I Was Jane Austen's Best Friend (4 page)

The only good thing about the backboard is that I can go on writing. I wouldn’t have been able to if it had been Mrs Cawley that brought it, but Becky, the kitchen maid, felt sorry for me.

‘I have to strap you into it, miss,’ she whispered. ‘That’s what Mrs Cawley told me to do, but I won’t buckle it tight.’

‘Thank you, Becky,’ I whispered back. I moved a little after she had closed the buckles. It was uncomfortable, but not the torture that it is when Mrs Cawley fastens it. I was able to move my head from side to side.

Becky was nice. She even had a bit of bread in the pocket of her apron that the cook had given to her for me. ‘You’re just as well off without the stirabout, miss,’ she said, taking the bread out and showing it to me. ‘Mrs Cawley told Cook that she must make it with just water and oats from now on; she says the milk bills are too high. I’ll put the bread here on your cupboard so that you can reach it.’

I took it to please her, but I didn’t feel hungry. That was the strange thing; normally I was always hungry.

‘Could you pick up my inkpot and quill from under
the bed, Becky? Put them on the cupboard too. I want to practise my handwriting.’

And then Becky was off. I don’t know how long ago that was. I don’t have a timepiece. There is no sound from downstairs. The young ladies, as Mrs Cawley calls them, will all be in the schoolroom, practising their handwriting or listening to a teacher droning on and on, or spending hours getting in and out of an old sedan chair that Mrs Cawley keeps outside the back door so that her pupils can learn how to do this gracefully, without showing our ankles at all — which according to Mrs Cawley would ruin our marriage prospects forever.

I almost feel like crying when I think now of Jane and her jokes. She has such courage and she can even stand up to Mrs Cawley and mock her openly. I resolve never to be so shy and so worried in the future. Last night, when I went out in the streets of Southampton, I did something that I never thought I would be able to do. I am already becoming braver — perhaps too brave!

When I am married I would like to have lots of children — I would like a family like Jane’s, with five boys and two girls. I would allow my daughters to play with their brothers, to play cricket and running races just like Jane is allowed. I remember how shocked I was when she told me about rolling down the green bank behind Steventon parsonage with the
boys in her father’s school, but perhaps that is why she is so full of courage now, and I am such a miserable worrier.

The doctor has just been in to see Jane. I managed to cover the inkpot with a handkerchief, and my journal is hidden under the blankets. I needn’t have bothered though. Mrs Cawley did not come with him, only Becky. He seems worried about Jane. He muttered something about asking Mrs Cawley and I saw his eyes go with an air of horror to the huge fungus on the wall. He must have thought that I was feeble-minded, because when I saw him looking at it I couldn’t stop myself giving a little giggle, remembering how Jane had said that it looked as if it were a poisonous ingredient for the wicked potions of the villain in the story
The Castle of the Necromancer
.

Before I could stop myself I felt another giggle escape and then I started to cry. The doctor looked embarrassed and ignored me.

‘Tell your mistress that if there is no change by five o’clock I will have to bleed her,’ he said to Becky on the way out.

‘The time is up, so I can take off your backboard now, miss,’ said Becky when she came back upstairs after showing the doctor out. I have written all this in my journal since she unbuckled the backboard and
went back down to the kitchen, but the tears are pouring down my face now.

‘Don’t worry, miss, she’ll get better.’ She looked anxious, poor Becky. I was sorry to upset her, but I can’t stop crying. When my mother was very ill a doctor bled her and it did no good at all. I remember how a vein in her arm was opened and how that very red blood dripped out into a white basin. She died two hours later.

If Jane’s mother doesn’t come soon, I don’t know what to do. Now I will lock up my journal, hide it under my clothes in my trunk and hang the key around my neck. I should go downstairs, but I don’t feel as if I have the strength even to get off the bed. Perhaps I am tired after missing so much sleep last night. I will just get in under the blankets and try to warm up and then go downstairs.

The voices are like the voices in a dream
.

‘
She’s asleep …
’

‘
No, she’s ill …
’

‘
She’s burning with fever …
’

‘
Tell Mrs Cawley …
’

‘
Mrs Cawley, Jenny is ill now …
’

‘
Will I get the doctor, ma’am …
’

‘
Mind your own business, girl … get on with your work. Doctors cost money, you know …
’

* * *

And then … is it hours later?

That loud knock, that hammering on the front door …

Mrs Austen’s voice, high-pitched, confident …

‘
I’ll have you know, madam …
’

A mutter from Mrs Cawley
.

‘
Never mind how I know …
’

‘
Let me see my daughter, madam …
’

‘
And where’s Jenny?
’

Another mutter from Mrs Cawley
.

‘
Rest assured, madam, that we’ll never allow my daughter or my niece to return to this place again. I am taking them both back to Steventon this very minute. Pray give instructions for hot water bottles and fresh straw to be placed in the coach …
’

Mrs Cawley’s voice — now loud and angry
.

‘
Don’t think to delay me with demands for fees, madam … You should be down on your knees praying that these two girls will recover …
’

Mrs Cawley again
.

‘
Out of my way, madam! Mr Austen, do you carry Jenny and I’ll take Jane …
’

‘
You, girl, don’t try to carry the two trunks … Surely there is someone to help this girl. Where is the manservant …?
’

‘
Mr Austen, give the girl a penny. She looks honest, poor thing. It’s not her fault that she works for such a wicked mistress.
’

Friday, 4 March 1791

This is the first day that I have been able to write. I can’t believe that it is more than three weeks since last I wrote in my journal, more than three weeks since that terrible night when I went out into the night streets of Southampton, more than three weeks since I thought Jane was going to die. I haven’t been as ill as her, but I felt too weak to write in my journal and there was always someone in my room, either Mrs Austen, or else Jane’s sister, Cassandra, or, during the last few days, when they were sure that they would not catch my fever, my brother, Edward-John, and his wife, Augusta.

And then there was Jane herself.

Not ill, not muttering in a high fever.

Just sitting beside my bed chuckling over a novel.

And I think that made me start to get well again.

Edward-John and Augusta came to see me this morning. I tried to talk to them, but I felt too weak to say much. I hoped they would leave me alone, but Augusta
returned in the afternoon. Jane was reading and I was half asleep when we heard her footsteps on the stairs. I knew it was her immediately as Mrs Austen wears list slippers and the boys all wear boots. Augusta’s shoes clip along in a neat, tidy way, rather like herself.

I could hear her talking to Mrs Austen about her new gown when they were standing outside my door. ‘How do you like my gown, dear madam?’ she was saying to Mrs Austen. ‘Handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is over-trimmed. I have the greatest dislike to being over-trimmed …’

‘I agree with you, ma’am,’ said Jane beside me as the door opened and the two came in. Jane’s face was solemn and she made little effort to lower her voice. ‘There is nothing worse than an over-trimmed gown … all that lace and flounces — so very vulgar …’ And her expression was all innocence as she surveyed the flounces of Augusta’s lace-trimmed gown which bounced along in front of her.

I quickly pulled up the blanket to hide my mouth and I saw Mrs Austen glance sharply at Jane, who just gave a wicked grin. Augusta, however, wasn’t listening to Jane. She was still talking over her shoulder to Mrs Austen and she was in full flow.

‘I said to my
caro sposo
— that’s what I call my dear Edward-John. It’s Italian for
dear husband,
’ she said kindly, glancing across at Jane, who nodded gravely. ‘I said to him, just this very morning —

Jenny will confirm, won’t you, Jenny — “Tell me, dear,” I said to him, “is my gown over-trimmed?” And he said to me, oh Lord, I blush to tell you what he said—’

‘How are you feeling this afternoon, Jenny?’ interrupted Mrs Austen. She looked as though she was getting sick of Augusta and her gowns.

‘Much better, thank you, ma’am.’

‘Of course she is well; you just lie quietly, Jenny, while we chat.’ Augusta, as usual, talked non-stop and I felt my head beginning to ache as I tried to pay attention. Jane had gone over to sit on the window seat and was busy scribbling away on a piece of paper while Augusta went on and on about how popular she is in Bristol and what people said to her and said about her. After about ten minutes of this, I felt my eyes beginning to close. Augusta didn’t seem to notice, but went on talking. A minute later, I heard Jane’s light shoes crossing the room.

‘She’s very weak, Mama,’ I heard her say in a solemn tone of voice. ‘I think she needs to rest now, don’t you?’ I didn’t dare look at Jane in case she made me laugh.

‘We’d better go.’ Mrs Austen’s chair scraped back and she was on her feet so quickly that I reckon that she had been dying to get away for the last ten minutes. She had no interest in Augusta’s tales about her social life in Bristol.

After they had gone, I asked Jane whether she had been writing a story and she told me that she was thinking of starting a novel where Augusta would be a clergyman’s wife with a very high opinion of herself, but most of the other people in her town would dislike her immensely. Apparently she was writing down some of Augusta’s statements so that she could use them when she started the book.

‘Here, stick that into your journal for me and then it won’t get lost.’ Jane handed me a piece of paper. I read it through and laughed. Augusta hadn’t exactly said things quite as outrageous as that, but it definitely was in her style.

My dear old beau – he’s quite a titled person, you know – he thinks so highly of me – he even leaves the other men to their port after dinner and comes to join me – I wish you could hear all of his gallant speeches – Lord, I mustn’t tell you what he said – but I can assure you that my husband would be quite jealous – but what’s a woman to do? I can’t help it if he admires me -

I carefully glued it into my journal. Then, when Jane had gone downstairs for her tea, I lay back on the pillow and began to think about Augusta. Why could I not just laugh at her as Jane did?