Read Dearest Cousin Jane Online
Authors: Jill Pitkeathley
Dearest Cousin Jane (18 page)
I
t would not have been my choice but I cannot say it has done Jane any harm. Life in Southampton seems to suit her so much better than life in Bath, and she has confided to me that she hopes never to return to that city.
‘I hate the white glare of the buildings and the falseness of its society,’ she said as we sat sewing yesterday. ‘I may set another story there one day but I have enough in mind of the place not to need any more visits.’
I looked up, startled and pleased by this easy reference to ‘another story’—was she thinking of composing again? I did not dare ask. By mutual agreement Henry and I never mention the manuscript still languishing at Crosby’s but we know it must be on her mind still and I wondered if I should suggest that enquiries be made again. I know Jane too well to press her too much on this topic though, and thought she would confide in me if and when she had anything to say. Her spirits certainly seem considerably higher than when we last met and she was almost flirtatious at the dinner I gave last night.
‘Your sweet émigrés are so amusing,’ she said as we sat with Henry after they had gone. ‘They were so downcast about the defeat of Austria but seem to have high hopes of Wellington in Spain. Do they really believe that Napoléon can be vanquished?’ Her eyes had
something of their old sparkle. ‘Surely Boney carries all before him now and conquers the whole of Europe?’
I knew she was joking and joined in. ‘For shame, Jane, you know there can be no talk of defeat in this house. The Allies will triumph in the end and our friends will be restored to glory! At least’—lowering my voice—‘that is what we all pretend.’
‘You are kindness itself to them, cousin,’ she said, ‘you and my brother, but I swear many of them are so thin and pale yours is the only house in which they have a good meal.’
‘’Tis too true, sadly, as you will see for yourself. They will be sure to ask you with us when they return our hospitality.’
Henry laughed. ‘Yes, Eliza and I always eat before we attend one of their soirees, as you are likely to be served an omelette and tea as any meat or wine.’
‘And is the conversation always the same? Of past glories, when they were at Versailles, and of the wickedness of Napoléon?’
‘Indeed, yes, it never palls for them. We tolerate it but I know it can be trying for others.’
Jane was good enough to accompany us to one evening party given by the Comte Julien, but the next time one of the refugees asked us she begged to be permitted to stay at home.
‘Of course, my dear, you stay here. Madame Bigeon can see to your dinner and tomorrow we are to attend the opera so there will be amusement enough then.’
When we returned at about eleven o’clock, I went to her room to bid her good night and was amazed to find her still sitting, fully dressed at the writing table, with piles of paper spread out around her. So intent was she that she did not hear my knock or my entry.
‘Why Jane,’ I said, ‘what are you about?’ I glanced at the sheets, covered with her neat handwriting. ‘You surely cannot have done all this since we left you?’
She laughed. ‘No cousin—even at my most industrious I could not accomplish that. Perhaps you did not know that I carry my manuscripts everywhere with me.’
‘Oh, that mahogany box? I wondered what was in there.’
‘I had an idea for a revision of the story you liked—you know
Elinor and Marianne
—and have been trying it out.’
I was pleased and excited and I clapped my hands. ‘Oh do tell—how is it to be revised? Dare I hope Elinor and Edward will still find happiness?’
‘How good you are to remember them. Yes, it is just that I was discussing it with Cassandra and she pointed out that writing it in the form of letters between the sisters means that the plot can move on only when they are apart, so I wonder if I could use another form…’
‘Just a telling of the story perhaps?’ I interrupted.
‘Yes. I have revised a few chapters and think it might be possible.’
I kissed her, quite overcome at the cheerful and productive mood that seemed to be upon her.
‘Do not think of coming to call on Mrs Tilson tomorrow,’ I said. ‘You have more important work to do.’
Though Henry and I both pressed her, she would not be prevailed upon to read us any more of the work, but I noticed that when she and Henry entered the carriage a few days later as he was to convey her to Godmersham for another visit, she would not let her mahogany box be strapped behind with her trunk, but cradled it carefully on her lap, much as a mother might hold a baby.
I have just received a letter from her:
Godmersham is in its summer glory and the walks are beautiful. James and Mary have arrived, bringing all the children. I am glad to
see that Anna and Fanny are as intimate as hitherto, although there is the usual ill feeling apparent between Anna and her stepmother… Elizabeth looks pale as any woman expecting her eleventh confinement might do. I know you will be glad to hear that my revisions are proceeding well and of course it is a joy to be able to leave my papers undisturbed instead of having to clear everything away each day before mealtimes as I have to do at home.
I have told Henry that I mean to write to Crosby’s to ask that they either publish my manuscript or return it to me. Henry offers to do it for me but I mean to do it myself. I will use a false name as they never knew my true identity and of course I would wish to preserve that anonymity if they do decide to publish.
How confident she sounds! I wish her luck with it.
My dear brother and sister,
I know you will be stricken by the sad news I have to impart. Elizabeth is dead! I cannot describe the shock and grief that overtakes us all. I am much needed downstairs but must find a few moments to give this news to all the family immediately. Edward is too overcome but his man is to send expresses shortly and I must have them ready. I have written already to Jane and Mama at Southampton but anticipate that you may be the first to receive the news as the coach to London departs from Wye every two hours.
As you know, I am only just arrived in Kent as the confinement was not expected for another two weeks. I was amazed to find that little Brooke John had been safely delivered even as I alighted from the coach conveying me here. Fanny ran to greet me, saying that all was well, and when I saw Elizabeth, the babe in her arms, she looked as well and as pretty as she has always looked at such times. The following morning, however, she awoke with a small fever and the apothecary who always attends her suggested finding a wet nurse, which was done without difficulty as there are a multitude of fine young women hereabouts who are able to fulfil that function. Still, we thought that perhaps E had only a little milk fever, which would
soon pass. Indeed, she ate a hearty dinner of chicken followed by custard tart that same evening. As she was alternately hot and cold, I sat with her all that night, sponging her, and began to grow concerned when she did not seem to know me or Edward, who was ever beside her. At dawn she looked at us with a faint smile and before we could respond she was gone! Edward gathered the children, save for little Cassandra, who slept on, and the scene around the deathbed was enough to break your heart—how they wept and sobbed, yet tried to comfort their father. Fanny, though barely sixteen, takes a mothering role and is a great comfort to poor Edward, who cannot keep away from the deathbed where she lies, pale but beautiful still and surrounded by flowers the children have laid.
The two older boys are away at school, of course, and my first letter was to their headmaster that he might break the sad news as gently as possible. I have asked Jane to receive them at Southampton to try to occupy them until after the funeral, which Edward’s steward is arranging. I have also asked Jane to send my mourning clothes, which I hope will arrive in time. The family are sending to Canterbury for theirs—how sad it will be to see the little ones in deepest black.
In haste and with the heaviest of hearts,
Cassandra
Letter from Eliza to Edward Austen
October 13th, 1808
My dear brother,
On receipt of the terrible news, your faithful brother determined on coming immediately to Godmersham to bring you the comfort
that only close family can bring, and I write hastily to enable him to convey my letter by his own hand. I know he will exert himself to be of use and comfort to you all.
Only those who have lost a spouse can begin to understand what you are undergoing at present. The joy that you and Elizabeth found in your union is an example to many married people but vouchsafed to very few. May she rest in peace and may God grant comfort to you and all the children.
In truth, any man who fathers eleven children may expect to be a widower at some time in his life and I know that dear Elizabeth would be the first to urge you, after a decent period of mourning, to seek another mother for your large family. You may be sure that your family will certainly support you in this endeavour, for your sake but most of all for the sake of your motherless flock. In particular, I entreat you to have a care that dear Fanny does not take on too easily the role of substitute mother. I have seen this happen only too frequently and though it may seem natural enough to a father in your position it undoubtedly is a great disadvantage to a young woman to have too much responsibility for her brothers and sisters. It would surely result in her losing her bloom and might mean that her chances of making a suitable match are much diminished. I am sure that as a loving father, you will have regard to that.
You know me as a practical soul, so I hope you are not disconcerted by my advice. It does not, believe me, reflect any lack of sympathy for you all. My tears wet the paper as I write and my thoughts and prayers are with you all.
Your devoted and grieving sister-in-law and cousin,
Eliza Austen
Letter from Eliza to Jane Austen
Brompton, November 1808
My dear Jane,
Henry is returned from Godmersham with mournful tales of the devastation wrought by the death of Elizabeth. How dreadful an affliction giving birth, especially so many times, can be to us women. I have calculated that Elizabeth must have been in the increasing way for most of her married life and I hear that Frank’s little Mary seems set to follow her example. According to your news, however, she does not bear it as well as the dear departed one and is often upon the sofa and very ill. I often give thanks that you, my dear Jane, and Cassandra have been spared the dangers of this state and that my dear mother and I myself had but one experience each.
I am concerned to hear that Cassandra is to stay on at Godmersham for some while as I know you must miss her. She takes charge of the housekeeping, I understand, while Fanny looks to the children. I have warned Edward of the dangers of this but suppose he is too grief-stricken to notice. I am glad to hear that you cared so well for the two older boys when they stayed with you—an aunt is a rare blessing in such circumstances. Henry and I were both angry that Crosby’s gave you such a rebuff when you wrote to them about your manuscript. Whatever they now say, they did promise publication, and to ask you for £10 to buy back what is your own is too terrible. But be assured, dear Jane, that your brother and I realise that such a sum is impossible for you to find in your current circumstances. He bids me tell you that we shall gladly advance you the sum needed—do not hesitate to write by return to confirm whether you wish us to pay the sum to you or directly to Crosby’s.
But I have a further reason for writing now and that is to urge you to approach your brother Edward about a settled home for you, Cassy, my aunt, and Martha. Henry has confirmed with him that he has two properties that would suit—one is near Godmersham, but the other in Hampshire, near to your old home, within easy reach of James and Mary. Henry is setting up a branch of his bank in Alton so is to travel in that direction shortly. He will take the liberty, I believe, of viewing the property. Do consider it—I know you would find a settled home more helpful to your composition. Frank, I know, is gone to China but when he returns and if he and Mary continue to increase their family, is he not likely to want his house in Southampton for their sole occupation? I beg you, if the offer is made to consider it at least.
Your loving cousin and sister,
Eliza
Letter from Henry Austen to His Wife
From the French Horn Inn, Alton, Hampshire
January 1809
It is settled! Your plan has taken a long time to come to its fruition but how right you were! I am just come from Chawton Cottage and can report on its being the ideal place for my mother and sisters. It is not commodious but quite adequate for the four ladies with room even for visitors, as I am sure that Jane and Cassandra will continue to share a room. It will be easily run and there is a large kitchen garden and a dairy, which will vastly please my mother as it will remind her of Steventon. They will be within easy distance of James, too, and of many of their old acquaintance. My business will
frequently take me to Alton, which is not much more than a mile away, so they will not want for visitors. I believe that my mother at first favoured the other cottage that Edward offered at Wye, since it was nearer to Godmersham, but could not hold out against the wishes of the three others and was easily persuaded. Only a very little refurbishment is necessary—a new privy is badly required!—which Edward undertakes to have completed by the summer, allowing them to move in by July at the latest.
You will understand what a weight this is off my mind, as Frank is not the only one who has been uneasy about the dear group since the death of my father. How ironic it is that it is another death—that of Elizabeth—that now makes this new arrangement possible.
I return with a light heart to my dearest wife as soon as my business here is completed.
Your devoted husband,
Henry