The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  “No wife, then?”

  “No. So you see, although I may be rich in property, you are rich in family, and therefore the far more wealthy and important of us two.”

  I laughed. “If wealth were based on your principle, Mr. Ashford, the entire class system of England would fall apart at the seams.”

  Chapter Four

  Our walk had brought us down from the Cobb to the sea-shore, when the clouds, as Maria had predicted, gathered and darkened, and a light rain began to fall. A shout came up from the bathers, who escaped into the safety of their machines. The profusion of visitors strolling the pebbly beach began to run, as one, back in the direction from which they had come; our party followed. Unfortunately, my parasol, designed to shield the sun, provided little protection from the rain; but only a minute or two later, before we reached the steps leading up to the Walk, the rain stopped as quickly as it had begun, and the sun reappeared.

  “I adore a little summer shower,” said I, with a deep, appreciative intake of the damp, salty air. “It makes the world smell fresh and new.”

  “That was hardly a little shower,” cried Maria petulantly. “I am soaked through, and half dead with walking. Charles, you must take me back to the inn at once.”

  “Yes, my dear. You will all come with us, I hope? We are staying at the Royal Lion.”

  “I would prefer to continue walking a bit longer,” I admitted. “The sun will dry me. Would any one care to join me?”

  “I would be delighted to accompany you,” said Mr. Ashford with a smile. Henry decided to go back with the others, and we agreed to meet later at the inn.

  Mr. Ashford and I strolled on down the beach, which was far less crowded now, and continued our conversation to the accompanying sounds of crashing waves and sea-gull cries.

  “We moved to Southampton after my father passed away,” I explained, when he enquired into my place of residence. I told him where I had grown up, and of our removal to Bath. “The country life has always been my ideal.”

  “And mine. Your heart, I take it, belongs to Hampshire?”

  “Yes. Although I have heard the beauty of Derbyshire is unparalleled,” I added diplomatically.

  Mr. Ashford stopped, observing the spectacular line of distant cliffs and the surging movement of the tides. “On any other day I might agree with you. But is there a felicity in the world superior to this? Lyme seems to me a very outpost of heaven.”

  I stared at him in wonder at hearing my own sentiment on his lips, and followed his gaze. In the distant sky, the clouds had parted, and the sun was shining above a shimmering, perfectly formed rainbow.

  “My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky,” I quoted.

  Mr. Ashford glanced at me in surprise, and said, “So was it when my life began. So is it now I am a man—”

  “So be it when I shall grow old,” I continued, “or let me die!”

  “You read Wordsworth,” said he with delight.

  “I prefer Cowper and Scott.”

  “Have you read Walter Scott’s The Lay of the Last Minstrel?”

  “It is a favourite of mine. Are you familiar with Dr. Samuel Johnson?”

  “His Rambler essays? They are among his best.”

  “I do not suppose you read novels?” said he with some hesitation.

  “My family and I are unabashedly enthusiastic novel readers.”

  A wide smile lit his countenance. “And you are not ashamed of being so?”

  “Pray do not tell me, sir, that you hold the conservative view, that novels are the basest form of literature?”

  “On the contrary. I am a passionate novel reader myself. But there are few women of my acquaintance who share my interest.”

  Our eyes met and we smiled. I was entirely captivated, and sensed that he felt the same. I could not help myself; I felt compelled to ask the question that had been on my mind since the moment we first met.

  “Tell me, Mr. Ashford, since you mention the women of your acquaintance. A man like yourself, of considerable property and heir to a title, with all the manners and good-breeding required of a gentleman”—(and, I added privately, a man so amiable and handsome, with a quick imagination and such lively spirits)—“you must have been the object of the greatest interest to every family in Derbyshire County for the past decade, and considered the rightful property of any one or other of their daughters. How is it that you have never married?”

  His cheeks reddened, and he went silent for a moment; I felt that I had embarrassed him, and regretted my bold remark. But at length, he brought his gaze up to mine with a direct and earnest look. “Perhaps,” said he softly, “I prefer to be particular in my choice.”

  “Harriet in Sir Charles Grandison,” I said.

  We were at dinner at the Royal Lion. After a long and delightful walk, Mr. Ashford and I had met the rest of the party at the inn, where we found Maria in dry clothes, very much alive, and sipping tea, while Charles and Henry traded reminiscences about their school-days. Their lively conversation continued over roast fish and fowl at one end of the table, while Mr. Ashford and I spoke amongst ourselves at the other. The past few hours had passed as in the blink of an eye, and I felt a sense of magic in the air; I could not think when I had ever found the company of a gentleman so thoroughly engaging.

  “Of all the heroines in literature, Harriet is the one you most admire?” enquired Mr. Ashford.

  “One of the most.”

  “Why?”

  “For her intelligence and strength of character.”

  “Because she refused to marry a man she did not like?”

  “Because she refused to marry a wealthy man, despite her lack of fortune.”

  “Ah,” said he. “And in the same vein, do you find much to admire in its hero, Sir Charles?”

  “I find him as perfect as a man in fiction can be. Although he is, in my opinion, more virtuous than romantic.”

  “I do not find him quite so virtuous,” declared Mr. Ashford with a frown. “He is inconstant. He is divided for the entire length of the novel between Harriet and the Italian Lady Clementina.”

  “Only because he has given Lady Clementina his word, and honour prevents him from breaking that vow. But he is constant; he saves Harriet from abduction and ruination, and remains in love with her throughout seven volumes.”

  “A true measure of his character, indeed,” said he with a laugh.

  “I have never seen you so engrossed, Mr. Ashford,” cried Maria of a sudden, her face appearing somewhat contorted in the flickering candlelight across the great table. “What ever are you two talking about?”

  “Heroes and heroines. Virtue and devotion. And the courage to follow your own convictions.”

  “That sounds more like a sermon than evening conversation,” said Mr. Churchill with a laugh as he finished his coffee and set down the cup with a clatter.

  “Not if you know our Jane,” said Henry, smiling.

  Mr. Churchill went quiet, staring briefly at Mr. Ashford and myself; then he emitted a small cough, followed by a sudden, loud yawn. “Ashford, it is getting late. Are you not tired, Maria?

  “I am quite exhausted,” admitted she. “That long walk and the damp air nearly did me in.”

  “We had best be getting on,” said Mr. Churchill, pushing his chair back and rising to his feet. “Are you coming, Ashford?”

  A regretful look crossed Mr. Ashford’s face as he turned to me. “Perhaps we could continue our discussion tomorrow? If you and your party are not otherwise engaged?”

  We all stood. “I believe we are quite at liberty tomorrow, are we not, Henry?”

  “No plans whatsoever,” replied Henry.

  “Let us make a day of it, then,” said Mr. Ashford. “A ride to the countryside, and a picnic. I understand there is a lovely valley nearby, between the hills.”

  “Yes, Charmouth,” said I. “It has a delightful view.”

  “Charmouth it is. What say you, Charles, Maria? Are you in?�
�

  Mr. Churchill and Maria exchanged what I thought was a rather odd look, which I could not account for at the time. At last, Maria said, “We are always in for a picnic.”

  “Shall I send my carriage to your cottage at eleven o’clock?” asked Mr. Ashford.

  “We shall be ready and waiting,” replied Henry.

  Mr. Ashford turned, and—how shall I describe the look he gave me? It was so warm, so filled with feeling, it seemed to me the same look that Romeo must have given Juliet the night they parted on the balcony.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” said he.

  “Until tomorrow,” was my reply.

  We never picnicked at Charmouth.

  I was dressed, ready, and flushed with anticipation the next morning, as Henry and I waited in Mrs. Stout’s tiny parlour for Mr. Ashford’s carriage to arrive. I eagerly looked forward to spending the day together, and to becoming better acquainted with him.

  “I wish I had brought my blue gown,” said I, attempting fruitlessly to smooth out the wrinkles in my pale green muslin, which, although presentable, had seen better days.

  “Mr. Ashford will not care if you wear blue, pink or puce,” said Henry. “It is your company he seeks.”

  “Surely he hopes to enjoy both our company,” I replied quickly. “And I did not dress hoping to please him specifically.”

  Henry laughed, a twinkle in his eyes. “And I am not sitting here, and I am not your favourite brother.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Henry and I started in surprise. “Who can that be?” said he, glancing out the window. “I see no carriage.”

  Mrs. Stout answered the door; as the room was no more than four yards across, and the open doorway in our direct view, we could perfectly see and hear the caller; he asked for Mr. Henry Austen. Henry darted up; the man handed him a letter, which he said he had been asked to deliver from a guest at the Royal Lion. Henry tried to pay him, but the man insisted that the matter had been taken care of, and quickly departed.

  “Who is it from?” I asked, as Mrs. Stout vanished back into the kitchen, and Henry unfolded the letter.

  “Mr. Ashford,” said Henry, surprised, as he proceeded to read the letter aloud.

  Royal Lion, Lyme—5 July, 1807

  Dear friends—

  It is with deepest regret that I send this letter, but a family matter calls me back to Derbyshire at once. As my friends travelled with me, we must all leave posthaste. Please accept our deepest apologies for cancelling to-day’s engagement, and for any inconvenience it might cause you. I hope and trust that we may have the opportunity to renew our acquaintance at some time in the near future.

  I am, most sincerely yours and etc.,

  Frederick Ashford

  “A family matter?” said I, as Henry gave me the letter, and I read it through myself. “I wonder what happened? I hope it is nothing serious.”

  “As do I,” said Henry. “Well, Jane, this is most disappointing.”

  He could not have felt the disappointment half as keenly as did I.

  I returned to Southampton ten days later in a disquieted state of mind. The balls at the Lyme Assembly Hall had held no attraction for me; and even the sea-bathing, which I had so enjoyed in the past, had lost its appeal, so distressed was I by the sudden departure of my new friend, and the attending uncertainty as to whether or not I would ever see or hear from him again.

  “Why has he not written?” I enquired of my sister as we prepared for bed one evening, some weeks after Henry had made his departure for London.

  “Do you expect him to write?” replied Cassandra in surprise.

  I had related to her all the particulars of my meeting with Mr. Ashford, both in my letters from Lyme, and in several conversations since; but I had made her promise to say nothing of it to Martha or my mother, knowing that if either of them gained the slightest suspicion that I had met a gentleman of even the remotest interest, they would not let another subject pass their lips for months.

  “I thought he might,” said I, as we sat, side by side, at our looking-glass, taking the pins from our hair and vigorously brushing our long brown tresses. “I did like him a great deal, and I think that—I felt that he liked me.”

  “I thought you said that you had no chance to give him our direction.”15

  “True. But he could have learned it from Henry, had he written to him. Henry said he exchanged directions with Mr. Churchill.”

  “Even if he had written to you, Jane, you could not have replied. It would hardly be proper.”

  “I realise that. But just to have heard from him, even a line or two. His leaving was so abrupt, and the nature of it so unclear. A family matter, is all he said. I would like to know if he—if all is well with him. And to know if there might be the possibility that—that we should meet again one day.” We climbed into our beds, and I settled back against the pillow with a frown. “Could it be that his friends disapproved of me? I noticed an odd look pass between them at the dinner-table. Perhaps they consider me unworthy of his acquaintance.”

  “Perhaps,” said Cassandra gently, as she gazed at me with compassion from the bed next to mine, adding, “Jane. You passed a few pleasant hours with Mr. Ashford at Lyme, nothing more. I fear you must not expect to hear from him again.”

  “I expect you are right.” I felt the sharp sting of tears in my eyes as my sister blew out the candle, enveloping us in darkness.

  My earlier fears concerning the stability of our shared residence at Castle Square proved only too prescient. A twelve-month later (during which time, I heard not a word from Mr. Ashford) my brother Frank wrote to his wife Mary, asking her to join him in September in Great Yarmouth when the St. Albans returned from its latest sea voyage and was being serviced, and from there to move to a place of their own.

  “I should like to find a snug little cottage, just big enough for three,” said Mary brightly, unmindful of the anxiety her announcement had engendered in the other four women of the household. “Fish will be almost for nothing in Yarmouth, and I have always longed to live on the Isle of Wight.”

  I was relieved to hear of Frank’s safe return, and delighted that he and Mary should be together at last, after such a long separation. I did not begrudge them their desire to live alone; in addition to the favourable price of fish, they would have plenty of engagements and plenty of each other while he was in port, and I knew they would be very happy.

  My mother was inconsolable.

  “We are tossed to the winds again,” cried she as she paced between window and fire-place in the drawing-room, wringing her hands, after Mary went out for a walk with Mary Jane and Martha. “We shall be forced to pull up roots and leave this delightful town, to remove to God knows where! For with rents increasing, we surely cannot stay at Castle Square, once Frank and Mary leave.”

  “We can stay on for quite some time, mamma,” Cassandra reassured her. “Frank has agreed to continue paying his share of the rent, until we can find another place.”

  “How can I accept more money from Frank, now that he has his own family to support, and another household to pay for?” My mother burst into tears and sank down heavily on the sofa.

  “Do not distress yourself, mamma,” said I, handing her my handkerchief. “Frank would not have made the offer if he could not afford it. In the mean time, we can make his burden lighter by practising greater economy. We shall get by.”

  “But where shall we go in the end?” sobbed my mother. “All this moving about, it is so unsettling. I am sorry to complain. I do not mean to be weak and unfeeling. But oh! Jane! If only you had married! If you had accepted Harris’s proposal all those years ago, as you ought, we would have all been living in a great country house these past six years, without a care in the world!”

  I sighed. My decision not to marry the man in question was a subject that had passed many times between us, and never failed to vex me. Indeed, it is still a painful memory.

  Chapter Five

  In the waning
weeks of 1802, when my father was still very much alive, and he and my mother were enjoying their second year of city life at Bath, my sister and I escaped back to Steventon, to stay with my brother James and his family. While there, we received an invitation from our friends the Bigg sisters, for a visit of several weeks at Manydown Park, their stately ancestral home that lay four miles distant.

  I had been particular friends with the Bigg sisters since I was fourteen years of age, when their father, Lovelace Bigg, a wealthy widower with seven children, inherited Manydown from his cousins, the Withers, and moved into our neighbourhood. The squire later extended Manydown Park by adding more than a thousand additional acres of farms and country land. In keeping with their inheritance, the men of the family chose to add “Wither” to their surnames, while the girls chose to simply keep the surname “Bigg.”

  The two eldest daughters soon married and departed, and the elder son died young, leaving a shy little brother, Harris, and three sisters, Elizabeth, Catherine and Alethea, who were close in age to Cassandra and myself, and became our dearest friends during those years of parties, balls, over-night visits, all-night conversations and shared intimacies, as we grew and matured from girlhood to womanhood.

  As Cassandra and I gazed out the carriage window on that brisk afternoon of the 25th November in 1802 on our approach to Manydown, we could not help but admire the home’s splendid surroundings. Although it was late autumn, and many of the trees were leafless and bare, the ride through the green park, forested with oaks, beeches and lush, verdant cedars was a delight to the eye, culminating in the regal presentation of the large, square, stone Tudor manor house itself, with its spacious brick-walled garden.

  As we stepped down eagerly from the coach, the three Bigg sisters greeted us with animation and affectionate embraces.

  “Here you are at last!” cried Elizabeth Heathcote, as she kissed our cheeks. The eldest of the three, Elizabeth had returned home a widow to her father’s house earlier that year with her young son William, following the tragic death of her husband. We reiterated our deepest sympathies, but she insisted that there was no need to speak further of that event, which had been covered many times over in correspondence; she would rather be merry during our time together, and let nothing mar our congenial mood.