by Ken Methold
Sarah believed that an understanding of the intricate network of relationships of the Steventon Austens to branches of the family, some close, others as distant as cousins several times removed, would be crucial to any understanding of Jane Austen’s life. The large family had members scattered around the country in widely different social and financial circumstances. Sarah soon discovered how important family had been to Jane—she’d spent much of her time, and most of her extremely limited and precious money, travelling from one relation or family friend to another.
The store had so much to see and comment on that time soon passed and before they expected it, a church clock struck ten. As though he’d been awaiting this cue outside the door, Henry Austen entered. Immediately the servant walked up to him and indicated where Sarah was sitting. Henry approached, and when he reached their table, stopped and bowed. Sarah stood and extended her hand. She believed it was essential that he accept she was of his class and not a hack from Grub Street.
Henry Austen was a handsome but haggard-looking man in his late forties, but his grey-white hair made him look much older than his years. Had he been dressed differently, Sarah thought, he could have been a successful but ageing tragedian, and this impression was supported by his sonorous and considered speech. Sarah detected little warmth in the man.
They shook hands and after Henry accepted the invitation to join them, Sarah introduced Elizbeth as a London portrait artist and her travelling companion. Henry acknowledged her with a courteous though wan smile.
For a moment it seemed as if the meeting had promising potential. In this, however, Sarah’s hopes were very quickly dashed.
‘I am greatly obliged, of course, for your interest in my dear late sister,’ Henry Austen said as though reading from a prepared script, ‘but I must make it absolutely clear to you, that we, by which I mean her family, have no wish for her to be remembered as the novelist. This is not what she wanted. Her life was devoted to the care of her mother, who has been an invalid for many years, and to the interests of her nieces of whom she was very fond. She wrote as a form of relaxation from her domestic and religious obligations as a devout Christian and a member of the Anglican persuasion. She sought neither fame nor fortune as a novelist. Indeed, she actively tried to avoid achieving it.’
‘You have made that clear on the memorial stone and elsewhere,’ Sarah said. ‘But the question that has to be asked, sir, is: if that is so, why did she seek publication, even to the extent of investing capital in some of her books? They were published, I have been told, on a commission basis. This means that she had to accept responsibility for any losses the books incurred.’
‘I must accept responsibility for her publications,’ Henry said, a profound sadness in his voice, a deep melancholy. ‘I seriously misunderstood my sister’s wishes with regard to her writing. As I have misunderstood so many things. There is really no more to be said. I beseech you to ignore my sister’s works. They were worthless to her. Choose another author to help you fill the pages of your periodical. Allow my dear sister to rest in peace and her family to grieve their terrible loss.’
Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but Henry denied her the opportunity.
‘Do not, I beg you, approach my sister Cassandra. She is overwhelmed with grief. And bear in mind that only she really understood Jane. She is her executor and possesses all her papers, but will insist their contents remain private to our immediate family. You will be wasting your time and causing a great deal of pain if you persist in your inquiries. I bid you good day. May God go with you.’ With this, he stood up, bowed, turned and hurried from the room.
For several moments, Sarah felt too puzzled and moved to speak. Elizabeth had sufficient sensibility to remain silent. When Sarah did speak, it was very quietly and for Elizbeth’s ears alone. ‘I think he is ill. Not just physically. He seems to be overwhelmed by sadness and, I think, but I am not sure why, a sense of guilt.’
Elizabeth whispered in reply, ‘Do you think he is telling the truth about Jane’s intentions and wishes?’
Sarah paused and thoughtfully bit her lip. ‘I truly don’t know. It’s possible, though from the little her first publisher had to say, I think it’s very unlikely. We won’t know for certain until we discover more about Henry Austen, and if we discover anything, I am not at all sure that we will like it.’
Still concerned about Henry Austen’s abruptness, Elizabeth said, ‘He gives the impression of being a defeated, emotionally dead man.’
Sarah put a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. ‘My dear, we could return to London this morning, if you wish. But as we have horses available, and we have not had the ride to Chawton, we could ride to Steventon instead. Even if we cannot speak to a member of the family, you could sketch the house where Jane lived for half her life. I might find someone in the village who knew her.’
‘I think that’s a lovely idea. I’ll make a series of quick sketches of the church as well. I can work them up later.’
Sarah smiled with relief. ‘I’m so pleased. Spring is here, and every day is getting warmer. A ride in the country will do us both good. We’ll take the first coach to London tomorrow. There is nothing further for us here. Although we may have to come back if Cassandra Austen is willing to talk to us. I believe that most of Henry Austen’s adult life has been spent in London and Oxford. That’s where we are most likely to find out why he is in the state he is.’ She paused, smiled wryly and then added, ‘Assuming, that is, that we ever can find out. I am beginning to think that the Austen family has something to hide.’
‘Show me a family that hasn’t,’ Elizabeth said. ‘And I must say that I found our meeting with Henry Austen as disturbing. There is something very wrong in that man’s life.’
‘Yes. Very wrong.’ Sarah stood. ‘Perhaps we’ll find out something about him at Steventon. He would have lived there until he left for university. There will be people in the village who know him even if family members won’t talk to us. Come, let’s go back to the hotel and change into suitable clothes for riding.’
The two women left Minerva’s and returned to the hotel where Sarah ordered the hired horses to be made ready.
Chapter-11
The ride to Steventon was as pleasant and uneventful as Sarah had expected it would be. Their horses, only too used to the ill-treatment they suffered from casual hirers, responded well to the two women’s firm but gentle management, and seemed to go out of their way to provide a comfortable journey, despite the unevenness and generally poor condition of the country lanes.
They arrived at the rectory just after noon. After dismounting in the lane outside the rectory, they let the horses graze on the fresh grass while they stood for several minutes admiring the house and its surroundings and wondering what their next move should be. Unlike many rural parishes, Steventon was substantial and included a number of wealthy families whose regular attendance at the church provided adequate funds for the upkeep of the church and of the house. Added to this was the regular income from the glebe farm.
Before Elizabeth had time to set up her easel and prepare her pencils, a young man of nineteen or so rode up suddenly and reigned in his panting horse. He raised his hat to the women.
‘Good day to you, ladies. May I be of any assistance? I am James Austen.’ He smiled. ‘Not yet the reverend. He is my father.’
‘We are delighted to meet you,’ Sarah said. ‘I am Sarah Kedron and my companion is the artist Elizabeth Stockton.’
‘Who is about to draw my family home,’ James said. ‘Please feel free to enter the garden if you wish.’
‘Thank you. We are obliged to you,’ Elizabeth said with a slightly coquettish smile. She realised, as did Sarah, that with the right approach, the young man might be a way to his parents.
‘I should explain,’ Sarah said, ‘that I am writing a series of articles on women novelists of the Regency for The Inquirer. My first article will be about your late sister, Jane, who, in my opinion, is by far the most intere
sting of them all. Her death is a tragic loss in so many ways.’
James Austen dismounted and said, ‘I would like to invite you into the house to meet my parents, but my father is gravely ill. I do not think my mother is prepared to receive visitors.’
‘We completely understand. Please convey our condolences to her and to your father on their sad loss.’
Elizabeth cleverly added, ‘We had the honour and pleasure of meeting your uncle Henry earlier today. He very graciously rode to see us in Basingstoke.’
‘Ah,’ James said, non-committally. ‘Yes.’
Smiling, Sarah said, ‘Would it be an imposition if I asked you just a few questions about your aunt?’
‘I did not know her well,’ James told her. ‘She left here with my grandparents and her sister, my aunt Cassandra, very soon after he retired. That was in about 1801. He was the rector here then. I was only three-years old. They went to live in Bath for a few years—my grandfather died there soon after—and then they lived briefly in Southampton before settling at Chawton. My father inherited the living here, and Aunt Jane visited from time to time, but her visits were usually hurried and, of course, I was very young.’ He grinned. ‘She was a great traveller but rarely stayed long in the same place. There are branches of the family all over southern England.’ He laughed. ‘So many that one need not go to the expense of having a home of one’s own. One could live on the hospitality of relatives.’
‘Did she ever talk about her work?’ Sarah asked, as much to keep the conversation going as anything.
‘Not to me, but I know she did to several of her nieces, Fanny and Anne especially. They told me that they were interested in writing themselves. She encouraged them and offered advice. I believe she was very generous with her time and enjoyed the company of young people.’ Smiling apologetically, he concluded, ‘My own interests are of a more rural nature—hunting and shooting. I have no literary ambitions.’
‘But you will, no doubt, go to Oxford,’ Sarah said.
James nodded. ‘Very likely. I am intended for the church.’
At this moment, the door of the rectory opened and a middle-aged woman, dressed in black, appeared. She took in the scene at the garden gate and then, as though coming to a sudden decision, hurried towards them. Sarah and Elizabeth exchanged glances. The expression on the woman’s face was not welcoming.
‘Ah! Here comes my mother,’ James Austen said. ‘Please excuse me.’
Dropping the reins of his horse, he entered the garden and approached his mother. They held a brief, half-whispered conversation, during which Mrs Austen’s face gradually relaxed. She accompanied her son to the gate where after bidding Sarah and Elizabeth, ‘Good day,’ he led his horse further down the lane and into the stables yard.
Mrs Austen approached them.
‘Good day, ladies. I am Mary Austen,’ she said. ‘I do apologise for not being able to invite you into the house and offer you refreshments, but Mr Austen is extremely ill. My son was just returning from Basingstoke where he’d collected laudanum from the apothecary to ease his father’s pain.’
Sarah expressed regret for their intrusion, but Mary Austen waved away the apology and said, ‘Usually, I would have made you very welcome and been happy to talk to you about Jane. If only to put the record straight.’
This, Sarah thought, was a very telling remark that could be full of significance, but before she could speak, Mary Austen continued, ‘I grew up with Jane. My family, the Lloyds, were neighbours, and we spent almost as much time in the Austen home as we did in our own. Jane and I were the closest of friends for many years. My sister, Martha, lives with Mrs Austen and Cassandra at Chawton. Anything you wish to know about Jane’s childhood and early writing, I can tell you. But not at present. May I suggest you contact me in a week’s time? By then I pray that my husband will have recovered.’
‘You are most kind. I will do as you suggest.’
Sarah handed Mary Austen one of her cards.
‘Kedron,’ Mrs Austen said. ‘Any relation to the publisher of The Inquirer?’
‘My father.’
‘Oh, my husband will be so pleased to meet you. Your father is one of his heroes. When he was at Oxford with his brother Henry, they published—and I believe they also wrote every word of it—a magazine. They were inspired by Samuel Johnson’s The Idler and called their magazine The Loiterer. It was considered a remarkable achievement for two students. It ran for over fifty issues.’
At this point in the conversation a servant came out from the rear of the house, carrying a tray bearing glasses of lemonade. Grateful for the refreshment, Sarah and Elizabeth chatted to Mary Austen about the weather, the journey from Basingstoke and other neutral topics. They anticipated that, with care in what they said and asked her, Mary Austen could be an invaluable source of information.
Less than ten minutes later, they were on their way back to Basingstoke, satisfied with their visit to Steventon. Sarah felt confident that a door which she had feared would be closed to her, seemed to be wide open. Only a little patience and tact would be required.
Chapter-12
During the coach journey as they returned to London, Sarah said, ‘I need to spend a few days in London, before we set off again. I’ll give you at least a couple of days’ notice when I’m ready to leave. You do want to accompany me, don’t you?’
‘Of course, I do. Don’t worry. I’ll be ready to leave. It’s been so interesting and enjoyable so far. Do you know where we might go next?’
‘I have no idea. A lot will depend on whatever James has discovered about Henry Austen. I sent him a note yesterday from Basingstoke asking him to find out what he can.’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Oh, if you are offered a portrait commission please do not turn it down on my account. There is really no hurry in what I’m doing. It’s really just an excuse to have a break from the theatre and spend time with you. Jane Austen is dead. It’s not as if we have to complete our inquiries while she is ailing but still alive.’
‘Bless you,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I really can’t afford to turn down any work, no matter how minor. Unfortunately, I don’t think another commission is likely in the near future. I might even take up landscape painting. I find it much more satisfying than having to make ugly men look handsome and miserable women look happy.’
Laughing, the two women embraced and parted, taking separate hackneys, Elizabeth to her studio in Chelsea, Sarah to her home in Portman Place.
***
James and her father had just started dinner when she arrived at Portman Place. She joined them, and during the meal brought them up to date with her inquiries. When she’d finished, her father said, ‘It certainly sounds all rather weird. Henry Austen has gone from being her enthusiastic agent, doing deals for her with publishers, to denying that she had any interest in publishing her writing. There has to be an explanation.’
Sarah nodded. To James she said, ‘Did you receive my note from Basingstoke?’
‘I did. And I acted on it straight away.’ He grinned. ‘I put young Jack Godwin on to it. He’s our best reporter, worth his weight in gold. I swear he’s got ferret blood in his veins. And he’s always so keen.’
Mathew Kedron laughed. ‘You want to be careful, James. He’s got his eye on your job.’
‘I’ll gladly give him the Weekly Police News, sir. He could edit that in his sleep. I’d much prefer to spend more time on The Inquirer.’
‘And you shall, my boy,’ Matthew said. ‘Godwin will be ready to take on the Weekly Police News next year. Then you can devote all your time to The Inquirer. I’ve been thinking about starting something new. A magazine for reasonably educated women. There are going to be a lot more of them before long. You mark my words.’
‘Don’t delay too long, Father,’ Sarah said. ‘My article on Jane Austen could be in the first issue.’
James said, ‘It won’t be long before there will be a demand for specialist periodicals. It’s a market we need to keep our eyes
on.’
James Brewster had worked for Matthew for over two years. He’d launched The Weekly Police News and also helped by editing The Inquirer. The attempt at a single-sheet daily paper had been a mistake—the competition was just too great with over thirty daily papers in the capital. Matthew had discontinued it before it lost too much money. Now the business consisted of only The Weekly Police News and The Monthly Inquirer. The two publications were both profitable, benefiting not only from increasing sales but also abundant advertising.
Matthew already looked on James as a possible heir. At one time, he’d thought Sarah might be interested in marrying James, and then managing the business with him, but recent developments in her private life and her continued success as a playwright made that very unlikely.
Taking a folded piece of paper out of his coat pocket, James handed it to Sarah. ‘This is Godwin’s report. He also discovered an address for James Tilson, the main partner in Henry Austen’s London bank until the collapse, and he has provisionally arranged for you and I to meet with him.’
Sarah quickly skimmed the report. Henry Austen’s first entry into banking had been in Alton, little more than a large village, near Steventon. There he had gone into business with a Mr Gray, a prosperous local grocer. Within a few months, in spite of his total lack of experience of banking, he had branched out with new partners, Messrs Blunt and Louch, in Petersfield. Almost immediately, he had opened a third bank. This time in Henrietta Street in Covent Garden. Here he had two different partners, Messrs Maude and Tilson. In 1815 all three banks failed. The partners lost their investments, as did several members of the Austen family, some of whom had put in a great deal of money. Most of the banks’ business had been with government contractors of one kind another, but especially with suppliers of various goods and services to the military. The failure of the banks had to some extent been due to the downturn in the economy after the war, and the huge government debt that had resulted in substantial reductions in expenditure. It was more likely, though, the report suggested, that the banks had failed mainly due to rapid expansion and insufficient capital.