Read Dearest Cousin Jane Online
Authors: Jill Pitkeathley
Dearest Cousin Jane (20 page)
S
o Cassandra at least has finally stirred herself to write to congratulate me on my marriage. She says they heard of it only from the notice in the paper.
I hope you do not need to be assured of our good wishes. I think I cannot give you a better wish than that you may be as happy as you deserve and that as a wife you may meet the reward you so well earned as a daughter. Mr Whitaker will, of course, feel himself included in every good wish we desire for you; pray assure him that it will give us great pleasure to have an opportunity of being introduced to our new relative. I shall hope soon to receive from you a very particular account of your new home.
Mrs Henry has been spending a fortnight with us lately and I think I never saw her in such good health before—she is quite recovered from a nasty inflammation of the chest. We frequently talked over your plans and prospects but we did not get the newspaper that contained the announcement of your marriage until an hour after she left us or I am sure she would have united with my mother, Jane, and me in our good wishes on the occasion.
We have been delighted to see dear brother Charles again—after seven long years. His wife, Fanny, is very pleasing and their two
little girls are a joy to us all. They, too, join in sending good wishes on your marriage.
So they talked about me did they? Well I suppose it made a change from boasting about Eliza’s smart parties and this nonsense about Jane being a lady novelist. She wrote to me from London and mentioned nothing, but Eliza wrote that she had been seeing ‘her publisher’ or some such tale. She did not elaborate further and the rest of her letter was taken up with describing the piece of porcelain she was painting for her godfather. She is to take it when she visits him in Oxfordshire in the autumn. He is not much in the public eye these days, I suppose because so many believe he was guilty as charged even though they acquitted him. Eliza will be sure to stay in touch so as to be remembered in the will—Henry, too, will never forget those prospects and by the rate at which the HAs continue to spend money, it won’t come a moment too soon. Although, unfortunately for them, I hear that Mr Hastings continues in tolerable good health. She did extend a pretty enough invitation for me and my husband to stay at Sloane Street, but we shall not take it up. I fear my cousin would be too outrageous for Mr Whitaker’s taste and his health is not good at present.
March 1812
Well, of all the deceits this part of my family have practised on me all these years, I call this the worst. I have just heard from the apothecary who attends Mr Whitaker that my cousin is the talk of London! She is the author of
Sense and Sensibility
—a book that our circulating library has told me is the most borrowed book in their stock! At first I could not believe it to be true and am still struggling to take it in.
I have heard from Cassandra and Eliza regularly and not a word has been mentioned. It seems that the book came out last October. It costs 15 shillings and is in three volumes. I have just been amusing my husband—who is confined to his room again—by trying to work out how much money will accrue to Jane, but he says that will all depend on the volume of sales. But according to the apothecary it sells in quantity, so perhaps Jane will finally get some money of her own. I shall never forgive them for keeping it from me. Cassandra wrote to me at Christmas as she had heard that Mr Whitaker was unwell and hoped that he would soon shake off his complaints. The book was already in circulation by then but not a word!
Even Eliza said nothing in her Christmas letter, though she is never one to keep a secret. All I can say is that they must be so ashamed about having a lady novelist in the family that they wanted to ensure that no one knew. In that they have failed because the secret is out—to everyone it seems but their own family. There is a conspiracy among them all to keep me out of things. The secret was even known to Mary, and she is all of a flutter about it. I enquired of her whether she knew—feeling sure that it would be a surprise to her, too. After all, she has never approved of Jane and as the wife of a clergyman I should not have thought she would be happy about having a lady novelist as a close relative. But no—in her reply she seems to be as excited and silly as the rest:
It is all most exciting is it not? I know that dear Jane did not want her name known and Cassandra was quite set against it. But the book is so taken up that the cat is out of the bag. Jane spent some days with us last November and told us the news then, though we kept it from Anna, who is such a gossip that she could not be trusted. In fact have you heard of the amusing incident in the library at Alton? Anna was there with her aunt Jane and actually picked up a
copy of
S&S
, looked at it, and threw it aside, saying to her aunt, ‘Oh that must be rubbish I am sure from the title!’ How Jane kept her countenance I do not know and we often laugh at the incident now. Of course Anna is in on the secret now, as cousin Eliza seemed to believe we all knew and mentioned it when she wrote to Anna. You will perhaps be surprised to know that she wrote to ask Anna to spend a few weeks in London in company with Fanny. It is a kind thought, but unfortunately Anna is unable to accept.
Jane’s success seems to have set off a wave of writing in the family. James, who has not put pen to paper for years except to write his sermons, has written a poem of congratulations to Jane while Anna and Fanny have each started a novel! I expect they will have a fine time exchanging plots when Anna goes to Godmersham soon. For the present as Anna is so impressionable, her father and I both feel that staying in the country is preferable to a season in London.
I am not surprised they will not let Anna go to London. Eliza is hardly suitable to have charge of a young girl—not a good example at the best of times and certainly not when she is busy arranging social activities for the new lady novelist!
H
enry and Jane were in the highest of spirits when they returned from their morning spent with Egerton. He came running upstairs to my sitting room.
‘What, my love, not yet dressed? Do finish your toilette and come down. Jane and I have such news to impart.’
‘I gather Mr Egerton was pleased then?’
‘Pleased? A man could not be more so. He believes she will clear £140 on the book and when we told him there was another almost ready, you should have seen his face! Come down, my love. Madame Bigeon has fruit and cake and wine laid out but I told her to open some more of that French champagne! Shall I call your maid to help you dress?’
‘No, I can manage alone, but ask Madame Perigord to come up if you will. I shall be down presently.’
I waited for him to quit the room before I rose from the seat in front of my mirror. I could not resist another look and drew my chemise away from my bosom. Yes, it can quite clearly be seen now, the change in shape, the unevenness. I have seen it before and know its meaning too well to be mistaken. Had I had any doubt, the look on Madame Perigord’s face as she came in and saw my reflection in the mirror was confirmation enough.
‘Oh Madame!’ she exclaimed, her hand covering her mouth.
‘Non, non pas possible, quel horreur!’
Then recovering herself: ‘Only a cyst or an abscess perhaps. Shall we summon the doctor?’
‘We shall not ask him to come here but I shall call on him in Wimpole Street tomorrow, and I am sure he will be able to treat me. Medicine has moved on a great deal since my mother…’
‘Oh Madame, do not speak of it, I pray you. We shall not think of it, but take the greatest care and we shall—’
‘Yes, yes, you are right and for the moment—not a word of this to the master or Miss Austen.’
She came over and kissed me on both cheeks and that was proof enough of her alarm. Unlike her mother, she is not a demonstrative woman.
It was easy to forget my anxieties with Jane and Henry as their excitement about the future was so infectious.
‘Only think, Henry, of Mr Egerton’s reaction when he asked how long before my next work was ready and I said but a week or two!’
‘And can you do it so quick, Jane?’ I asked. ‘Do you intend to give him
Catherine
if you buy it back from Crosby’s?’
‘Well, she certainly can buy it back now—there is ample available for that from her earnings.’ Henry laughed.
‘I know, but I am to give him
First Impressions
. I have been—’
‘The one with Elizabeth and Darcy? Oh, how we all loved that one—the one rejected by Cadell’s? How they must be gnashing their teeth now.’ I loved the thought of those dreadful men who I am sure sent that manuscript back without reading it hearing about the lady’s success.
‘Yes, I had the manuscript still in the packaging they used to return it and have been working on it for some weeks—lopping and cropping as I think it needed. May I read you some of the rewritten scenes tonight?’ asked Jane.
I had always liked this the best of any of Jane’s work and found I was not mistaken when she read to us that evening. How we laughed at Mr Collins.
‘Jane, you are wicked—is he not like so many clergymen of our acquaintance?’ said Henry.
I thought that every young lady would be a little in love with Darcy and said how glad I was that the sweet character of the sister Jane had been given her own name.
‘That was Cassy’s suggestion,’ Jane admitted. ‘I had named her differently in the original. Now do tell me what you think of Lady Catherine?’ She had just finished reading a scene where that lady scolds Elizabeth unmercifully and sweeps out.
‘She is very fine and rather puts me in mind of Aunt Leigh-Perrot,’ said Henry. ‘Did you have her as a model?’
‘Now you must stop seeking people we know in all my characters.’ said Jane. ‘I do not write from life, as I have told you all these many times.’
‘The great joy of your writing, Jane,’ I said, ‘and with each piece I read or hear I understand it more, is that each reader will think they know a character such as the ones you draw. Why, we should not forget that even Princess Charlotte has said that Marianne is very like her!’
I was not in truth surprised that Mr Egerton was eager to publish another book and this time would advertise it as being ‘by the author of
Sense and Sensibility
,’ for the reviews have been most pleasing and every salon one attends in London is talking about it. I long to take Jane about with me more and to give dinners for her. But she is as ever modest and reluctant to be the centre of attention except within her close family. The only difference I can notice in her is that she is enjoying spending some of her money and is even a little impatient with Cassandra that she is not wanting to accept gifts.
‘Only think, Eliza,’ she said to me later that evening, ‘I have bought Cassy a new mauve silk and a velvet pelisse like the one Lady Bessborough was wearing. I warrant she will say she does not go anywhere fine enough to wear them but I shall insist. Now that I am very rich, well tolerably so anyway, I shall ensure that my presents are always in the finest taste and gratefully received by everyone.’
It really lifted my spirits to see her so gay and carefree after all the years when she had seemed so low in spirits.
‘As to having nowhere to go to wear it, shall you not be dining frequently at the Great House at Chawton when Edward and his family are installed there?’
‘Of course, you are right. They are to be there for four or five months I believe, so there will be many occasions for finery.’
‘Are they to be there so long?’
‘Yes, Godmersham is to be completely refurbished and redecorated, so they thought it best to move out. I hope you will spend time with us while they are there—you know how Edward and especially Fanny enjoy your company.’
‘So long as we do not come at the same time as Mrs JA,’ I said and we both laughed, understanding the joke.
Two weeks later
This morning I received confirmation from Dr Baillie, who also attended my mother, that my affliction is the same as hers. He has tried to be reassuring, telling me that he has developed a range of preparations and unctions that are often efficacious. I shall not give up hope—that is not my way—and if the worst comes, shall try to be as brave as my dear mother was. I have not yet told Henry and have contrived to hide the inflamed breast from him even in our most intimate moments. He remarks that I am growing thinner and
asks Madame Bigeon to cook dishes to tempt me. I am finding it harder to hide my condition from Jane—I have found her looking at me curiously several times and she often enquires for my state of health. Luckily she has been much occupied in getting
First Impressions
ready for the publisher. She is relieved that it will be delivered to him before she leaves us tomorrow. She had to find another title, as
First Impressions
had been used already it seems. Henry and I sat hours with her to try to find the right one. We were almost settled on
Jane and Elizabeth,
having discarded
Mistaken Impressions
,
Learning to Love,
and
Maids of Meriton
when I found the expression
Pride and Prejudice
in the volume of Miss Burney’s
Cecilia,
which I happened to be reading. Jane clapped her hands. ‘Oh that is so right,’ she cried. ‘
His
pride and
her
prejudice—how exactly it fits my story.’
Henry immediately saw another advantage: ‘It fits so well with
Sense and Sensibility
that old Egerton can expect runaway sales and my sister runaway income!’
Henry is particularly good humoured at present, as he has been appointed Receiver General of Taxes for Oxfordshire. It is a credit to his reputation and will provide extra income for us, which is always welcome. We may have need of it for medical matters soon.
Henry is to dine out tonight and as the two Madames are visiting the theatre, Jane and I will be alone. I know I shall be tempted to confide to her my worries about my condition, so I must think of a way to divert her.
Well, I could hardly have hoped that the diversion would be so successful! In fact we were still deep in our intimate conversation when Henry returned, and knowing that Jane would not want him to see her tear-stained face, I called out to him to go straight upstairs and that I would join him later.
Jane looked at me gratefully.
‘You were ever an understanding friend to me, dear cousin,’ she said, ‘I wish now I had told you my sad story earlier that I might have had comfort from you.’
‘I am glad you have told me now,’ I said, ‘and I know that the story you are planning will be the better for the sorrow and sadness you have suffered.’
‘And the joy, too,’ she protested, ‘the joy of knowing what it was like to love someone and have that love returned. You have known that more than once Eliza, but for me, I know there could be only a single time.’
Had I? In truth, I am not sure. I was not in love with the Comte, and though Henry is a dear man and I am inordinately fond of him, I do not know that I felt the depth of emotion that Jane has shared with me this evening.
Our conversation began quietly enough. Anxious to ensure I did not talk about myself, I began by asking her if my favourite lady novelist had another book planned.
‘Oh indeed, yes,’ she said. ‘I have not yet begun to write but I know what its subject will be.’
‘Oh, pray tell me, do!’
To my astonishment she replied, ‘It is to be about good and evil.’
‘Good and evil?’ I repeated incredulously. But, Jane, is that not a subject for a book of sermons, not a novel?’
‘It will be a novel, of course, about the nobility and set in a grand house but its characters will represent good and evil.’
‘This is very different from what you have favoured us with before, and, dare I say, from what we and your publishers are expecting?’
‘Perhaps, but be that as it may, I must write it.’ She hesitated and looked out the window where the evening shadows were beginning to fall across the garden. I could see she was considering whether to
say more, so I just kept silent. She took a deep breath and went on, ‘You know a little, I think, about the gentleman I met at Lyme some years ago?’
‘A little only. You had asked Henry and me to accompany you there the following year when you were to meet again, but it was never mentioned further so we assumed…’
‘I, too, made assumptions, assumptions that he had rejected me, perhaps because I told him I wished to be a writer, but—’
I could not help interrupting: ‘But why would anyone feel that was wrong?’
‘He was a clergyman with a strong moral code and you know as well as I do that men of the cloth do not always approve of novels. Anyway, it was a foolish assumption on my part when I consider it now, because this was a man who had read the
Rights of Women
book you so kindly gave me and actually approved of it! No, as you know, I discovered much later when we were again at Lyme that in fact he had died suddenly and that was the reason he ceased to write to me, not because of any disapproval.’
‘What a relief to your poor spirits that must have been!’
‘Oh, indeed it was! And I realized that I must write the story I had discussed with him, about ordination, about how good people will win through, and how we all have a moral guide within us if we will only listen to it. He used to tell me such tales of the profligacy of the London society in which he had been curate and how he had sometimes thought God was ignoring him as he tried to remind his parishioners of their duties and responsibilities. He was particularly dismayed by the men he saw enter the church because it provided a good living, not because they felt a call from God.’
I felt my heart sink at the thought of Jane trying to make an entertaining novel of such a subject. I may lack some morality myself in thinking it, but I cannot see such a story selling well!
She smiled at me. ‘I can see your dismay, Eliza, but I vow the characters will be amusing and infuriating and admirable and that there will be scenes of drama.’
‘I am relieved to hear it!’ I laughed.
‘There is to be a displaced little girl in it and she really will be the ‘good’ while another young lady will represent the ‘evil.’
‘Oh, I cried, ‘I warrant she is the more interesting one! But tell me, will the good one find her true love?’
‘Yes, she will. I do like a happy ending, as you know.’
‘How I wish your story could have had a happy ending, Jane.’ I touched her hand as I spoke.
The tears that had been near all the while she was speaking of her gentleman friend began to fall.
‘In a way it has. I am more content than I have ever been and thankful that I knew him and that he loved me. It is more than many women ever know.’
I could only agree.