by Syrie James
Thankfully, our friendship with the Bigg sisters had not been altered by the incident, a tribute to the depth of our understanding and affection for one another. Two years after he proposed to me, Harris married Anne Howe Frith, an Isle of Wight heiress, and the union was apparently a most congenial one; to escape his father, Harris had moved away to a house of his own, and so we were able to stay at Manydown whenever we liked. “Be happy for Harris, mamma,” I said. “He found a wife who suits him perfectly. They are very happily settled at Wymering, and she is bearing him all the babies he could ever want.”
“Babies that should have been yours!” cried my mother. “You could have had five children by now!”
“Five little Bigg-Withers in six years, who all resemble Harris,” I replied, suppressing a shudder. “There is a frightening thought.”
“And now Catherine is betrothed,” continued my mother with a sigh, as if I had not spoken.
I had recently hem-stitched some cambrick pocket handkerchiefs as a wedding gift for Catherine Bigg, who was engaged to marry the Reverend Herbert Hill, a man some seven-and-twenty years her senior. She had confided to me that she did not love him, but as Manydown would one day pass to her brother and his wife, she was forced to think of material comforts.
“Mamma, what do you think of the verse I just wrote to accompany my gift of handkerchiefs for Catherine?” I enquired, reading aloud:
“Cambrick! Thou’st been to me a Good,
And I would bless thee if I could.
Go, serve my Mistress with delight,
Be small in compass, soft & white;
Enjoy thy fortune, honour’d much
To bear her name & feel her touch;
And that thy worth may last for years,
Slight be her Colds & few her Tears.”
“It is charming enough,” said my mother, “but too long. And if it were my poem, I should never make reference to illness in a wedding present. 19 Oh!” added she, as tears started in her eyes. “To think of Catherine at the altar! She was not so fastidious in her choice!”
“If only I had met Mr. Hill, instead of Catherine,” said I, putting down my pen with a feigned sigh, “I could have set my cap at him. But Catherine has all the luck.”
“Oh! You are impossible,” cried my mother. “With Frank and Mary leaving, we face removal from our home yet again, every one we know is getting married, and all you can do is make jokes.”
The dilemma of how and where we should live weighed heavily on us; but this worry was soon eclipsed—and, ironically, at the same time resolved—upon facing a much larger grief. My brother Edward’s wife, Elizabeth, died that October, a fortnight after giving birth to their eleventh child.
We were stunned and distraught by the news. Elizabeth was a beautiful, wealthy, well-born, well-looked-after woman, who had married for love at eighteen and been with child nearly every day since. She had often looked and felt ill during her last pregnancy, but had appeared to be making a full recovery following her delivery. Then one night, shortly after consuming a hearty dinner, to the horror of her family and the complete bafflement of her doctors, she collapsed and died. Edward had loved Elizabeth, I believe, more than life itself. To lose her so suddenly and inexplicably was a dreadful tragedy. I grieved for him; for Lizzy, who had, at far too young an age, left the life she adored; and for the eleven motherless children she left behind.
Cassandra, who was already at Godmersham, stayed on to assist and comfort Edward and the children, while I received two of my young nephews for a few days at Southampton and did my best to console and distract them before sending them off to school at Winchester.
In the midst of this terrible grief, came a letter from Cassandra with additional news of a most startling nature. After the first few paragraphs, which dealt primarily with the daily sufferings of the mournful party at Godmersham, she wrote:
I have news to impart from Edward which may appear most unexpected, coming, as it does, at such a melancholy hour, but which, at the same time, may help revive your spirits—and which I believe you, my mother and Martha will find extremely gratifying. Edward is making us the offer of a house. He acquainted me with the particulars this morning, and requested that I deliver the intelligence myself, since he, at present, is not equal to the task. It is his wish that we should have the use of one of the cottages on his estates as a freehold, and he offers two for us to chuse from: a house not far from Godmersham at Wye, which as you know, is a very pretty village; or his bailiff ’s cottage at Chawton, close to the Great House (his bailiff having recently died). —Edward says that Chawton Cottage, which is a good size, has a nice garden, six bed-rooms and garrets above for storage, and could be put in order for us without much expense.
My sister then went into a few further details about the houses themselves, as much as she could recall from her discussion with Edward. This report, which Cassandra (in keeping with her calm, composed nature) delivered in such a matter-of-fact manner, was met with great rejoicing at Castle Square.
“A house of our very own!” cried my mother, clapping her hand to her chest in astonishment when I had imparted the news, upon her return from an expedition to Miss Baker, the dress-maker, to have her black bombazine gown made over in a newer style. “Free of charge! To live in as long as we like! Oh! It is too good to be true!”
“We have only to chuse which location we prefer,” said I, referring again to the letter in my hand, which I had already perused in wonderment a dozen times at least.
“Oh! I am overcome! I am flushed, I cannot think!” exclaimed my mother, as she sat down in her favourite spot on the sofa with a dazed expression, fanning her face with her hand. “I feel as if I might faint with joy. But I suppose I like the idea of Wye. I do love Kent, and I should like to be near Edward and the children.”
“There are many advantages to the cottage at Chawton, as well,” I observed. We had all visited Edward’s property at Chawton the previous summer. Although I did not remember the bailiff ’s cottage specifically, we had admired the ancient, rambling Great House, which had been between tenants at the time, and the village, which comprised some thirty houses. “We know the village. It is charming. Steventon is only some twelve miles distant. And Chawton is within walking distance of Alton, a very good town. Remember, Henry’s bank is there.”
“That is true,” mused my mother. “Henry would have reason to visit there quite often, I imagine.”
“And it is in Hampshire, mamma,” said I. “To live at Chawton would be akin to moving home.”
“Does she say how large these cottages are?” asked Martha, in some trepidation.
“Do not fear, Martha,” I replied with a reassuring smile. “They are both, apparently, large enough to house all four of us, in addition to several servants.”
“That is good news, indeed,” said Martha with relief. “Although if it should prove otherwise, I can surely find lodgings elsewhere. I would not wish to be a burden.”
“You could never be a burden, Martha dear,” said I. “You are one of the family, and always will be.”
Martha beamed at this, her eyes filling with tears, and she appeared incapable of speech.
The sight of her dear, tremulous face prompted answering moisture in my own eyes, as I smoothed out my new gown of black silk, covered with crape. “Oh dear. To feel joy at such a moment, does not seem right. To think that Edward considers us, and our needs, at a time when he must be plunged into the greatest depths of despair of his life. He is too good.”
“It is a generous offer,” agreed my mother, “and I could not be more grateful to that dear boy. But in truth, it is no more than he should have done three years past, when your father, God rest his soul, left this earth. And it only goes to prove what I said at that time: it was that wife of his who kept Edward from acting on his better judgment.”
“Mamma!” I cried, aghast. “You cannot still believe that!”
“I do, indeed! Why else would Edward be making u
s this belated offer, on the very heels of his wife’s demise?”
“Surely it is because Edward’s great loss has engendered in him the desire to keep his family closer to him,” I replied.
“I am certain that is part of it,” said my mother, “and equally certain that he would have given us a house years ago, and an income, as well, had Elizabeth not voiced her objection.”
My mother’s words inspired, of a sudden, a kind of reverie, in which I imagined what might have occurred, had Lizzy indeed attempted, through subtle verbal manoeuvring, to convince Edward to substantially alter the amount of assistance that he intended to offer his mother and sisters. 20 The little scene that ensued in my mind, I fear, caused me to laugh out loud.
“I see no humour in the situation, Jane,” said my mother, frowning fiercely.
“Jane meant no disrespect, depend on it,” cut in Martha diplomatically, with an understanding glance at me. She had long ago learnt to recognise and tolerate those moments when my mind drifted unexpectedly. “I think she was writing in her head again.”
“Who can think of writing at a time like this?” cried my mother. “We have a decision to make! Chawton, or Wye!”
After much discussion, we chose Chawton Cottage, based on its proximity to our family and friends in Hampshire, and Henry’s enthusiastic report upon viewing the accommodation. However, the bailiff ’s wife could not leave until late spring, at which point Edward had several improvements he wanted to make, and so the move would not take place until July.
The winter passed quickly. While Cassandra remained at Godmersham, my mother, Martha and I spent many cozy evenings by the fire, reading aloud from the newest works, our unanimous favourites being Margiana and Marmion.21
When weather permitted, Martha and I went out, determined, in our remaining months at Southampton, to crowd in as many engagements, and go to as many balls as possible, before our removal to the country. I was, to my surprise, asked to dance on several occasions, and enjoyed myself well enough, although the dearth of wit, sense or good conversation in every gentleman I met always propelled my thoughts back to Mr. Ashford. I frequently and wistfully wondered what might have been, had we been blessed with more time to become better acquainted.
Little did I know that I was to meet Mr. Ashford again, and soon, in the most unexpected of circumstances.
Chapter Eight
How very wet the weather is!” said my mother as she paused in her needlework with a sigh, watching the rain-drops of a late February storm beat a steady rhythm against the window panes.
“Yet you must admit, it is delightfully mild,” I replied. “After so many weeks of snow, I am thrilled to see rain. Even the store closet is behaving charmingly. It is very nearly dried out from last month’s flood.”
“The rain in the closet nearly drowned us,” said my mother. “This entire house is falling to pieces. I shall be very glad to leave it.”
Once the idea of Chawton Cottage had become fixed in my mother’s mind, she had been anxious to get the move underway, and began to find fault with the very situation she had once been so loathe to leave. Martha had already left to spend the spring with a friend in town; Cassandra had just returned from Godmersham, and we were making plans to close up the Castle Square house for an April departure.
“There is nothing the matter with the house, mamma,” said I. “The evil proceeded from the gutter being choked up, and we have had it cleared.”
“A new evil will follow soon enough,” declared my mother. “It always does in a house of this age. There will be a leak in this very drawing-room next, you wait and see. All this damp is very, very bad for one’s health, particularly for the lungs.” She put a hand to her chest and drew in a long slow breath, then whimpered, “I am quite certain I feel the onset of a congestion. The last time I felt this poorly, I became very seriously ill, and was thought to never recover.”
“You always feel better in the country, mamma,” said Cassandra. “Perhaps you should get away now, and not wait until April.”
“The country air would do me good, after all this damp sea-air,” agreed my mother. “The place I should most like to be is at Steventon. But I could never leave now. There is so much packing to do before our removal.”
“Do not trouble yourself about the packing,” replied Cassandra. “Jane and I will take care of it.”
“I would not think to leave all the work to you girls!” cried my mother. “I will shoulder my part of the burden.”
“Please, mamma, it is no burden,” said I. “If you are ill, you know we would never let you lift a finger. Let us see to our belongings. Eliza can help us. 22 I am certain James and Mary will welcome your visit. We can join you later at Steventon, and then travel on to Godmersham together, as we first intended, until Chawton Cottage is ready.”
This plan was determined agreeable to all, and my mother soon made her departure with tearful hugs of gratitude. Cassandra and I, left on our own, determined to put off the process of packing as long as possible, and to enjoy what little time we had remaining in Southampton.
The next afternoon being very fine, we ventured out for a walk along the High Street, admiring the displays in the shop-windows. I enjoyed the bite of the brisk, salty air which brought the roses to our cheeks; with the sea surrounding the town on three sides, a fresh breeze was always sure to find us from one direction or another.
“Is not that a pretty bonnet?” said I, all at one transfixed by a charming hat in a milliner’s shop-window. Made of white straw with a smartly swept-up brim, it was trimmed with white lace and scarlet ribbons, and crowned with the sweetest-looking bunch of cherries. We had only just dispensed with wearing mourning for poor Lizzy, and after months of black, the sight of any thing brightly coloured and cheerful was like a panacea to the senses.
Before I knew what I was about, I found myself inside the shop, with the smiling clerk taking the hat from its stand and giving it me. “Fruit is very much the thing again this year,” said she. “We have a looking-glass in back, if you would care to try it on.”
“Pray, what is the price?” I asked.
The lady named the sum. “The colour suits you; it will go nicely with your complexion.”
“So it may,” said I with a sigh, “but not with our pocketbook.” As I had no real money to call my own—every penny I did have was due to the generosity of my mother and brothers—I could hardly afford to purchase bonnets solely for their beauty. I thanked her for her time, and Cassandra and I moved on along the busy street.
“Our old hats are still quite serviceable, and will dress up nicely with some new ornaments,” said Cassandra, by way of comforting me. “We could get four or five very pretty sprigs of flowers from the cheap shop for the same money as one of those clusters of cherries.”
“I am sure you are right,” said I, still lamenting the loss of the pretty red and white bonnet, until, of a sudden, my eyes were drawn to another hat of much larger and more costly proportions, which rested upon the head of a formidable-looking woman who was marching in our direction. Her gown was attractively styled in the newest fashion, and her hat so covered in every imaginable type of fruit, that it resembled more a salad than a head adornment.
“I suppose it is more natural to have flowers grow out of the head than fruit,” said I, as Cassandra and I both struggled to suppress a laugh.
At the same moment, we both let out a little gasp, realizing that we knew the woman who was approaching.
“Mrs. Jenkins!” I cried. An acquaintance (although not particularly close) of our mother’s since our move to Southampton, Mrs. Jenkins was a widow of sixty years of age with no children, whose husband had earned his living in trade and left her very comfortably well off, with two houses, one in London and one in Southampton. Although we did not generally travel in the same circles, we had been invited to a party at her home on one occasion, and it had been an elegant affair. Mrs. Jenkins was not, I thought, possessed of a particularly keen wit, but
she was kind and well-meaning, with a warm and ready smile for every one she met. Her features brightened as she hurried to greet us.
“Miss Austen! Miss Jane! 23 What a fortunate meeting! It has been far too long. I am only just this week returned from town, where I passed the greater part of the winter. How does your dear mother?”
“She was feeling rather poorly of late, which she attributed to the rain and the damp sea-air,” said I. “She left only yesterday to take refuge with our brother James at Steventon.”
“Oh! I am sorry to hear she is ill. Do you expect her return at any time in the near future?”
“I think not,” answered Cassandra. “My sister and I have just six weeks to pack, before joining her.”
“That is right! I had nearly forgotten. So, it is all fixed, then? You are all to go gallivanting off to the countryside, and quit our fair city altogether?”
“We are,” I replied.
“Well! You will be missed around here, that is a fact. I would have dearly liked to say good-bye to your mother. I will have to write and scold her for not even attempting to pay me a visit before her removal! You girls must promise to visit me some time, and not bury yourselves for ever in the country. But oh! How relieved you must all be feeling, to have a home of your own at last, and a freehold at that! There is nothing quite so comforting in life as the knowledge that your house is your very own, and cannot be taken from you. I should know, for I have been blessed with two very nice houses, and had a good husband, God rest his soul. I have every thing a woman could wish for, excepting, of course, the company of children. But I cannot complain; I have never suffered from want of money, although I am not insensitive to the difficulties of those who do. You ladies, for example. I have long marvelled that you manage on so little, yet somehow your home is always presentable, you do not seem to lack vital comforts or necessities, and you are always in good looks, with cheerful smiles upon your faces. I wonder, how ever do you do it?”