Dearest Cousin Jane (9 page)

June 1796

I
did not want to attend the ball—of that much I was certain. It was not so much that I thought it improper. Sufficient time had passed from the death of my dear Anne for that not to be a consideration. No, it was more that I have never been of much merit as a dancer and could not see myself in a ballroom in the role of a single man, or, rather, a recent widower. How did one go about choosing which young lady to engage for which dance? Were the dances I knew still in fashion or would I be expected to know a whole series more? Was it now the custom, as I had heard, to escort the lady back to her seat instead of leaving her immediately the dance was ended? There was so much I did not know.

‘Nonsense James,’ said my sister Jane briskly when I confided my fears. ‘None of this is of any consequence whatsoever. A widower such as yourself, especially one with a young child to consider, has a duty to seek another wife, and what better place to do it than at a ball?’

Cassandra, too, was encouraging and so I decided to attend the next Assembly ball with them. Basingstoke was not too far away and would have the added advantage of being populated with many of our neighbours, so that I would not lack partners.

‘Lack partners?’ said Jane when I confided this to her. ‘Indeed, there will be no question of that. Sadly, ladies always outnumber
gentlemen at these affairs and many a fair young woman is forced to sit down for half an hour together for want of a willing partner. You will be in great demand, never fear.’

Cassandra smiled and added, ‘And your sisters will give you instruction before the evening in order that you will be the most proficient gentleman there.’

So it turned out that by the time of the next Assembly I felt much more confident in my ability to tread the measure and really enjoyed my evening. I danced the two first with Mary Lloyd, the two next with Althea Bigg Wither, and by the end of the evening had not got around to favouring either of my sisters because of the number of other young ladies who were eager to favour me.

‘You see James,’ said Jane in the carriage of the Bigg Withers on our way home, ‘how much more valued a man is than a lady in such circumstances. Why, both Cassy and I were forced to sit down during the course of the evening whereas you were never off the floor.’

I did, in fact, find this most gratifying and bethought me of the times before I was married when Henry and I used to vie for Eliza’s attention like young bucks. Of course she, too, is widowed now. I must take up my pen to write to her. I believe Jane has her location. In truth, I found myself looking forward to the next ball.

‘What do you think, girls?’ I said ‘Shall we make up a similar party next month?’

They both smiled as they glanced at each other.

As things turned out though, my next experience in a ballroom was not in Basingstoke but at Manydown, home of the Bigg Withers, and this time only Jane accompanied me, as Cassandra was gone to stay with her betrothed’s family in Berkshire. Once again I enjoyed the evening greatly and found myself flattered by the numbers of young ladies who greeted me warmly and expressed a desire to be
my partner. Even I felt that my dancing was improving, and I began to feel quite the eligible young man once again.

The evening was marred for me in one way though. I overheard two of the older ladies who habitually sit by the fire on such occasions and act as chaperones. Rather, perhaps, they act as commentators on what passes and exchange gossip. I was most discomfited to hear one of them describe my sister Jane as ‘madly husband hunting’ and another agrees that she was indeed becoming ‘quite the flirt’.

I was sorely tempted to remonstrate with them but knew that the ballroom of my friend’s house was not the place to do so, and was perhaps also made rather uncomfortable myself by observing some of Jane’s behaviour during the evening. Her great friend Mrs Lefroy had her nephew visiting from Ireland, and it was apparent almost immediately that he and Jane were attracted to each other. He asked her to dance and I saw how animated their conversation was as they went down the line. After she had favoured Harris Bigg Wither, Lefroy asked her again and this time took her in to supper. I was seated on the other side of the room during supper, but could not help but notice that they talked to no one but each other and, to my astonishment, when her agreed partner for the first dance after the supper interlude came to claim her, she refused him and continued her nonstop conversation with Lefroy. I did not know what to do. I felt that had Cassandra been there she would have upbraided her or at least reminded her of the rules of good manners at a ball, but as her brother should I feel that it was my duty to do the same? I am not a person who feels able to make quick decisions about such matters, but, in any case, before I had time to decide what should be done, I actually observed her walk back into the ballroom with Lefroy and take her place in the set! To refuse the gentleman to whom you had promised the dance and then accept another was simply the worst insult one could pay in a ballroom, and I resolved that at the end of
the dance I must take her discreetly to one side and remind her of her manners. I could not ignore the disapproving looks the couple were receiving from all sides, even though they themselves appeared to be in ignorance or oblivious. Accordingly, at the end of the dance, I left my partner at her seat and turned to look for Jane. She was nowhere to be seen! I did not want to make it obvious to all that I was seeking her but tried to stroll up and down casually while running my eyes over the ballroom crowd. Still no sign of them, nor in the supper room or in the vestibule. Eventually I passed Mrs Lefroy at the entrance to the hall and she whispered from behind her fan, ‘Try the conservatory.’

I walked in and there they were, sitting among the palms, talking as earnestly as before. I could not believe my sister would be so indiscreet. Anyone would think she had not been set a good example at home, and I felt that my position both as her brother and a clergyman made it vital that I tell her immediately that her behaviour was bringing shame upon her family.

‘Jane…,’ I began as I approached them.

Her smile was wide and warm and showed not the slightest degree of discomfort.

‘Why James,’ she said, ‘allow me to present my newest acquaintance, Mr Tom Lefroy.’

He rose and turned to face me, bowing slightly. ‘Delighted to meet you, sir. Miss Austen here has been telling me all about her fine family and I had already marked out her eldest brother by the proficiency of his dancing.’

Well, I thought, ’tis true what they say about the Irish having the gift of the gab. I returned his bow. ‘But I fear I must ask you to return with my sister to the main party in the ballroom. Her parents would not approve of her sitting out here with a young man not known to them.’

I saw Jane colour and look most annoyed.

‘Really James…,’ she began.

But Lefroy took the point immediately. ‘My dear fellow, of course. I must apologise for monopolising her. I had quite forgotten the rules about such things are stricter here in the country than in town, and I do hope I have not caused any distress to you or our hosts.’

I could do nothing other than reassure him while feeling all the time that if he did not know the rules, my sister certainly did and was choosing deliberately to flout them.

‘Perhaps,’ the smooth-tongued charmer went on, ‘when I call upon Miss Austen at home tomorrow, she may do me the honour of presenting me to your parents and allow me to apologise in person if I have done anything to offend them.’

Jane has certainly never met a more articulate and polished young man—it is impossible not to be impressed by him. Whether he is to be trusted is another matter though.

The following morning I had my own calls to pay, as was the custom, on the young ladies with whom I had danced at the ball. I had promised Mama to take my cold meat at Steventon and when I got there she greeted me with raised eyebrows and lowered voice.

‘Who is this young fellow? He has been here above an hour sitting with Mr Austen and Jane in the library. They seem to be vastly entertained by him, judging by the laughter we are hearing.’

Indeed, I could myself hear peals of laughter and animated chatter from my father’s room.

‘Am I to invite him to take some refreshment with us?’ went on my mother. ‘His family are respectable enough but he seems a little forward for my taste.’

Before I could answer, the door opened and the three of them emerged.

‘Mr Lefroy must leave us now,’ said my father, ‘but I hope we shall see him again during the course of his stay with his aunt. We rarely have the opportunity for such stimulating company.’

I tried to ignore the look of triumph that Jane shot at me behind my father’s back as he shook hands very warmly with our visitor.

When I rode over from Deane the next day—I was to take little Anna home with me as her grandfather the general was to visit—I found that the ‘stimulating company’ had been there again. Jane was seated at her desk, writing to Cassandra, and was, I must say, looking remarkably pretty, her hair tied up in a green ribbon and her cheeks glowing.

‘Only consider, James, what dear Cassy will make of my profligate behaviour with my Irish friend,’ she said, seemingly rather proud of such behaviour. I am telling her that the only fault I can find with Mr Lefroy is that his morning coat is a good deal too light.’

I did not trust myself to respond. If my parents will not take a hand in correcting or restraining her, what am I to do?

Besides, I have other things on my mind. Mama has just told me that Eliza is finally returning from her long stay in the north and that she will be at Steventon within a sennight. My mind is made up. I shall court her while she is here. She has shown herself to be a devoted mother to that poor little boy of hers and I know she would be kind to my Anna. I must put my domestic affairs in order. It is no longer right for Anna to be constantly with her aunts, though they love her dearly, and I need someone to order my household and tend to parish matters. I have long admired Eliza and I believe she cares for me. It must surely be likely that she, too, wishes to remarry, and her long sojourn in the north country must have shown her that she is ready to relinquish that rather fast
life she was leading in former times. She would, I am sure, find contentment at Deane, which is after all a fine house if not a grand one. Yes, I shall woo her and will even go back to writing verses. She is a romantic and poetry will appeal to her. I will start writing tonight.

March 1797

M
y cousin Eliza certainly is unfortunate in some ways, though she always has a pretence of cheerfulness even in her misfortunes.

When we were in Brighton together recently she told me she had an abscess on her breast and even went so far as to show it to me—though truth be told I thought I should faint when I looked upon it. She consulted a physician when we were there but I advised her most earnestly to seek the advice of a specialist when she returned to London. Always in my mind was the fate of her poor mother, and I daresay she, too, had such thoughts before her.

I have heard that she has consulted some famous knight surgeon—Eliza may be trusted always to have such people dance attendance on her, and she can in any case afford it. She assures me the condition is improving, though she has had to bear the horror of having leeches applied—I shudder at the thought of it. In spite of this rather serious indisposition she still seems to drive out all the time—she told me in her last letter that she was in Hyde Park that morning alongside the Princess of Wales, and she continues to attend the salons that she adores. I hope with all my heart she may not be sorry for her propensity for indulging in such pleasures.

She seems quite content about her eventual rejection of cousin James’s proposal. I could have told the fool that she would never have him. Eliza as the wife of a country parson—it is too absurd! He clearly thought that because they were both widowed with a child to raise they could suit each other. Is he surprised that she preferred, as she put it, ‘dear liberty’? Well yes, he did seem surprised, as I have heard not only from Eliza but from cousin Cassandra also. I suppose he thought his literary aspirations with poems and the like would conceal from her that life at Deane parsonage would have been very dull indeed compared with a life where you dine with exiled French aristos and curtsey to Her Majesty. How could she have ministered to his parishioners? She cares for little Hastings, ’tis true, but cares for little else except her beloved Pug. Neither I nor anyone else could see her taking soup to the poor of the parish. I suppose it was when she returned to London to think over his proposal that she saw the disparity in their persons and realised that she could not give up the style she so much enjoys, however much poetry he wrote for her and however pretty the countryside was looking in the spring.

So now she has rejected both the Austen brothers, and Henry I hear has found consolation with a Miss Mary Pearson. She has fine black eyes, I understand, and her father is in charge of the naval hospital at Greenwich, so she will have a fine dowry. Eliza writes of this a little wistfully, but you cannot blame Henry after all—he made her the offer and she refused him as she has now refused James. I do not believe that Aunt Cassandra will find this very flattering to her sons, though I imagine she would not have much welcomed Eliza as a daughter-in-law—there is no love lost there.

Mind you, I wonder if Eliza herself is not at present counting herself fortunate that she has escaped a closer connection with
that part of the family, for I hear that Jane has been behaving in a way like to bring shame upon it. Eliza herself always professes such admiration for Jane and admires her compositions excessively. While she was at Steventon this time she heard reading from what she called ‘Jane’s best effort yet’—this is a full length novel if you please—about two young ladies called Elinor and Marianne. I do not know if there is any limit to cousin Jane’s impudence—does she think herself a Miss Burney? I am astonished that Uncle George permits it and he a clergyman, too. Does he not know that lady novelists are considered profligate and shocking by decent people?

Anyway, it seems that the writing is not the limit of Jane’s impropriety, as she has developed a reputation for madly husband hunting and recently behaved in the most indecent manner with a visiting young Irishman named Tom Lefroy. It is my belief that Cassandra’s being absent visiting her future in-laws may have been a factor here, as I have always observed that Cassy is by far the steadier of the two. In my view she is the handsomer, too, though I know that others do not agree with me. This Mr Lefroy is the nephew of Jane’s old friend Mrs Lefroy, and he and Jane met at a ball. My correspondents in the neighbourhood were profoundly shocked by how she set her cap at him and threw all good manners to the wind. I believe she even refused one of her promised partners in order to sit out with him and was seen entering the conservatory quite alone with him. Well, of course, it came to nothing—how could she have expected anything else? He is one of a large family with no money, and he is entirely dependent on some great-uncle who pays for his law studies in London. The boy’s family depends on him to make a great match with a wealthy young woman, and Jane has not a penny. He probably just intended to have a few days amusement and she took it all too seriously and had her head turned. She is a
shameless creature and, as she writes of romance, no doubt thought that love could overcome all obstacles. Well, she soon learned the truth. His aunt sent him packing pretty smart and Jane is left looking foolish and duped. They have now packed her off to her brother Edward’s in Kent till the neighbourhood have forgotten that she behaved so ill—and perhaps until Cassandra is safe at home so she can keep her in control.

I received a nice letter from cousin Frank, who is also in Kent, on leave before his next venture on the high seas. He and Edward have been out shooting together and he told me—I suppose he thought to amuse me—that Jane had expressed a desire to go out shooting with the gentlemen instead of sewing shirts for her brother! There is no end to the impudence of that young lady.

A few weeks later

There is more bad news from Steventon. Tom Fowle is dead. Even as poor Cassandra sewed her wedding clothes he had been dead some weeks—of yellow fever in the West Indies. How sad for her—but really he should never have gone, engaged as he was. Where was his duty to his family and fiancée? But I suppose the sad truth was that without such a venture they could have no hope of marrying. Cassandra will bear it well—there will be no hysterics for her, no wailing, just bravery and dignity, I am sure. Indeed, Jane herself clearly admires her self-control—no doubt thinking that in similar circumstances she herself would not be a model of restraint. Jane told Eliza that her sister behaves with a degree of resolution and propriety that no common mind could evince in such a situation. There is some consolation for her, too; it seems that Tom has left her £1,000. Those girls could never have imagined the receipt of such riches. I wonder how she will
spend it? It will give her at least some small degree of independence, which Jane can never hope for unless she makes a living with that much admired pen of hers. I shall believe that when it comes to pass!

James, too, is mightily afflicted by Tom’s death, as they were friends from boyhood. I believe he gave a most moving oration at the funeral service. Well, not a funeral, of course, because Tom was buried at sea long ago. I believe that both Jane and Cassandra wished to attend the service and would have done so had not their parents forbade them. How unseemly that would have been.

James, I hear, is finding consolation for his disappointment with Eliza. He seems to be courting at Ibthorpe. Mary Lloyd will be far more suitable a wife for him than Eliza, and I am sure my aunt Cassandra has had a hand in this. I have heard her express great affection for both the Lloyd girls, but for my part I never cared much for Mary. Martha is altogether a kinder soul and gentler. It is a thousand pities that James has been so open about his pursuit of Eliza, for everyone must know that Mary is his second choice. What woman would be content with that? I am sure that Eliza will never be a welcome visitor in that house!

Eliza has recently been taking the waters in Cheltenham, a little town that begins to fancy itself another Bath, they say. She reports that the waters have done wonders for her abscess, which is now completely cleared. She tells me often in her letters now that she is desirous of taking control of her financial affairs herself instead of being reliant on Uncle George and Mr Woodman.

‘After all, dear cousin,’ she writes, ‘I am a mature woman, well versed in the ways of the world and quite capable of managing my own money.’

She asks me to intercede on her behalf with my uncle, that he
may be persuaded to grant her wish. In vain do I tell her that I can have no possible influence with my uncle, and in any case am not likely to see him in the near future. She has invited me to accompany her next time she goes to Steventon—what cheek she has to issue an invitation to a house that is not her own!—but I do not wish to see those girls again. Jane has returned home from Kent and I think Mama would not wish me to associate with someone who has behaved so ill. Cassandra, meanwhile, is surely too distraught from her own sorrow to welcome visitors.

I advised Eliza to seek the approval of her godfather for her plans as I am sure that neither my uncle nor Mr Woodman would hold out if the great Warren Hastings consented—Mr Woodman is his brother-in-law after all. She told me joyously some weeks later that my advice proved entirely right and Mr Hastings had replied:

Upon receipt of this advice, all the trustees needed was proof of the death of the Comte, so that he might not have a claim on her fortune and this is easily furnished.

So she will soon be in complete control of her assets. I have a curiosity to know why she is so set on this. Has she another husband in her sights for whom this would be an inducement? She is now begging me to accompany her to Lowestoft—this lady never stays still for more than a month together. I have heard her speak of a
certain Captain Smyth and it is possible she pursues him there, but I remember that I have heard Henry’s regiment is now quartered in East Anglia. I shall not go. She wants me only to confer respectability on what is a far from respectable journey. She is set once more upon Henry, I think.