Dearest Cousin Jane (14 page)

December 1802

T
he carriage taking Jane, Cassandra, and James back to Bath has just now left and I am shaking with emotion as I sit down amid the scarcely touched breakfast things. We were still abed when to our astonishment we heard the sound of a large carriage approaching our front door. I looked out and recognised it immediately as that of the Bigg Withers family, as they had collected Jane and Cassandra not three days since to take them for a week’s stay. The girls set off in such high spirits and to tell the truth I thought they were heartily pleased to be leaving Steventon. Their visit had not been a success, as they were constantly comparing the way things are here now with the way they were when they both lived here.

I told them and told them that our income was not as great as their father’s had been and though they might think me penny-pinching I was only trying to be a prudent housekeeper for their brother, and is there anything wrong with trying to give the place the air of a gentleman’s residence?

My mother- and father-in-law certainly lived well when they were here, better than we are able to do. They had good food, of course, which I never begrudge—I always make sure James has a little treat, such as a sweet bread or a piece of Stilton, even if the children and I have to be content with mutton stew. But really there
was no need for them to be so generous to the parishioners—roast beef and plum pudding and ale at Christmas indeed! They have grown to expect it but, as I told James, they must understand things are different now and there can be no such largesse. The maids can just as well eat dripping as butter—they have been used to no better in their own homes in the village after all. And most mistresses lock up the stores and give them out weekly—you can never tell whether servants are honest and my mother-in-law was altogether too trusting in my view.

Jane may look askance, but it is the way of the world that when a son inherits, his wife changes the housekeeping arrangements. I daresay she may scribble something about it and amuse her family—as long as it is not at my expense I shall try to be amused.

Just after they arrived Jane said: ‘I hardly recognised the garden, Mary, you have certainly been busy—a greenhouse indeed? Quite the look of a squire’s dwelling it will have before long.’

Cassandra, as always, was kinder and tried to compliment me on the changes, but I felt Jane liked them ill and was always looking for something to criticise. I was heartily relieved by the invitation from the Bigg Withers that they should go to them for a week and attend the ball they were arranging at Manydown. Then we expected Jane to stay here until her birthday on December 16th and James would escort them back to Bath in time for Christmas.

Now here they were so early on a bitter cold morning returning without notice—was one of them taken ill?

James and I hurried down and were amazed to find that Catherine and Althea Bigg were of the party, and as they got out we saw that they and Cassandra were all in tears.

‘Oh what on earth is the matter?’ cried James. ‘And where is Jane?’

Cassandra gestured at the coach and I looked inside. Jane sat
against the far side, her face stiff and expressionless, looking out of the frosted over window, her breath coming out in clouds in the icy air.

‘Jane,’ I said, ‘are you unwell? What is the matter?’

She did not respond and Cassandra, taking my arm, put her finger to her lips.

‘Go into the house,’ she said, ‘and we shall join you there presently.’

The coachman was unloading their boxes and James was telling our manservant to take them to the girl’s room.

‘No,’ said Cassandra, ‘leave them in the hall, for we must leave again immediately.’

James and I returned to the house, and I asked him what he thought was happening.

‘What does she mean, leave again immediately? They can go nowhere without you and you cannot go to Bath at present—what about your sermon the day after tomorrow?’

‘I am as puzzled as you my dear,’ he said, ‘but let us wait for an explanation from my sisters.’

Looking out the parlour window, I saw Jane descend slowly from the carriage and bid an affectionate farewell to the two Bigg girls as they drove off.

I hurried out to the hall and saw that Jane, refusing to shed her cloak, was seated on the settle beside their boxes and saying in a low voice to Cassandra: ‘Tell James that we must go to Bath immediately, and if he cannot take us we must travel post.’

‘Two young women travel post alone?’ I burst out. ‘It is impossible and just as impossible for James to abandon his parish and escort you on a whim.’

‘A whim?’ she cried, and I swear I had never before seen such a look of despair on anyone’s face. It quite frightened me and I was
glad when James suggested that we leave Jane where she was and ask Cassandra to come into the parlour to explain.

It was then that we heard the whole sorry story. Harris Bigg Wither, the eldest son and heir of Manydown, last evening asked Jane to marry him and she accepted! There had been much celebration and everyone had gone to bed happy. Sometime in the night though, Jane had changed her mind, or, as Cassandra put it ‘come to her senses’.

I could not believe my ears.

‘Come to her senses?’ I burst out. ‘Is it sensible to refuse a man of twenty-one, and moreover a man of wealth and property, when you are seven and twenty? What was her reason?’

‘She simply cannot love him enough to marry him,’ said Cassandra.

‘Love him enough? What is she about? Has she no thought for the well-being of her family? Think of the home she could have given you, Cass. Think of the worry about the future taken off the shoulders of your parents and your brothers. How are the two of you to be provided for in future? Did she not think of that?’

James stopped me with a look, but said that he himself found her refusal difficult to understand.

‘I never thought young Harris an appealing young man—he has a strange way of speaking and is awkward in company—but to be mistress of Manydown would be something to be sure, can she easily give up such a prospect?’

‘All this we discussed endlessly in the small hours, believe me,’ said Cassandra in a weary voice. ‘In the end she felt that the match, with all its advantages, was so horrible a prospect that she must see Harris as soon as the household stirred and tell him her decision. We were most anxious, you see, to ensure that the news did not spread further, for Harris had gone to bed saying he would ride
down the valley in the morning to tell all their neighbours his good news.’

‘Oh the mortification!’ I said. ‘How was it accomplished?’

‘She saw him alone in the library and when he emerged I never saw a man more affected. The kindness of his sisters is beyond measure. They were so grief-stricken themselves—you know how they have always loved Jane—but insisted upon coming with us as you see.’

‘A sorry story indeed,’ said James, ‘and one that is bound to lead to a degree of awkwardness between our families in future but now that you are both here, why the urgency to remove to Bath? Can you not stay here as arranged?’

‘Yes,’ I added, ‘surely it will be soon enough for James to escort you as arranged on Monday.’

‘I fear not,’ returned Cassandra. ‘Jane is afraid that Harris, knowing she remains in the vicinity, may call here to press his suit again. She is insistent that we leave, and brother, I fear so much for her spirits that if it is in your power, I beg you to agree. Things have gone so ill with her this year what with the move to Bath, which as you know distressed her greatly…. No Mary,’ she continued as I was about to put our side of that event, ‘she knows it was inevitable but that did not make it easy, and then of course—’

She stopped and would have gone no further but I suddenly remembered the hints I had received from cousin Philly Walter.

‘Is it true, Cass, that Jane formed an attachment recently? When you were in Lyme last summer? Is that perhaps the reason she has refused Mr Bigg Wither?’

‘I think it may be—though I am sworn to secrecy. She may have had hopes and indeed I believe she had hoped to meet the gentleman again—Eliza and Henry were to escort her there—but she has heard nothing from him and her disappointment is dreadful to behold. I
beg you do not mention it. I have said this much only to excuse the demands we now make on you.’

James was ever the considerate brother and of course agreed that they should go to Bath immediately. He quickly arranged for his curate to take the Sunday services, and I have just seen them into the carriage.

I have not always admired Jane or even found her tolerably agreeable, but I have gained a new respect for her this morning. Many would have taken Bigg Wither without love, for the comfort and fortune and position. She could not and knows that place and fortune cannot alter the man.

I will not tell Philly of this new development. I think she wants the news only to gloat over the misfortunes of others and I shall not give her the satisfaction. When James returns from Bath I shall make Eliza’s plans to visit France the subject of my letter. That will give Philly her share of gossip and Uncle George is sure to have been full of the scheme, as he quite dotes upon La Comtesse. I think without such diversion it will be a sorry Christmas in their household.

May 1803

O
h that dreadful man Napoléon—how near he came to putting my dear Henry and me behind bars for goodness knows how long now that hostilities have been resumed. How guilty I should have felt as
‘mon cher mari’
did not really wish to travel to France in the first place. When we heard the news of the Peace of Amiens, as they now call it, he and brother Edward declared that we should be mad to trust those Frenchies and that to travel there was foolhardy. But Henry has no will but mine and like most bankers knows only too well the value of property, so when I insisted that I was determined to recover what was rightfully mine—and of course now rightfully his—he agreed.

How lovely it was to set foot in my beloved France again after so many years! The countryside is much the same, but the towns and cities are so changed. In Paris the populace is rude, arrogant, and without respect. Where once my title would have gained admittance to officials, notaries, and lawyers, now we were kept waiting for hours by people we once would not even have employed as gardeners or under footmen.

Not one of them would use my title and insisted on calling me Citizeness Austen. I did not have the heart to visit the scene of the Comte’s murder, though Henry walked about the square they now call Republique and told me the cobbles are still stained with the blood of the thousands who were executed.

I had been wild to see Paris again and I had heard that the First Consul was willing to be indulgent to members of the ancient regime. They said that General Bonaparte was a vulgar little fellow, but I thought he had a most distinguished profile and looked very fine on his horse as he reviewed his troops on the Champ de Mars. In particular I looked forward to going to one of the magnificent drawing rooms that I had heard his wife was now holding regularly at the Tuileries. True, she is only the daughter of a planter from—where was it? Martinique? They say she cannot smile very much as her teeth are so bad, but she is certainly elegant and it would be lovely to mix with French nobility again, even if they come from peasant stock. Josephine was a widow as I have been and you cannot blame any woman for trying to better herself.

But sadly we spent all our time in Paris fighting the officials and with little outcome.

When eventually we were admitted to the presence of the Notaire Publique—we had to call him Citizen, too, though I daresay Napoléon will soon do away with this nonsense—I expected him to be a reasonable man and to tell me how we might go about retrieving my rights to the property in Guines. Alas, he did nothing of the sort but merely confirmed that the man who, as he put it, ‘called himself a count’ had died a confessed murderer and a thief. All his property therefore was ceded to the state and he advised us to leave France immediately and to think no more of the matter. Scarcely bothering to be civil, he then had us shown out! I was all for engaging lawyers to advocate on our behalf, but Henry reminded me that few lawyers would now be sympathetic to my claims.

‘In order to survive in this regime, my dear,’ he said, ‘they needs must be seen to support the current government, however disagreeable they may find it.’

He persuaded me that the prudent thing would be to return to England forthwith and to try to press the matter further from a distance. I agreed, which as it turned out was very fortunate. I did manage to buy a new bonnet in Paris, where some elegant shops have been reestablished, but what adventure we and the new hat had on the way home!

We had just settled ourselves in a tolerably pleasant inn near Verdun on our way to Calais when the patron told us that the Peace was at an end and that the First Consul had ordered that all the Channel ports be closed and all English travellers were to be imprisoned forthwith. We were in danger of capture as enemies of France!

Henry was highly alarmed, of course, but I said to him: ‘Fear not my love, I have escaped from France before, you remember—some eight years ago—and we shall do so again.’

‘But how?’

‘We shall simply become French for the purposes of our journey—a loyal French couple who are called to visit a sick French relative who resides in—where shall we say? London? Brighton? Winchester?’

‘Now my love, be serious—you know I could no more pass for a French man than fly to the moon.’

That I saw immediately was true—Henry’s French accent leaves a great deal to be desired. Like most Englishmen, he is incapable of moving his mouth enough to make the proper sounds.

‘I have it—you shall be an invalid and I will do all the talking!’

It went against his instinct not to be the man in charge, but he saw the sense of it and that indeed is how we got through. At each posting house he wrapped himself in his cloak and lay back in the carriage with his eyes closed while I conversed with
the staff of each post. On one occasion, when I thought a groom showed too much interest in my fellow passenger, I made a great show of scolding the waiter who served our cold meat, to provide a distraction. I am pleased to say that though out of practice, my French is still so perfect that not a single person even suspected my nationality and we passed through to Calais without mishap. As we boarded the ship I ventured to say to Henry how distressing I found it to see that dreaded tricolour flying at the quayside in place of the fleur-de-lys, but luckily by this time no Frenchman could hear me.

It is a relief to be safely home, to be sure, though I own the excitement of our flight has stimulated me and quite helped me to find consolation. Indeed, for the first time in months I have not been thinking of the loss of my dear boy. All officers are being recalled, so Henry’s decision to leave the militia was a wise one. Dear Uncle George and Aunt Cassandra are missing Captain Frank—now promoted again and enjoying the opportunity to introduce his intended bride to his family. I suppose there will soon be hopes of yet more little Austens. They certainly are a prolific family! Uncle George hints that they are also concerned about Jane. She is in such low spirits that a visit from us—Henry is after all her favourite brother—is requested to help distract her. He begs, too, that we would travel there to see their new lodgings as well as to tell them firsthand about what he calls ‘your daring escape from the enemy.’ We shall go as soon as Henry has settled some business matters.

Eliza at Green Park Buildings, Bath
June 1803

Dear Uncle George! How happy he appears to be in this new situation. I enjoy once more the acquaintance I had made when the
Comte and I were here at an earlier and happier time, but most of all I revel in spending time with my dear family. Aunt Cassandra has been tolerably kind and I know that as a mother she would be sympathetic to the trials I have undergone.

I cannot say that Green Park Buildings is the most congenial of dwellings—the reception rooms are somewhat small and the offices dark and forbidding. They keep only two servants, which is just as well since there would be no room for more. My aunt and uncle, however, seem vastly content with their life here.

Uncle George said to me and Henry: ‘It was a good day’s work when we decided on the move from Steventon.’

I can see that the routine of their days suits them both perfectly. He walks down Great Pulteney Street each morning, usually with Jane or Cassandra or sometimes both, to accompany him. He drinks his two glasses of that foul yellow water—how I have always hated the smell!—and discusses the day’s news with his friends, many of them retired clergy like himself. He might then call at the butcher or the fishmonger on an errand from his wife or go as far as the library in Milson Street if ‘the girls’ have to change their books. On Sundays they now attend St Swithin’s in Walcot, though to please me he agreed to the Abbey on the Sunday of our visit.

‘The Abbey is too lofty for me nowadays, you know,’ he said, ‘and Mrs Austen and I were married at Walcot so we feel comfortable there.’

My aunt, too, appears content. Cassandra now seems to have most of the housekeeping to her share and my aunt is free to make a four at whist or bezique with her sister-in-law or other friends.

But anyone with half an eye about them could see that it is ‘the girls’ one should have concern for—especially Jane. She does
not like cards, so she is often left out of evening parties, which are the thing in Bath. Many of the residents lack the resources for dinners so give such parties as an alternative. I have always loved her quick wit but have to own that it can be disconcerting when she allows one of her sharp remarks to escape her. There are few balls and I think she spends many an evening, even in company, sitting quiet in a corner, just observing. I cannot help noticing that her gaiety and sparkle are not in such abundance as they were and she has even taken to dressing in subdued tones, like the spinster she is fast becoming. I do not think it fitting either for Jane and Cassandra to dress alike as they do—nothing proclaims the fact that they believe themselves past marriage more than those dull matching bonnets.

They are a contrast to their parents, who are a fine sight arm in arm, both tall and well looking. I understand he is a great favourite in the Pump Room, where his company and that of my aunt is sought out by their large acquaintance. I tell him again and again about our French adventure and he never tires of hearing about it. But one day when we walked on the Royal Crescent he took my arm and Henry’s and confided his worries about Jane.

‘Cassandra somehow seems to have recovered from her terrible loss, but as for Jane…She was ever a dear child to me but somehow at present I cannot seem to reach her. Mrs Austen says it is because she resents our move to Bath. Perhaps that is so, but you know part of our reason for coming here was so that she and Cassy could go about a little more. We were beginning to fear that our somewhat confined life at Steventon was denying them opportunities for…well, for…well, to speak plain, we thought Bath might afford them more opportunities for meeting potential suitors.’

‘And it has not done so?’ asked my husband, though nothing after all could be more clear.

‘No, and it seems that Jane has had a further disappointment this year—my knowledge of this is sketchy and gained only from overheard snatches of conversation. And then there was the business at Manydown…’

‘What was this business at Manydown?’ I asked. ‘We hear references to it but no one speaks plain and I have not asked Jane herself as I feared to distress her.’

My uncle explained the whole sorry business to us as we turned back to Green Park Buildings.

‘So you see, I do not know if she now regrets refusing Harris Bigg Wither and sees that possibly her last chance of matrimony is gone…or it is something else? Henry, you have always been close to her and she admires you prodigiously, Eliza, so I wondered if you could ask her, or perhaps find ways of cheering her?’

‘She is welcome to return to London with us Papa,’ said Henry, ‘and we could distract her with concerts and dinners.’

I put my hand in his arm, for I, too, had been struck by the change in Jane’s appearance and manner. Her eyes had lost their sparkle and she, who would once have delighted in our French adventure and thought how she could turn it into a story, had scarcely paid us any heed.

‘No, my dear, she needs more than distraction and diversion. She needs occupation. Think, when was Jane happiest? Think of times she seemed fulfilled and content.’

They were both silent.

‘Think—is it not when she is scribbling and reading her work to the family? Let us encourage her in that and I guarantee her spirits will lift.’

Uncle George smiled broadly and his eyes lit up. ‘Yes, I am minded that she began a tale some while back about an impressionable young lady in Bath. When we return, take her on one side, Eliza, and encourage her to take it out again.’