Dearest Cousin Jane (7 page)

Summer 1792

H
ow good it is to be here with my dear relations again after such a sad and turbulent period. Dear Uncle George is more precious to me than ever, now that his dear countenance helps me remember that of my beloved Mama. I can bear her loss easier when he is here. Even my aunt, who has often appeared to be disapproving of me, is kind. She even said to me: ‘Eliza, my dear, I know I have not always been the most welcoming of aunts, but I have sometimes found your conduct unfamiliar to my notions of propriety.’

‘Mrs Austen, there is no need for this,’ interrupted my uncle, holding up his hand.

‘No, let me speak,’ she continued, ‘for I wish only to commend her conduct towards our dear sister in that terrible illness. No one could have been more devoted. I have never known any daughter or son give so much affection and tender care and God will reward her for it. I am sure her dear mother rests in peace knowing how loved she was.’

My eyes filled with tears. I knew what it must have cost my aunt to speak to me so, as she had never hidden her disapproval of me in the past.

‘I can only say that there never was such a mother or such a friend, and I was glad to do whatever I could for her. Her suffering was terrible but she bore it so bravely.’

‘There are some in the family who were not sympathetic. Philly wrote after she had visited you and my sister-in-law to tell us that you were completely miserable and that she feared you would be unable to cope with what awaited. Moreover, she told us you would be left friendless and alone when the worst happened. I said to your uncle that you would never be friendless and alone as long as we were at hand.’

I could not help smiling to myself. Clearly this was one reason my aunt was being nicer to me—anything to contradict Philly, whom she has always disliked and tried to warn me against.

‘It is truly good for my poor beleaguered spirits to be here with you all again,’ I said, ‘after such a year as I wish never to go through again.’

It was while we were at Margate that I first became aware of Mama’s condition. Returning one day from taking Hastings for his morning bathe, I found Mama not dressed and in tears.

‘Why Mama? What ails you?’ I asked, indicating to Hastings’s nurse to take him into the breakfast parlour of our lodgings.

‘I can ignore it no longer, she sobbed, ‘the dreadful lump in my breast grows larger each day and now begins to leak fluid. Shall I show you?’

Mama and I had never observed much modesty in our personal connections—we had shared too many bedrooms in too many places to be concerned about such things.

She drew down the sleeve of her chemise and I could not but be shocked by what I saw. A lump as large as a plum and of the same shape was clearly visible, as was the fluid that soiled her linen.

I forced myself to be calm.

‘We shall find you an apothecary instantly, Mama, and through him will find the finest specialist. I am sure it can be cured. Why,
have we not heard about such skills that now exist for the treatment of growths and carbuncles and such things?’

She lifted her tear-stained face to me and tried to smile. She was ever a brave woman; her early struggles had given her a strength that I envied.

‘You are right, my dear, I should have not ignored it so long, hoping for a miracle. We have always believed that God helps those who help themselves and we shall tackle it together.’

So it began: a year or more of terrible pain and suffering for her and anguish for me. The worst aspect was trying to be cheerful for her sake, professing hopes of a cure, sometimes indeed even believing in a cure. One particular surgeon, for we consulted many, assured us that in six months he would have cured the tumour and she would recover her strength. Sometimes she was even able to take a little sustenance and to leave her room for a short period. But for the most part there were violent bleedings, discharges, and above all intolerable pain. By last autumn I had to tell my relatives that there was no hope of recovery. They all wrote, most concerned, and even invited us to stay at various of their homes. But travelling was out of the question, since I could not subject my mother to anything that would cause her any agitation. Our house in London was a sombre place but I did not once miss the outings, calls, and salons that had hitherto been so important to me. We sat together most of the day, and I attempted to distract her with tales of our former travels and of the Comte’s progress with his plans for our estate.

‘How grateful he is, Mama, for the monies you have been kind enough to lend him, for this has helped him proceed tolerably well.’ I did not add that I knew my husband had once more approached Uncle George about access to my own fortune, as he had almost exhausted Mama’s loan.

‘My child, you know I must soon make a will and we must ensure that its contents reflect the loan, as I fear there is little left for you and the boy.’

It was the first time she had alluded to the fact that she was dying, and it quite cut me up.

‘We are well provided for, Mama, thanks to my godfather, so pray do not distress yourself on that account.’

‘My concern for you is not a material one.’ Her voice was low, but I could hear her clearly. ‘I want only that you should be cared for the way I have cared for you these twenty-odd years.’

‘I have my husband, my dear little one, and all our dear family—I shall be safe, do not fear.’

Her strength was gone and she could say no more. But I summoned the lawyer and the will was made. Warren Hastings and the solicitor Mr Baber were to be the executors.

At the New Year we did contrive to move Mama as far as Hampstead, as I had heard of a doctor there who had effected miracle cures in such cases. But alas, there was to be no miracle in our sad case and the dearest of mothers passed away. She was buried at the church of St John there and I had a simple headstone commissioned that bears the inscription:

I had been lost in my memories but now the sound of the teacups drew me back to the sitting room at Steventon. It was a sunny evening and as the windows faced full west, the room was now bathed
in evening sunshine. My little pug dog, given me by the Comte to console me after the funeral, snuffled around my feet and I lifted her onto my lap

Cassandra poured the tea and Jane brought it over to me, bending down to stroke Pug.

‘The book you brought me has such a fascinating title,’ she whispered. ‘I remember the first one you brought that Christmas—how do you always manage to bring something that widens my understanding?’

‘Why, my dear, everyone in London is talking of Miss Wollstonecraft’s book and I thought my niece who aspires to be a writer too should have the chance to read it.’

‘Mama is a little shocked at the title—
A Vindication of the Rights of Women
—but Papa said I must be allowed to read it. He has many works in his library about the rights of man, so it seemed fair to him!’

‘What a dear and farsighted man he is—how lucky you are to have him as a father.’

At moments like this, especially now that my dear mother is gone, I do long to be able to boast of my own father and his nobility and achievements, but it is as well not to dwell on this.

Cassandra has filled out since I last saw her and love has softened her face somewhat. Tom, her betrothed, is to call tomorrow, and I look forward to seeing him. Still my heart gives the preference to Jane, now the taller of the two and so lively in her disposition. How she will miss Cassandra when she is finally gone to Shropshire upon her marriage. I well remember my aunt saying earlier that if Cassandra had had her head cut off, Jane would have wanted the same.

‘Now Eliza,’ said my uncle, ‘you must stay here as long as you wish. Your own health has not been good, we understand, and I must say I notice you are thin and pale.’

‘Well the chicken pox was not pleasant and struck me down for some weeks. Though I felt embarrassed to be laid low by a child’s illness, which even little Hastings escaped.’

They all smiled. Hastings is ever a favourite with my kind relatives, and they never draw attention to his undoubted backwardness.

‘Of course I was also weak from the accident I had recently suffered—the result, you know, of the kindness of the dear Comte coming over to England to comfort me after Mama’s death.’

There was a sudden awkward silence, and I remembered too late that in the country one does not talk of conjugal duties or miscarriages, especially in front of unmarried ladies. Cassandra reddened and looked at the floor, while Jane smiled slightly and glanced at her mother to judge her reaction.

My uncle recovered quickly. ‘And did not you and your husband travel to Bath while he was here?’

‘We did indeed, but I fear I could not fully appreciate the place as my spirits were so low at the time. We stayed but a fortnight.’

‘Mr Austen and I love Bath,’ said my aunt. ‘We speak often of spending our retirement there.’

‘The Comte found it excessively diverting, but of course he was often distracted by business in France.’

‘And he was called away suddenly was he not?’

‘Why yes, he was told by friends that if he did not return immediately he might be designated as an émigré, barred from ever returning, and all his property would be forfeit, so naturally he had to go back.’

‘When shall you see him again?’ asked Jane.

‘I know not. Perhaps if things grow calmer there, when I am stronger I might perhaps—’

My uncle interrupted: ‘My dear you must not think of it at present. You must keep yourself and the child as safe as possible.’

My uncle looked thoughtful, and I expected he was congratulating himself on refusing to transfer my capital to France. He would not want to see it confiscated and, to confess the truth, neither would I.

‘We shall have a fine time while you are here. Our young men are mostly gone, but Jane has been scribbling mightily and you will be well entertained.’

I had been too bound up with all my distress lately to read much of Jane’s latest work, but I know that she has indeed been ’scribbling mightily’ and look forward to enjoying the new work.

‘Now where do you advise me to begin Jane?’ I said.

‘Well, there is ‘Lesley Castle’—that is the one I dedicated to Henry—and ‘Frederick and Elfreda’—that one is for our friend Martha. Or you might start with ‘Sir William Montague.’ There is a good murder in that one and I am sending it to Charles.’

‘Oh yes, poor little Charles is gone away to sea like his brother Frank is he not?’

‘Yes,’ said my uncle, ‘and no longer poor little Charles, but midshipman C. Austen at Royal Naval Academy at Portsmouth. He will be at sea before his fourteenth birthday and plans to become an admiral!’

‘Depending upon how long you are to stay with us,’ said Jane, smiling, ‘I may have something longer to show you. I am pondering on how a novel may be made from correspondence.’

I did not know how long I would stay; I knew only that Steventon was at this moment the most comfortable place I could imagine and settled down to read.

1793

I
f Henry came only to quarrel with Eliza, I wonder that he bothered to come home from Oxford at all. He is, after all, well established there now, a respected scholar and far from the callow schoolboy who was so besotted with her a few years ago. But none of us was surprised that when he heard she was to stay with us for a prolonged period after her sad bereavement, it did not take him long to decide that urgent business called him home. Just what this urgent business was we never discovered, since he seems to have time aplenty to walk and ride with Eliza. I often accompany them—it is a great pleasure to have her carriage at our disposal that we might call on our friends as we wish without waiting for the roads to be clear enough of mud to be able to walk.

We are especially grateful to be able to see Martha and Mary Lloyd more frequently. As James was to be married, the parsonage they had previously lived in was his now and they had to remove to Ibthorpe, a greater distance away.

I remarked to Eliza that I had noticed how married people were able to take precedence over single ones in so many ways and this was but one example.

‘Yes indeed, dear Jane, never forget that marriage is all to a woman of small fortune, so try to ensure that you are not left an old maid.’

‘But how shall I do that?’

‘Why, with your pretty face and your wit, you should be able to make a good match and, you know, it is as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one.’

‘How shall I know when I am in love?’ I asked. It was a matter I had often discussed with my sister.

‘Now Jane, let me advise you. There are certainly not as many rich men in the world as there are pretty girls to deserve them, so do not make falling in love a prerequisite. In my judgement one can contrive to decide upon a suitable husband and then set about falling in love.’

I was hesitant to ask her about her own marriage, although in truth she had never been very reluctant to tell us about how she did not especially love the Comte but that he adored her. She continued: ‘It is best to be a prodigious flirt and then one will always have gentlemen to hand to admire and flatter one.’

‘Would your husband not mind if you flirted with others?’

‘The French are more sophisticated about such matters, and after all I do not mind that he—’ she stopped abruptly and changed the subject as Henry came into the room and they resumed their usual banter. ‘Now Jane, here comes your accomplished brother—have we not heard that his writings at Oxford draw in many admirers? I believe he is quite the toast of the salons they hold there.’

‘No cousin, not quite, but ’tis true that I edited the paper that James began with some modest success,’ said Henry

‘What think you Jane? Shall we see dear Henry a famous editor one day? Shall we see him in Parliament? At court perhaps?’ Eliza smiled at him as she spoke.

‘Well hardly, when he is to be a man of the cloth,’ I replied, surprised that Eliza seemed to be ignorant of this.

A glance at her face told me immediately that it was indeed a new revelation to her that her favourite was to be a clergyman like his older brother.

‘What, are you to go into the church?’ Eliza asked, suddenly serious.

‘Of course—is that not what most men do when they quit Oxford?’ asked Henry.

‘Indeed they do not,’ she said sharply. ‘They may go into the law, into Parliament as I said, or what is wrong with becoming a writer?’

‘What is wrong with all those things is that they require more fortune than is at my disposal,’ Henry explained with a tolerant smile and a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Besides, a profession good enough for my father and my brother, not to mention so many uncles and cousins, is quite good enough for me.’

Eliza spoke sharply: ‘My uncle and cousin excepted, I have not so much respect for the profession and to be sure I have rarely met a rich clergyman.’

‘Perhaps my brother does not seek riches,’ I said, feeling that Henry needed some support in what I thought was a most unexpected opposition.

‘I never took your brother for a fool,’ she said, ‘and a man who does not at least aspire to riches is a fool. Ah but I know, he intends to make a rich match—is not that it, Henry? You have some young woman with thirty thousand pounds a year in your sights I suppose?’

‘You of all people should know that is not true,’ he burst out, looking very agitated.

She glanced at me and then back to him.

‘Let us discontinue this for now,’ she said. ‘Our feelings run too high and I need time to accustom myself to having yet another
clergyman for a cousin. Come, Jane, let us walk in the lanes hereabouts with Hastings, he is need of an airing.’

I was astonished that Eliza seemed so discomforted by the news of Henry’s chosen profession. I thought it was understood by everyone that both James and Henry were to go into the church while Frank and Charles were to make the navy their profession. Edward, of course, was assured of an adequate—much more than adequate—income from the Knight inheritance. In any case, surely Henry’s profession could be of little real concern to her? Unless, of course…but no, as we had often pointed out, she is a married woman and there can be no question of her marrying Henry, which might be the only circumstance in which…

I am struck though by the intensity of their disagreement about this and about other things. I wish that Henry would return to Oxford so that we might be tranquil again. It is true that Eliza is especially sensitive at the moment. I know that from some of her reactions to my scribblings. I showed her part of a work I called ‘Catherine,’ thinking it might divert her as she loves stories about romance and affairs of the heart that go awry. To my great distress, when I looked up from reading aloud I found her in tears.

‘Oh Jane, how can you write so of my dear mama’s experience? When I think of what she endured on those long journeys and how courageous she was…’

I was astonished and cried ‘But of what are you speaking?’

‘Why, the mock you make of young ladies who journey to India in search of a husband, of course’.

I looked down at the page, at a speech of Catherine’s, and could have torn it in two.

‘Oh, dearest Eliza, I do not write from life. I know full well that my uncle Hancock was neither a tyrant nor a fool and that he and my aunt were very happy together. I write only to amuse.’

She smiled through her tears and forgave me, but I was careful to be more cautious in what I read to her, given her low spirits, and in truth I never could quite resume ‘Catherine’ with the same enthusiasm as I had begun it. I have now left it on one side.

She and Henry seemed to get over the quarrel about his profession and for a while they seemed to be on easy terms again, but soon another disagreement ensued. It was a fine morning in September when Henry and my father came in from a visit to Basingstoke to tell us some shocking news: ‘They have abolished the monarchy—done away with it,’ my father almost shouted as he entered the vestibule.

‘Great Heaven, Mr Austen, what do you mean?’ asked my mother, running in from the dairy, her cap awry.

‘Just that, my dear, they have declared a republic in France and imprisoned the king and queen.’

‘Where is Eliza?’ asked Henry. ‘She must be told for this is serious news for her.’

‘How so? How will it affect her?’ my mother’s face showed her alarm.

‘Now Henry, do not shock her I pray you,’ my father said. ‘Let us discuss it calmly at the dinner hour and consider whether there is anything useful to be done about the Comte.’

I could not truthfully see the import of this news but was aware that so much in France seemed to be turned upon its head. I was intrigued that their year now divided into ten instead of twelve
months. In truth I thought some of the new names for the months rather pretty and very descriptive—
Pluviose
for January and
Thermidor
for July, for example—but when I mentioned this once Mama immediately said how very unchristian it was. I did not point out that most of the names for our months came from pagan societies. I started to, but caught my father’s eye and thought better of it.

At dinner I said not a word but only listened as the conversation swayed back and forth and tempers, especially Henry’s, became more frayed.

His view was that as the monarchy had been abolished, it was only a matter of time before the king and queen were executed and that anyone with aristocratic connections would soon be in similar danger. He and my parents both urged Eliza to beg the Comte to return to these shores as soon as was possible. Eliza refused to believe that any such outrage could happen and declared that in no circumstances would the Comte abandon his birthright for the whims of a mob.

‘You simply do not understand the seriousness of the situation, do you?’ said Henry in exasperation. ‘Make no mistake, if you do not act now to urge your husband to flee, your son may well never see his father again.’

Eliza burst into tears. ‘How can you be so cruel? Have I not endured enough this past year without having to face such news as this?’

‘Now my dear, Henry may be exaggerating somewhat but I am sure he speaks only from concern for you and the boy,’ said my father.

‘If he were really concerned he would not frighten me so,’ said Eliza petulantly.

‘You never can face the facts can you, cousin?’ Henry’s voice was fierce. ‘Very well, I shall return to Oxford tomorrow if my presence
upsets you so.’ So saying he fled from the room and slammed the door.

How sorry I was that Cassy was visiting the Lloyds at Ibthorpe, as I should have liked to ask her what she made of this violence of feeling on both their parts. I had to content myself with planning another story, and I thought I could make something amusing of a character who was a little like Eliza, although I would make her considerably more wicked. I am struck by how Eliza seems not to be a very good judge of character. I know she writes to our nasty cousin Philly in the most affectionate terms, for example. I have seen an ending to one of her letters:

Whereas I know that Philly constantly condemns Eliza’s lifestyle and even gloats over her misfortunes when she herself writes to others. I shall try using letters between a series of people perhaps, none of them knowing what the other thinks of them.

I am seated at my writing desk making a note of the names I shall use when Henry comes into the room to tell us that as England has now declared war on France, he intends to go straight to Oxford and enlist in the militia.

‘What, will you give up your studies?’ asks my mother.

‘For as long as this war lasts, I will,’ he replies.

‘How smart you will look in a red coat Henry,’ says Eliza, their quarrel evidently made up.

Better than in a surplice, I expect she is thinking. At least she has her wish.