Dearest Cousin Jane (6 page)

September 1788

D
elighted as I am to have a visit from dear uncle George and his family I could wish they were coming at a more propitious time. I do pride myself on always keeping an elegant home, and it is hard to be elegant when surrounded by boxes and packing cases. But I have so much to accomplish before our return to France, so much to store away here, so much to purchase and pack for the establishment in Guines that the disarray cannot be helped.

In addition I am so concerned about dear little Hastings. In August he suffered a most alarming series of seizures—well, in truth I must call them fits. It is dreadful to see him at these moments and we can only try to hold him and prevent him from hurting himself until they subside. When they do, he generally sleeps a little and awakes his usual sunny-natured and smiling self. I have consulted several of the doctors who have been recommended but they all say he may well grow out of it. In my most depressed moments, I remember that little George Austen has not grown out of his condition and must needs be cared for away from his family. That I could not bear and have promised myself that come what may, he will remain with me always.

I am delighted that young Frank and Cassandra and Jane are to be of the party. They have all been visiting cousin Philly, so no
doubt will have heard of her visit here. I am confident the food there will have been frugal, so I shall ensure they dine splendidly when they arrive, in spite of being surrounded by trunks.

A few days later

Oh, how foolish I was to worry about the state of my apartments! As if my dear relations would worry about such trivia. What merriment and enjoyment we have had! Dear Uncle George grows more amiable with each year; his hair grows whiter but his manner is even more pleasing. We all took special delight in the teasing about cousin Philly.

‘Why, my dear,’ said Uncle George, ‘we were amazed to find you in the hall when we arrived. According to Philly, you were never at home, unless, that is, you were entertaining some grand personage!’

‘Take care what you say to that minx,’ said Aunt Cassandra. ‘She is no friend to you, but criticises constantly.’

‘Yes,’ put in Jane, ‘she thinks Cassy very pretty and modest but finds me whimsical and affected!’

‘I am sure it is just her rather strange manner.’ I always feel it necessary to defend Philly, for she has a rather lonely life, isolated with her parents and I feel sorry for her. ‘And after all, Cassy
is
very pretty.’

‘Of course she is, but I am not—’

‘That will do Jane,’ said my aunt, ‘lest you become what she thinks you are.’

I was glad that Frank distracted us with a tale of how Philly disapproves of his ambitions to join the navy, for I could see that there was the usual tension between Jane and her mother. I noticed, too, that Jane had changed considerably since the winter.
She had grown, it was true, but there was something a little more confident, more mature in her manner. I was eager to talk to her alone.

What a delight I found her! Whimsical she may be, but what virtue there is in her dry wit, and as for her powers of observation! I was touched that she shyly offered me two of what she called her ‘scribblings’ to read.

The first was called ‘The Beautiful Cassandra,’ and it is about a wild girl who rampages through London streets, stealing ice cream, knocking people down, refusing to pay the coachman who has driven her all round the city, and deciding that this is a splendid way to pass the day! The other is a longer tale called ‘Jack and Alice,’ and I was rather shocked to find it contained a murder, a mutilation, and some rather violent passions. For a twelve year old…well, I was astonished!

She watched me anxiously as I read, following my every expression, and when I refolded the papers she said, ‘Well, what think you of my first efforts?’

‘Jane, they are a true delight. Have you shown them to your parents?’

Her face fell. ‘I have not. You see they are so pleased with the writings that they are receiving from James and Henry from Oxford, that I do not want to seem as though I…’ She hesitated.

‘As though you are trying to compete with them?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘I, too, have received the advance copy of their magazine—
The Loiterer
it is called is it not?’

‘Yes, it is to come out each month’.

‘Well they have done very well to set up a regular publication and it is most amusing, in the style of—’

‘That is the trouble with it, it is in the style of Mr Fielding or
even Dr Johnson, but a very poor imitation and really just poking fun at literature for a particular group of people at Oxford.’

‘You do not admire it then?’

‘Oh it is tolerably amusing, I suppose’—she made an impatient gesture with her hand—’ but I have spent the summer reading all the back copies of
The Tatler
and
The Spectator,
which my father keeps on his shelves, and believe me,
The Loiterer
is a poor, a very poor, imitation.’

I could see how she might have difficulty telling her parents how she felt about their sons’ literary efforts, of which they were justly proud.

‘Well, Jane, I said, ‘it does not seem to me that your writing is a poor imitation of anyone else’s. If you can write so engagingly at twelve years old, I cannot imagine what you will produce at one and twenty!’

‘You will see, cousin,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘I shall have pieces to dedicate to everyone in my family before very long!’

June 1791

I
really think you enjoy writing the dedication as much as writing the story,’ I said to my sister as I watched her sign her name with a flourish and close the lid of her writing desk.

She ran her hand over the smooth top of the little desk my father had given her last year.

‘Well, you know when you write the dedication you feel the work is finished and that gives me a sense of accomplishment.’

‘Is Eliza pleased that ‘Love and Freindship’ is dedicated to her?’

‘I think she is,’ she replied. ‘Well no, it is clear that she is but you know that dear Eliza is always so lavish in her praise of our accomplishments, whether my writing or your drawing—’

‘Or more likely James’s or Henry’s efforts,’ I interrupted with a smile.

‘Yes, indeed.’ Jane laughed, joining in the joke. ‘She is never stilted in her praise so it is not easy to tell what she really thinks, but she certainly seemed excessively diverted when I read it to her and asked her permission to dedicate it to her.’

‘As well she might.’ I was always indignant at the thought that anyone did not admire what Jane called her scribblings as much as I did. ‘It is
so
funny—especially the part where Laura and Sophia faint alternately upon the sofa.’

‘Even Mama laughed at that, did she not? Though I fear she does not entirely approve that I have written about all those deceitful pleasures.’

‘Perhaps not, but you know that both Mama and our father have been lenient about what we are permitted to read—in fact, I think the Lloyds are quite shocked about the contents of our library.’

‘You mean Mr Fielding and Mr Richardson?’

‘Yes, and the other novels that most clergymen would think unsuitable for young ladies to read.’

Our friends, Mary and Martha Lloyd, would certainly not have been allowed such access, and even though they too were the daughters of a clergyman we did not seem to have much in common on these matters.

‘I have in mind several more ideas for stories and I have a notion to make something a little longer, too—what think you of a story that is told entirely in letters?’ Jane asked.

‘I would have to read it first—or have you read it to me—you know that my imagination is such a poor thing compared with yours,’ I said. ‘I have not the liveliness of you, my love, nor of Eliza either, I added.

She looked suddenly concerned and said: ‘Oh, it strikes me of a sudden that you may have been hurt by my giving a dedication to Eliza when I have given none to you.’

I was reluctant to admit it but shrugged a little.

‘What a selfish and inconsiderate creature I am,’ said Jane, but fear not. It is my intention to set all my family’s names upon my works before I am done. I have promised Frank to send him something now he is away at sea and we see him so little. But for you, my dearest, I have a better idea—to be sure I shall dedicate one to you but how much better if we produce it together?’

‘Oh Jane you know I cannot—’

‘No, a proper joint effort—with my scribbles illustrated by your wonderful drawings. What think you?’

I laughed. ‘Well, I certainly could not draw the shocking goings on of Laura and Sophia.’

‘No but you could of the kings and queens of England could you not? And what I have in mind is a history of England, which shall be dedicated to you and charmingly illustrated by you.’

She was as good as her word and ere long we were at work together on what she called
The History of England, by a Partial, Prejudiced, and Ignorant Historian
.

I was touched by the dedication:

Compilation of the work gave us ample time for exchanging views about the latest news from our cousin. Jane loved the drama of what she perceived as her romance with Henry and the jealousy this inspired in James, but as I told her this all came to naught when James announced his engagement to Anne Matthews—the daughter of a general, a fine match for him that clearly pleased my parents.

‘A fine match indeed for him,’ said Eliza when she heard about it, ‘but not a bad one for her, since she is two and thirty and he a fine handsome fellow of barely five and twenty.’

‘But do not you always say,’ teased Jane, ‘that marriages are about money and he has a tolerably good position at Deane now he is ordained, with the prospect of inheriting my father’s living at a later date?’

‘No, it will not do, my dear,’ returned Eliza. ‘There would be too much disparity between the daughter of a general and a country
clergyman, however tall and handsome, if her age had not made her willing to settle for him.’

Eliza’s flippancy about marriage made me angry as it usually did. I hoped to marry for love and had the same hopes for Jane. I did not like the influence that Eliza seemed to exert on her when it came to discussing affairs of the heart. They seemed forever to be going into corners and whispering about such things, gossiping and giggling about love and marriage. The other day I heard her tell Jane that she would give her lessons in flirting. It is most unseemly, and I am sure Mama would not approve. She and Papa married for love as I hope to do and I do not think Eliza should try to turn Jane’s head by talk of dowries and settlements and ‘catching the right beau.’ Jane has always taken my advice, and I worry about the manners she is picking up from Eliza.

We were very glad that Eliza, Aunt Philla, and the boy managed to return unharmed from France as things were very unsettled there and had given us cause of alarm about her safety.

‘’Tis right,’ said my mother, ‘that the poor Comte sees his son and heir at last, but I do not deny that I wish they would all return as soon as possible to these shores.’

Yet Eliza had been so happy when we visited her in London as she was packing to leave to join her husband. The house was in a very fashionable part of London and Jane was very excited to be there—I think what she liked most of all was riding around the streets in Eliza’s coach, which actually had a coronet decorating the door.

‘Can you not imagine, Cass,’ Jane had said to me, ‘that the populace will consider us to be princesses when they see this equipage?’ She had begun to use French phrases since we had been again with Eliza—a habit that annoyed my mother, though I think Papa thought it rather smart.

‘Of course they do not Jane. Do not let your imagination run riot so. There are many here who have coronets on their coaches,’ I said.

‘I do not imagine,’ said my mother, ‘ that she will wish to ride around Paris in such a coach—things being as they are there. I would think it best to walk and dress in rags.’ Our newspapers were full of stories of mob violence in Paris, and we truly felt at one point that Eliza, my aunt, and the boy would come to harm.

When Eliza returned, she came to spend the summer with us at Steventon. The pupils having departed, there was once again ample room for them. We were pleased to see that little Hastings was breeched at last as he seemed to have been kept in petticoats for far too long. I think Eliza was in hopes that putting him in breeches would enable him to make more progress with his walking, but he still finds it difficult and begs to be lifted up on every occasion. He grows so large and heavy that it is difficult for my cousin and even more so for my aunt, who seems to have grown thin and pale since the spring.

As Henry and James are at Oxford and Frank gone to Portsmouth, my mother has fitted up one of the first-floor rooms as a little sitting room for visitors, but the summer has been so fine that we spend most evenings sitting outside. Eliza regales us with tales of the new developments in France, though this is usually about the forms of dress rather than the politics.

‘It is all so much simpler now. A simple chemise over a single petticoat is the style and the ladies wear fresh flowers in their hair rather than jewels.’

‘Do they not wilt quickly?’ asked Jane, more interested in fashion than either Mama or me.

‘Why no, because the flowers are placed in tiny phials of water, which are hidden in the ladies’ hair and can be refilled.’

‘What will they think of next?’ said Mama rather disapprovingly. ‘I daresay we shall find such inventions spreading here.’

‘Perhaps we could contrive such an ornament for our hair for the next Basingstoke Assembly?’ said Jane, who had just acquired a new muslin for her first public ball.

My father, seeing my mother’s look and trying as ever to avert the tensions that arise over the slightest thing between Mama and Jane, said: ‘We may import French fashions but let us be sure not to import their ideas.’

‘Oh dear uncle,’ said Eliza, touching his arm in her familiar show of affection to him, ‘my husband would so agree with you. He is most concerned about the hostility to the aristocracy that is so widespread now. In his last letter he tells me how it is evident even in the south and is no longer just confined to Paris.’

‘We all thought the unrest would be put down by now but I was reading in the
Morning Post
today that violence to the nobility is becoming quite common. I do hope, my dear, that you will not think of returning to France until things are calmer.’

‘I have agreed with the Comte that I should stay in England for a while. I have a mind to go to Margate with Mama and the little boy. I have heard that the sea bathing there is efficacious for conditions like his.’

She looked wistful and sad. This was the first time that I had heard any admission from her that Hastings was not normal and we were all taken aback. For a moment there was silence. Then Eliza recovered and clapped her hands excitedly.

‘Now, my dears, let us talk of happier things. I hear that dear Edward is to be married—yet another of my cousins making a fine match.’

Edward had lately become engaged to Elizabeth Bridges, a baronet’s daughter.

‘Where is the marriage to take place? Is it to be in Kent? Are we all to attend? I confess I have attended only one wedding and thought it a very strange business.’

‘Whose marriage was it?’ asked Jane.

‘Why my own, of course,’ she replied.

My father burst out laughing, but he caught my mother’s disapproving look and hastily collected himself.

‘No my dear, we shall not travel to Kent, though they will call here on their wedding journey shortly after. But you know we expect another marriage here in which we shall all be involved? You remember that cousin Jane Cooper’s father died last month? Your aunt and I have taken over arranging it all for the poor orphaned child.’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ Eliza said, her eyes brightening. She glanced at me.

‘Does not our dear Cassy have an interest in that affair?’

I could not help blushing.

‘Tom Fowle is a fine young man,’ said my mother coldly ‘and if he and Cassandra—’

‘Mama’, I interrupted, embarrassed. ‘Mr Fowle is to officiate at the ceremony, that is all’.

Jane saw my discomfiture and suggested to Eliza that they walk together before bed. I was grateful to see them quit the group and walk off towards the shrubbery. Eliza’s flirtatious ways are alien to me. I knew she would enquire about Tom’s prospects, which in truth are not great. He is a curate but with no hope of advancement in his living he will have no prospect of marrying, though I have reason to think he admires me. I will keep my thoughts to myself though, and not even tell Jane lest Eliza plague me about falling in love.

After all, look how she teased Jane about what she wrote in the Parish Register. She was only trying out names for herself upon mar
riage, as many young girls do, and my father was mistaken to show it around. He meant it only as a joke but how Eliza played upon it.

‘“Henry Frederick Howard Fitzwilliam of London”? Oh I like the sound him—Fitzwilliam is especially fine—could we not make him a baronet, too, for good measure? What about this next one? “Edmund Arthur William Mortimer of Liverpool.” Edmund sounds like a clergyman to me and Liverpool is not a nice place so I am told.

‘Now what is this last one? “Jack Smith to be married to Jane Smith, late Austen”? Oh Jane do aspire to something more than Smith I beg you!’

To my surprise Jane was not discomfited, but joined in the joke.

‘I shall try hard to marry a man only if he has a fine name, I assure you,’ and they all laughed.

I am often discomforted by Eliza’s attitudes and frequently feel that she exerts too much influence upon my dear sister. Perhaps I am jealous? I own that may be the case but I do feel that desire to either shock or please Eliza leads Jane to be more outrageous in her writing than she might naturally be. I wish she would write of love and romance rather than murders, drunkenness, and madness. That story ‘Jack and Alice,’ which she has dedicated to Frank, has so many people in it who are described as ‘dead drunk’ and ruined by gambling that it may shock even a midshipman, and I doubt very much if he will tell his shipmates it is written by his younger sister. Still, the dear girl is so happy when she is writing that I do not criticise and am sure that when she falls in love herself she will write more romantically. I know that I, at present, want only to read of weddings and to dream of my own.