by Ken Methold
James nodded in agreement. ‘From what I hear, she is certainly the most interesting of the women novelists.’
‘Compared with Pride and Prejudice,’ Sarah said, ‘none of Miss Fanny Burney’s or Miss Maria Edgeworth’s novels stand a chance of being read in fifty, even twenty years’ time. And as for Ann Radcliffe’s gothic nonsense …!’
James said, ‘Murray persuaded Sir Walter Scott to review Austen’s Emma. Unfortunately, he was not wholly impressed by it.’ With a cunning editor’s smile, he added, ‘How about a series of profiles, “Women Novelists at Work Today.” We need to increase female readership of The Informer. And it’s the women who buy or borrow all the fiction.’
Matthew nodded. ‘That is an excellent suggestion, James. At present, our book review pages are rather lacking from a woman’s point of view. What do you say, Sarah?’
Before Sarah could reply, a messenger hurried into the chophouse. He was one of several employed by the Drury Lane theatre. Looking around, he soon espied Sarah and hurried towards her. He handed her a sealed, folded note.
‘For you, Miss Kedron. I am to await a reply.’
Sarah broke the seal and read the note. Her face clouded.
‘There’s a problem with my play,’ she said. ‘I must go to the theatre and find out what’s wrong.’
To the messenger, she said, ‘Tell the manager I’m on my way.’
The messenger hurried off, and Sarah stood. ‘I’d better go now. I can’t imagine what the problem is, but it’s obviously something serious. We’ll talk about this Austen business later.’
The Theatre Royal in Drury Lane was but a few minutes’ walk from Chancery Lane. The manager, Samuel Arnold, looked up from his desk as Sarah entered and gave her an apologetic smile. Little more than a large cupboard, the office was so full of broken props, torn costumes, stained prompt copies and other theatrical detritus that it had the appearance of an unsuccessful pawn shop.
As Sarah took the only remaining seat, Arnold said, ‘Let me say immediately, Miss Kedron, that in my opinion there is nothing wrong with your play, and I consider it an honour to be presenting it.’
From this statement, Sarah knew that a requirement to rewrite was in the offing.
‘It’s a little late in the day to ask for changes,’ she said.
‘I made exactly that point to Mr Kean.’
‘Ah!’ Sarah exclaimed. ‘And what’s his problem with the play?’
Edmund Kean, the current darling of the audience for drama, was the only actor who could fill the 3,060-seat theatre night after night. Well aware of this, he behaved disgracefully, often appearing drunk, or not appearing at all, or making frequent and unreasonable demands of the theatre’s management. Under the terms of his contract, he held the right of veto for any new play that did not satisfy his ego.
‘I regret to say, Miss Kedron, that Mr Kean does not think his role in your play is large enough for his talent. He demands another dramatic scene with at least one hundred lines.’
Sarah knew better than to argue that to include such a scene would destroy the carefully structured story-line and probably also the rhythm of the play. Such objections would be waved aside as being irrelevant. There was, however, just one good argument that might persuade Edmund Kean to be more reasonable. ‘Surely he will understand that if we make any changes to the play, it must be re-submitted to the Lord Chamberlain’s office for approval before we can stage it. That could take weeks even if no changes are required.’
‘I have explained that,’ Samuel Arnold said, ‘but Mr Kean is adamant. If necessary, the production must be rescheduled.’
This, Sarah accepted, was a euphemism for ‘cancelled.’ She also knew that her only hope of getting the play re-considered without delay by the Lord Chamberlain’s office was to have a friend at court. She realised with some surprise that she might have such a person.
‘How long have we got?’ she asked.
‘I can extend the Shakespeare and put the Garrick play between it and yours. That could give us three weeks depending on the houses.’
If she got to work on the script immediately, Sarah could complete the rewrite in two or three days. That would give two full weeks for the censor to do his worst. It should be enough. She was confident in her ability to avoid contentious areas.
‘I will know by tomorrow if it can be done,’ she said. ‘I have an acquaintance at Carlton House who may be able to speed matters up.’
‘That would be splendid,’ Samuel Arnold said. ‘I will tell Mr Kean how very accommodating you are being.’ He stood up and bowed. ‘I am really most obliged to you Miss Sarah. I hope to have good news soon.’
Sarah gave him a wry smile and left his office. After hailing a hackney outside the theatre, she instructed the driver to take her to Carlton House. If the librarian was there, she would find a way of enlisting his aid.
Chapter-3
The Reverend Clarke was surprised to see Sarah so soon after the morning’s meeting, but he received her courteously, hoping for an advantage. He guessed that she would not have returned unless she needed his assistance in some way.
Always brisk and concise, she came straight to the point of her visit. ‘I have discussed the possibility of a long article in The Inquirer with my father and his editor, Mr Brewster, and they are both of the opinion that Miss Austen’s life and works will be an appropriate subject for the periodical.’
Clarke’s face brightened. ‘Excellent. I am sure that will please his Royal Highness.’
‘I would like to start making the necessary inquiries immediately. Mr Brewster will provide introductions to Miss Austen’s publishers, and whatever they can tell me will be a useful beginning. However, I would not want to raise with them, certainly not at this stage, the possibility that Miss Austen was not the author of all the novels that now bear her name. I would need considerable evidence to support such a theory before I mentioned it.’
‘I understand. I will inquire further of Lady Hertford.’
‘Thank you. There is one other thing, Mr Clarke.’ Succinctly, she explained the problem with her play. His response was better than she could have expected. He clearly wanted to be helpful and to demonstrate his influence at court.
‘I am sure I can arrange for your revised play to, what shall I say, go to the top of the pile. I am occasionally asked to assist the Lord Chamberlain by considering matters in a new play that relate to the church. You will be aware, no doubt, that any statements favourable to Jacobite or popish interests have to be excised.’
‘Of course.’
‘When then may I expect the revised manuscript of your play?’
‘Within three days.’
Sarah offered the clergyman her hand. ‘I am deeply obliged to you, sir.’
‘It is my pleasure to be of assistance, Miss Kedron.’
Sarah realised that sooner or later there would be a price to pay for his assistance, probably a request for an article to be published in The Inquirer about him and his work as the royal librarian. Perhaps even something flattering about the Prince Regent. Time would tell, but she need not presently consider the matter.
Feeling rather pleased with herself, Sarah decided to spend the rest of the day with Elizabeth Stockton, her artist friend who had a studio apartment in Cheyne Walk. An attractive possibility occurred to her. For the evening ahead, they could cross the river to Vauxhall Gardens where there would be music and dancing, and where they would encounter friends from their respective worlds with whom to enjoy the activities and refreshments that the Gardens had to offer. Tomorrow, she thought, would be soon enough to begin revising the play.
Elizabeth’s maid escorted her up the five flights of stairs and opened the studio door for her. Her arrival caused Elizabeth’s face to light up with pleasure. She hurried forward, and they embraced. Elizabeth was a little taller and considerably stouter than Sarah, and with her golden hair curled in a rope on top of her head, her appearance was in marked contrast to Sa
rah’s, whose gipsy blood had given her almost jet-black hair and a slightly sallow skin.
‘Dearest this is such a lovely surprise,’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you until the end of the week.’
‘I hope I’m not interrupting important work.’
‘If only you were interrupting work of any kind! I am between portraits; the worst time for me. I cannot settle for anything. Your company is desperately needed.’ Taking Sarah by the hand, she led her to a couch near the floor-to-ceiling window. ‘Can you stay awhile?’
‘Yes. And perhaps we will go to Vauxhall this evening. But before we make plans, I must tell you what has happened today. A most strange one.’
Over the two years that Sarah had known her, Elizabeth had become her closest friend. Although different in personality and temperament—Elizabeth was impulsive and out-going whereas Sarah was more considered and reserved—the two women were always completely at ease and secure with one another. Elizabeth, whose temperament was mercurial and who suffered greatly from her lack of confidence in her art, needed the emotional support that the far more self-confident and socially secure playwright was able to provide. Although only two years younger than Sarah, she was in many ways still more of a young girl than a mature woman. For her part, Sarah responded gladly to her friend’s ebullience and treasured their friendship.
‘Tell, dearest, tell all,’ Elizabeth demanded. ‘I so badly need cheering up today.’
‘Well,’ Sarah said, ‘it all began with a summons to Carlton House.’
‘The Prince Regent’s residence! What did that old lecher want from you? Oh no! He hasn’t designs on you as yet another mistress.’
‘Nothing like that, thank goodness. Believe me, if I took a lover, he would not be so old and obese. No, it is all about the novelist, Jane Austen.’ She related the events of the day in detail, and when she had finished and done her best to answer Elizabeth’s many questions, she came to the main point of her visit.
‘I think it is likely, my dear, that if I am going to write an article, I shall need to meet and talk to a lot of people. This means I shall have to travel, perhaps quite extensively. I was wondering if you would care to come with me—that is, if your painting commitments allowed you to.’
‘Oh! Yes, yes!’ Elizabeth exclaimed. ‘There is nothing in the world I would like to do more. When do we begin? Do you have a plan?’
‘Not yet. I expect that as I talk to people, the information I obtain from each will lead me to the next contact. I intend to begin with her publishers to establish a history of her novels. Who knows where that information may lead us? Our travel plans, therefore, must be flexible. I thought we might begin with a trip to Winchester. That is where she died, so we might be able to talk to her physician and friends in the city. Her tomb is in the vault beneath the north aisle of the cathedral. That in itself is a surprise. She was so little known during her lifetime as all her novels were published anonymously.’
‘Why do you want to see her tomb?’
‘I want to see what is written on her tombstone. I believe it will be not what one would expect.’
‘When do you think I should be ready to leave here?’
‘What do you say to Sunday?’
‘Perfect. How long will we be away?’
‘I don’t know. We may come back to London from Winchester or travel elsewhere. Our journey will depend on what we discover there. Can you arrange for your maid to look after your studio and forward any letters and so on? We can always let her know our forwarding addresses.’
‘That is easily done. Oh, Sarah, this is so exciting. And it is so lovely of you to ask me to join you.’
‘There is no one else I could wish to ask.’
‘Not James?’
‘Ah, the dear James. No, he has work to do, but he is very enthusiastic about the project. As is my father.’ A thought occurred. ‘Oh, yes, don’t give a thought to the expenses. This investigation is being paid for by The Inquirer.’
Tears of both happiness and relief appeared in Elizabeth’s eyes. ‘Your father is very generous.’ She became thoughtful for a moment and then asked quietly, ‘Does your father know that I am to be your travelling companion?’
Sarah laughed. ‘Not yet. But he’ll be delighted when I tell him you have agreed. I think his gesture will then be more of gratitude than generosity, dear. He would be greatly alarmed if he thought I intended travelling around the countryside on my own.’
She took hold of Elizabeth’s hands and smiled conspiratorially. ‘There is just one other thing. I shall explain to people my curiosity about Miss Austen by telling them that I am writing a series of articles for The Informer on women novelists. You, I suggest, I should introduce as the artist commissioned to provide appropriate illustrations for the articles. Houses and gardens. That sort of thing. Even line drawings of faces where relevant. Is that all right with you? It will be so helpful to have you with me during the interviews. Your thoughts on what is said—or left unsaid—will be invaluable.’
‘It’s a wonderful idea. I’ll bring my smaller easel and water-colours. Oh, Sarah this is so exciting. I just know we’ll have a lovely time travelling together.’
Sarah nodded and smiled. ‘Of course, we will, dear. It was fun before, and it will be again.’ She laughed. ‘When we were trying to find out what had happened to Sir Charles Browning, we told people you were interested in ecclesiastical architecture. I don’t remember anyone asking to see your drawings. Not one.’
‘That was just as well. They are not my best, but I keep them as souvenirs,’ Elizabeth said. ‘They are very precious to me.’
Sarah stood. ‘That is sweet of you. But now let us change our clothes and go to Vauxhall. We are sure to meet some friends there, dine and, perhaps, even dance a little. We’ll celebrate the birth of another mystery to be solved. I’ll call for you in an hour or so.’
The two women walked to the door where they embraced fondly.
Well-satisfied with developments, Sarah left to take a hackney back to Portman Place.
Chapter-4
James Brewster was as good as his word and, within an hour, had sent a letter introducing Sarah to Thomas Egerton at his bookshop and office at Charing Cross. Egerton had replied by return, expressing pleasure at an opportunity to meet the celebrated playwright and actress. The next morning, Sarah took a hackney to the Cross with high hopes of obtaining useful information.
Egerton had his desk at the back of the shop, presumably to keep an eye on his customers and observe how the two apprentices attended to their requirements. Recognising her as she entered—he was a frequent patron of the Theatre Royal—he stood up as an apprentice led her towards his desk.
‘Miss Kedron to see you, sir.’
‘Miss Kedron, this is an honour and a pleasure. Is there any chance of a repeat production of your splendid play The Malevolent Mistress this year?’ He invited Sarah to be seated and signalled to the apprentice to bring tea.
‘I doubt it, Mr Egerton, but there are plans for my new play to feature Mr Edward Kean at Drury Lane. Much depends on the censor.’
‘Ah, yes, that ridiculous office,’ Egerton said as he resumed his seat. ‘We used to be more fortunate than playwrights, but the situation is very different now. Although there is no system like the Lord Chamberlain’s office by which we can have our books checked for sedition and goodness knows what else before publication, if after publication they are believed to contain matter that the government does not like, we can expect trouble. The newspapers and periodical press need to be especially careful. Your father must be very worried by the loss of press freedom.’
‘It is a matter of grave concern to him, Mr Egerton,’ Sarah said. ‘The movements for reform in so many areas are stifled by the government’s fear that the revolutionary spirit could spread from France to Britain. At least as a playwright, when my work has passed the censor, I need not worry about being arrested, unlike many of our political journali
sts who never know from one day to the next whether they will be arrested and tried on some ridiculous charge. There are government spies everywhere.’
Egerton nodded. ‘Indeed, and I have no doubt that if Mary Wollstonecraft were alive and writing today, she would be languishing in prison. As would her husband, William Godwin. A good subject for a play another time? Perhaps for the American stage.’
Sarah allowed Egerton, who seemed a little nervous, to chatter on. He seemed a pleasant enough man, nondescript in appearance and a little pedantic, she thought, as a bookseller and publisher was often expected to be.
As the apprentice poured the tea, Egerton moved on from pleasantries to the point of Sarah’s visit. ‘I understand from Mr Brewster’s note that you are interested in the life and works of the lady we now know to be the late Miss Jane Austen.’
‘That is so. I would be most obliged, Mr Egerton, if you could tell me something about the publishing history of her novels.’
‘I’ll be happy to tell you about the three novels we published. I need to make it clear at the beginning, however, that my firm was not the ideal publisher for the lady. We do not usually publish fiction and have little experience in its sale.’
‘May I ask why you made an exception for Miss Austen?’
‘Of course. I was approached by one of my authors of military history to meet a friend of his, a Captain Henry Austen of the Oxford Militia. He was hoping to find a publisher for a book by a member of his family. I thought at first, he had written the book himself but lacked the confidence in it to admit the fact. The book was a novel, Sense and Sensibility. I pointed out to him that I knew little about fiction publishing, but he gave the impression of not wanting to spend time hawking the book around from publisher to publisher and was anxious to get it off his hands as quickly as possible.’
‘I understand. Did he tell you much about the author?’
‘No, only that she was a relative and insisted on anonymity. The book was to be credited as “By a Lady”. I must stress that I did not want to publish this book, but I felt that to reject it would offend Mr Austen’s friend, my valuable author. I certainly had no desire to invest in what I was sure would be a commercial failure, so I offered to publish it on commission.’