Dearest Cousin Jane (10 page)

December 30th, 1797, or 10 Nivose VI

A
s I w rite the French version of the date I think of my dear husband, the Comte, writing to me from his prison cell the night before his death almost four years ago and fall to thinking of my decision and if it is the right one.

But the die is cast. Tomorrow is my wedding day when I shall change my name to Austen. So is this my last day as a countess? I suppose so, yet Henry, my dear husband-to-be says I shall always be noble to him. In truth, I daresay he likes the use of the title and the effect it has on those about us. His commanding officer was clearly impressed by it, and it never comes amiss to impress those who can advance or, for that matter, hinder one. Henry has been courting me for so long that I think even he was a little taken aback when I finally said yes, and as I write letters to my dear godfather, my dear uncle, so soon to be my father-in-law, and dear cousin Jane, now to be my sister-in-law, I have been gathering my thoughts as to why I acquiesced after having resisted him for so long.

Attending James’s wedding at the beginning of the year made me envious, I suppose. Not of Mary—I long ago decided I did not wish to marry James and did not regret my decision. In truth, I was rather amused by the unfriendly looks that passed from Mary to me and by how she contrived to take his arm whenever he chanced to look my way. No, it was not them I envied, nor even the state of
being married, but rather the state of being in love. That careless rapture, the pounding of the heart when the beloved comes near, was what I found myself missing. And then, too, it can be comforting as well as occasionally exciting to have some physical affection and to enjoy the moments of intimacy when one is preparing for bed in one’s chamber.

It is not as though I was ever madly in love with the Comte, but we had our moments of passion and intimacy and I would not wish to think I shall never know those again.

Then there was the reading I heard from
First Impressions
while I was at Steventon. Dear Jane’s talent is developing magnificently and there was one scene she read to us that was particularly fine. It concerned her heroine—I suppose that is what we must call her and she is in many ways rather like Jane herself, although she has been kind enough to give her my name—and a suitor, a man of large fortune whose name I have now forgotten. They were dancing partners and the conversation between them was so alive, so flirtatious yet so guarded, that it quite made me long to be involved in such matters again. They were on the edge of intimacy, so suspicious of each other yet so attracted somehow. I told Jane that she had quite inspired me to read more and begged to know the fate of the two characters.

‘Pray tell, dear cousin—do these two marry or have you other plans for them?’

Jane smiled a touch mysteriously. ‘I have not yet decided. I think they may but many difficulties are to be overcome, you know.’

‘You mean that he is wealthy and she is poor?’ I asked. ‘Why, to be sure, a writer as clever as yourself must surely find a way around that.’

Henry had been listening to the reading also.

‘At least there are no other obstacles to their marrying—they are each unattached and are near enough in age I fancy.’ He looked
at me meaningfully as he said this and I thought how handsome he looked now that his hair was its natural colour and curled a little around his ears.

I wondered if he was indicating to me that for him the disparity in our ages was still of no concern to him, and perhaps it was then that I began to consider whether I was growing tired of being single after all.

It is a considerable burden to be a woman alone when all one’s affairs have to be dealt with, and I do miss my dear mama, who was always so good to talk to about such things. I was indeed most anxious to have charge of my own fortune and grateful to dear Uncle Austen and Mr Woodman for agreeing to give me control of it—spurred on, of course, by the recommendation of my godfather and yet…when one has the charge of it, it proves indeed to be a great responsibility and one might imagine the relief of giving it over to a husband, even though the law does mean that the husband is himself totally in control. Yet I reflected that Henry—a mild-mannered man and not worldly—might still let me be in charge of the money and the decision making.

When I saw Henry again in the spring of this year I could see he was recovering well from the jilting he had experienced by Mary Pearson and reflected that his attachment to me might be as strong as ever.

I resolved to test it out by going to East Anglia, where he was stationed with the militia. I did
not
pursue him, whatever opinion Philly or Cassandra have on that subject. I went to Lowestoft solely for the health of dear Hastings—the sea bathing there did him a power of good—but the sojourn there was of material importance in persuading me that a match with Henry
might
just suit us both.

The officers in his regiment were of the greatest gentility and held me in such respect that I felt entirely at ease. Their conversations
worried me somewhat though, as the talk was constantly of invasion and of the French arriving at any minute. What was a poor widow and her sick son to do for protection in such circumstances? In addition, I was made anxious by their musings on the financial situation. I had already reflected that with rents rising—especially in London—and with the increased costs of keeping servants and carriages, it might be that my fortune was not as secure as it had seemed hitherto.

I may be a mercenary creature and own it with some shame, but I state with great conviction that the principal factor in my considering Henry once more was his great kindness, nay, I must say love, to dear Hastings. Henry seemed not the least embarrassed by his backwardness, but played with him robustly as a father should. Hastings, who had hitherto been mostly in the company of women, responded with such happiness that any mother would have begun to wonder whether it was her duty to ensure such a stepfather. When my dear little one had convulsions and fever earlier this winter, no blood relative could have been more devoted than Henry at that time. Hastings has need of a father; that does not admit of a doubt.

So all in all, it seemed the right decision to report to my godfather when I wrote to him thus:

I believe Henry will allow me sufficient separation that we shall be tolerably happy, and he is a dear soul and having courted me so long should have his wish granted at last.

I have written to Jane telling her of our marriage—she loves Henry dearly, but I will hazard she will be content with the news. How I wish I could contrive happiness in marriage for her. She would perhaps be content to earn her own living with her pen if such a course were not nigh on impossible for a respectable woman. She bears it well but how downcast she must have been with the rejection from Thomas Cadell this November.
First Impressions
is such a fine work that I can quite understand my uncle sending it to Cadell’s in the hope of publication. To have it returned so swiftly with a dismissive ‘Declined by return of post’ scrawled across the first page—oh the disappointment, the humiliation! But Jane seems to feel it not and merely writes in her latest letter of how she is revising a former work. This is the one that was written as letters between the two delightful sisters, Elinor and Marianne. I heard her read parts of it some years ago and thought it most engaging. I remember that one of the sisters disapproved strongly of second attachments, but I am sure Jane will not share that view.

Well, as I have no such ability and can never earn my living by my pen or any other way, marriage is the way for me and I go, content and happy, to St Marylebone tomorrow.

Steventon, January 1798

I
know that my dear wife does not approve but it is a fine match for Henry. I know she is ten years his senior and has been married before, but she is a countess when all is said and done and his first cousin, too, so has good Austen blood. He was determined to have her from being a young lad and has had eyes for no other woman, despite that little interlude with Miss Pearson. In addition, she is well provided for, as I have reason to know. I have told Mrs Austen so but she retorted, ‘We shall see how long this so-called fortune lasts when the two of them set about spending on their carriages and fine wines. Henry, as you know Mr Austen, has no sense when it comes to money and she has always been so spoiled and indulged I doubt she knows the value of anything.’

‘But my dear,’ I protested, ‘she is a wealthy woman and will be more so if this trouble in France comes to an end and she can come into her French property again.’

‘How can you hope for such a thing—why, did you not tell us only yesterday that this General Bonaparte or whatever he is called is raising a huge army and intends to conquer the whole Continent? He is as opposed to the old order as the others were and will surely never allow the wife of someone who was guillotined to inherit.’

‘Well, even without that,’ I replied, anxious to calm her, ‘she
does not want for resources and Henry is now in charge of her affairs and will manage them sensibly.’

‘Nonsense, Henry is not sensible at the best of times and certainly not when it comes to money. No sensible man would ally himself with our niece—she is too much trouble’.

‘I know she has a tendency to be a little overdramatic—’

‘A little?’ interrupted my wife.

‘But you remember how thoughtful and caring she was to my sister as she was dying and she quite dotes on the little boy. I am sure she will make Henry a good wife.’

‘We shall see,’ she responded and left the room.

In retrospect, it was a good thing that the marriage took place quietly in London with no family member present, as I am sure Mrs Austen would have refused any invitation to attend, while Cassandra and Jane have been in Bath these last few weeks, so would not have been available to make the journey either.

I confess that I am rather worried about Cassandra. She is still in deep mourning for Tom and has grown thin and pale; all her previous bloom seems to be disappearing. Mrs Austen and I thought a few weeks in Bath with their uncle and aunt Leigh-Perrot might do her good but in truth it does not appear to have been a successful visit. From what I can gather the girls found their aunt very tiresome. She seemed to spend too much time either telling Cassy that she must pull herself together and stop grieving or teasing Jane about Tom Lefroy. Neither subject was likely to endear her to the girls, who have always preferred their uncle anyway. Also it rained a great deal and they could not be out of doors but were compelled to spend most of their time indoors at Number 1, The Paragon. I have always found that house so gloomy—too much dark furniture in too little space, and it gets no sun at all. I believe they did go out each morning with their uncle to the Pump Room, but according to Jane:

I had hoped that they might have found more diversion in Bath—to help Cassandra over her loss and to veer Jane’s interest away from Tom Lefroy. They are both in need of husbands, that is the simple truth, though Mrs Austen and I rarely discuss this. I worry about who will take care of them when I am gone, though I know their brothers would always be good to them. But they should marry and have families of their own—what fine mothers they would each make! I fear that Cassandra, having given her heart so completely once, may never love again, but for Jane to live as a spinster would be a sad waste. She finds comfort and fascination in her writing, I know, and was more disappointed than she allowed at that rejection from Cadell’s. She tells me that Bath, although not very enjoyable, has provided her with material for another story. It seems that she and her sister read some fanciful novels—Gothic romances she calls them—to enliven their dull mornings during their stay there and she intends to write a story about a young girl who is too much under the influence of such books and the trouble it gets her into. It is to be set in Bath it seems, so as I said to Jane: ‘At least your visit, however disagreeable, may have some positive outcome.’

I have been wondering whether Mrs Austen and I have quite done right by our two daughters. Our quiet country life may not be putting them in the way of suitable acquaintance who might in turn contrive to introduce them to suitors. I was rather struck by the lines attributed to Mrs Bennet in the rejected novel,
First Impressions
,
when she upbraids her husband about shirking his responsibilities so far as the matrimonial prospects of his daughters were concerned. Have I, I wonder, been similarly irresponsible? When James inherits this parish as, of course, he is set to do, should we perhaps consider a move to Bath, where the girls could have more of a social life?

Or perhaps Edward will be the one who could help? He is well set up in his estate now and he and Elizabeth are constantly entertaining—perhaps I should suggest a long visit there? We are all in need of some relief after what was a difficult year.

The more I think about it, the more I find pleasure in contemplating Henry’s marriage, even if my wife cannot. I think I shall send them a gift of money so that they may treat the regiment to a celebration. What would be an appropriate sum? £25? No, I shall make it £40—it is not every day one has a son who marries a countess after all. They will visit us soon on their wedding journey, and I believe they will lift the spirits of us all—even Mrs Austen.