I Was Jane Austen's Best Friend (29 page)

‘When they see that he can read they will want him back home,’ said Jane with conviction. Jane was very determined, and she was sure that she could teach George to read.

I hesitated a bit, but then the new grown-up me spoke out.

‘Jane …’ I said with a quick glance over my shoulder to check that we were outside Gilbert and John Warren’s listening range. ‘Jane, I think that you should be prepared for the possibility that it might be impossible for George to learn to read. Let’s just love him for what he is.’

And then Henry dropped back to walk with us and no more was said about George.

Edward was wearing a wig and that surprised me, because although I had never seen my uncle without one, the other boys just wore their own hair tied back. He was not very tall, rather squarely made with broad shoulders. He was dressed very fashionably, wearing a pair of tightly fitting salmon-coloured breeches, with knee-length white silk stockings, a white and gold waistcoat buttoned over his ruffled shirt and over it all a magnificent coat in blue brocade with a dozen gilt buttons, each the size of a sovereign.

He seemed nice, kissing his mother and two sisters, shaking hands with his brothers and father, bowing over my hand as if I were an adult and telling me
how small I was when he last saw me. He had a kind face and a sweet smile.

‘And how is your brother, my Cousin Edward-John?’ he asked me, raising my hand to his lips in a very courtly way. ‘Still the same Edward-John, is he? Always ready for a debate.’

‘He’s married now,’ I said. I tried to remember what my brother had been like before he married Augusta. Did he have opinions of his own then? I wondered. I couldn’t remember him saying much in the last year or so. I hadn’t ever heard him argue with Augusta, but she would have talked him down if he had even tried.

‘So, he’s married.’ He sounded surprised. I was sure that his mother must have told him, but he had probably forgotten. Life had been exciting for Edward during the past few years.

‘He’s been landed, poor fish,’ said Henry, and Mrs Austen glared at him.

Edward did not appear to notice his mother; he was now busy slapping Tom Fowle on the back and congratulating him about his engagement to Cassandra. Of course, he knew all of the older boys at the school as Edward had been a pupil there before he embarked on his Grand Tour of Europe. The Knights, his adoptive parents, had been anxious that he not lose contact with his birth parents, so that arrangement had been made for his education. I wondered whether either James or Henry were ever jealous of
Edward; he had been the least clever of the three brothers, according to Jane, and yet he was the one that was sent to all of those foreign countries and was now able to speak French and Italian like a native apparently.

‘Another poor fish that has been landed,’ said Henry, giving Tom Fowle a few extra slaps on the back, and this time everyone laughed, even me. Tom Fowle didn’t seem to mind. That is the thing about Henry. He can say anything, do anything, and people always forgive him. I wondered whether he would marry the very rich Miss King. If he wanted to, he probably could do it, I thought. He has lots of charm.

‘Shall we leave most of your luggage, Edward?’ asked Mr Austen. The inn yard was piled high with heavy leather trunks and travelling bags, but Edward would be returning there next day for the coach to Kent.

‘We’ll take these few here.’ Edward was obviously used to travelling. In a moment he had sorted out three of the bags, taken a handful of small silver coins from his purse and distributed them among the ostlers and coachmen, divided the bags among the boys and then set off strolling down the lane to Steventon, chatting to his father.

Edward had a generous nature. Two of the bags he brought to the house were stuffed with presents for the family. Mr Austen went back to his study
bearing a handsome case of clay pipes, a tobacco pouch and a leather-bound volume for his library. The pupils returned to the schoolroom with small gifts of linen handkerchiefs or cravats and then the family gathered around the leather bag for the rest of the present-giving.

There was a very handsome Indian shawl for Mrs Austen, a case of pistols for Henry, a fowling gun for Frank, a leather bridle and the whispered promise of a pony for Christmas for little Charles, and lace shawls for both Jane and Cassandra. I was admiring Jane’s when suddenly Edward produced one for me also. I couldn’t believe it. It was not so much that he had spent money on me, as the fact that he had remembered that I was staying at Steventon and brought me a gift just as if I were one of his sisters.

Then there were more presents: boxes of French bonbons, some beautifully illustrated books, a pair of pictures for the girls’ bedrooms, a painting of a waterfall for the parlour — there seemed to be no end to what was coming out of that wonderful bag. Dinner was late that afternoon,
partly because Mrs Austen had been delayed with the opening of the presents, but partly because in fashionable society — so she told Jane and myself — dinner was often not eaten until darkness fell. She thought Edward might lack appetite if we had it too early.

Everything was arranged to suit Edward. Mrs Austen must have been up half the night. I had never seen the parlour look so lovely, with even an Indian rug, unearthed from a chest in her bedroom, decorating the highly polished floor.

It was funny, I thought, that two of Mrs Austen’s six sons did not live at the parsonage. One, George, was barred from the house, but the other, Edward, was treated like royalty when he spent a night with his parents.

After dinner Jane disappeared, but the rest of us stayed sitting around the parlour, listening to Edward’s tales of his adventures in foreign countries. Eventually he was almost hoarse with talking and Mr Austen gave him a glass of port and looked around for Jane to play the piano for everyone.

It was at that moment that the door opened.

It is ten o’clock. I have just written lots about Edward and about the presents, but I haven’t written about the most important thing.

I have a new quill in my hand — it’s one that Frank gave me. He gave it to me because Jane tells everyone that I am always writing. I have sharpened it to a
neat point with my penknife, but now I don’t know what to say.

I should be writing about what happened today after dinner. Every night I write about what happened during the day, and usually I just write and write and the words come to my mind faster than my quill can form them on the page.

Let me see if I can sort it out, minute by minute.

Dinner had finished, and the Digweeds and the Terrys, neighbours to the Austens, had come by to see Edward, so the parlour was full to bursting point with them and their children and with Mr Austen’s pupils.

And Jane opened the door and stood there, holding George by the hand.

I think if I had been Jane, when I saw them all there, I would have quickly shut the door and taken George away and given him lots of cake and biscuits and talked with him and laughed with him and perhaps taught him some more of his letters, but I would have definitely taken him straight back to the village.

But Jane is not me.

She opened the door and she just stood there with everyone looking at her, and then peering past her to see, standing behind her, George, the abandoned son. A queer little stunted figure, all dressed up like a miniature parson.

And Jane said in a clear, ringing voice, ‘Mama,
Papa, here is George, come to see his brother Edward. He’d like to show you all what he has learned.’

I can’t remember what happened next. I suppose she must have got him into the parlour. I just remember her putting him on a chair in front of a small table. She was like a player, setting the scene. She took out the cake and the biscuits and the apple from her basket and then she arranged them on the table. George began to tremble. I came over next to him and tried to squeeze his hand so that he wouldn’t feel so nervous.

He did manage to make the sign for
A
and also for
C
, but when I put the biscuits in front of him he began to shake violently.

And then Henry jumped up. ‘Let go of him, Jenny,’ he shouted.

I got such a shock at Henry yelling at me that I couldn’t move. I still held George’s hand, but now Mr Austen had his arms around George, and Mrs Austen undid my grip. Henry helped Mr Austen and they almost lifted George. He was shaking all over from head to toe and they laid him on the ground. I could see how the froth came to his lips and how his eyes rolled. I can still hear Mrs Digweed’s voice proclaiming, ‘He’s having a fit.’

I suppose Mrs Austen managed very well. I remember her calm voice ushering everyone into the breakfast parlour, chatting to the Terry children, explaining
that the boy — she called poor George
the boy
— would be fine in a moment, saying in a sort of comic tone to Mrs Terry, ‘
That girl
(she meant Jane)
will be the death of me one day,
’ and giving quick instructions to Frank to bring the cart around.

And then Jane ran upstairs to the bedroom and I followed her.

I did my best to console her, but she was beyond consolation.

‘I’ve made a mess of everything’ was the only thing that she would say, her face streaming with tears. No matter how much I told her that she had tried and that perhaps she could talk to her parents tomorrow, she still would say no more than that one sentence.

I think I understand her. She was very upset for George, but also her pride is hurt. She thought her plan would work and it didn’t. I can understand why she didn’t want to discuss it, so I just sat by her bed, stroking her hair until she stopped sobbing and sat up.

‘I wish I lived in a novel,’ she said with an attempt at a small smile. ‘I could make such a happy ending to this story. George would learn to talk, and to read, my father and mother would want him back in the house, and he would be a brother to us all.’ And then she took up a book and started to read it.

* * *

Nothing I could say to Jane tonight seemed to make her feel better, but, funnily enough, writing it down has made it seem better to me.

My brother has not been a very good brother to me — I can say it now without feeling guilty and thinking it was my fault that he was no fonder of me. However, this present of the pack of three journals was the best thing that he has done for me.

And I suppose it has not been easy for him. I understand him a bit better now. Augusta would probably have been jealous and made a fuss if she thought her husband was fond of me. He was probably torn between doing what Mama begged he would do for me, and what his wife, Augusta, felt should happen.

Friday, 1 April 1791

I woke at dawn to hear Edward and Frank talking quietly on the sweep outside our window. I got out of bed and peeped at them as they strode up the lane towards Deane Inn. Edward had to catch the early stagecoach from there and Frank was carrying his bag. I dressed quietly and then just sat by the window thinking about everything that had happened last night.

Jane got up at her normal time and did her piano practise. Frank and I went riding for half an hour. He said nothing about George and I said nothing. And yet, I thought as we trotted along the lane, side by side, there was something very strange about this. Why weren’t we discussing it? Why weren’t we saying things like: ‘What a shame about George’?

And Henry — why had he said nothing last night?

Or Cassandra?

Or even Edward — after all, George is his brother also.

Except for Jane, the whole family is just embarrassed by George — just wants to forget that he exists.

And yet, if Henry took an interest in George, that would influence Mr Austen greatly. Henry and Jane are his two favourite children, but he consults Henry about lots of things and seems to respect his opinion, whereas Jane is just his clever little girl — amusing but not to be taken seriously.

As soon as I had groomed and fed my donkey and washed my hands under the pump in the washroom, I went into the parlour to find Jane. She was playing, playing badly, strumming a few bars and then resting her fingers on the keys and then playing a false note.

‘Jane,’ I said without stopping to think for too long, ‘I think you did a good thing yesterday. I think that this business about George has been a secret for too long. Why don’t people talk about him? Why don’t they say things like, “
What a shame about George. What can we do to make his life a little better?
” I think it’s time that everyone was talking about it, that everyone acknowledged the truth. It’s a bit like shutting the doors and windows of a room and never letting the air in …’

I stopped because I was running out of breath, but also because Jane’s eyes had gone from mine and were looking at something behind me.

In my haste I had not closed the door properly, and Mr and Mrs Austen had come in behind me and were standing listening to me. Mr Austen looked deeply troubled and I was sorry about that; he is a kind and gentle man. His wife, though, looked the same as always: tough, competent and just a little amused at the silliness of young people.