Sally O'Rourke: The Man Who Loved Jane Austen

For Jane Austen,

Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth

But most of all for Michael, our Da,

My love, my friend, my soul mate.

This is our dream, the ultimate valentine,

As you said, it came out of the love

we had for each other

and will live in my heart forever…

With grateful appreciaton to Daphne Maddison and Margaret Royle. It was their unstinting enthusiasm that inspired us to complete our journey through time.

A special acknowledgment and thanks to Andy Stevenson and Mauricio Palacios for their unparalled kindness during a very difficult time in my life and for their help in preparing the book.

With love and appreciation to the Reno family—Kate, Fred, Freddie, Kathleen, Jennifer, Caroline, Shannon, Sarah, Shannon 2and Mary Beth—who embraced me as one of their own when I needed embracing most. And love, too, to the newest members of the clan: Chris, Hannah, Jimmy, Larry, Dan, Ryan and Blake.

And, of course, to “our” daughters, Kyle and Kelly, whose love, support and children—Nick, Sean, Alicia, Trey, and Ryan—make my life a joy.

The Man Who Loved Jane Austen is the embodiment of a dream. It is a fantasy viewed through the mists of time, in which Darcy, the enigmatic hero of Pride and Prejudice, is finally unmasked and Jane, the woman who created him, reveals the secret of her own true love.

But make no mistake, this is just a dream. Our dream, Mike’s and mine. Not Jane Austen’s. And though we have doubtless taken unconscionable liberties with the life and times of that illustrious author, we would like to think that Jane, of all people, would understand. And, at discovering herself playing the coveted role of the romantic heroine, even reward us with a smile.

This book is presented in three volumes, just as Jane Austen’s books were published. During the Regency era, books were made by hand, and so for ease of creation and publication Jane Austen’s books were issued in three separate volumes. We have included the three volumes of our fantasy, The Man Who Loved Jane Austen, in this one book.

Chawton, Hampshire

12 May, 1810

The slender young woman hurrying along a lonely woodland path beyond the village of Chawton this night seemed heedless of the falling moisture that sprinkled her hair and dampened the shoulders of her light cloak.

It had rained in the afternoon, a hard spring shower that had passed over the wood in no more than ten minutes. And though the downpour hadn’t lasted long enough to muddy the path that Jane now followed, the leaves of the overhanging trees were still shedding droplets that glittered like jewels in the cold moonlight.

As she moved through the silent wood Jane imagined the scandal that would erupt should a neighbor happen upon her in this lonely place. For she was a respectable young woman by any standard, the unmarried daughter of a clergyman with aristocratic family connections, and youngest sister to the owner of the great country house on which the village depended. Which circumstance rendered her midnight foray all the stranger. For Jane had never before dared nor even considered an adventure such as the one on which she was now embarked.

Yet here she was, gliding wraithlike through the dark forest, en route to a clandestine meeting with a man—a mysterious and possibly dangerous man—whom she had known for scarcely five days. She prayed that he would be at the appointed spot, as he had promised. And she felt her heart thundering in her breast at the mere thought of what she had committed to share with him this night. She who had long since abandoned all hope of ever finding love.

She was thirty-four years old—an unremarkable spinster who lived an unremarkable life in a house provided by her devoted brother and shared with her elder sister and their aged mother. And, until fewer than twenty-four hours ago, she had never known a lover’s caress.

But last night that had changed. Now Jane wanted nothing more than to be again with the man. For he had reawakened her girlhood dreams of love and romance, all the lovely dreams she had so carefully preserved on countless sheets of neatly inscribed vellum that she kept hidden away in the deepest recesses of her closet.

Of course, she fully realized, going to meet him like this was madness. But then, she reminded herself, madness had been the hallmark of their brief but intense relationship, a relationship that had been doomed from the start. For she could not go with him and he could not stay.

And if they were found out, she knew to a certainty, scandal and disgrace would be her only reward.

But love knows not reason. And Jane did not care what consequences might ensue. For, in her mind, the risks she was taking to meet with her new-found lover tonight were as nothing compared to the dread she felt, of slipping into her old age without ever having tasted love.

After a few more minutes she came to the edge of the woods, which bounded a broad meadow. Covered now in swirls of mist frosted by the light of a near-full moon, the grassy field had taken on an otherworldly look, like one of the fairy-tale landscapes she was forever imagining in her dreams. At the end of the path she hovered like a frightened deer, huddling in a pool of darkness beneath the dripping trees, until he should appear.

Presently, she heard the drumming of muffled hoofbeats from the far side of the meadow. Willing her joyously thudding heart to be still, Jane boldly detached herself from the sheltering shadows and advanced into the open, anxious not to waste a precious moment of the brief time they would have together.

Slowly a horseman emerged from the mist. Spying her moving through the grass, he altered the course of his great black steed to intercept her. Within seconds he reined to a halt beside her. His face was obscured beneath the brim of the tall hat he wore, and she ran forward to meet him as he dismounted. “I prayed you would come,” she laughed, prepared to throw herself into his arms.

But instead of the joyous response she was anticipating, the rider nervously swept the tall hat from his head. The moonlight struck his plain, sun-reddened features and she saw to her mortification that he was not the one for whom she had so anxiously waited, but an awkward young servant named Simmons.

“Sorry, miss,” the nervous messenger stammered, “the gentleman went away in a great hurry after the troops came. He had asked me to come and tell you if he could not get here himself tonight.”

Jane felt herself flushing beneath the servant’s questioning gaze. Her bitter disappointment at the broken rendezvous was overlaid by a sudden pang of fear. For young Simmons was a groom from her brother’s stables, and she wondered how much he knew… or would tell.

“Oh… I see,” she said, forcing her voice to remain calm, and wondering what motive the servant must be imagining had brought her to the lonely meadow at this ungodly hour. “Thank you, Simmons.”

His unlined, honest features betraying no hint that he thought the situation odd or particularly scandalous, Simmons fumbled in the pocket of his greatcoat and produced a folded letter sealed with wax. “This is for you, miss,” he stammered, bowing slightly and extending the letter to her.