Richard obviously recognized the man from the path because he stopped short. Elizabeth said brightly, “Oh, Richard. This is Brian—Brian Woodhouse, but he doesn’t think he’s related to Emma.” She paused for the significance to sink in. “He wants to interview you about your research.”
Richard raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes?” He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Well then, Brian, shall we sit on that bench in the garden? I don’t have much time, but I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Elizabeth smiled, thinking that Richard would undoubtedly get more information from Brian than the ersatz reporter would from him.
The men sat on the wooden bench on the side lawn and Elizabeth wandered along the mixed borders planted in the cottage-garden-style she so loved, with flowers of all varieties growing riotously together. The brochure she carried told her that Mrs. Austen, in her seventies, was a passionate gardener and went about wearing a green round frock like a day laborer, which much amused the locals. ‘Her garden was a riot of colour with sweet Williams, columbines, peonies, pinks and laburnums.’ Elizabeth tried to identify samples of each in the current garden, but wasn’t confident enough of the identity of the flowers she saw.
She glanced toward the bench where Richard and Brian were still talking, Richard leaning forward, Brian pressing into the corner, running his hand through his hair. She went on into the converted barn that now housed the shop. Ah, books, note cards, gifts of lavender . . .
In the end, she bought only a few postcards of delightful Victorian illustrations from Pride and Prejudice and a visitor’s guide titled Jane Austen’s Homecoming. She emerged from the shop in time to meet Richard walking to her as Brian scuttled toward the exit.
“I don’t think he’ll be bothering us anymore,” Richard said.
“What an odd fellow. He said he was a reporter, but he didn’t have a notebook.”
“Oh, I think he was a ‘reporter’ all right, but nothing to do with journalism.”
“What do you mean?”
“I asked him where he’d studied, what he’d published. Seems he’s self-taught and what he’s done so far have just been ‘bits and pieces.’”
“But you said you do think he’s a reporter?”
“I think he’s reporting to someone.”
Elizabeth chilled as the meaning of Richard’s words sank in. “You mean he was following us—surreptitiously?”
“I think that was the idea. I think someone wants to know what we know or what we found.”
“And when I challenged him, he made up the reporter thing?” Elizabeth shivered. Brian Woodhouse seemed innocuous enough, but what about the person he was working for? Could Elizabeth have wound up on the floor with her head bleeding like Claire had been a few days ago?
Richard put his arm around her. “Don’t worry. I think I convinced him we don’t know anything about any papers of Jane’s and have no idea where any might be, and that if he interferes any more with our holiday, I won’t hesitate to ring the American consulate.”
“Richard, you didn’t!” Elizabeth’s outburst of laughter made three ladies coming from Jane’s kitchen turn their heads and stare.
“Well, not in so many words, but I made sure he got the idea.” Richard grinned. “How about lunch?” They crossed the street to the flower-bedecked country pub directly opposite the house, and in a few moments, they were sitting at a table in the wood-beamed Greyfriars.
Elizabeth looked around. “Richard, do you think this might have been an inn at one time? Maybe this is where Edith was staying when she wrote that letter.”
Richard looked around at the low, dark-beamed ceiling, leaded glass windows, and uneven floor boards. “It looks authentically old,” he agreed.
When the waitress approached, he inquired about the history. She looked doubtful. “No, I’m sure it was always a pub. We never let rooms.”
Richard shrugged. So much for another good theory.
“Would you like to see our special Jane Austen menu?” the waitress asked.
“By all means,” Richard agreed.
Elizabeth accepted the card printed in elegant script and read out, “‘Plaice and flounders—13 guineas.’ What fun, they’ve even used Regency pricing. This recipe is from a Regency chef named John Farley: ‘Fillets of plaice and flounder cooked with oysters, white wine, nutmeg, and anchovies served on slices of toast and finished with crumbled egg yolk and slices of lemon in a butter sauce.’ It seems ladies’ dresses weren’t the only elegance of the age.” She laid her menu aside, her decision made.
Richard looked up. “I think I’ll go for this dish from Martha Lloyd. Since her household task was supervising the meals when she lived here with the Austen ladies, it’s undoubtedly something she would have directed the Chawton cook to make.”
Elizabeth picked up her card and read on down the menu: Harrico of Mutton—casserole of lamb cutlets, braised with turnips, carrots and mushroom ketchup. “Dibs on bites,” she said.
“But of course, all in the cause of research.”
The menu warned that the dishes were all prepared fresh and would take time, so Elizabeth drew out the book she had purchased at the shop. “There’s a picture of Martha Lloyd here.” She held it out for Richard to see. “Amazing, isn’t it—she lived long enough to have an actual photograph taken.” She peered at the photo of the elderly lady in a fine black bonnet, holding a white dog on her lap. “You know, I believe she’s almost smiling. That’s most unusual for a Victorian photograph.”
“Probably thinking about the delicious meal she’s soon to have,” Richard suggested.
Elizabeth returned his smile and read on. “‘By the time they moved to Chawton, Martha Lloyd had become a permanent member of the household. Her father, the Reverend Lloyd, had been a great friend of George Austen’s, and when he died, Reverend Austen allowed his widow and her two oldest daughters, Mary and Martha, to live for a time in the unused parsonage at Mr. Austen’s living at Deane. James married Mary after the death of his first wife.
“Old Mrs. Lloyd died shortly after Mr. Austen. Cassandra attended her deathbed and brought Martha back to Bath to live as part of their household.” Elizabeth skimmed on down. “Oh, Martha’s cookbook survives to this day, so your lamb casserole is sure to be authentic.”
“Didn’t she later marry Francis Austen after his wife died?” Richard asked.
“Yes, it mentions that here. I’m sure he appreciated her culinary skills.”
“He undoubtedly knew them well because Martha was part of the family party that lived in Francis’s home in Southampton when they left Bath,” Richard said.
Elizabeth went on perusing her booklet. “Richard, it says here that Martha Lloyd was privy to Jane’s ‘great secret—her writing—an honour accorded to few.’” She looked up from her reading. “I remember that in one of Jane’s letters, she warns Cassandra not on any account to allow Martha to read the manuscript of First Impressions because she was certain Martha meant to publish it herself from memory and one more reading would surely make that possible.”
Richard nodded. “Yes, and I think Jane dedicated an early piece of her Juvenilia to Martha—for repairing her cloak or something like that.”
“So, do you think Jane might have discussed her stories with Martha?”
“And that Martha, who was living with the family when Jane wrote The Watsons, would have known her plan for it?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Maybe Edith’s find didn’t have anything to do with papers from Cassandra, but rather from Martha. After all, Martha married Francis—and Edith was helping her father write Jane Austen’s Sailor Brothers.”
Richard’s smile was for far more than the steaming platter the waitress set before him. “I think my afternoon at the library could be well spent reading that book Edith and her father wrote.”
Chapter 11
RICHARD INDEED FOUND THE volume he desired and settled down on one of the comfortable sofas in the great hall. The reading capt
ivated him immediately. He had not been particularly enthused by the prospect of reading the biography of two naval officers, even though brothers of Jane, but the warm family reminiscence pulled him in.
He had not expected the author to draw so many parallels between family members and “Aunt Jane’s” characters, and he rather quickly lost sight of the object of his having taken up the volume until many hours later when Elizabeth plopped down on the sofa beside him. “You seem thoroughly engrossed. Have you learned anything?”
“Most interesting. John Henry says—”
“John Henry?”
“Hubback, the author—”
“Oh, right. Edith’s father.”
“That’s it. He says . . .” Richard turned to the front of the book and scanned to find the passage. “Ah, here it is. Hubback believes Jane’s younger brother Charles is a model for Bingley. He says Charles’ impetuous disposition is exaggerated in Bingley, who says, ‘Whatever I do is done in a hurry,’ a remark which is severely reproved by Darcy (and not improbably by Francis Austen), as an ‘indirect boast.’
“And Francis himself comes in for his share of teasing on the opposite point of his extreme neatness, precision, and accuracy. ‘They are so neat and careful in all their ways,’ says Mrs. Clay, in Persuasion of the naval profession in general; and nothing’ Hubback goes on, ‘could be more characteristic of Francis Austen and some of his descendants than the overpowering accuracy with which Edmund Bertram corrects Mary Crawford’s hasty estimate of the distance in the wood.’”
“Yes, that is interesting, Charles as a model for Mr. Bingley and Francis for Edmund. Of course, I had assumed she would have drawn on her brothers for her picture of Captain Wentworth.”
“Yes, Hubback comments on that, too.” Again he searched for the passage, then read, “‘Her pictures of the life of a country gentleman and of clergymen are accurate, if not always sympathetic. Perhaps it was all too near her own experience to have the charm of romance, but concerning sailors she is romantic. Their very faults are lovable in her eyes, and their lives packed with interest. When Admiral Croft, Captain Wentworth, or William Price appears on the scene, the other characters immediately take on a merely subsidiary interest, and this prominence is always that given by appreciation. The distinction awarded to Mr. Collins or Mrs. Elton, as the chief object of ridicule, is of a different nature. The only instance she cared to give us of a sailor who is not to be admired is Mary Crawford’s uncle, the Admiral, and even he is allowed to earn our esteem by disinterested kindness to William Price.’”
Elizabeth made an impatient gesture. “Yes, yes, very interesting—but did you learn anything about Martha? Does he talk about Martha and Francis’ marriage? Where they were living? Did Martha write about her life with Jane?”
Richard shook his head. “Nothing beyond the fact that he made Martha his second wife in 1828.”
“Hmph. Obviously written by a man. Pity Edith didn’t have more influence on her father at that point.”
“He does record, however, that Frances was made rear admiral in 1830. That would be just two years after his marriage to Martha. And about that time he purchased Portsdown Lodge in Portsmouth, where he lived for the rest of his life.”
Elizabeth sprang to the edge of her seat. “Portsmouth. There it is, then! And we even know the name of the house. That’s where Martha was living at the time of her death, so that’s where to look for her papers. Surely Edith would have been doing research there for her father, and if we can find them—”
Richard burst out laughing, then cut off Elizabeth’s flow of words and his own laughter with a kiss.
After a few delicious moments, Elizabeth pushed herself back out of his embrace. “What was that for?”
Richard’s smile was so broad it was hard to speak. “Because you are so delightful.” After he kissed her again, this time more fully, he sat back in the cushions. “The thing is, Hubback goes on to say that ‘This property is now included within the lines of forts for the defence of Portsmouth.’ It was bought by the government for that purpose some years before Francis’s death.”
“Oh, so you’re saying that it’s hardly likely we’d find any literary papers stashed away in a fortress of the Royal Navy.”
“Right,” Richard replied. “And even if they should happen to be there, what are our chances of getting to wander around and poke into dark corners?”
“So no side trip to Portsmouth?”
“Nor to Southampton, I’m afraid. I did a little more checking on Jane Austen sites there. Apparently the ‘commodious old-fashioned’ house where they resided ‘in a corner of Castle Square’ was alongside the medieval town wall. The wall still stands and there is a Jane Austen trail with eight plaques marking sites associated with Jane.”
“And that’s it?”
Richard nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Elizabeth sat in a thoughtful silence for some time. Then she brightened. “But we know whatever was there existed in 1906, when Edith was doing her research. So where were they?”
“Well, if the papers came from Martha Lloyd—and we don’t know that they did—perhaps they passed to a member of her family.”
Elizabeth brightened. “Yes. Her sister Mary—who had married Jane’s brother James and lived in Jane’s old home at Steventon Rectory. I think we should go to Steventon tomorrow.” She jumped to her feet. “I’ll go find Arthur and ask if he can drive us.”
She had only taken two steps across the Persian carpet when the young man himself walked in, followed closely by Gerri who threw herself into the sofa opposite Richard with a sigh.
Arthur held out his hands. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Gerri, really I am, but it isn’t my field.”
“You’re supposed to be the researcher.” She sulked.
“What’s the problem?” Elizabeth asked.
“The usual,” Arthur answered. “Gerri’s stuck and somehow it’s my fault.”
“That’s not fair!” She flared. “You aren’t trying. Richard has been a lot more help than you have.”
Richard was rather alarmed at being the apparent cause of the argument. “What did I do?”
“You suggested Cowper.” It came out as an accusation.
“Oh, yes, I did. Jane’s favorite poet. A deeply spiritual, if troubled, man. I thought you might find something useful for your essay. I didn’t mean to start a war.”
“Hardly that,” Arthur said, “but we haven’t found much useful.”
“I recall Jane saying they ‘must have Syringa in the garden for Cowper’s sake’.” Elizabeth resumed her seat next to Richard.
“Yes, that was a reference to a line from ‘The Task,’” Richard said. “I wonder if they have a copy of it here.”
Arthur pulled his mobile from his pocket. “I’ll have it for you in a tick.” He ran his finger down the screen, then handed it to Richard.
Richard scrolled a bit more. “Ah, yes, here it is in ‘The Winter Walk at Noon’ section: ‘Laburnum rich In streaming gold; syringa, ivory pure.’”
“Very pretty, I’m sure. But it doesn’t say much about Jane’s spirituality, does it?” Gerri held a pen poised above her notepad, but wrote nothing. She seemed determined to enjoy her sulk.
“Well, let’s see what else we can do.” Richard walked to the side table where he had earlier spotted an indexed copy of William Austen-Leigh’s biography. He was reminded of Elizabeth’s earlier comment that he seemed to be doing all of Gerri’s work for her, but he didn’t mind helping out. He turned a few pages. “Well, here’s a letter where Jane says she purchased Cowper’s works along with Boswell’s Life of Johnson.” He moved on before Gerri could complain that that hardly proved anything other than that Jane was a voracious reader.
“Hmm, ‘my father reads Cowper to us in the morning.’” He turned to a reference of how Jane was attracted to the return to nature in Cowper’s poetry. “But it wasn’t nature for nature’s sake,” Richard said. “In The Task, Cowper saw
the rural life as conducive to developing piety and virtue in the reader, which Jane also did.”
Gerri still looked blank, so Richard continued, rather feeling as if he were conducting a tutorial for a not overly bright student. “I think we can see this most clearly in the Edmund Bertram/Mary Crawford conflict where Mary is a product of the corruption of city life and Edmund, the country parson, says he sees his role to have charge of all that is of the first importance to mankind, individually or collectively, temporally and eternally.” He paused. “I think I have that pretty much from memory. Edmund had in his hands the guardianship of religion and morals and believed that ‘as the clergy are, or are not what they ought to be, so are the rest of the nation.’” He was certain that last was right, as it had so much impressed him.
“Yes,” Elizabeth added, “and we were just reading that Jane’s brother Francis, who was known for his devotion, may have been her model for Edmund.”
Their efforts seemed to have placated Gerri, who was now scribbling away. At last she looked up. “Got it. Off to my computer, then.” She stood and started toward the door.
“No problem, Gerri. We’re always glad to help,” Elizabeth said to her back.
Gerri turned. “Oh, yeah, thanks awfully.”
Richard opened his mouth to tell her she was welcome, but was preempted by a familiar voice from beyond the open door. “And this is the Great Hall. The antlers over the fireplace—” Muriel broke off her lecture at finding the room occupied. “Oh, hello, everyone. You remember Beth from the Chronicle.” She repeated the names of each person in the room for the reporter.
“Doing a story, are you?” Richard asked.
“Yes. You know this year is the two-hundredth anniversary of the publication of Pride and Prejudice, so we’re doing lots of related stories all year, including a series on ‘The Austen Trail.’ I’m doing features on all the places connected with Jane.”
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