Dearest Cousin Jane (21 page)

November 1812

I
knew I must meet Jane at the door as she arrived so as to warn her about the change she might see in Eliza. Though I suspected that Cassandra might have made her aware that Eliza was often tired when we were together at Godmersham for the shooting, I think my dear wife has hidden her condition so well that it might not have been apparent that there was anything seriously wrong. Eliza has always made a point of being at the door herself to welcome visitors—it has been part of her talent as a hostess and she has always prided herself on making everyone who visits us feel cherished and special. So I have told her that Jane is not expected until the dinner hour, when in fact she will be here by three, I think. Mr Tilson is escorting her, as he had business in Alton. Even now she is a famous authoress, it is not considered proper for her to travel post alone but the bank connection in Alton has proved most useful this last year. It has been most agreeable to have Jane with us so frequently, and to see her ‘correcting my proofs,’ ‘seeing my publisher,’ ‘negotiating my contracts’ has been such a joy to Eliza and me, especially when we thought back to that time, not so long ago, when her spirits were so low that we feared she would never write again.

What amazed me most is how few corrections and changes she had to make to
Pride and Prejudice,
when one considers that she completed it some fifteen years ago. She said she had to cut it quite savagely, but you would never know. Eliza says that just shows the quality of the writing.

Tilson gave her his arm to help her down from the carriage and presented her to me with a bow.

‘Henry, here is the lady of whom all London is talking!’

Jane’s natural modesty makes her blush at such compliments but, as I said, ‘’Tis true and Egerton says yours will be his best-selling book this year!’

She thanked Tilson for his company and then looked around.

‘Where is dear Eliza? I always expect to see her as soon as I arrive. Is she out calling on someone of great consequence?’

I put my finger to my lips. ‘I wanted to see you alone before you saw her so as to warn you—’

‘Henry, please, what is it? Pray tell me immediately.’

Worried that Eliza, upstairs in her chamber, might hear us, I took her arm and led her to the morning room.

As she sat down, she said in a dull voice, ‘Cassandra told me that she was unwell at Godmersham and that she feared…’

‘Feared what?’

She kept her eyes on my face. ‘That she saw similarities, well, was reminded of, of, Aunt Philla.’

I took her hand. ‘Cassandra was ever a good predictor; she is well named as we have often remarked.’

The tears sprang to Jane’s eyes. ‘I was praying it was not so, but when she was not here to greet me…Does she know?’

I sighed. ‘We do not discuss it.’

Jane looked astonished. ‘How can you not when you must both know…?’

‘It suits us both to pretend that she will recover. We speak of an inflammation of the chest, of an abscess such as she has had before. This is why I wanted to see you before you meet her. I knew you would see a change in her appearance but mostly I wanted to warn you not to discuss her possible fate…. It will do her no good and only upset her.’

‘I am sure you have consulted the best doctors—what is their view?’

‘As I told you, there is no hope of survival but she may have a year or two.’

‘A year or two, our lovely Eliza? Oh, I cannot bear it!’

‘You must, my dear, and I must ask you to contain your emotions in front of her. She needs to be encouraged to hope.’

I saw her draw back her shoulders and arrange her expression as she prepared to go upstairs; like my wife, she is a courageous woman.

That evening
Jane Austen with Elizain Her Dressing Room

I am trying to keep a conversation going and to keep my eyes away from Eliza’s face, not only because I hate to see the accustomed liveliness so depleted but also because I fear she will read my thoughts.

‘Do tell me, my dear,’ I said, ‘about the visit to Godmersham. You have not been there as often as Henry and I long to know what you think of it.’

‘Well, of course, it is a more sober place than it was those years ago and Edward shows not a sign of remarrying, which I think is rather selfish of him!’

I was delighted to see signs of her old spirit.

‘I hear that Fanny is still housekeeper in chief, which has always concerned Cassy and me.’

‘I have done my best to give her opportunities for other society, as you know, but Jane, you are the one who may influence her most.’

‘Me?’ I said. ‘How so?’

‘Why because she tries her hand at writing, of course—she longs to be a lady novelist like her famous aunt!’

‘She did tell me something of the sort and asked for advice and you will be amused to know that Anna is writing, too. Perhaps all my nieces will be published, but I hope they will not have to wait as long as I.’

We both laughed, remembering the disappointments.

Eliza said: ‘It is not unexpected they should hope talent runs in families. As you know, we were all at Godmersham when
P&P
came out. Cassy was there, too, so she will have told you of the excitement. The first copies came to the village by post chaise as Edward had ordered them, but in no time all the neighbours knew of it and were calling to congratulate us on having such a clever relation. In truth, I think they hoped you would be there and that they might be allowed to shake the hand that had created Elizabeth Bennet!’

‘Oh Eliza, do not exaggerate so.’

‘I do entreat you to stop this modesty—you are the lady of whom London is talking and you cannot get away from it. I am convinced that we shall have such excitement every time a book by Miss Jane Austen is announced and I shall be the one who gives handsome parties to celebrate each publication. Never again will I bear to hear of you being alone with your mama at Chawton when the whole of England celebrates.’

Her face grew suddenly serious.

‘Jane, I must talk to you. While it gives me great joy to think of your continuing success, I must face the fact that I shall not see it. To speak plain, I am dying. Henry knows it, my doctors know it, and soon everyone must.’

‘But my dear, surely it is only a small inflammation of the—’

‘Did Henry tell you that? It suits us both to pretend. Dear man as he is, he is not strong and has not had to face the sort of difficulties that have plagued me all my life. He finds the truth hard, so I protect him from it. But we were ever dear friends, Jane, and I will be truthful with you.’

It did not surprise me, of course—how strong she has always been and how I shall miss her. I said so.

‘Yes, I know you will, Jane, and that is why I am so desirous of telling you that you must not miss me too much.’

‘But how could I avoid it?’

‘What I mean is, miss me by all means but do not let the fact that I am no longer here deter you from your work. You must write and you must be published. Why, you are but five and thirty and could write perhaps twenty more books!’

‘Oh, dearest Eliza, your ambition for me knows no bounds!’

‘Nor should it, for your talent is boundless! Though I may not be here to congratulate you on every one of the twenty, I shall be with you in spirit and cheering you on.’

I could not hold back the tears then and we shed a few together, sitting on the small silk chaise longue with our arms about each other.

Presently, she recovered and dried her eyes.

‘Now Jane, there is something else I must talk to you about, something else I require of you.’

‘Anything, dear cousin, anything, you know that.’

‘It is Henry. You must ensure he marries again.’

I could not help smiling. ‘I am not sure anyone has the power to do that.’

‘Nonsense, he is not yet forty and a fine, well-looking man; there will be ladies aplenty who see him as a fine catch!’

‘I am sure that is true,’ I replied, ‘but you know he has been devoted to you since the age of fifteen. He may not easily—’

‘Henry needs a wife,’ Eliza interrupted. ‘He is not practical, you know, and between ourselves has little talent for banking. Do try to ensure he does not overreach himself financially and that he finds another wife with a little money to her name.’

I could not help expressing surprise. ‘But I always thought that there was ample money here?’

‘Well, we have lived very well, perhaps too well, and Henry is no better a manager than I, in fact somewhat worse.’ She smiled affectionately. ‘Dear man, I shall rest easy knowing his sister takes him in hand, only Jane…’

‘Yes?’

‘Do not allow him too much access to your income, which I know will be prodigious if sales of
P&P
are anything to go by.’

We both laughed, joined in our affection for Henry and understanding that a woman must keep an eye on her own money.

‘One day,’ she said, ‘I daresay all ladies will be able to control their own resources but until that time, let us allow our men folk to
think
they are in control, while being very cautious about how much we tell them!’

We laughed together and I wondered how many more times we should be able to do that.

‘You are to be with us at Christmas at Chawton, I think?’ I said. ‘We are all looking forward to that.’

‘I pray that I may be well enough to enjoy it. Dr Baillie is to treat me with leeches again in the week before—’

‘Leeches?’ I cried, horrified.

‘Yes, they provide relief from the pain, you know, and I do not wish to take too much of the laudanum he prescribes.’

‘But why not, if it helps with the pain?’

‘It also has a tendency to make one insensible and I am too concerned to know what is going on about me to be content with that.’ She laughed.

I wondered if I could be so brave were I in her position.

February 1813

O
h, it is too too cruel!’ My mother cried this out so loudly we all feared that Henry and Eliza would hear her as they climbed the stairs. But we all knew what she meant. To see Eliza, who has always carried herself so well and taken such a pride in her appearance, so enfeebled as to be unable to mount the stairs without her husband’s support was terrible. Her deterioration seems to be happening so quickly now. It is but six weeks since they joined us here at Christmas and only one week since they were here on their way to Oxford, but the failing is rapid and only too apparent. Her spirit is strong though—‘Just like her mother’s,’ said Mama with admiration. Eliza had been the first to applaud when I finished reading the scene about the theatricals at Mansfield Park and before Henry took her upstairs had said: ‘Now that Sir Thomas is returned, Jane, I cannot wait to hear what is going to happen to those naughty players. Please, I beg you, read no more tonight so that we can continue tomorrow where we have left off.’

I made the promise, of course. Henry had taken her hand as I read and we all knew that they were thinking of the theatricals they themselves used to engage in at Steventon—when Henry first fell in love with her.

Up until the turn of the year most of the family were scarcely aware of her illness. She was so excited with all the attention given
to
Pride and Prejudice
and so proud of its success. Eliza told everyone that I was ‘the lady of whom all London was talking,’ but it did me no good at home! All the family were kindness itself about the book, though—I should have found it hard to bear if people had
not
liked my Lizzie since I think her as delightful a creature as ever appeared in print.

With her usual candour, Cassandra had told me then that she saw in Eliza all the same symptoms that had carried Aunt Philadelphia off in such agony. Even when I returned from London I retained a hope that there might be a miracle, that she might recover, but it is very clear from seeing her now that she has not much longer to live.

We women face death more frequently than men; childbirth takes its toll, of course, and I am now thankful that I have not had to face that. Cassandra and I often speak of our good fortune in escaping its dangers. But just lately I have begun to think that I, too, might die without making old bones. I mentioned this once to Cassy, who said, ‘What nonsense is this, Jane? Just look at Mama—eight children and looking as strong as a woman half her age. You and I will live until we are eighty at least, happily together in our cottage at Chawton, with you turning out novels by the dozen and me ensuring you do not have to be bothered with the housekeeping. Save for making tea and toast in the morning!’

We have all believed in my sister’s ability to predict the future. I hope she is right in this, yet feel I must produce as much as I can, in case…

Henry quite dotes upon his wife and it is touching to see his concern for her. He knows that she will not survive long but they both still talk of it being ‘a small inflammation of the chest that will be better when the warmer weather comes.’

She must be in great pain, but Eliza still contrives to laugh and joke. Her interest in my work is gratifying—she knows I have always
valued her opinions, even if they do not always accord with mine, especially when it comes to
Mansfield Park
. I did not want to repeat the experience I had had with the first two published books of having to change their titles at a late stage, so I settled on
Mansfield Park
early on as the title for my next.

‘Oh Jane,’ Eliza had said when she heard this, ‘is this the one you told me you would write? It sounds as though it is about nobility—is it a fine house with titled occupants?’

‘One or two,’ I said ‘but the book is actually about ordination and the complications surrounding it.’ It was clear to me that she had quite forgotten our conversation last year. I realised that the pain and suffering she was having to face was now affecting her mind and her memory as well as her body.

Her face, now even thinner than before, fell. ‘Ordination—that is not an exciting topic, is it? I pray you, will there be no wicked characters in it? We do not find pictures of perfection so interesting you know.’

I laughed. ‘Believe me there will be villains enough in this story.’

‘Will there be villains like Willoughby?’

‘One at least, but also some wicked women!’

‘Wicked women—what say you, Henry? Shall you like to read of those?’ said Eliza, turning to her husband.

Henry smiled at me. ‘Once when you wrote of a woman with no redeeming features I scolded you—will these villains be like her?’

‘One may be,’ I replied, ‘but one is so crotchety as to put us all in mind of cousin Philly.’

‘Now Jane.’ My mother looked up from her quilt and eyed me crossly. ‘You know you always say that you do not write from life, so we wish to see no family portraits in this next.’ But she could not help smiling to herself I could see.

Mama had been very pleased that I wrote to Frank to ask if he would tell me how a ship might be berthed at Spithead, because I am writing scenes of Portsmouth and do so want to capture it right. She is delighted with William Price as she sees he is like my own sailor brothers, though I think she does not admire Fanny Price as she did Elizabeth Bennet. But then, I fear no one will.

When Henry came down from upstairs he drew me to one side. He smiled. ‘I know you always protest that you do not write from life but that scene where Mary Crawford tries to turn Edmund away from the church…’

‘Yes, Henry?’ I said, looking up at him.

‘Did you not hear something of such a scene with dear Eliza and me?’

I made to interrupt but he held up his hand. ‘And I think I do see something of dear Eliza in Mary—tell me, is Edmund to win her? Eliza was asking me my opinion as she retired.’

‘I think he will,’ I replied, ‘and Cassy tries to persuade me to allow Henry Crawford to succeed at last—you know we always favour Henrys!’

‘Jane,’ he began again—I could see he was close to tears—‘you see how things are with my dear wife. I beg you to grant me a favour.’

‘Of course, anything, you know that brother.’

‘Thank you, my dear. It is this: When the end comes…’

‘Oh Henry do not talk so.’

‘We must, my dear, it cannot be long delayed her doctors say. When the end comes, will you be with us? She has always loved you so well and would want you there I know.’

I gladly gave the promise, hoping with all my heart that she might live long enough to see
Mansfield Park
completed and published.

April 1813

It is not to be. An express is just come from Henry. He will be here tomorrow and requests that I return immediately with him to London, as she is failing fast. He writes: