by Syrie James
“I cannot tell you how excited I am to see you!” exclaimed Alethea, the youngest sister at five-and-twenty. “I have been counting the days until your arrival!” A vibrant, pleasant, cheerful person, Alethea took interest in every one and every thing about her. She and I shared many similar tastes, and (quite naturally) I thought her extremely clever.
Catherine, at seven-and-twenty, was but a few months older than myself. She possessed a calm, serene nature, much like Cassandra, and her long, thin face, although not considered beautiful, was enhanced by intelligent eyes, engaging manners and a warm smile. “We look forward to many long morning visits,” said she, “and as many evening fireside chats as you can stand. Promise me you will stay three weeks at least.”
“We shall be glad to,” I replied, “provided we spend those weeks engaged in the most wicked, malicious gossip ever heard in the county of Hampshire; interrupted, of course, for our own edification, by one or two brief poetry readings.”
As the servants brought our luggage up to our rooms, we hurried up the front steps to the inner courtyard, and from there climbed the grand iron-work staircase up to the spacious, handsome drawing-room.
“How are your mother and father?” asked Catherine, as we settled by the fire to warm our hands and sip refreshments. “Is Mr. Austen still engaged in collecting books?”
“In a rather modest fashion now,” replied Cassandra. “We travel and move about so much, he has nearly had to give up the pleasure. But he is hale and hearty, and quite spry for his age.”
“My mother professed herself to be quite well on three separate occasions in the past week,” said I, “which, I believe, is three times more than any se’en night in history, and a tribute to the pleasure she finds in living at Bath and taking its waters.”
“She deserves to delight in her surroundings,” said Alethea. “I am glad for her. I only wish, since you must live at Bath, that you could find something to be happy about.”
“I am happy,” I replied with a smile. “Happy to be here, and not there.” Every one laughed.
We had been chatting amiably for nearly an hour, apprising each other of the details of our lives, and all the news regarding our brothers and their families, when Lovelace Bigg-Wither entered the room, demanding, in a booming voice, to know what all the frivolity was about. A genial widower of one-and-sixty, the squire was a large, broad-shouldered man with a fringe of downy white hair that framed a red, jowled face, and a squat, stubby nose, giving him, I thought, a rather aristocratic look, as if a horse had sat upon a very fine face.
“Why, look who is here!” exclaimed he, crossing the room to greet my sister and myself with a broad smile and a warm embrace. “What a delight, to see two beautiful new faces in a room full of such lovely ladies. It has been far too long since we were graced with the presence of a Miss Austen, I can tell you. When I think of all the years that you girls practically lived in this house, and all the laughter going on up stairs at all hours of the night in those bed-chambers after a ball, why, at times I quite forgot which one of you was mine, and thought of you all as my own daughters. I do hope you will stay on with us for a long while, now.”
We promised him we would. The squire was a man of great character, respectability and worth who had served as an able and charitable county magistrate; and he was, in my opinion, one of the best and most generous men I had ever met. His only faults, if one could call them that, lay in a tendency towards verbosity when discussing a favourite subject, and a rather strict attitude towards his son.
“You know Harris is home from Oxford,” said he. “Hard to believe it, but the boy managed to finish his education.”
“Do not sound so surprised that Harris completed his studies, papa,” said Alethea reproachfully. “Harris is more clever than you think.”
“A more clever boy might do more with his time than lounge about all day in expensive Hessian boots, and ride and hunt,” said the squire.
“Harris is hardly a boy any longer, papa,” observed Catherine. “He reached his majority in May.”
“Harris is one-and-twenty?” said I in surprise, wondering where the years had gone. I had not seen Harris in some time, as he had been away at school, but I remembered him as a shy, awkward and sometimes rude young man, who had often been ill, and suffered from a pronounced speech impediment. His father, concerned about his son’s health, and worried that he would be teased by other boys for his stammer, had educated him at home in his youth by a private tutor.
“He has grown so, I daresay you will hardly recognise him,” said Elizabeth.
“The one who takes the prize for growing is my grandson,” declared the squire, to which Elizabeth beamed with maternal pride. “Have you met our William?” When we admitted that we had not, he called for the boy to be brought down from the nursery straight away. William proved to be a lively, good-tempered boy of nineteen months, with a captivating smile that went straight to my heart. “There is a lad who is going places,” said the squire. “One day, he will be the 5th Baronet of Hursley Park, hold any number of public offices, and prove himself a credit to the family, mark my words.”
After young William returned to the nursery, and the squire quitted the room, Cassandra and I convinced our friends to take a turn in the garden. Despite the crisp chill of the November afternoon, the sky was bright and clear. We bundled up in our cloaks, bonnets and gloves, and strolled along the winding paths and manicured hedgerows.
“How beautiful are the evergreens!” I cried, deeply inhaling the heady aroma of a copse of nearby cedars. “Some may prefer the tree that sheds its leaves, but on the eve of winter, when all the other groves stand so stark and grim, the evergreens are for ever regal, delighting the eye in all their splendour. Is it not wonderful that the same soil and the same sun should nurture plants differing in the first rule and law of their existence?”16
“Only Jane would think to rhapsodize about the nature of a tree,” remarked my sister with a smile.
“I cannot help it. Every day that we are forced to live at Bath makes me appreciate the sight and smell of the natural world all the more. I am sure there can be no scent more delicious in a garden than that of a cedar.”
“Are you forgetting the rose?” enquired Catherine.
“And the lilac?” said Elizabeth.
“And a syringa in full bloom?” added Cassandra.
As every one began, at once, to call out their favourite aromatic trees and flowers, I laughed and raised my hands in surrender. “I withdraw my statement, with particular regard to the syringa. I see there can be no competition between plants and trees; they are all my favourites.”
“Oh!” cried Alethea, stopping of a sudden. “Do you remember the summer that we all attempted to draw Catherine’s portrait, here in the garden?”
“I do,” replied Cassandra. “I believe we set up our easels on this very spot.”
“Your drawings were rather good,” said I. “Mine, as I recall, so mortified me, that I threw it into the fire before any one could inspect it.”
“You are too hard on your self,” remarked Cassandra. “You always were. You are quite as skilled at drawing and painting, as you are at needlework and dancing.”
“I beg you, do not insult my skills at dancing and needlework, of which I am quite proud,” I cried in mock alarm, “by mentioning them in the same breath as drawing and painting.”
“I do admire your satin stitch, and you were always very light on your feet at our balls,” declared Alethea.
“I remember one ball, in particular, at which I danced every one of the twenty dances,” I said nostalgically.
“Do you recall the time, Jane, that you danced with Harris?” enquired Alethea.
“I do. I was, I think, fully seventeen at the time, and considered myself quite a grown-up lady.”
“And our Harris was but a shy little boy of twelve,” said Catherine, smiling. “You took pity on him, seeing him alone and miserable in a corner, admiring all t
he dancers.”
“It was a very sweet thing to do,” said Elizabeth. “I daresay he has not forgotten it.”
“I shall never forget the time Jane posted her own fictitious marriage banns in her father’s parish register!” cried Alethea.
“That was so delightfully wicked,” agreed Catherine. “Who was the groom to be, again?”
“There were three grooms,” said Alethea. “Jane was not content to marry just one.”
“I never heard that story,” said Elizabeth. “Do tell us, Jane; what did you inscribe in the church registry?”
“I think the first was Henry something,” said I, smiling at the memory of that silly, youthful impulse, which was now recorded for all posterity to see. “Henry Howard, was it? Oh, yes! I recall it now. I wrote: Henry Howard Edmund Mortimer Fitzwilliam of London, to be married to Jane Austen.”
“Shortly thereafter,” said Alethea, when the laughter died down, “I believe she registered to marry an Edmund Arthur William Mortimer, of Liverpool.”
“And finally,” I added, “I was betrothed to a rather common fellow called Jack Smith.” My companions found that entry the most comical of all.
As we left the walled garden, and strolled along the main path through the park, Alethea said, “Did you hear? Emma Smith gave birth last week to her sixth child, a girl.”
“Six children!” I cried teasingly. “Poor animal. She will be worn out before she is thirty.”
“Jane!” exclaimed Cassandra, with reproach.
“You know I adore children as much as you do, dearest. But six?” I spoke lightly, but there was truth behind it; I had observed the bloom fade from the cheek of too many women at too young an age, the result of endless years of child-bearing. Yet my companions, it seemed, did not see any humour in the subject, and even less an evil; the ladies’ smiles vanished; they all gazed into the distance with identical expressions of the utmost wistfulness.
“I have seen many a happy household with seven or eight children,” said Cassandra, referring, no doubt, to our own family, and to my brother Edward and his wife Elizabeth’s brood.
“Yet perhaps four or five is more practical,” said Catherine.
“Yes. Four, I think, would be ideal,” agreed Alethea with a sigh.
I found, of a sudden, that I could not debate the point. In a few short weeks, I realised, I would turn seven-and-twenty. I had always hoped that I might, one day, marry and have children. “Four,” I heard myself say, in a voice so soft I did not recognise it, “would be a very handsome number.”
We walked on in silence for some minutes, each lost in our own thoughts; when, across the way, I caught sight of a large man on horseback heading our way, returning from the hunt with a pair of hounds. I thought him a new neighbour or hired hand, or perhaps a visitor, when Catherine cried out, “Look! Harris approaches. You will see now, how tall and handsome he has become.”
I stared as Harris drew up and reined in his steed, his dogs dropping good-naturedly to the grass beside him. The small, ungainly boy that I remembered had indeed matured, at one-and-twenty, into a big, broad-shouldered man; but there the change had ended. He was still very plain of face, and the angle of his body, as he regarded us from astride his horse, could only be called self-conscious and withdrawn. I found myself wondering, as I had so many times in the past, how a family with so many composed and disarming daughters, could have produced so awkward and unappealing a son.
“How was the hunting?” enquired Elizabeth. “It looks as if you bagged a few.”
Harris darted a brief glance at Cassandra and myself, but did not answer.
“What a beautiful mare,” said I, in an attempt to help him overcome his shyness. “I do not recognise her. Is she new?”
Still Harris said nothing, his furrowed brow indicating, presumably, an aspect of deep thought.
“Harris purchased her a fortnight ago,” answered Alethea.
“What do you call her?” asked Cassandra.
Harris opened his mouth, shut it, and then opened it again. “F-f-f-felicity,” said he at last.
“A lovely name,” said I. Hoping to put an end to Harris’s suffering, I smiled, and said, “We all look forward to seeing you at dinner, Harris.”
He frowned. “Le-le-le-le-let us hope that cook prepares something fi-fi-fi-fit to eat for a ch-ch-ch-change.” He nodded, but did not tip his hat as he rode away.
Our party assembled that evening in the large, lavishly appointed dining-room, where a delicious dinner had been prepared in honour of our visit. The cook acquitted herself marvelously well, proving Harris’s critique unfounded.
“The wine is excellent, squire,” said I. “I do not know when I have tasted a more full-bodied red. Is it, by any chance, of Spanish vintage?”
“Right you are, Miss Austen,” replied the Squire. “It is from Seville, a brand-new vintage, and very hard to come by.”
“Father is very proud of his wines,” said Catherine.
“Harris, once again, you have barely touched yours,” admonished the Squire.
“You know that I ca-ca-ca-cannot abide Spanish w-w-w-wine, sir.” Harris sat beside his father near the head of the table, his body slumped in his chair, appearing rather ill at ease. “I have ordered a little s-s-s-s-something that I think our guests may pref-fe-fe-fer.”
“Young man, may I remind you that one day my entire wine-cellar will be yours,” replied the squire in some annoyance. “You shall learn to appreciate it all. I insist that you drink up.”
“I w-w-w-will not, sir. It is vi-vi-vi-vile.”
The squire’s face grew red. I sensed that this sort of altercation had occurred on more than one previous occasion. Fearing that he was about to force the young man to drink something he so despised, I interjected, “Pray give it me, Harris. If a lady may be indulged with a second glass.”
Harris quickly slid his glass of wine down the table in my direction, with a brief, silent look that bespoke his surprise.
“To your health, squire,” said I, raising my new glass.
“To your health,” repeated the company. Everyone (except Harris) drank.
“What are you writing now, Jane?” enquired Alethea, as the next course, a filet of sole and a very nice fricando of veal, arrived. “Have you begun a new book?”
The Bigg-Wither family were the only people, other than Martha, a few close relatives, and the members of my immediate household, with whom I had shared my desire to write, and had allowed to read my novels. “Not at present,” said I regretfully.
“We are kept so busy at Bath, and have travelled about so much,” said my sister, “I fear Jane has not been settled enough to write anything except her journal.”
“That is a shame,” cried Elizabeth. “I enjoyed your books so much. I would love to read another.”
“As would I,” said Cassandra.
“How many long, happy hours did we pass merrily ensconced in one bed-chamber or another,” said Alethea fondly, with a sigh, “reading aloud from your pages?”
“I loved that story where the heroine finds herself at an abbey, and terrifies herself with all sorts of imaginary horrors,” said Catherine. “Susan I think it was called?”
“Yes, yes! That book was quite wonderful!” exclaimed Alethea.
“Did you really think so?” I enquired, pleased that they remembered it, since it had been at least three years since we had read it.
“It was very entertaining, and made excellent fun of Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho,” replied Alethea.
“I finished Udolpho in two days,” I cried, “my hair standing on end the whole time.”
“You must try to get Susan published, Jane,” said Alethea. “Get Henry to help you. He has many contacts.”
“But none in the publishing world, I am afraid.”
“He must know some one who does. Promise me you will ask him.”
“If you insist,” said I, smiling.
“May I make one small but crucia
l suggestion,” said Catherine, “which I think might improve that book, or am I being too bold?”
“Not at all,” said I. “I fear my work is rudimentary, at best, and I welcome all critiques.”
“It is the heroine’s name,” observed Catherine with mock solemnity. “There is nothing romantic about a girl called Susan. If she had any other name, Catherine, perhaps, I am certain the book would be a great success.”
The ladies laughed. “I shall keep that in mind, Catherine dearest, should I ever determine to revise it.”17
Harris, who had remained silent during this discourse, dropped his fork to his plate with a sudden clatter. “Is th-th-th-that all you ladies can ta-ta-ta-talk about? S-s-s-silly n-n-n-novels?”
“Novels are far from silly,” insisted Alethea.
“Indeed, Harris,” said the squire. “My taste in reading, I admit, tends to the more serious subjects, such as law, history, architecture, current events and, of course, on a Sunday, ecclesiastical matters. But the novel, the very name of which, as you may know, is founded on the newness of the genre, continues to gain increasing respect in many circles.”
“The novel is a most estimable work,” I agreed, “in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed.”
“What po-po-po-po-powers of the mind?” enquired Harris with a snort of disgust.
“Why, only the most thorough knowledge of human nature,” I replied, “the happiest delineation of its varieties, and the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, which are conveyed to the world in the best chosen language.”
“Hear, hear!” exclaimed Alethea, as the ladies all broke out into applause.
“In my op-p-p-pinion,” said Harris, “novels are read by the w-w-w-weak of mind, and are nothing but a great w-w-w-waste of time.”
“That is a most ungentlemanly comment, Harris,” said the squire with stern disapproval, “when you know full well how much your sisters enjoy reading these novels, and that Jane here has admitted she made several attempts in the writing of them. I feel a new-found tolerance of late towards the person, be it gentleman or lady, who can find pleasure in a good novel, and so should you.”