Jane Austen’s First Love (11 page)

Frederic Fielding strode hesitantly forward, twisting his hands nervously. After stammering a few nonsensical syllables, he managed to stutter, “Miss Jane, would you—would you do me the honour of—of consenting to be my companion in the strawberry-picking?”

Disappointment enveloped me; but I gathered my wits, blinked back my tears, and replied as I ought. Mr. Fielding bowed and turned to walk beside me.

Seeing Edward Taylor just ahead of us, speaking quietly and congenially to Charlotte, made my heart ache with hurt and jealousy; but I knew these to be uncharitable emotions, and struggled to contain them. I wanted to hate both Mrs. Watkinson Payler and her daughter, but I could not. It was only right, I told myself, that Mr. Taylor should like his cousin and prefer to pick berries with her. He had known her for several years, after all, whereas he had only just met me.

We entered the last walled garden, which was equally as large as the two which had preceded it, and equally as lovely. I was immediately enveloped by the sweet fragrance of ripe strawberries, and looking around me, my sense of misery began to slowly dissipate. It was a most delightful place, with rows of fruit-trees of several varieties lining the perimeter, beneath which, and taking advantage of their verdant shade, were situated a great many wrought-iron benches; in the centre, enjoying the full effects of the sun, were innumerable beds of strawberries, cloaked with bright green leaves and heavy with ripe, red fruit. Birds twittered in the tree-branches and butterflies danced in the air. Our party, although sizeable in number, were so dispersed as to not make the area feel at all crowded, with the oldest gentlemen seated on shady benches quietly conversing, and everyone else stooped low in pairs or threes here and there, chattering gaily as they filled their baskets.

Mr. Fielding indicated a strawberry bed that had not yet been taken. We immediately proceeded there and bent at our task, searching for and gently retrieving the ripest berries as our prizes. I could not help but taste a few; they were indeed just as delicious as promised. Our intercourse was minimal; now and then he gave me a shy smile, and we exchanged a few remarks about the weather and the state of the roads. Knowing that he and his family were the present tenants of the house which Edward Taylor would one day inherit, I asked:

“How do you enjoy living at Bifrons, Mr. Fielding?”

He hesitated. “It is a very big house.”

“I understand it is very grand as well.”

“It is very big.”

“Where did you live before?”

A great deal of thought seemed to be required before he articulated his reply. “In Hertfordshire, while my father was at sea.”

I asked him where he had gone to school, but he gave only the briefest of answers, putting an end to the subject.

Half-an-hour passed in this awkward manner. He never asked me a single question, or made a remark of his own accord. I was trying to think of some thing to say which might be of interest to him, when his mother, across the way, and wiping her brow with a handkerchief, cried:

“Frederic! It is so hot. I can no longer bend and stoop in this manner, but neither can I turn in a basket half-empty. Come, come over here! You must assist me!”

Rising, Mr. Fielding bowed to me and begged my pardon. I nodded cordially in parting, relieved to see him go. I stood, and glancing halfway down the garden, spotted Cassandra, Marianne, and Sophia working happily together in a strawberry bed. I considered joining them; but at that moment, a deep, familiar voice sounded just behind me.

“Have you walked any more walls lately?”

My heart jumped with surprise and pleasure, as I turned and gazed up into the beautiful, dark eyes of Edward Taylor.

N
o, sir; that was a one-time-only event, I am afraid. My sister would not look kindly on me walking atop any more walls,” said I, laughing.

“What a shame. I admit, I have never seen a young lady attempt such a thing before. You exhibited remarkable skill at the endeavour.”

The expression on Edward Taylor’s countenance was so earnest and flattering, it sent a shiver of happiness up my spine. “Thank you. So did you.”

He smiled.

I wanted to ask why he was here, and not with Charlotte—and why he was standing before me with an empty basket—but I did not wish to break the spell; fortunately he took charge of the matter himself, by explaining:

“My cousin and I filled our baskets already. She was fatigued and went to sit in the shade. I saw you on your own, and I thought I might join you and start on a second basket—if that is agreeable to you.”

“Oh! Yes,” I managed. That he had chosen Charlotte
first
, was a source of some little hurt; but I determined not to think about it. He was talking to
me
now. I crouched down and prepared to work; but he said,

“That is an awkward position. Pray, use my coat to sit or kneel upon.”

“Oh, I could not—” began I; but he had already removed said garment and was laying it on the ground before me.

“It is too hot to wear it, in any case. This will serve a better purpose.”

“Thank you.” I arranged myself on the garment as directed; it did indeed promote my comfort. Edward Taylor kneeled down in the dirt beside me, and we returned to berry-picking. With him so near, it was difficult for me to concentrate, or to determine how best to begin a conversation; but once again he performed the service.

“You seem to be an experienced strawberry-picker.”

“Apparently not as experienced—or as fast—as you.”

“My basket was half the size of yours.”

“Ah. Point taken.” I picked another berry and gently stowed it. “We have strawberry beds at home, at Steventon. Picking the fruit, and eating it, has long been one of my favourite pursuits.”

“Mine as well. We used to have strawberry beds at Bifrons, not so extensive as these. One of my earliest memories—I might have been four years old—is of me and my brother Herbert stuffing ourselves on berries, then returning to the house with our clothes and hands and faces all sticky and stained red, to the amusement of my mother, and the great displeasure of my father.”

“I hope you were not punished for it.”

“Oh, we were! We were sent to bed without dinner. After a cold bath.”

Our eyes met, and we both laughed. I said: “I am sorry. There is nothing funny about a hungry stomach or a cold bath.”

“There is nothing funny about
my father
. He has very strict ideas of how his children ought to behave. He also greatly prized his strawberries, perhaps even more than does Lady Bridges—although in
her
case, I believe the gardeners must take all the responsibility for the growing and care of the strawberry plants; whereas my father, however much I may resent him in other ways, is a dedicated agriculturalist, deservedly earning the reputation of being a most excellent farmer.”

It was dismaying to learn that he resented his father; I wished to know more on that subject, but was uncertain how to go about the inquiry. “I understand that your father is a clergyman as well?”

“He was a clergyman before he came into possession of Bifrons, after the passing of his older brother—after which he devoted his time to the farm and scholarly pursuits. When we first went abroad, my father so greatly missed farming, that after two years in Brussels and one year in Heidelberg, when we removed to Carlsruhe—”

“Carlsruhe? Where is that?”

“In Baden-Württemberg, southwest Germany, near the Franco-German border.”

“Why did you go there?”

“Carlsruhe offered resources of various kinds, especially masters well versed in all those subjects which my father deemed essential to our education. We lived there very happily for five years, and my father indulged his bent by convincing the Margrave of Baden-Baden—the reigning prince—to let him one of his farms of some seven or eight hundred acres.”

“He leased a farm from a prince!”

“He did. Rissing—so the farm was called—was very much out of order during the first period; but my father found an intelligent bailiff who spoke English, and with his help, greatly improved it and increased its productivity.”

“An arrangement which, I suppose, proved very satisfactory to the margrave.”

He laughed. “Yes.”

Edward Taylor’s manner was so congenial, and his discourse so captivating, that I found myself once again entirely at ease in his company.

Across the way, I perceived Charlotte Payler seated on a bench beside her mother, both fanning themselves. Mrs. Payler smiled briefly at me, and I thought I perceived slight irritation in her eyes. All at once, I felt a little guilty about the attention which Edward Taylor was paying me. Her desires for her daughter were clearly very important to her. I had no wish to hurt her or Miss Payler; but then, I had no idea if Miss Payler and Mr. Taylor shared those feelings and intentions which her mother had expressed. And what of
my
feelings? Were not they equally important? I reminded myself that Charlotte had the opportunity to see Edward Taylor every single day, for he was now residing at her very house; I had to make the most of what little time I was allowed to spend with him.

I looked away. As Edward Taylor and I proceeded down the row of plants, he helped me move his coat to the new location, and we resumed our conversation. “Did you ever meet the prince who owned the farm?” I asked him.

“We inhabited a house which looked towards the margrave’s palace and on the intervening gardens, so we kept company on a regular basis.”

“A regular basis?” said I in surprise.

“He was a popular and courteous fellow. He had been in England and spoke English fluently. He patronized literature, art, and science as far as local circumstances and his means admitted. His eldest son, the hereditary prince, had married a princess of Darmstadt, a most delightful
Frau
, and we associated with them and their
kinder
. From every member of this family we experienced, during our stay at Carlsruhe, the greatest kindness and attention.”

“What illustrious acquaintances!” cried I in wonderment. “Did you have other such associations while abroad?”

He shrugged, and said indifferently, “We regularly met with all the English travellers of rank.”

“Such as?”

“You wish to know their names?”

“I do.”

“Well, let me think. In Germany, it was the Lord Chancellor Thurlow and the Lord and Lady Hertford. In Florence, the Duke of Argyll, Lady Charlotte Campbell, and Lord Hervey, to name a few. During our stay in Rome last winter, the Princess Santa Corce, wife of the Spanish ambassador, had balls and dinners frequently. Her house was open to the English, as was, for a time, that of the Cardinal de Bernis, who had been the French ambassador—”

He paused; I suppose I was staring at him in awe, as I tried to imagine attending assemblies and dinners in the Italian capital with lords, princesses, cardinals, and ambassadors; but it was entirely beyond my comprehension. To think that he had experienced all this! It was incredible.

Edward Taylor blushed, and said: “Pray, forgive me; this must all sound very tedious.”

“No—no—it is not tedious at all. I am most interested, I assure you. Please go on. Who else have you met?”

He seemed embarrassed now. “Well. There was the Princess Giustiniani, Duchess of Corbara, and her sister; they were the beauties of Rome last season.”

“How elegant they must have looked.”

“They
were
lovely—but as to meaningful conversation, they had nothing to offer.” The look and smile he gave me indicated, without words, that our present discourse was far preferable to him than had been the other.

My cheeks grew warm; I was flattered.
He
seemed to feel he had already said too much, but I was too fascinated to leave the subject. “Tell me more. Who else did you associate with?”

“At Rome, a great many French emigrants passed their evenings at my father’s house when we were disengaged and had music. But really, I would rather not—”

“Who?”

“Who?” He laughed lightly. “All right, if you must know: the Prince and Princess of Monaco, the Marquis de Duras (he sang well, and took a third in trios with my sisters), the Abbe Maury, various
artisti
including Canova—” Noting my expression, he stopped again, and coloured more deeply.

Struck dumb, I worked in silence for a moment, adding berries to my basket. I was familiar with the
names
of some of those mentioned, having read about them in the newspapers, or heard them talked about in my father’s dialogues with his most worldly friends; but I did not know anyone who had actually
met
such well-known persons. Yet it was clear that to
him
, such acquaintanceships had been an everyday occurrence. At length I said,

“What a fascinating life you have led, Mr. Taylor. My own life seems very small in comparison.”

“I am sure it is not.”

“I have never been abroad. I only know of the world’s many wonders from reading about them in books and seeing pictures of them. It can never compare with viewing such places in person. I am envious of all that you have seen and experienced—and at so young an age.”

“I have had an unusual upbringing, I am aware; I am grateful for it, and I long to see more. I would like to live abroad again some day.”

“Would you really?”

“Yes.” He sighed, as if the weight of the world were upon his shoulders. “But that is highly unlikely, since—” He did not finish, seeming to think better of his remark. We moved on again along the row of strawberry plants, and instead he said: “We have talked far too long about me, Miss Jane. Pray, tell me more about yourself. Forgive my ignorance; I know you hail from Hampshire, but where exactly is Steventon?”

“It is a small village not far from Winchester.”

“How do you like it there?”

“I like it very well. We have many good friends.”

“An excellent recommendation for a neighbourhood.”

“Our house is comfortable—although nothing like the houses I have seen in Kent, which are so large and magnificent. The way you live here—it is like a dream!”

His smile vanished. “There is more to dream about in life than a large house.” He fell briefly silent, pulling a berry from beneath the leaves with such force that juice squeezed onto his hand. He seemed perturbed about something, although I knew not what. Before I could inquire into it, he said, “Do you have other brothers and sisters, besides the ones I have met?”

“Cassandra is my only sister. I have six brothers in all.”

“A family of eight children! The same as me.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about them.” He popped the fruit he had just picked into his mouth and ate it.

I obliged him with details about my other brothers. He seemed particularly interested in the fact that my brother Frank was a sailor, and that Charles was destined for the same profession.

“My brother Bridges is a midshipman, currently serving on the frigate
Acquilon.
He is, I think, about the same age as your brother Charles.”

“Is he enjoying his time at sea?”

“Very much.”

“You said he is called
Bridges
?”

Edward Taylor nodded, his lips twitching to hold back a smile. “I know; it is remarkable, is it not, how unimaginative is our race, when it comes to choosing names?”

We laughed. “It is remarkable, too, that our families are so alike. My father, like yours, is both a clergyman, a scholar, and an agriculturalist. He is not the sort one might have expected to take to farming, and yet he has, and he is much respected for it. The chief difference, it seems, is that your father was so fortunate as to inherit great wealth and property, while mine scrambles every day to earn his living. This, I believe, motivated his interest in farming: with many sons to educate and a houseful of students to feed, I think he saw in it the potential of both a source of income and a supply of food.”

“He sounds like an intelligent and resourceful man.”

“He is. I quite admire him.”

The sun was past its zenith now, and it had grown quite hot. I wiped the perspiration from my brow, noting that Edward Taylor was in a similar glow. He removed his hat and ran his sun-browned fingers through his glossy reddish brown hair, then shook his head as if to cool it, an action which made my heart beat to an irregular rhythm. To distract myself, I plucked the stem and leaves off a particularly rosy strawberry and partook of its juicy sweetness. Mr. Taylor did the same.

We ate the berries in silence, kneeling side by side, just inches away from each other, my skirts nearly touching his bent leg. Of a sudden, he said softly:

“You have a bit of strawberry, near your mouth, just there.” Reaching up, he gently brushed something from my cheek. That slight pressure of his fingertips caused a tingle to rush through me. Our eyes met and held; the expression on his countenance as he looked at me was very arresting—filled with deep interest and something more, which seemed to indicate a rising esteem. My heart pounded.

He hesitated, then dropped his hand.

I sat down and looked away, my cheeks burning, struggling to recover both my mental and physical equilibrium. We returned to berry-picking. The sweet aroma of sun-ripened berries filled the air. Around me I heard the twitter of birds in the trees, the delicate buzz of bees, the chatter of the other gatherers, the intimate murmurs of my brother Edward and Elizabeth beneath an apple tree, and the hum of conversation from the gentlemen and women who sat in the shade fanning themselves. Edward Taylor seemed to be having as much difficulty resuming our discussion as did I. At length he said, with an unfamiliar trace of awkwardness:

“I believe we were speaking about your father’s farm?”

“I believe we were.”