Jane Austen’s First Love (17 page)

A
more animated group met for breakfast on Friday morning, than had inhabited the room the day before. Fanny’s quarrel with Mr. Cage seemed to be forgotten; but as I could still perceive no genuine warmth or affection from
her
towards her fiancé, I still found the situation troubling.

“Thank goodness we have sunny skies,” cried Sophia, clasping her hands with delight as she glanced out the window. “It is a perfect day to go to the windmill.”

It was the day of the sketching and painting contest, an activity which was to include only the young people, and as Frederic Fielding did not draw, the only guests other than those in residence at Goodnestone were Charlotte Payler, her eldest brothers, and Edward Taylor. My heart leapt when
he
entered the hall. He bid me a friendly good morning, and said,

“Are you going to paint or draw today?”

“Neither. I could not paint or sketch under any motivation other than to save my life. I will be happy to watch. And you?”

“I am no proficient, either; my art-masters despaired of me, but I shall risk embarrassing myself by dabbling a bit in water-colours.”

Our object was Chillenden Mill, only a mile and a half away by road, and less on foot across the fields, where an ancient windmill was said to be set in very picturesque environs. The wagons had been sent ahead earlier that morning carrying all the art supplies, chairs, easels, &c. which would be required by those who chose to paint or draw, as well as the refreshments and other necessities peculiar to a picnic. Lady Bridges, Mrs. Knight, and my mother were to be the only senior members of the party, and they chose to be driven thither; the artists were to walk.

I fully anticipated that Edward Taylor would ask Charlotte to accompany him, but to my delight, he invited me to be his walking companion—an excursion which, he said smiling, was entirely within the approved confines of my mother’s directive, as there were so many other people going with us. I thought I detected quiet disappointment in Charlotte’s eyes as Mr. Taylor and I walked off together, and I felt a strange mix of emotions, encompassing both empathy and happiness; I chose to concentrate only on the latter.

A very pretty walk it was, as we climbed over stiles and traversed meadows alive with the waving heads of brilliant yellow and white blooms, and dotted with cows and sheep. Edward Taylor and I talked en route upon a multitude of subjects, and we were soon engaged in a lively historical dispute. He had much to say in defense of Queen Elizabeth and her ministers, whom he saw as deserving, experienced, and able, but whom I truly hated.

“How can you persist in such opinions?” cried I. “Elizabeth was truly wicked, and encouraged in her crimes by vile and abandoned men. They assisted her in confining a good, amiable woman, nay a
queen
, for nineteen years—and then brought her to an untimely, unmerited, and scandalous death!”

“It
is
a sad blot on history, what they did to Mary Stuart,” agreed he. “
There
was a family who were always ill-used, betrayed, or neglected, and whose virtues are seldom allowed, while their errors are never forgotten.”

We discussed Goldsmith’s popular four-volume
History of England
, which Edward Taylor proclaimed to be a heavily biased abridgment of David Hume’s far superior six-volume work. “As if that was not bad enough,” commented he, “Goldsmith went on to publish a
one
-
volume
abridgment of his
own
abridgment
.”

“It makes one wonder just how brief a
History of England
can be, before it loses any meaning entirely!”

At length we made our way up an ascent to a wide, grassy area of high, exposed ground, where was situated the post-mill, which was just as old and charming as promised. The day was so fine, and the skies so remarkably clear and blue, that lovely pastoral prospects could be seen stretching in every direction, with Knowlton Court to the east, and beyond it Deal; Canterbury to the west; and Ramsgate to the north. The supplies were soon unloaded, and as the artists claimed their easels, chairs, boards, paints, and pencils, I heard Fanny say with disappointment to Mr. Cage:

“Do you really mean not to join in the fun?”

Mr. Cage replied: “Pray forgive me, but I have absolutely no artistic bent. I cannot even draw a stick figure.”

Charles and I were the only other young people present who admitted to the same lack of talent; we were equally happy to admire the endeavours of the artists and take in the views, until the interval when the refreshments were served, and that moment when our services would be required to join in the voting.

The army of artists scattered and established themselves either alone, in pairs, or in groups before particular prospects, and after setting up their materials, began. To my satisfaction, Thomas Payler deliberately sought out my sister and helped her situate herself; they were now painting alongside each other. I was less delighted to see Edward Taylor helping Charlotte to set up her easel, and then take the spot next to her. They were part of a larger conclave who had assembled in a position overlooking the windmill and an expanse of scenic woods and farmlands.

I felt an unexpected twinge of regret that I had not chosen to paint or sketch as well, for then it might have been
me
seated at Edward Taylor’s side. I had acknowledged my own feelings for him to
myself
the night before, but although I sensed that he liked me, I had no proof that the depth of my affection was returned. And yet, at the ball, and during our many other stirring conversations, I had felt such a powerful connection to him! Who, I wondered with a pang, did he prefer—Charlotte or me? Or did he have no preference? Was he like a butterfly, happy to flit from one flower to another, with no strong attachment to any? But he had said how glad he was to meet me! He had called me remarkable! Perhaps he gave out such compliments easily. For all I knew, he might be saying something equally as endearing to Charlotte at that very moment. Oh! It was all such a muddle, so difficult and confusing! How was a girl ever to know what a young man was thinking or feeling?

I turned away, determined to redirect my thoughts, and ventured towards a group of three artists comprised of Sophia, Fanny, and Mr. Deedes, who had all made very promising beginnings on their pictures. Sophia’s work in particular I thought excellent. Fanny commented on Mr. Deedes’s talent, and inquired as to how he had achieved his perspective; Sophia wondered how he had made up a particular colour. Mr. Deedes answered their questions and offered his humble suggestions, as to how they might improve their own paintings.

For a while longer, I strolled amongst the artists. Cassandra’s painting was truly beautiful, and I told her so. At last, I allowed my wandering to take me back to the place and the person whom I most wished to see. As I approached, I observed the pictures which Mr. Taylor and Miss Payler were engaged in painting. His was of only moderate quality; as he had earlier admitted,
he
was no proficient; but Charlotte’s reflected a real talent. Oh! To observe that she, at fifteen, was so accomplished at an art in which I possessed no skills whatsoever! It was very disconcerting.

Charlotte, upon noticing me, smiled, and said in a gentle voice,

“What a shame that you do not paint, Miss Jane, for I wish you could join us. I find it a most enjoyable activity.”

It was the first time that Miss Payler had ever addressed me—the first time I had ever heard her speak aloud. And oh, such a remark! Although her expression and tone were sweetness itself, her words made a very different impression: they seemed to imply what I already knew—that I was deficient in having never gained this particular accomplishment, which was expected of all young ladies. Self-doubt and jealousy rose within me, and a stinging response came to my mind; but I bit my tongue, not wishing to appear anything less than proper and
demure
before Mr. Taylor, and instead said with as much earnestness as I could muster:

“I admire art and artists, Miss Payler, and wish most sincerely that I had your talent.”

Charlotte blushed and lowered her eyes. “It is kind of you to say so.”

“Miss Jane,” said Edward Taylor, indicating his work in progress with his brush, “I would appreciate your opinion of
my
painting. Does this in any way resemble a windmill?”

Tactfully I replied, “It is a commendable effort, Mr. Taylor.”

“You lie through your teeth. It is horrible. I know my strengths, and this is not one of them.”

“Well,” admitted I, “it is perhaps not the
best
I have seen.”

He laughed.

“You have made the full circuit, Miss Jane,” commented Christopher Payler, who was working at an easel nearby. “Who, in your opinion,
is
the best artist among us?”

“I cannot answer that! Even if I
had
made my mind up, which I have not—it is to be a secret ballot.”

“My sister is too smart for you.” My brother Edward glanced up at me with a wink from where he sat over his own drawing. “She never gives away her
secrets
.”

We shared a conspiratorial smile. At that moment, Lady Bridges announced that the picnic was ready, and all should take a respite from their artistic endeavours, to enjoy some refreshment. In short order, everyone progressed to the blankets which had been laid across the ground, and sat down in an attitude of relaxed contentment, while helping themselves to the assorted cold foods and beverages which had been provided. The animated conversation soon turned to the cricket match which was to take place the following day, in which all the young men were eager to participate, and which all the ladies looked forward to watching.

“Cousin Edward ought to be one of the team captains,” said Thomas Payler. “He is a capital player.”

Edward Taylor modestly took issue with this assessment, but accepted the assignment. A discussion ensued as to who should be the other team captain, whether the section of the Goodnestone lawn designated by Sir Brook would truly make the best playing field, who ought to make up each team, who should be wicket keeper, batsmen, &c., and if indeed there were enough cricketers. Upon determining that they were a few men short, speculation began as to whether they ought to ask some of the servants to participate.

As my sister and I had, since we were little girls, been playing cricket with my brothers and the boys at my father’s school, I whispered to her: “Do you think we ought to offer to play?”

Cassandra shook her head. “We are too old for such things now. Mamma would surely deem such conduct very immodest and unbefitting a young lady.”

I did not press the point. The discussion was soon put to an end, when Lady Bridges reminded everyone that the judging of the artists’ work was to begin in one hour’s time. At this pronouncement, the company scattered anxiously back to their former positions to take up their brushes and pencils. In due course, the contest reached its conclusion, and all the artists were obliged to step away from their creations. Slips of paper and pencils were handed round, with the instructions that everyone was to vote for the work they considered the most superior in each of the two categories.

“Are we allowed to vote for ourselves?” asked Brook Edward.

“You may,” answered his mother, “for I have no way to prevent you, you rascal—” (instigating hearty laughter from everyone); “—but I urge you
all
to follow your conscience, and vote for the
best
.”

Lady Bridges maintained that, as she was the mother of so many contestants, she ought not to count the votes herself, and she coerced Mr. Cage into taking on the task. Not long after, he solemnly delivered the verdicts: the winner in the drawing category was Marianne, and in the painting competition, it was a three-way tie between Sophia, Fanny, and Cassandra.

This announcement was met with cheers and applause, everyone seemingly delighted by, and agreeing with, the outcome, with the exception of Lady Bridges herself; for although happy with the
former
, she was clearly displeased by the
latter
, apparently having counted on all the honours going solely to her own children, rather than being shared by anyone else.

By the time we left the windmill, a thick cloud cover had gathered, turning the sky a dusky white. New pairings were formed as we all progressed back to the house. Edward Taylor walked with Charles, and as they passed by, I heard them engaged in a debate filled with nautical terms. I strolled with my mother, who, upon observing Cassandra walking with Thomas Payler, commented with delight,

“How lovely it is to see your sister with such a pleasant, good-looking, and
propertied
young gentleman, as Thomas Payler!
He
observes the rules of propriety, I observe, and so does she! Why cannot you be more like your sister, Jane? Oh! Have you noticed the way he looks at her? He is clearly falling in love with her.”

“Is he?” responded I lightly, hoping my tone did not give away my deep interest in the matter.

“Why, I am surprised you did not perceive it; anyone with eyes could hardly miss it! And why should he
not
fall in love with her? Cassandra is so sweet and beautiful, she is a fine catch for any young man, for all that she has no money. Oh! I knew how it would be, were we to come to Kent! Love is indeed in the air, Jane; if my hopes take flight, your sister might well receive an offer before we go home.”

“I hope you are right, Mamma.”

I smiled to myself, having no wish to tell her what little I had done to encourage the match; but to see that my plans for them were taking root in such a discernible way, was agreeable indeed. I began to realise how uniquely gifted I was when it came to fostering romance. Why, had not the love note I wrote on my brother Edward’s behalf only a few days past charmed Elizabeth and rekindled their relationship? Their reconciliation might never have happened had not I intervened. How satisfying it was, to know that, since my arrival at Goodnestone, I had already been of very real help in promoting a connection between
two
couples!