A Jane Austen Encounter

by Crow, Donna Fletcher

  Richard entered into her fancy. “Yes, this would be perfect for Catherine. And little wonder the fortune hunters thought her a great heiress, living here.”

  A group of men walked past them and Elizabeth smiled, noting how much better-looking Richard was to her eyes than any other man on the street—a thought that called to her mind Anne Elliot so readily picking out Captain Wentworth from among a group as she and Lady Russell drove by. Anne was in a frenzy to know what Lady Russell would say as he passed directly in the path of the lady’s intent gaze. She could only imagine Lady Russell’s astonishment at finding him so unchanged after so many years.

  At last Lady Russell turned from the window to announce that she had been looking for some window curtains a friend had described to her, but she had failed to distinguish them. Elizabeth renewed her smile. Little wonder Persuasion was her favorite novel.

  As they walked up the street, Elizabeth was particularly taken with the apartments below ground level. The occupants had created tiny green wells of the stone stairs and the few square feet before their door by filling the area with pots of ferns, flowers, and vining greens. One even held a miniature palm tree. Elizabeth paused, leaning on the iron railing, and drew her water bottle from her bag. As she drank, she heard a murmur of voices from the apartment window which stood open to the greenery below her. She jerked to attention. Did someone mention a letter?

  Richard started to say something, but she held her finger to her lips, straining her ears to hear more. Could she have lighted on the home of the thief? How could she find out who lived there? Would it prove to be someone they knew? Someone who worked at the Centre? An accomplice of Arthur’s? Had she recognized the voice? Was it male or female? What about that Jack and Polly who turned up with the publisher?

  The latch clicked on the door beneath her. Elizabeth looked around wildly. Where could she hide? She must see who emerged. But she didn’t want to be seen. “The map, Richard,” she hissed.

  “What?”

  “Give me your map. Quick!”

  He handed her the folded sheet. Elizabeth held it over her face. The door closed. She heard feet on the paving stones. She peered over the top of the map. A young woman in jeans and a bright shirt tripped lightly up the steps with a white envelope in her hand. She smiled at Richard as she made her way up the street to the pillar box.

  Elizabeth folded the map and handed it back to Richard.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  She thought of denying all and saying she merely wanted to look at the map, but Richard knew her far too well. She sighed. “Call it the Catherine Morland syndrome.”

  He grinned. “Ah, expecting body parts in an old trunk?”

  “A trunk that actually contained a laundry list?” She returned his grin. “Something like that. But I did hear right. It was something about a letter.”

  “We’re taking a day off from all that, remember?” Richard put an arm around her shoulders. At the top of the street, they came to Sydney Gardens and turned left into Sydney Place. Outside No. 4, they stood looking up at the home where Jane Austen lived for perhaps three years. This time it was a white door, but topped, like the others they had observed, with the inevitable fan light. One thing was different, though—this townhouse was surrounded by scaffolding.

  “Richard, they’re doing repairs on the house where Jane lived. You don’t suppose that’s where the box of papers and mementos came from? Maybe there isn’t any mystery to the donor at all. It was just a workman who found a box deserted in an attic, recognized the Jane Austen connection, and dropped it off at the Centre on his way home rather than binning it.” She craned her head back, looking at the scaffolding extending up to the two tiny windows projecting from the roof above the third story. “There must be attics or storage rooms behind those windows.”

  “I think it very likely they could have come from just such an innocent source. As Catherine Morland learned, there’s no reason to make a mystery out of everything. But there’s no reason to think it’s any more likely to have come from here than from any other building undergoing renovation in Bath. Or any property owner simply wanting to clear out a rubbishy corner. After all, Edith wrote that letter more than a hundred years after the Austens lived here, and we don’t know that John Henry Hubback ever lived in Bath, let alone Sydney Place.”

  Elizabeth sighed as another theory dissolved. “Logic can be such an inconvenient thing.” They turned away from the house and crossed the street to enter the Sydney Gardens. Elizabeth was delighted with the sculpted flower beds forming pools of color in the expanses of green grass: a wide circle of purple, filled with bright yellow and a spray of white in the center; a purple half-moon filled with pink accented with maroon; an oval, again bordered with purple ageratum, filled with pink begonias and yellow roses. “No wonder Jane wanted to live near here,” Elizabeth said. “This must have helped make up for her home in the country, even if the gardens were far different in her day.”

  Richard consulted the notes on his map. “Apparently they enjoyed the gardens fully when they were visiting here in 1799. Jane writes that there was a public breakfast there every morning, ‘so that we shall not be wholly starved.’

  “In early June of that year, there was to be a grand gala—a concert with illuminations and fireworks.” He smiled. “Ah, typical Jane. She says ‘even the concert will have more than its usual charm with me, as the gardens are large enough for me to get pretty well beyond the reach of its sound.’

  “The gala didn’t seem to go so well, though. Perhaps it rained. Anyway, the event was repeated a couple of weeks later. Jane reported to Cassandra that the fireworks then were really beautiful and surpassed her expectation.”

  He read on down the page. “When they were living here six years later, Jane wrote that she ‘went to Sydney Gardens soon after one, and did not return till four,’ so she must have enjoyed herself.

  “Maybe the idea that she was too busy having fun in Bath to get much writing done is the correct viewpoint, rather than that she was too unhappy.”

  “Either way, it’s certain that she was absorbing material to write about later. At least in the case of Persuasion. She had already written Northanger Abbey under the title Susan before they moved here.” Elizabeth led the way to a sun-dappled bench beneath a tree whose branches waved gently in the breeze. She opened the bag and offered Richard half of the Coronation Chicken sandwich she drew out. A thunk of tennis balls on the court behind them, an occasional horn toot from the distant road, the coo of pigeons, and the laughter from others in the park formed a concert to accompany their picnic.

  At last Elizabeth drained her water bottle after the final bite of her Cadbury’s bar. She turned to Richard with a satisfied sigh. “That was perfect. Now where to, oh keeper of the map? Have we seen all of Jane’s homes in Bath now?”

  Richard, indeed, consulted his map. “Apparently the Austens had a three-year lease at Sydney Place. When that was up, they moved to 27 Green Park Buildings. That is where they were living when George Austen died.” He indicated the location on the map.

  “Oh, that’s miles. Clear on the other side of Bath. I’m not sure I have the energy.”

  “And I’m not sure it would be worth the walk,” Richard said after he read all the notes provided. “Green Park East was bombed and destroyed during an air raid in World War II. It was rebuilt, but in a different style to the original houses, so while it still exists, the Green Park Buildings we can see now is not the house in which George Austen died. Although, the view would likely be the same and apparently it was lovely ‘The situation was pleasant as the buildings didn’t look out onto the city to the north but out over a small park towards the river and across to the leafy heights of Beechen Cliff,’” he read.

  “Oh, yes, I remember that Catherine Morland greatly admired that view. She thought it looked like France—although she had been to France only in her imagination.” Elizabeth considered. “Would you think me a terr
ible shirker if I suggested we visit Green Park Buildings in our imagination?”

  Richard agreed readily enough to make her suspect he was feeling rather tired too—or at least, very Sunday-afternoon languid. “So, do I have this right? Jane and her mother stayed with her brother Edward in Queen Square when they visited Bath. Then when they came to live here, the Austens moved first to Sydney Place, and later to Green Park Buildings. Then George Austen died, and the ladies moved to Gay Street for economy. What next?”

  “Unfortunately, the Austen ladies’ financial position was precarious, if not downright impecunious. Mr. Austen left everything to Mrs. Austen in his will, but his main income was from his livings as rector of Deane and Steventon, and any entitlement to that money ceased at the moment of his death. Mrs. Austen had a little independent income and Cassandra had the interest on the £1000 left to her by her late fiancé, but Jane had nothing whatsoever in the way of income.”

  “Poor Jane. The £10 she had been paid by a publisher for the manuscript of Susan would have been long gone.” Elizabeth smiled. “Can you imagine how that publisher must have kicked himself for never publishing that book?” She paused. “But we were talking about where they lived. So Gay Street became too expensive?”

  Richard nodded. “Yes. Even though Jane’s brothers helped out with the finances, it seems their final humiliation was to move to Trim Street.” Richard pointed to its location on the map.

  “Yes, Muriel mentioned that in her lecture at the Centre. But she didn’t say what was so terrible about it. It’s not all that far from Queen Square.”

  “Ah, but miles away on the social scale. Number 7 Trim Street was right in the oldest part of town, undoubtedly what Jane would have hated most. It had no views to the surrounding countryside. It was noisy, and the street was narrow, dark, and smelly. Inhabited even by prostitutes, beggars, and thieves.”

  “Definitely not the place for three genteel ladies to live,” Elizabeth agreed. “I wonder if Jane used that background when she wrote about the awful conditions of Fanny’s family in Portsmouth. So how long did they live there?”

  “No one seems to know for sure, but perhaps the better part of three years, after spending a month back in Steventon with James who replaced their father as rector of the church there. The time must have seemed interminable because in 1806, Mrs. Austen headed a letter ‘Trim Street still’.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “One can hear the exasperation in her voice. But then Jane finally got to move back to her beloved Hampshire?”

  “Hampshire, yes. But not to Chawton yet. Jane, Cassandra, and their mother lived for about two and a half years with Francis Austen’s wife in Southampton while he was off with the Royal Navy.”

  “Southampton? That isn’t on our itinerary, is it?”

  “No, Muriel didn’t think it would be worthwhile for our purposes. Apparently it was a highly desirable place in Jane’s day—a fashionable residence and elegant spa—but it declined in the nineteenth century and was so badly bombed in World War II that essentially nothing of Jane’s time remains. At least, that’s what Muriel said.”

  Elizabeth held up her hand. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t be so rash as to suggest we countermand Muriel’s advice. But do we need to walk back to Trim Street?”

  Richard consulted his watch. “Just a little over an hour until Evening Prayers at Walcot Church. I suggest we spend it in one of the most charming spots in Bath.”

  “Where?”

  “The Parade Grounds. We have to go back that way to get to Walcot Street anyway.”

  Elizabeth was on her feet before he finished speaking. In a short time, they were sitting in blue-and-white striped lounge chairs on the bank of the River Avon. Overhead seagulls soared and swooped in the blue sky. Beyond them was the roar of water falling over the levels of the wide, curving stair steps of the weir. Cool air from the river refreshed them after their brisk walk back down Pulteney Street and along the North Parade. All around them were people strolling, lounging, reading—but more than anything else, young couples lay in the grass snuggling. It crossed Elizabeth’s mind to think that might be rather fun, but then took one look at her proper, English professor husband and laughed out loud.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking what your reaction would be if I suggested we lie in the grass like that couple.” She pointed to a pair of young people locked in an all-absorbing embrace just beyond a circle of pink and crimson flowers.

  Richard gave a bark of laughter. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.” He made a face as if he had eaten something decidedly unpleasant.

  Just then, the woman raised her head, and the sun caught her tortoiseshell glasses and riotous red hair. The next moment, the young man jumped to his feet as if making an escape and began brushing bits of grass from his dark trousers.

  Elizabeth choked. “I don’t believe it! Arthur and Gerri!”

  Now Richard’s mirth was genuine. “And poor lad, he looks as uncomfortable as I would be in a similar situation.”

  “I’m sure that wasn’t his idea. Shall we pretend we didn’t see, or should we go rescue him?”

  “Both, I think. If we walk around the statue of King Bladud and his pig, we can approach them as if we’re just entering the garden.”

  “Perfect. The soul of tact.” Elizabeth took Richard’s hand, a sufficiently restrained public display of affection even for him, and they approached the pair by the circuitous route from behind the mythical king after reading the plaque telling the legend that this ancient king of the Britons suffered from leprosy. Driven from the royal court, he became a swineherd. One day, he noted that pigs which wallowed in the mud of a nearby spring didn’t suffer from skin diseases. King Bladud did likewise, was cured of his leprosy, and founded the fair city of Bath, which continues to offer healing waters.

  “Arthur, Gerri. Hello,” Elizabeth called when they were within a few feet of their quarry.

  Arthur jumped and looked for a moment as if he might dart off, but Gerri smiled, still sitting on the grass. She looked extremely pleased with herself.

  “We were, ah—on our way to Evening Prayers,” Arthur stammered.

  “Oh, lovely. So are we.” Elizabeth was struggling to keep her face straight, but she fancied she was doing a rather good job. “I assume you’re going to Walcot Church too.”

  “Yes. Shall we walk up together?” Arthur didn’t quite say “please,” but the appeal was in his voice.

  Elizabeth took pity on him and cut off Gerri, who jumped to her feet and looked ready to grasp Arthur’s arm. “How is your research coming, Gerri? Have you found anything new about Jane’s spirituality?”

  Gerri fell into step beside Elizabeth, behind Richard and Arthur who turned toward the exit. It was unclear whether her sigh was for being separated from Arthur or for the state of her research. “I thought it would be such a brilliant subject because so little has been done on it, but I’m beginning to think nothing has been done because there’s nothing to do.”

  “Oh, surely.” Elizabeth was shocked at the heretical implication. “You aren’t suggesting that Jane wasn’t a devout Christian?”

  “Oh, no, I’m sure she was pious enough. But it’s like her nephew James Edward said in his memoir—it was a subject on which she was more inclined to think and act than to talk, and so he would not venture to speak on it himself. He was ‘satisfied to have shown how much of Christian love and humility abounded in her heart, without presuming to lay bare the roots whence those graces grew,’ he said.”

  “What a beautiful tribute. That strikes me as being the very core of authentic faith.” Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether Gerri’s disgusted look was for her sentiment or for James Edward’s reticence.

  “Perhaps, but not very helpful to future biographers, I must say.”

  The party ascended the broad stairway that led up from the gardens. When they reached the street, Elizabeth continued, “I can see that makes your job difficult.”

&
nbsp; “Bloody impossible. And then there’s Muriel with her thumb in my back, insisting I’ll never amount to anything if I don’t make a success of this.”

  Richard, only a few steps ahead of them, turned back to Gerri. “I should think you might be able to develop your theme by following her nephew’s lead and showing examples from her life of acts that sprang from her religious principles.”

  Gerri blinked behind her thick lenses, but her frown lessened. “Like what, for example?”

  “Let me think about it,” Richard replied.

  “Yes, and you could follow the themes in her books,” Elizabeth suggested.

  Gerri looked blank, so Elizabeth continued. “Like in Mansfield Park. Edmund, the hero, shows such great kindness to the forsaken Fanny, while the anti-heroine, Mary Crawford, berates the whole idea of Edmund being a clergyman.”

  Now Gerri laughed. “And Mr. Collins—surely a perfect example of Christian charity in a clergyman.”

  “Oh, it’s no doubt that Jane, as closely associated as she was with clergy, would have seen plenty of human failings in the profession. And taken the opportunity to laugh at them.”

  “Cowper,” Richard said suddenly, turning back to the ladies.

  “What?” Elizabeth asked. Had her husband completely lost the thread of the conversation?

  But as usual, Richard was entirely on track. “William Cowper. I read somewhere recently that he was Jane’s favorite poet. Much of his poetry is deeply spiritual. Perhaps you could find something there you think Jane might have identified with. The fact that the author of the Olney Hymns was a favorite of hers must mean that she agreed with much that he expressed.”

  Gerri didn’t reply, but her brilliant smile transformed her face. She even seemed to stand taller and walk with more vigor. Which was a good thing because it was a steep incline up Walcot Street to the tall, sharp spire of St. Swithin’s Church that beckoned them forward.