Dearest Cousin Jane (16 page)

Summer 1804

P
erhaps I have misjudged Eliza. While I was always aware that she had been a dutiful daughter and a most devoted mother to poor little Hastings, I must own that as a wife for my son she was not my first choice. But I begin to see that perhaps she
is
right for him. They contrive to be apart more than is suitable for most married couples. He visits James and Mary and always seems to be at Godmersham. Eliza stay at home with the excuse that she neither hunts nor shoots, which are the pastimes he enjoys—shooting indeed; I expect that is where Jane got the strange idea that she would like to go out with a gun!

Still, it seems to be good arrangement for them both. He looks content and satisfied, but I am pleased to say is not growing stout as so many married men do. He takes morning exercise very diligently and I am sure Eliza monitors his food lest he become too fond of puddings and fat meat. I expect her French cook makes ragouts and fricassees, which are healthier than the mutton broth and hashes that Mary serves to James—no wonder he is growing fat.

I never thought I would say it, but I have found Eliza’s company on our summer journey more congenial than that of Mary, who seems to grow more ill-tempered with each passing year. She complains constantly of little Anna, who is very much a favourite
with her aunts and myself. Eliza by contrast is sweet-tempered and charming—always so respectful of her uncle George and even towards me her manners are impeccable. She has done wonders for Jane, too. Ever since she returned from her last visit to London, Jane has been more her old self—certainly not the carefree high-spirited girl she was but tolerably good humoured at least.

So though I was not at first delighted with the suggestion that Henry and Eliza should accompany Mr Austen and the girls and me to Lyme and Weymouth, it has proved to be a memorable and enjoyable holiday. I shall be sorry when Henry and Eliza leave us tomorrow for Weymouth. We had hoped to travel with them, but Mr Austen is not at all well. He grows stooped and seems short of breath. Even to walk the length of the Cobb tires him now, so it is best that we stay here and await their return. At first I had thought that Cassy would stay with us—she is ever more willing to be the dutiful daughter than Jane—and Jane does so delight in the company of Henry and Eliza. But Jane seems to be writing again and does not want to leave her manuscript, so she is to stay. Jane and I are not the easiest of companions—I think our characters are too alike—but she is much less difficult and more content in spirit when she is writing.

She has just come back to the lodgings with Cassandra and told us of the merry time they have had sea bathing.

‘It is most delightful to splash about Mama,’ she said, ‘and the bathing machine ladies are so amusing—great fat arms they have and they can bodily lift you back into the machine if you are too tired to climb the ladder.’

I was glad to see her cheeks flushed and pink—she had been looking so pale lately.

‘What do you think, dear aunt?’ joined in Eliza. ‘Jane is to read to us tonight—not from Mr Cowper but from her own work!’

I clapped my hands. ‘Oh I knew it—I knew you were composing again Jane. What is it, what is the piece called? When may we hear it?’

‘I shall finish putting it in order directly and read it in the parlour when dinner is over. Fortunately the other guests here are dining out, so we shall have the place to ourselves.’

‘And so to hear more of the Watsons and the fate of all the sisters, please ask the author to tell you when the next instalment will be ready.’

Jane looked around expectantly. There was silence. We had always greeted a reading of her work with applause, but this time even Mr Austen clapped only very faintly. Eliza roused herself and said: ‘Bravo Jane—you try a new style I see.’

Cassandra looked at the floor.

Henry rang the bell and when the waiter entered ordered more wine.

Jane looked angry. ‘So none of you like it—is that what I must presume?’

‘My dear, it is just that it has a much different tone. When I heard it was about four sisters I expected the Bennets or a family such as that—’

‘The Bennets?’ she interrupted, her face growing red. ‘How untrue to life are the Bennets—no wonder they were declined by return of post. How could anyone imagine that girls without fortunes would make such fine matches? The reality is more like the Watsons, I assure you, and if you do not like it, I pity you.’ And turning, she fled from the room.

‘Go after her Cassy, I beg you,’ I said. ‘She is distressed and in need of comfort’.

Cassy left the room to follow Jane upstairs and as she did so
Henry said, ‘I think we are all distressed, Mama. I did not realise she was so bitter.’

How shall I describe the Watsons? It is a mournful bitter description of the fate of the daughters of a clergyman who see that when he dies, they will be thrown upon the mercy of their brother. Their misery is compounded because they have been forced to leave their childhood home and make a home in Bath. She had read us six chapters and there appeared not a ray of hope or amusement anywhere. On the contrary, the sisters appeared to dislike one another, hate their parents, and see that their only hope was in pursuing a man, any man it seemed, in order to be rescued by marriage. It was too close for comfort.

‘Well Eliza,’ said my husband, ‘when you encouraged Jane to take up her pen again, I warrant you did not expect this.’

‘Indeed not Uncle. I am as shocked as you at the content. But’—Eliza was ever one to look on the bright side—‘there are one or two scenes that show her old flair, are there not? What about the charming little boy Charles—so like her own dear brother when he was learning to dance, did you not think?’

But there was little comfort to be had and I dreaded the morrow when Papa and I should be left alone with Jane.

Cassandra came back into the room. I could see from her eyes she had been crying.

‘We were saying, Cass,’ said Henry, ‘that we did not realise that Jane was so bitter.’

‘Bitter? Bitter?’ Cassandra raised her voice in a way she never normally did.’ She is not bitter, she is just suffering from disappointment such as would make a weaker person than my sister unable to function, unable to speak, let alone write.’

‘You mean about the publication?’ put in Eliza. ‘I must say, Cass, that no one could have tried harder than Henry.’

‘She knows that—but that is not all. It comes on top of the rejection of what we all thought her finest work and then the Manydown incident but before that here in Lyme the business with the reverend gentleman who she thought admired her and wished to continue—’

‘What
was
his name?’ interrupted Eliza. ‘Though we were to convey her here to meet him again, she never disclosed his name.’

I was astonished. ‘Mr Austen,’ I said, ‘what know you of this clergyman? How is it that half our family know and I do not?’

Cassandra blushed deeply. ‘Forgive me, Mama, I forget myself in my worry about Jane. He was to be our secret.’

‘It is highly improper for young girls to have secrets from their parents.’

‘My dear,’ my husband tried as ever to calm me, ‘we should perhaps realise that neither of our daughters are young girls anymore and may be entitled to some privacy…. But I wonder if I might be permitted to ask what is the situation between Jane and this clergyman now?’

Cassandra was silent looking steadfastly at the floor.

After what seemed like several minutes but was probably barely one, Eliza said: ‘Dear aunt, we should not press Cassandra, who is sworn to secrecy. So far as I know they agreed to correspond until they were able to meet again and did so for a while.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘No letters ever came for her at Bath, Mr Austen or I should have seen them if they did.’

‘As I understand it,’ Eliza went on calmly, ‘she would walk to the post office to collect them and take them straight up to her room.’

I had to concede that this was a possibility.

‘Are they still corresponding?’

‘No, I understand that the letters ceased abruptly after some small disagreement.’ I looked to Cassy for confirmation and she nodded imperceptibly.

As her mother, I was of course unhappy that Jane had been having a secret relationship—it is certainly not proper and she had not been brought up to throw decorum to the winds. I blamed myself for allowing her and Cassy the freedom to go on holiday last year with only Martha as chaperone. How my sister-in-law will upbraid me should she find out and as for what that minx Philly will make of it and what gossip she will spread abroad, why, it hardly bears thinking about. And yet my heart goes out to Jane. Disappointment piled on disappointment; I could see now the emotions that had made their way into the Watsons. I must be especially kind to her when we are left alone with her.

Bath, December 17th, 1804

In fact, the rest of that stay in Lyme was remarkably pleasant. Jane’s spirits seemed to improve greatly and she seemed vastly more content. By the time Cassandra and Eliza and Henry returned to collect us, I had rarely seen her looking so well. Eliza whispered to me that Jane has somehow found out that the clergyman died suddenly and this is the reason for the improvement in her disposition. I should have thought this would make her more melancholy yet, but Eliza explained that she was relieved to know that she had not been mistaken, he had loved her and not rejected her and it was only his death that had parted them. This both Cassandra and I could easily understand—look how content
she
is after all to know that she was loved by Tom even though their happiness was so short-lived.

But I have just had news that I fear will send Jane into the depths of grief again—her dear friend Mrs Lefroy was thrown from her
horse yesterday as she rode out and was taken up dead. That this should happen on Jane’s birthday—she was twenty-nine yesterday—is a particularly cruel blow. I have always been puzzled by how friendly Jane has been towards Mrs Lefroy, who after all sent that young Tom of whom Jane was so fond, back home to Ireland with scarce time to bid anyone good-bye. She was also obliged to give Jane news of his marriage and of how well he is doing in the law in Ireland. Yet Jane has a nature sweet enough to disregard all such difficulties if she likes someone—just as if she dislikes, well, her tongue can be horribly sharp. She and Cassandra will be home from their walk soon. I shall try to get Mr Austen to break the news to Jane, but do not know if he is strong enough. He is failing before my eyes after that bad cold and feverish attacks, but I do not know if the girls see it. They were able to divert him very much this morning by reading a letter from Eliza with a long account of the awful Bonaparte being crowned emperor in Paris. We had read some report in the
Morning Post
but did not know that the pope himself was there. Much good it did him, apparently, as when the moment for the crowning came, Boney took the crown from the pope’s hands and put it on his own head! The impudence of it! And all of them done up in satins and laces and purple velvet—including Josephine, now an empress if you please. Eliza tells us that the court of the new emperor promised to be even more splendid than that of the old king, whose head they cut off. I said that you could expect no better of the French, but Mr Austen reminded me that the English had done the same to a king and then restored one not a dozen years later. We all laughed at the thought of Eliza, torn between her dislike of the new emperor and her taste for fashion and court life! Since this morning though, my poor husband has scarcely been able to lift his head from the pillow. I shall have to break the news about this death myself. I fear it may not be long before there is news of another much closer to home.

February 1805

S
o the old man is dead! I had heard he was failing, but the Christmas letters from Bath were tolerably cheerful. He did not last long, though. I have had no fewer that three letters telling me of his last hours—from Cassandra, Jane, and Eliza. Not that Eliza was present, but as soon as the news reached London she and Henry rushed there ‘with only a short stop for a glass of porter at the inn at Reading and the post house at Chippenham,’ as Eliza put it. I cannot see why Henry was needed—after all James is the eldest son and much closer at hand—let alone why Madame thought her presence was necessary. On the contrary, I should have thought her being there would cause extra work for my aunt and cousins, which they could well do without at such a time. But of course where there is drama Madame wishes to be at the centre of it. Her letter about Uncle George’s death is far more emotional than that of either of his daughters.

Jane and Cassandra are not so overcome but busy themselves with all the necessary letters—both Frank and Charles are at sea and it will be weeks before they have the news, but James is at Green Park Buildings and he and Henry represented the family at the funeral. Eliza is remaining there ‘so as to be of comfort to my aunt and cousins in their dreadful loss.’

Well, she has nothing else to do and a great deal of comfort is going to be needed, especially where money is concerned. I wonder if any of them have thought how they are going to live? My uncle’s small income will die with him and the church does nothing for widows and children, as I have reason to know. Aunt Cassandra has nothing of her own. Cassy has that £1,000 from her dead fiancé but that won’t take them far. Jane, of course, has nothing either and this idea that she would be able to support herself through her writing, which I have heard talked about, clearly has no future. I know for a fact that the lease on Green Park Buildings runs out soon and they could not afford it now anyway. I wonder what will become of them?

May 1805

I expected to hear from Aunt Cassandra before this. I wrote immediately on hearing the news of Uncle George’s death and received no reply. I wondered if she was offended because my mother did not pen the letter of condolence herself, but I explained fully enough I hope that she is no longer able to write for herself. I think none of my family have any idea of how difficult Mama is and now how incapable. Anyway, I have finally received a reply and I must own it is a long and detailed one. It seems the reason for her silence was the difficulty of making what she calls ‘the new arrangements.’ They have had to move house as I expected and now reside in Trim
Street. I have never heard of such a street in Bath and am confident it is not in a very smart part of the town. However, this seems to be of no consequence to my aunt, as she intends to spend only winters in Bath in ‘comfortable lodgings’ and to spend her summers travelling about the country staying with relatives. I do not know if this was meant as a hint for an invitation but if it was it will not be taken up. I have enough on my hands with my mother and it is not as though the only visitor would be my aunt. Not only will Jane and Cassandra be of the party in these summer ramblings but also Martha Lloyd, who, now that she has lost her mother, is to leave Ibthorpe and take up residence with the Austens! My aunt does not seem to find anything wrong with this plan—I should be ashamed if it were me to put myself on the comfort of others.

She writes at great length of the generosity of her wonderful sons:

How I should love to know what Jane makes of this—there is no mention of her and I doubt any of the brothers have given her a
thought. In my opinion they are not as generous as their mother seems to think. Edward has wealth beyond the understanding of most of us—look how they all boast about his property constantly—only £100 a year from him is derisory. He could not even shift himself to attend his father’s funeral—the excuse of his wife being confined is no excuse, it is hardly the first time! Mrs JA will have been involved in limiting James’ contribution—she is a wise housekeeper by all accounts—but considering he has inherited not only his father’s home but his stipend he could certainly give more. Frank’s offer seems generous to be sure but I have heard that he has just taken command of a splendid new ship—the
Canopus
. Well, not new as she was a French-built ship captured at the Battle of the Nile but has been refitted and will bring him in at least £500 a year. But as for Henry—why is his situation precarious? What pray, has happened to his wife’s fortune? There is certainly enough of it to keep a French cook, two housekeepers, endless underservants and enough carriages and coachmen to keep him and Eliza in comfort as they cavort about the country. They are to be at Godmersham soon.

July 1805

So my aunt’s summer progress is begun. Does she think herself Queen Elizabeth? She is certainly travelling with a big enough entourage. Jane and Cassandra are with her, of course, and now Martha accompanies them everywhere. As they left Bath they stopped at Steventon to collect little Anna. Mary is just brought to bed of another daughter—called Caroline—so I suppose they thought it would be good to remove Anna from her stepmother, who is bad-tempered with her at the best of times and no doubt will be even more impatient with her now. She is much preoccu
pied, as she does not put her children out to nurse as many mothers do. They all arrived at Godmersham at the same time as Eliza and Henry, so it was a large party. I have received a letter from Eliza describing it all to me:

No one realises that I am simply unable to accept even an invitation to dine with Mr Whitaker as Mama cannot be left even for a few hours. She goes on:

Eliza cannot see it—she never sees anything which does not affect her directly—but it is clear to me why Jane spends time with Miss Sharpe. She is thinking that she may have to become a governess and wishes to find out all she can about such a life. ’Tis likened often enough to slavery but if one were placed within a good family it might be tolerable. Better for a woman like Jane perhaps than being endlessly at the beck and call of her mother and forced to rely on the generosity or otherwise of her brothers. I know what the former is like but at least I do not have to ask for money to pay my laundress or to have to make a case for a new muslin. I have never liked Jane, but I do not envy her that.