Jane Austen’s First Love (25 page)

The last sentiment burst forth from my lips unintentionally.

Edward Taylor said in surprise, “You write stories?”

Warmth took over my face. I regretted my slip of the tongue, for I had never shown my tales to anyone outside my immediate family and closest friends, and to talk about them could only mortify me. “Oh! It is nothing; please forget I said it.”

“The desire to write is an interesting and commendable goal.”

Cassandra smiled. “For several years now, Jane has been delighting our family with stories which she makes up out of her own head. If too many days go by when she has not written
something
, she grows very irritable.”

“I cannot imagine actually thinking up and writing down a story.” Charlotte stared at me with a wondering expression.

“I have never been any good at writing myself, but it is a skill I admire,” said Edward Taylor. “What kinds of stories do you write?”

“Only silly nonsense—and hardly worth discussing. My brothers James and Henry are the true geniuses in the family; they wrote and edited a weekly periodical at Oxford full of interesting essays, which James had bound into two volumes and published.”

“Jane contributed a letter to the editor on one occasion,” said Cassandra proudly, “penned by a ‘Sophia Sentiment.’”

“Ah!” laughed Edward Taylor. “Then you have had the pleasure of seeing your words in print.”

“I fear it will constitute my one and only experience of publishing.”

To my relief, the topic was ended by circumstance. We had reached the far side of the property, where it bordered on a stately grove; at the same moment, we caught sight of all the disparate members of our party approaching in our direction: Fanny and Mr. Cage (arguing) came along a path to the left; Sophia and Mr. Deedes (smiling) came from the right; and Charles, Thomas, and Frederic (frowning) were just emerging from the wilderness beyond.

“Here we are,
tout assemblé
!” cried Edward Taylor. “Did you find your foxes?”

As we all converged, the trio explained that their errand had been in vain. Frederic had forgotten where he saw the den.

“I was certain it was dug into the brush to the north of a very tall tree, but then I thought, perhaps it was to the
south
of the tree.”

“We have looked in every direction,” said Charles, “and can find no sign of it.”

“Let us see if a few more pairs of eyes can help,” offered Edward Taylor.

We all moved together into the woods, to the spot which Frederic
thought
might be the place; but after searching for some little time in the underbrush, and finding no sign of a fox den anywhere, Frederic said with regret that he must have got the tree wrong, and we ought to waste no more time on it. We were about to turn back when Edward Taylor, glancing up at the tree towering above us, cried:

“I say, this is a very grand tree. I think it is the same one I climbed when I was here two years ago.”

“You
climbed
this tree?” said Frederic, shocked.

“I did. Let me see if I can scale it again.”

“Cousin!” cried Charlotte. “It is too tall!”

Edward Taylor paid her no heed. With dexterity and grace, he caught hold of a lower limb, propelled himself up and over it, and began to make his way upwards amongst the branches.

My heart seemed to stop beating. Tree-climbing had been a popular pursuit with my brothers and the schoolboys at Steventon Rectory. While I had on occasion found it exciting to watch them climb, I had never been able to view the activity without deep apprehension and a very real concern for their safety. I was never comfortable until they had descended unharmed, and I had never witnessed
anyone
climb a tree as high as this one.

It was one thing, I thought, when Edward Taylor had walked the wall at Goodnestone—
that
had only been somewhat precarious; to climb this immense tree was pure madness!

“Taylor!” cried Mr. Cage. “Come down. It is far too dangerous.”

“Danger is in my blood!” returned he, flashing us a smile from above.

Sophia shook her head. “He is insane.”

Everyone stood staring up with grave concern, but Edward Taylor climbed with confidence and determination, briefly hesitating only now and then to test a limb’s strength before moving higher. Mr. Deedes and Thomas soon began to whistle and call out encouragements, whilst the cautious wonder and concern of all the young ladies was exhibited by gasps and intermittent cries of warning.

“Higher! Higher!” cried Thomas Payler.

“That is high enough!” warned Mr. Cage.

“Oh!” exclaimed Fanny. “Is not he very brave!”

Edward now reached what seemed to be the highest possible limb which could support his weight. He stopped and turned to face his onlookers, clinging to the branches around him as he let go a great war-cry of victory, and shouted:

“The view is magnificent from up here! I dare say I can see all the way to Dover on this side, and Canterbury on the other! Who will climb up and join me?”

Nervous laughter spread through the crowd.

“It is not difficult. Cousin Thomas! Come up. I dare you!”

Thomas shook his head.

“We are not all so mad as you, Mr. Taylor,” cried Mr. Cage, “to risk our lives for the sake of a view.”

“Are you afraid, Cage?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Cage honestly, “but more than that: I am sensible and cautious.”

“Fie on sense and caution! Is not there an ounce of spirit and adventure among the lot of you? I tell you, the view is worth the effort.”

“I will make the climb!” exclaimed an eager voice.

I gasped in alarm. The words were spoken by my brother Charles, and no sooner had he uttered them, than he raced to the base of the tree and urged Thomas Payler to give him a boost up to the first limb.

“Charles! Do not be an idiot!” exclaimed Cassandra.

“I can do it,” cried Charles.

“No, Charles!” warned I. “Edward Taylor is five years older than you, more than a foot taller, and a good deal stronger.”

My words fell on deaf ears; the boost was given; and Charles began to climb.

“Dear God.” Cassandra clutched my arm, her countenance growing very pale.

I shared her anxiety. All eyes were now directed at Charles as he made his way upwards in the leafy depths of the tree. Since a young age he had proved himself to be a skilled climber, and being still small, he moved like a monkey as he progressed from one limb to the next. Nevertheless, I knew it to be a very risky enterprise, and I felt too ill to speak.

Edward Taylor sat down casually on the limb high above, smiling as he watched Charles’s progress. Several of the others, observing with what dexterity Charles ascended, began to whistle, cheer, and issue verbal encouragements. All was going well; it seemed as if my brother might well reach his goal with impunity—but when he had climbed about two-thirds of the way up, disaster struck. Charles reached too quickly for a limb, before he was secure; one foot slipped out from under him; suddenly he was dangling forty feet above the ground, his hands clinging to a branch above, and his feet flailing in the air.

A paroxysm of terror stabbed through me. I screamed; a chorus of anxious cries rang out from my companions. High above, Charles struggled, trying to regain purchase, but failing. If he fell, he would surely die!

F
rom the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of movement above; I discerned that Edward Taylor was rapidly propelling himself downwards, branch by branch.

“Hold on, Charles! I am coming down to you.”

The ensuing moments passed as though marking an eternity. I could scarcely breathe as I watched Charles’s struggle to hang on—(how long before his strength would fail him?)—and Edward Taylor’s downward progress. At last, Edward arrived at the appointed spot, where he positioned himself in such a way as to grab Charles and secure him, a moment met with cheers from below. Yet the drama was not over; tension reigned, as Edward Taylor directed Charles to climb upon his back, and take hold round his neck; then he began to climb steadily down the rest of the way. We all watched in absolute silence until both rescuer and his charge were safely delivered to the ground. Applause erupted, accompanied by many sighs of relief, none of them deeper or louder than my own.

Everyone gathered round, the young men clapping Edward Taylor on the back and expressing their admiration for his feat, while his cousins Sophia, Fanny, and Charlotte embraced him. Cassandra and I claimed Charles, taking turns drawing him into our arms.

“You worried us half to death,” said Cassandra, tears streaking her cheeks.

“What were you thinking, attempting something so dangerous?” I was crying now myself.

“I wanted to see the view,” replied he simply.

“And did you see it?”

“I did!” He squirmed with embarrassment in my embrace. “I did not reach the very top; but it was just as Mr. Taylor said. The view was magnificent. I shall never forget it.”

“I am glad.” I hugged and kissed him, and let him go. Charles ran off to accept the admiration of the group, where I observed Edward Taylor lay a hand on his shoulder and lean down to speak earnestly in his ear. To whatever was said, Charles beamed in response.

“I do believe,” said I slowly, “that Edward Taylor just saved our brother’s life.”

Cassandra nodded. “So he did.”

I found, however, that I could not smile. Although my anxiety was gone, overtaken by relief, another, darker emotion rippled through me—for I knew that the rescue would not have been required, had not Edward Taylor provoked Charles into climbing the tree in the first place.

Dinner at Bifrons was an animated affair, with everyone going over the most exciting event of the day from every possible angle, for the benefit of the Admiral and Mrs. Fielding. Heroes were made out of Charles for attempting the climb, and of Edward Taylor for saving him.

I could not view the event with such a sanguine attitude. The terrible idea of what had
almost
happened to my brother so consumed my thoughts, and filled me with such conflicting feelings—ranging from gratitude to Edward Taylor to anger for his own culpability in the event—that I could not enjoy the meal, nor add anything meaningful to the discourse at the table. Although my sister and I had no opportunity to indulge in private conversation, I deduced from her expression that she felt the same way. It was the first time I had possessed a negative feeling of any kind with regard to Edward Taylor, and it was both troubling and confusing.

Tea and coffee quickly followed dinner, for a five-mile ride home did not allow for any wasted hours; and it was not long before we had proclaimed our thanks to the Fieldings for their hospitality, and were reunited with the horses who had brought us thither. Frederic was happy to sleep in his own bed one more night, and Thomas and Charlotte had elected to ride home to Ileden for similar reasons; they would join us for rehearsal the following morning after church. Everyone else would return to Goodnestone that evening.

So preoccupied was I, that I could spare no thought for any manoeuvrings with regard to the groupings making up our ride, as I had on the way thither. Before I knew it, the same two couples who had walked about the grounds of Bifrons were already saddled and making their way forward at a trot, and I discovered myself mounted and travelling alongside my sister, with Edward Taylor and Charles chatting amiably on horseback some ways ahead of us.

It was a mild June evening. The sun hung low in the sky, with a good two hours or so before it would be dark; a slight breeze stirred the scattered trees bordering the road, filling the air with the pleasant scents of moist earth and grass. Cassandra and I rode in silence for a little while, both of us lost in thought. I heard my sister sigh and observed her cast a withering look at Edward Taylor’s back. At last she said:

“I cannot stop thinking how close we came to losing our brother today.”

“Neither can I.” Those three words seemed to break the dam which had held me back from speaking, and my ire rushed forth. Careful to speak in a tone low enough so as not to meet the ears of those riding ahead of us, I continued: “I am deeply thankful to Edward Taylor for saving Charles, but at the same time, I am so annoyed with both of them!”

“As am I!” returned she.

“It was very wrong of Charles to attempt to climb that tree; but—”

“—he should never have thought of it, had not Edward Taylor encouraged him!”

“He thinks nothing of danger to himself.”

“But worse, far worse, is his tendency to goad others into mirroring his own wild and careless behaviour,” said Cassandra. “This lack of judgement and concern for others is also reflected in his selfish ideas concerning his family and his property.”

“Not to mention his views regarding a university education! No matter how many books he has read, it cannot compare to the experience of Oxford. He seems determined to look down his nose at every privilege afforded him!”

Edward Taylor seemed to sense that we were talking about him, for he glanced back at us with a serious and concerned expression. He said something to Charles, who nodded and rode on alone; then Edward turned his horse and trotted back towards us.

Cassandra and I exchanged a look; we both blushed, embarrassed that we might have been overheard; yet her flashing eyes told me that she was just as perturbed as I.

The object of our irritation approached, turned, and fell in beside me, so that I rode between him and my sister. The look on his face was mildly contrite and infused with charm. “I suspect the Austen sisters are angry with me.”

We did not reply. He began again:

“I am so sorry about your brother’s misadventure—”

“Misadventure!” cried I warmly. “How dare you call it so, when he could have died!”

“Forgive me if I employed the improper word to describe the episode; I had no thought for anyone but Thomas to follow me up that tree.”

“That is the trouble,” said I. “You do not
think
about anyone but yourself.” The words escaped before I could prevent them; they were harsh, and I winced inwardly at having pronounced them aloud—but I knew them to be the truth.

He coloured slightly but did not respond.

“You saved our brother’s life,” I rushed on. “For that we can never be grateful enough, Mr. Taylor; but at the same time, your daring rescue, which everybody made so much of, would not have been required, had not you acted so recklessly.”

Now he looked annoyed. “I was not reckless. My brothers and I dare each other to do such things all the time, and have never had a dreadful result.”

“Is your father aware of your behaviour?” asked I.

He hesitated. “On those occasions when he has found out, we were reprimanded.”

“Well then, you must know it is wrong!” cried I.

“That helps explain, I think, his reluctance to have you and your brother go into the army,” said my sister.

“What do you mean?”

“How he must worry about you, Mr. Taylor!” said Cassandra. “Have you considered the anxiety you cause, the pain and suffering you inflict on those who love you, by continually putting
yourselves
in harm’s way?”

“Whether it was Thomas or Charles who climbed the tree does not make you any less accountable,” added I. “By issuing the challenge as you did, you were dooming
somebody
to follow your lead, and thus imperil his own life.”

“I was dooming
no one
,” answered he defensively. “A challenge is simply that: a challenge—a call or summons to engage in an activity that might test one’s skill or strength. Nobody is
obligated
to participate; if they do, it is a personal choice.
You
do not object to the
idea
of a challenge, Miss Jane: as I recall, you recently volunteered to climb a high wall entirely of your own free will.”

My cheeks grew warm at this reminder; how could I refute it? Yet it did nothing to ease my ire.

“I never expected Charles to take me up on my dare today,” continued he, “but the very fact that he was brave enough to try it, and the talent he exhibited in its pursuit, shews what a stalwart young lad he is. Did you observe with what dexterity he scaled that tree?”

“What are you saying?” cried I. “That his courage and physical fitness absolve you of any blame?”

“I am saying, he proved today how very
fit
he is for the navy! Cannot you see him climbing the rigging of some great ship in similar fashion, with the sun and sea behind him, and the wind in his hair?”

Having delivered this speech, he urged his horse forward and rode off down the road. I watched him go, my ire rising with every beat of the animal’s hooves.

The next morning, I was still so angry with Edward Taylor that I did not speak to him at breakfast or after church, and I avoided him whenever I saw him during our play rehearsals throughout the day. I went over our conversation many times in my mind, and although I could not really find fault with any of his arguments, it yet irked me that he had so vociferously defended his actions, and seemed unable to admit to any real culpability in the affair.

“Is it possible,” said I to my sister, “to be very, very angry with someone, yet love them at the same time?”

“Of course,” replied she. “I believe we both feel that way about our mother every single day.”

About an hour before dinner, I was pacing on my own in the privacy of the central walled garden, practising my lines aloud to the shrubbery and the flowers in the warmth of a calm summer afternoon, when Edward Taylor suddenly appeared. He crossed to where I stood, carrying something wrapped in brown paper, which I thought might be a very thin book.

“Miss Jane.”

I stopped and glanced up at him, not entirely thrilled to see him; but there was a look of genuine apology in his dark eyes.

“I wanted you to know that I feel bad about what happened yesterday.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I have been thinking about it. You called me reckless—”

“And so you were,” snapped I.

“And so I was,” admitted he. “I could not bring myself to say so at the time. But you were right. And you were equally perceptive in your suspicion that my father does not approve of such behaviour. It is the reason I am here in England.”

“Oh?” said I, surprised.

“Few people know this, but earlier this spring he caught me challenging my brothers to do something he considered reckless, and it so angered him—that, combined with my gambling debts, which had increased to such a level—let us just say that my father was fed up with me. He sent me home to ‘remove my brothers from my bad influence,’ as he put it, and to force me to ‘confront and think about my future.’”

I paused upon hearing this, somewhat troubled. I was not blind—I knew that Mr. Taylor had a propensity to speculate—but I had never considered that it might have ever proved to be a serious problem. “Thank you for sharing that. It helps explain your antipathy towards your father, which I wondered at—but it in no way excuses it. And as for gambling—”

“I am not perfect, Miss Jane, but I try to learn from my mistakes. I have mended my ways: I now indulge in nothing more than the occasional, impulsive wager—” (colouring slightly) “as you have witnessed—or a friendly card or dice game, with stakes so low as to impoverish nobody.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“In all other respects, I aim to be a better man in future. I can only say that I am very sorry I ended up endangering your brother’s well-being yesterday, and I hope and pray that you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”