen, despite her death.' Mary's voice was surprisingly calm.

Slowly, Tom admitted. 'Yes, as is Jane.'

He then began to tell a beautiful story and Mary felt as if her husband was not the subject of the story; that she was merely listening to her husband reading an unpublished manuscript of a love story with characters she knew only in names. Tom told her of Christmas parties and dances when a young Tom Lefroy; shy and timid but brilliant, met a sharp-tongued Jane Austen; clever, witty, charming and lively, and how soon the two characters were in love. But their families, as is familiar in many similar love stories, were disapproving. Tom's family was poor; his rich great-uncle demanded that he married well, and the poor Hampshire lass was definitely not deemed an appropriate match for the young Thomas Langlois Lefroy.

The story continued with the introduction of a young Wexford lady; herself, who despite being engaged to the dashing Tom Lefroy in 1797, felt somewhat uncomfortable. She knew something was amiss, for Tom did not immediately propose the wedding date. She knew that he must complete his study in London, but there was something else. This something else clouded his mind every time he told her stories of dear England. Mary never knew what happened, for the young Tom Lefroy returned again to Ireland at the end of 1798, determined to marry her this time. She was relieved for this change of heart, though she did not know whom or what to thank.

Until now. Until her husband told her things that she needed to know, including the fate of Anthony Lefroy; a fact she already knew but never took into account. Mary did not want to know every detail; she just needed enough information to allow her a better stance on the issue. She deliberated whether to resume her marriage with Tom in an earnest way, pretending that everything was well. She had also contemplated the option of leaving him, but on the basis of infidelity? Tom Lefroy never did anything wrong. He pledged that he had never written to Jane Austen since he married Mary, and Mary also knew that Jane Austen had never written a single word to her husband. Tom retained his precious story safe in his heart… the way Jane did. It was more difficult for him as Jane had her novels to effuse her feelings, albeit secretly; Tom had no outlets whatsoever. He was practically alone, even when he was with his family.

Listening to Tom's story as a third person, Mary inexplicably felt compassionate towards her husband and the late Jane Austen. It was not their fault that they fell in love; they were young and lively and both shared similar interests with each other. It was not Jane's fault to long for Tom, nor Tom's fault that he secretly maintained his relationship with Jane despite his family's disapproval. But on the matter of resuming the engagement with herself…

'You should have told me about Jane before we resumed our engagement, Tom. The entire story would be different.'

Tom shook his head. 'I've been thinking about it Mary but the truth is that either way I would have hurt one of you. I did not want that.'

'If it was not for Anthony's elopement, you would not have left Jane,' Mary spoke bluntly.

'Perhaps,' Tom admitted. 'You would have hated me then.'

'Perhaps, or perhaps not,' Mary unexpectedly replied. 'I was not without admirers, Mr. Lefroy. Somebody would inevitably have been attracted to me.'

Contemplating Mary's lovely countenance and sincere heart, Tom could not help to agree. Had he cancelled his engagement and married Jane Austen instead, Mary would not have been abandoned. Tom felt the familiar pang of guilt attack him as he whispered yet another apology. 'I am sorry, Mary. I am truly sorry that I hurt you and Jane. I wish I could undo what I did… but I cannot. I am terribly… terribly sorry…'

Mary shrugged. Man and wife remained silent for a considerable period of time before Mary asked, 'What are we going to do Tom, now that I am aware of your love towards a deceased woman? I am aware that you never cheated on me; well not directly, at least.'

Tom shook his head ruefully. 'I know not, Mary. If you want me to leave, I will leave. So that you know, I never wanted to leave you. Please believe me, if I had wanted to leave, I could have done so when Jane was still alive. You are a good woman, Mary, and I fell in love with you. I mean it, despite you not believing me.'

Mary wanted to believe that her husband loved her the way a husband should love his wife. All Tom's letters to her had described his longing to be with her and their family, where his security and peace rested; all but one.

Slowly, Mary Paul excavated an old letter from her pocket. A very old letter from the year 1810, addressed to 'Mrs. Mary Lefroy', written by her husband who had currently been on duty in the town of Mountrath, about midway from Limerick to Dublin. As usual, the letter was full of Tom's praise for the Holy Scripture and his evident care for her and their family. Yet, there was something rather odd about the letter, something that made Mary ponder upon it for a few days until his safe return home. Mary Lefroy had the habit of keeping their correspondence in a neat stack inside the night stand. Whenever Tom was away, she usually read his old letters and felt assured and grateful for their love. Yet, inexplicably, whenever she was drawn towards that 1810 letter, she always felt a pang of doubt of Tom's love for her.

'Thomas –' she said mysteriously as her fingers played with the letter, '– do you remember when you wrote a letter to me from Mountrath, seven years ago?'

Tom tilted his head in wonder. As he was in constant correspondence with Mary and their family, a year was long enough for him to forget what he had written to his wife, let alone seven years. He shrugged. 'I would not remember. What of it?' His eyes fell upon the yellowish pages Mary held tentatively. 'Are you referring to that letter?'

In reply, Mary handed Tom the letter, silently gesturing with her chin so that Tom would read the letter. And that was what he did; reading his own words he had written to his wife seven years ago.

'1810, Mountrath

I put a few lines into the Maryboro's post about 4 o'clock, but lest by any accident you should not get them I send this letter to Mr. Bourne, the coach proprietor, with a request that he may forward it to you, as no post goes into town on Sunday.'

Tom arched his thick eyebrows. Just a glance at the date of the letter had brought him back to that very night in Mountrath, when out of the blue he remembered a cold night circa Christmas where he and the young Miss Austen danced together in Hampshire. He could remember clearly how he had felt uncomfortable with his past memories. Writing to his wife had been the appropriate course of action to expel his youthful memories from emerging.

Tom stopped for a while. Then, after glancing at Mary (who was tentatively watching the birds flying), he read a few lines of usual news and the benefit of reading the Scriptures. Then, silently he proceeded by reading a long paragraph adorned with his neat handwriting:

'... There is another great good which results from applying even the shreds and patches of time in this way. It serves to allay somewhat the high relish and excitement which this world and all its pursuits and objects are hourly forcing on the imagination and the heart; it keeps in our view a glimpse, at least, of the true in opposition to the glare of the false treasure which we are for ever pursuing, and between the legitimate and excessive pursuit of which the bounds are so treacherous. I include under the head of false treasure every object of earthly attachment however innocent or even praiseworthy, on which a value is set beyond what any earthly object is entitled to, and yet this is a point upon which we are all most sadly and practically going astray every hour of our lives, and on which nothing can set us right but keeping before us, as if in a magnifying glass, the great and paramount claims to a Christian's regard. I do not say that we are to extinguish the affections which belong to the different relations of life; on the contrary, by the pure and sincere exercise of them, selfishness is in some degree extinguished, but the gratification arising from the most delightful of these affections should not form the stay, and hope, and prop of life. No; therein consists the excess, and the abuse; but I'll say no more on this head, lest you should tell me that nothing but my vanity could suggest the necessity of sermonizing with you in this manner. I own, however, it is grounded on a conviction that the sensibility and devotedness of my darling wife's attachment to a certain degree impair her own enjoyment. But, remember, I am not willing to part with the least atom of it to any earthly object; whatever of it ought to be pruned away, let it be transplanted to that region where we may hope and trust to enjoy it in bliss unfading.

T.L.'

Man and wife fell silent again as the husband folded the letter and returned it solemnly to his wife. Tom tried to evade Mary's drilling gaze, but he knew that he was doing it in vain. Eventually, he locked gaze with his wife. 'Mabs…'

'It was a strange letter, Tom. I could never understand the real meaning of it… and I had always been too scared to ask about it. Until now.' Mary Lefroy tucked a lock of her hair and diverted her gaze upon the setting sun before she said, 'It was about Jane, was it not?'

Tom's silence was an affirmation to Mary Lefroy. She sighed. She was well aware of her husband's pious nature, but something about his reiteration of 'false treasure' that included 'every object of earthly attachment however innocent or even praiseworthy, on which a value is set beyond what any earthly object is entitled to' as something rather vague. As a loyal reader of the Scripture, Mary of course knew some of the false treasures that had the power to lure human's heart into making wrong decisions and actions. Money and power were two of them. The question that was playing on her mind was what if Tom had been talking about another thing altogether? Namely, love and attachment, to the past?

Placing the 1810 letter into the story of her husband and Jane Austen, Mary now gained a new understanding of the context of the letter. That night in 1810, after sending her the first letter with the Marlboro post, Tom suddenly remembered his old days with Jane Austen. Feeling naturally guilty for reminiscing the past, Tom chose to remind himself of his reasons for choosing to marry Mary and of the love he felt for his wife. Now Mary realised how Tom had been so desperate that night, trying to convince himself that through choosing Mary Paul, he would live a happy life with her. He also secretly acknowledged that he still harboured a somewhat chaste feeling towards Miss Austen, and only by keeping those feelings as pure as possible, would he be able to refrain from being tortured by guilt.

'You have tried to tell me all along, Thomas, how you felt about her, and how you still wanted to keep your love for me and to preserve our marriage.' Mary returned to observe Tom's expression. He was poignant, but calm. As she did, he realised the inevitable. 'You could have told me directly, Tom. That would save me some trouble in guessing, wondering… and doubting.'

A soft summer breeze passed by, shredding down some apple leaves. Thomas Langlois Lefroy observed the falling leaves with immense interest.

'Will you believe me then, Mary?' his blue eyes were locked on the leaves, now lying silently on the ground. 'Jane Austen was still alive then. I would not have been able to convince you of my sincere attention towards you and our family with my blatant conviction that I could not wipe her away from my heart. Not entirely, at least.'

'And now, now that Miss Austen is dead; would I be able to handle this better?'

'Perhaps… with less repercussion.' Tom wiped his hands with a dirty cloth before returning his attention to his wife. 'I have said all that I should say, Mabs. I have admitted to you the remnants of my feelings to Miss Austen. Chaste and pure as it might be, it still hurts you. I have demonstrated to you, all this time, my sincere love and attention for you and our children. You can contact Henry Austen if you wish… and you will find that he, too, will be the witness that I never contacted Jane directly after we were married. You can also talk to Anthony, my brother, to verify the information I just gave you. But other than that, I have nothing else that I can do…' he bit his lips in hesitance, '– to convince you that my love for you is sincere.'

Slowly, Thomas Langlois Lefroy got up and collected his gardening tool. 'Whatever your decision is, Mary, I respect it and you. I just beg you to leave our daughter Jane out of this; her name is not a fault of hers. I was, after all, following tradition by naming our first daughter after your mother.'

'It is somewhat of a coincidence.'

'Yes, it is a coincidence.' Suddenly, Tom fell on his knees and begged, 'Please leave our Jane out of this matter. Please, Mabs… I beg you. You can blame me as you wish; you are fully entitled to. But not our Jane Christmas. Not her.' His blue eyes beseeched solemnly as he searched for signs of anger or, worse, hatred in Mary's grey eyes. Yet, to his surprise, he found none.

'I am very much surprised, Mr. Lefroy, that you know so little of me.'

He blinked. 'What do you mean?'

'We have been man and wife for twelve years, have we not? If you can contemplate me hating our own daughter, I sadly have to admit that you know me very little.'

'I…' Thomas Lefroy stuttered to find words.

'I love our Jane Christmas, Thomas and nothing, I repeat, nothing will lessen my love for her….Not even the knowledge of Jane Austen.' To both their surprise, Mary reached to touch Tom's cheek tenderly. 'Jane Austen was Jane Austen, Thomas. Jane Christmas is not Jane Austen. Jane Christmas is the eldest daughter of Thomas Langlois Lefroy and Mary Lefroy She is a fine, independent young woman and I will always love her, no matter what.'

Utterly surprised, Tom was speechless for a moment or two. Then, suddenly, he blinked and let silent tears out. 'You… you are such an angel Mary…Thank you, thank you.' When Mary said nothing, he cleared his throat and gathered himself to ask, 'Do you forgive me? I… you have my full consent to decide what is best for you and our marriage, but at least, do forgive me?'

Mary arched her fine eyebrow. 'What do you mean, Thomas? Do you honestly think that I will ask for a divorce because of this?'

Tom shrugged lamely. 'Is it not a strong case for a divorce?'

'Could be… if you had done much more than thinking of Miss Austen as a kindred spirit,' Mary admitted. 'But the fact is, you have not. And now Miss Austen has passed away… and the two of us are left alone with two choices: acknowledging your past with Miss Austen and let it go… or go our separate ways.'

Tom became speechless again as his wife knelt on her knees and took his hands. 'I do not think the second option as viable, Mr. Lefroy,' Mary spoke calmly. 'Therefore, I think we should vigorously attempt option number one.'

'Mary…' he blinked some tears out once more.

'Take me to England next month, Tom, when you leave for Westminster Hall. Afterwards, I may accompany you to Winchester, although for better or worse, I think it is better that you go there alone.'

'Mary…' Tom Lefroy sobbed and reached for his wife, enveloping her with a sense of deep gratitude.

'I love you, Thomas Langlois Lefroy. And I know you love me as well. For now, that is all that matters.'

Tom knew that he should kiss his wife for her understanding and compassion. However, at that very moment he could not find it within himself to act; he did not see Mary as his wife then, he saw her as his saviour. She had bestowed him with love and understanding despite his hurtful actions. For that, a kiss was not appropriate. For that, a solemn embrace of gratitude felt right.

-TBC-

Author's note:

Letter 1810 was taken from page 28 of the 'Memoir of Chief Justice Lefroy'.