Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas (27 page)

“Aunt Jane!”

The whisper was urgent enough to penetrate even my brain, clouded with sleep. I lifted myself from the pillow and looked confusedly to the door. A small figure shivered there, in a dressing gown too short in sleeves and hem.

“What is it, Caroline?”

She took this for an invitation, and bounded across the room to my bed. “Neither of the faeries came as usual this morning. I awoke early, and waited; and when it seemed as tho’ Jemima and I must be forgot, I came to see if my aunts were already at breakfast. But only think! It is past seven o’clock, and you are both still abed!”

“We were out rather late last evening.”

“At the Portals’, I know,” she said wisely. “I do not like Ashe Park so well as The Vyne. I regard The Vyne as the finest place I have yet seen.”

“Nonetheless, one must have variety,” I said sleepily. “Only think if it were always The Vyne, and only The Vyne. Are you here for your present? Aunt Cassandra was to deliver it today.” It was a
jonquil-coloured carriage dress intended for the very airing in Hyde Park Caroline had recently despaired of.

“I am not only come about Jemima,” she said, and tugged at my arm urgently. I lifted the bedclothes and admitted her to the warmth; she was like a small bundle of frozen twigs, huddled against me. “James-Edward says he is to hunt today with Papa. And that you and Mamma are all going to see them off, in Mrs. Portal’s carriage. Is it true that I am to be left entirely alone?”

I had not considered of this. No doubt Mary had ignored Caroline’s abandonment as well.

“There is Cook,” I said doubtfully. “And Sarah.”

“Tosh,” Caroline said firmly. “You would console me with servants, when you are all gone to Sherborne St. John to be happy? It is most unkind. And at Christmas.”

I sighed. “I shall speak to Mamma.”

“You are good to me, Aunt.” She snuggled down in the covers. “I had been wondering when Jemima might wear her handsome riding habit. To lift a stirrup cup with The Vyne is to be wearing it to some purpose!”

J
AMES
P
ORTAL
’
S STABLES ARE
among the finest in North Hampshire, and it was gratifying to set out behind a neat pair of steppers in the bright winter sunshine this morning. Lucy Portal was all that was cheerful and welcoming; we Austens were in spirits; and if Mary was not, she had the good sense to disguise it from her hostess. We made sure to place her beside Lucy, on the seat facing forward, conveniently close to the squabs and the window, so that she might doze or seek fresh air if she fancied herself sick. Cass, Mamma, and I sacrificed our comfort and sat with our backs to the coachman—we had barely enough room between us to accommodate
our stays—and tho’ this gesture was ignored by Mary, for whom it was chiefly intended, we were nonetheless conscious of virtue.

Caroline, upon arriving at Ashe Park, was invited to spend the day with the daughters of the house in the nursery wing; and this answered so well her desire to exhibit Jemima, that she jumped down without a backwards glance. I felt a twinge of relief; Mary was fractious child enough to manage, for one pleasure outing.

It is ten miles from Ashe Park to Sherborne St. John. The gentlemen rode beside our carriage, James-Edward sitting his father’s hunter and looking austere, in his effort not to look sick with excitement. My brother was astride the aptly-named Aristo, a beautiful chestnut gelding with powerful flanks and shoulders; it was a mark of John Portal’s trust and affection that he had lent such a mount to James. Being lighter than my brother, he rode a showy dappled grey mare with a mouth so sensitive her head was constantly on the twitch.

“What a fine day for a gallop,” Lucy Portal observed.

“Do you hunt, ma’am?” my mother enquired.

She coloured faintly. “In the general way. But I am at present … indisposed. I hope to return to the field next winter.”

When another little Portal should be safely established in the nursery.

“Eliza Chute will be chasing with the men this morning,” Mary observed. “Never having occasion for an indisposition in her life.”

It is possible Mary intended merely to refer to Eliza Chute’s excellent health; but the suggestion that Eliza had declined to bear children because she preferred to gallop, could not be ignored. I observed Lucy Portal’s eyes to widen.

“Do not be waspish, Mary,” my mother suggested serenely. “It cannot recommend you to your friends, and must provide fodder for your enemies.”

“I should be glad, indeed, to know that Mrs. Chute is recovered from the shocks of this past week,” Lucy hurried to say, “and that all your party was no worse for having been treated to such unpleasantness.”

The good manners that had prevented her from broaching the subject of murder at her own dinner table, were no impediment to canvassing the subject in the intimacy of a coach. And that swiftly, perfect accord was achieved between Lucy Portal and Mary. All that could be heard on the subject by one, and all that could be told on the part of the other, swiftly ensued; and the three of us who shared the facing seat, uttered not a word. It is possible that our thoughts on The Vyne were less easy to convey than Mary’s—for our concerns must always be for others, and not solely ourselves. I was treated once more to a novelist’s valuable lesson, however—in apprehending that one’s perception of plot and character are influenced entirely by one’s own experience. To hear Mary tell the story of our Christmas at The Vyne, one would have thought that she was hounded by violence from first to last—perceived more than anybody of the nature of the probable murderer—and barely escaped with her life. It was a lesson in writerly humility. We are each the heroines of our own lives.

S
HERBORNE
S
T.
J
OHN IS
pretty enough, with its venerable church, St. Andrew’s; its neat village green, surrounded by cottages; and its single publick house, the Swan. This is nearly two hundred years old, and has witnessed the gathering of The Vyne Hunt for a number of decades. This morning the scene was all animation—with any number of our acquaintance mounted upon horses of varying strengths and mettle. Most were gentlemen, in leather breeches and top boots, with frequently a pink coat to be seen; but a few of the
dashing riders were female, their long skirts fanned charmingly over their mounts’ backs. I espied Eliza—her habit was garnet-coloured wool, with black frogs, and a curly-brimmed beaver. She must have espied me at exactly the same moment, for she raised her whip in her gloved hand.

“There is Sir William Heathcote,” my mother exclaimed, as she gazed out of the carriage window. We had pulled up near the lower end of the green, due to the press of horsemen before us. “All the way from Hursley Park—and at his age too!”

I saw Cassandra suppress a smile; Sir William was nearly ten years younger than Mamma.

“He looks very well,” I observed, “and has an excellent seat. For an elderly fellow.”

“I believe that the baronet is a guest at Beaurepaire,” Lucy Portal said. This was a very ancient manor near Sherborne St. John owned by the Brocas family, who fought with the Black Prince at Poitiers and Crécy. “I invited them to dine with us last evening, but they very properly declined a journey of ten miles, on an evening without a moon. See, there is Sir Bernard Brocas, on the black gelding, beside his friend.”

I ignored the Brocas baronet, but eyed Sir William with interest; it was his son of the same name who had married—and widowed far too young—my dear friend Elizabeth Bigg. She had returned to her girlhood home of Manydown some five years ago—and there she must remain, now that dear John Harwood is too ruined to marry her.
¹¹

We quitted the coach and stepped down onto the sparkling grass
of the village green—where the snow had fallen yesterday, was this morning the remains of a black frost, and the air was decidedly chill at our noses. The gentlemen of our party dismounted and walked their hunters slowly into the throng, hailing their acquaintance; I saw James throw his arm round his son and present him with pride to numerous fellows. This was something like a schoolboy’s holiday from Winchester!

“Tally-ho, Austens!”

Eliza’s animated voice, carrying across the green. She was on foot, her long train looped over her arm, and slightly breathless from negotiating the crowd. “Mrs. Austen, I have not time to do the pretty as I ought—but allow me to beg you most earnestly to join us, along with all your party at Steventon, on Twelfth Night for our Children’s Ball.”

“You mean to go forward?” my mother cried, clapping her hands. “I am so glad I did not undertake to quit the parsonage this morning. I should have missed all the fun!”

“Nonsense! Your beautiful cards of invitation had all gone out already; and we are owed a little enjoyment, I think, after all our trials,” Eliza retorted robustly. “I depend upon you coming to us tomorrow and staying the next two nights—for we have all our arrangements to consider, and will require considerable preparation. Jane must advise me on Characters—and Cassandra will be wanted about the costumes. Mary, of course, may offer her suggestions as to our menu.”

This last trailed away on an uncertain note, as tho’ Eliza had only just recollected Mary’s presence.

We offered our eager thanks and promised our assistance.

“Do not forget to bring James-Edward and Caroline,” Eliza called over her shoulder. “I should not have Jemima miss our revels for worlds!”

And then, through a parting in the mill of hunters and horseflesh, I saw him. Mr. Raphael West.

He was holding the bridle of a pretty little mare with an Arab head, who stood docilely enough by his side. Not far away was William Chute in his Master’s garb, and a few paces behind, holding the reins of two more horses—Mr. Benedict L’Anglois. I supposed one could not be a truly first-rate secretary, unless one could ride to hounds.

A lady on horseback passed between us then, veiling the grouping from my sight. Mr. West, returned so soon from his business! And ready, apparently, to gallop through coverts in search of a fox! It did not appear that intrigues of French spies claimed too much of his time; and had there not been the memory of the bodies in the Chapel, I might have believed he invented the whole, to pass a tedious interval among spinsters in the country.

Another instant, and I found that he was bowing in front of our party, his horse left in charge of L’Anglois.

“Mrs. Austen,” he said cheerfully. “Mrs. James Austen, and Miss Austen, Miss Jane Austen—I do not have the honour of knowing your friend.”

Mary smoothly intervened here, and made Mr. West her gift to bestow upon Lucy Portal; and our acquaintance from The Vyne as well as the celebrated painter Mr. Benjamin West’s son, were offered for her delectation. Mrs. Portal dimpled at West and curtseyed. “The honour is mine,” she said gracefully. “I have long admired your father’s genius.”

How tedious it must be, to be welcomed always for one’s father’s sake.

“You ladies do not ride?” His gaze and his politeness were general; those probing eyes barely grazed my countenance.

“Only the gentlemen, sir,” Lucy replied.

“Then I shall hope to find you later, established in the Swan,” he said gallantly, “when we have galloped back, shivering and hopeless. No fox worth his pelt will poke his nose out-of-doors, on such a freezing day! Mrs. James Austen, I must beg you to hurry inside, or you shall certainly catch your death!”

Sensible of the compliment he paid her, Mary walked immediately in the direction of the publick house; a servant stood in front of the entrance with a steaming cauldron of stirrup cup.

“Jane,” he muttered low when I would have passed with the others.

I saw Cassandra glance over her shoulder, and then walk on.

“Mr. West.”

“Do you think it wise to quit the protection of your brother? Anyone might strike at you in this crowd. It should be as nothing to run you down with a horse, and claim an accident. Promise me you will not stir out of the Swan alone until the gentlemen of your party are returned.”

I lifted my brows at him coolly. “You persist in believing me an object of violence, sir? I wonder, then, that you chose to quit the county these past several days.”

“I thought you safe in Steventon—and went in pursuit of certain information I would gladly share, when once this fox is run to ground. Look for me at the Swan.”

He touched the brim of his hat and wheeled away; William Chute was already mounted, and the hounds had been let slip from the carts in which they had been carried the three miles to Sherborne. They set off in a tightly coursing pack through the main street of the village, William Chute following behind. In a beautiful stream of colour and motion, the rest of the riders urged their horses after the Master of The Vyne, towards the open country and coverts beyond.

I flinched suddenly as a horse shied too near my head, and jumped back from the verge of the green.
Anyone might strike at you in this crowd
. Raphael West’s words echoed in my ears like a prediction.

I glanced up—Benedict L’Anglois, an expression of consternation on his handsome countenance as he struggled to control one of Chute’s high-spirited hunters. Perhaps he did not hunt so very much, after all. “Your pardon, Miss Austen!”

I waved my acknowledgement, and hurried to join the other ladies at their stirrup cup.

We were a merry party in the Swan’s snug side parlour that wintry January morning. Any number of ladies had driven out to see their gentlemen trot off in negligent stile behind William Chute, and tho’ some might turn round directly and seek the comfort of their homes, those who lived too far distant were resigned to stay until the Hunt should return. The Swan’s affable proprietor, Mr. Gigeon, supplied us with milk punch, rashers of bacon, custard tarts and apple pastries, cheese from Cheddar and Frome, and slices of his own smoked ham. Those of us who had endured a lengthy carriage ride to reach Sherborne St. John were only too happy to sample Mr. Gigeon’s fare; and when his lady appeared with venison pie, hot from the oven, our happiness was complete.