I Was Jane Austen's Best Friend (35 page)

And then a loud, hoarse sound … A word … But a word only to someone who knows the speaker …

‘Bang!’

And George, with his unsteady gait, lurches out from behind the bush, pointing his finger at the gun and repeating proudly, ‘Bang!’

‘Get over there!’ The armed highwayman points one gun at George while keeping the other pointed at the group by the coach. His head swivels nervously between the two.

‘Bang!’ says George, advancing with what passes for a smile on his poor face. He stretches out his hand, saying, ‘Bang!’ again. It’s obvious to me that he expects the highwayman to give him the gun as a reward for saying the word.

‘Halt, or I fire,’ says the highwayman in shrill, nervous tones. He doesn’t know what to do about George.

I hold my breath. I hear Jane give a nervous gasp beside me, but Mrs Austen doesn’t hesitate; she steps out on to the road. The highwayman’s gun swivels.

‘You fellow! Don’t point that gun at the boy – you’ll frighten him into a fit.’ Mrs Austen is marching resolutely over to George.

‘What’s it to you, lady?’ The highwayman has a gruff, hoarse voice, the voice of someone who has a perpetual sore throat. ‘Get back, or you’ll have a bullet in the stomach.’

‘He’s my son, and I’m not going to allow you to terrify him,’ says Mrs Austen calmly. ‘Come along, George, let’s take you back to Nanny Littleworth.’

And then she puts her arm around George’s shoulders and turns him around gently, almost tenderly, until he is facing back towards Deane Gate and Steventon beyond. Slowly, steadily, the two figures come back down the road, while the highwayman continues to point his pistol at their backs, his whole attention now on the two moving figures. His partner takes his head out of a trunk and also stares incredulously at George and Mrs Austen.

It might have worked. In the bright, clear early-morning sunshine, I can see the faces of the highwaymen. They are puzzled, hesitant. It’s obvious that George is retarded, and Mrs Austen looks just like any old countrywoman. They want money and jewels, not unnecessary bloodshed.

But then the guard of the coach, who is watching them as closely as I, makes a move. He slowly passes his arm behind Augusta, reaches for the blunderbuss in its place by the roof, grabs it by its short barrel and tries to reverse it.

And the highwayman whirls around and fires straight at the guard.

Then everything happens at once.

A roar of pain from the guard, a high-pitched neigh from the rearing horses, a hysterical screech from Augusta, shouts from the other passengers and blood everywhere.

And then a voice from the trees beyond the coach, a voice filled with authority but as velvet-smooth as chocolate: ‘Drop those pistols and put your hands up, my men. I’ve got you both covered.’

They look at each other and hesitate, but less than a second later a warning shot explodes – fired over their heads, but near enough to be convincing. A second scream from Augusta, more neighing from the horses, and then the two pistols are flung hastily in the direction of the hedge.

‘Very wise.’ Thomas, the gold braid on his coat
glowing, strolls down the road, an ornate silver-mounted pistol in each hand. Without taking his eyes from the highwaymen, he addresses Edward-John, the only male passenger.

‘Could I trouble you, sir, to pick up the blackguards’ pistols and keep them trained on both men? Coachman, could you bind up your guard’s arm? He’s losing blood rapidly. Ladies, you follow behind us. Charles, would you untie my horse from the tree back there? Good lad! He shouldn’t give you any trouble. He’s had a long, hard gallop this morning.

‘We’ll lock these highwaymen in the stables at the inn,’ he says decisively to Edward-John, and then rather sharply, ‘Careful with that gun, sir, it’s loaded.’

‘Here’s the innkeeper,’ calls back Mrs Austen. She still has an arm around George, who is trembling violently, but he has not had a fit.

Even after the innkeeper arrives Thomas is still in charge, giving directions for the summoning of a magistrate and the safe custody of the prisoners, brushing aside the thanks of the passengers, praising and thanking Charles, reassuring the women passengers – but never once does he speak to me, or even glance at me.

And now the men are gone to the stables to see to the prisoners. Cassandra is fetching a glass of wine for Augusta, while Edward-John dithers between following Thomas and hanging anxiously over his wife …

Mrs Austen is in great good humour. ‘What do you
think of this boy of mine, Mrs Deane?’ she says to the innkeeper’s wife. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, but he was telling the highwayman to hand over his gun.’ She squeezes George’s shoulder and he looks up at her in a wondering sort of way.

‘You want something to eat now, don’t you, George? And something to drink?’ Mrs Austen chats to George in a perfectly natural manner, making motions with her hands to indicate eating and drinking, even rubbing her stomach to indicate food. A big smile lights up George’s face.

‘You go with Mrs Deane – she’ll find some nice hot sausages for you and a glass of ale, won’t you, Mrs Deane? Off you go with her now, George.’ And all the time that she is saying the words, she is making signs in quite a natural manner – rather like how you would to a baby, I think. Much easier, I realize now, than trying to teach him his alphabet.

And George understands her perfectly. He rubs his own stomach and grins from ear to ear. He follows Mrs Deane and then he turns back, making a great effort until a word comes out. It’s easy to understand the word. It’s ‘Mama’.

And when he’s gone, Mrs Austen – tough, unsentimental Mrs Austen – has tears in her eyes.

This is almost like a play, I think.

First everyone is onstage in the coach yard in front of Deane Gate Inn. Then the men go off to the stables,
followed by Charles, while Augusta retires to faint on a sofa in the comfort of the inn parlour, attended by Cassandra.

Then it’s the scene between Mrs Austen and George, where she seems able to chat to him in an easy, natural way before he trundles happily off with Mrs Deane.

Now just Jane and I are left with Mrs Austen.

And Jane throws herself into her mother’s arms and starts to cry.

It is so unlike Jane that I feel completely bewildered.

But Mrs Austen just pats her on the back and says, ‘Come, come, Jane. Were you so very frightened of those highwaymen? That’s not like my brave girl!’ Her tone is light and amused, but loving.

I hold my breath. It just needs a few words from Jane now and perhaps they will be friends evermore.

But Jane says nothing and, after a moment’s silence, I hear my own voice.

‘Jane wasn’t frightened for herself, Aunt,’ I find myself saying. ‘She was frightened for you.’

Mrs Austen draws back, bends down, looks into Jane’s face and presses a quick kiss on one round cheek. I notice how their bonnets meet with a slight click.

‘Come on, my pet,’ she says. ‘Let’s go and thank Captain Williams properly. What a hero he’s been! You could get a good novel out of this, Jane. I declare I feel like commemorating it in verse myself.’ And, laughing cheerfully, she sweeps out with her arm around Jane.

And very carefully, I dust the top of the mounting block and sit on it. I feel very tired.

And very lonely.

‘We’ll send the post boy down to Steventon with you, ma’am,’ says the innkeeper’s wife. ‘This lady’ – she means Augusta – ‘is not strong enough to walk, and Miss Jenny looks very white too. The captain has got his horse, and the other passengers will wait for the stagecoach to go on when we get another man to act as guard.’

‘You should have fainted on the sofa too,’ whispers Jane as we walk towards the post-chaise. ‘I’d have made Augusta give you a turn. You could have fainted alternately.’ Jane sounds like her old self again, grinning as her mother issues orders to everyone.

‘Cassandra, you sit over there with Edward-John and his wife; Charles, you get up on the seat beside the post boy; Jenny, you sit beside me; and, Jane, you go on the other side of her. We’ll follow you down to the parsonage, Captain Williams. You’ll come in and have breakfast with us, won’t you? Then we can all thank you properly.’

‘Oh yes, indeed.’ Augusta has given up fainting, though she still speaks in a small, slightly squeaky voice, like a six-year-old. ‘Do come and ride on my side of the chaise, Captain Williams. How lucky for us all that you were passing by.’

‘I’ll ride behind you all, ma’am, so that my horse does
not kick up the dirt on to you,’ says Thomas with a bow, and then to Mrs Austen, ‘I was taking the liberty of paying a call to you, ma’am. My ship is stocked and ready to go; I’ve a few days’ leave and you were kind enough to invite me to stay for a night or so on my next visit.’

‘What a charming man,’ enthuses Augusta once Thomas has fallen to the rear. ‘I do declare that I have not heard of him, but I am sure that he is a real hero at sea. Where is his ship docked?’

‘At Southampton.’ Cassandra obviously does not know the full story of Augusta’s letter.

‘Southampton! I can’t bear the word!’ Augusta shudders and then looks at me crossly. ‘Oh, Jenny, you sad, sad girl! What are we to do with you? I do declare, ma’am’ – now she addresses herself to Mrs Austen – ‘that I have not had a single night’s sleep – Edward-John will tell you – since that letter came from Lady Portsmouth.’

‘Lady Portsmouth?!’ exclaims Jane, and she turns and looks at me, her eyes wide with amazement.

‘Lady Portsmouth?’ echoes Mrs Austen.

‘Was your letter from Lady Portsmouth, Augusta?’ I say. Suddenly I lose all fear of her. Only one thing matters now, and that is Thomas. ‘Are you sure it was from Lady Portsmouth, Augusta?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Augusta sounds intensely annoyed. She turns away from me and towards my aunt. ‘I told you, ma’am, did I not? Lady Portsmouth wrote to me that when Jenny came to a ball at her house she
recognized her. She saw her last February when she was staying with a friend in Southampton. They were all listening to the young lady of the house perform on the piano when Lady Portsmouth saw a young girl, all alone and unprotected, look in through the window. She imagined her to be some sort of streetwalker and went to close the shutters. What was her astonishment to see her at her own ball at Hurstbourne Park and to learn that she is related to
me?!
Of course, she wrote to me. After all, my mama is one of her close friends.’

I look at Jane and she looks at me. She moves very close to me and squeezes my hand. Augusta looks at us with dislike.

‘You two seem very thick,’ she says disapprovingly.

‘Yes, we are,’ says Jane demurely. And then she can’t resist adding, ‘But I’m the thinner of the two …’ and smiling sweetly when Augusta looks puzzled.

‘Well, here we are in Steventon,’ interrupts Mrs Austen. ‘In another few minutes we will be at the parsonage and you will have a good cup of tea. That will restore your nerves. Charles,’ she says as the chaise goes through the gates, ‘you jump down and find the stableman for Captain Williams’s horse.’

‘No,’ says Jane. In her hurry to get out, she almost stumbles. ‘No, Mama, let Charles ride back up to Deane Gate Inn with the post boy to find out how the guard is. The surgeon should be there by now. He can bring us news; I’ll see to Captain Williams and his horse.’

‘Go straight into the house, Jane,’ says Mrs Austen
sternly. ‘Tell Susan that we have arrived. Charles, you do what I told you.’

Jane rolls her eyes at me, but she dares not disobey her mother. I stay sitting in the post-chaise until Thomas has gone into the stable.

He still has not once looked at me.

‘You sit here opposite Jenny, Captain Williams; Cassandra, make room for your Cousin Augusta next to you; Edward-John, could you take the bottom of the table, please?’ Mrs Austen is back in control, beaming at me and adding in a loud whisper to Augusta: ‘Jenny and Captain Williams are great friends.’

I feel as if I want to be sick, but reluctantly I take the indicated seat.

Luckily Thomas doesn’t notice. He is busy chatting to Charles and promising him the first vacancy for a midshipman when he reaches fifteen years old.

‘There are just a few words that I would like to say first, dear Aunt.’ Edward-John is standing stiffly at the bottom of the table with a large black book in his hand, almost as if he is about to read prayers. ‘Captain Williams, sir,’ he continues, ‘your conduct, your gallantry, your courage, your quickness of thinking, your—’

At this point Charles yawns and stretches out his hand towards the dish of buttered eggs. Cassandra gives him a sharp tap and an angry look, but Edward-John is too discomfited to go on for much longer. ‘But I weary my young cousin,’ he says, trying to get his
dignity back. ‘May I just present to you, Captain Williams, this humble volume of my collected sermons?’ And then he bows ceremoniously. Thomas jumps up, but hardly seems to know what to do with the book once he has it in his hand.

‘Well, well, well,’ he says, ‘this is—’

‘Very weighty,’ interrupts Jane, picking up the dish of eggs and the serving spoon and walking around the back of the table.

‘Perhaps grace first?’ suggests Edward-John.

Normally Mr Austen mutters a perfunctory, one-sentence grace before meals, so Jane does not sit down again, but holds the spoonful of eggs poised over Augusta’s plate. I am embarrassed and worried about Thomas, but I have to choke back a giggle at the expression on Jane’s face as Edward-John’s grace wanders on and on, going from giving thanks to God for the food that not one of us has yet touched to giving thanks to God who sent an angel to help us in our hour of peril this morning. Charles gives a great snort and then covers his face rapidly with a grubby handkerchief when Edward-John mentions the ‘angel’, and I can’t help glancing at Thomas. His brown eyes are dancing with amusement, and I feel myself getting very red when I realize that he has seen me looking at him.

Mrs Austen, I see with satisfaction, when we are all eating our buttered eggs – and consoling ourselves, as Jane whispers in my ear, with the thought that Augusta has the coldest eggs of all – Mrs Austen does not like
either of them. Augusta is very haughty and condescending, and Edward-John sounds a false flattering note, admiring all the battered out-of-fashion furniture in the parlour, but giving an occasional sly glance at his wife that shows that he does not mean his praise.