by Syrie James
“We survive, Mrs. Jenkins, by eating only once every third day,” I replied.
Mrs. Jenkins clapped her hands together and laughed merrily for what seemed a full two minutes. “A very pretty little joke, Miss Jane,” said she, when she had at last caught her breath. “You always did have a way with words. Oh! What is the time? I daresay I must go, I am late for the dress-maker’s—but first: tell me, are you free on Thursday?”
“Thursday? I expect so,” said I.
“Excellent! I am having a small dinner-party in honour of my dear niece and nephew and his wife, who are coming to visit from up north with a friend. They are such fine young people, interesting and accomplished; I know that you will find them most agreeable. You two ladies will round out my party quite nicely. The invitations go out tomorrow. I would so love for you to join us.”
“We would be honoured,” said Cassandra.
“Good. Then it is settled. Thursday! Do not disappoint me!” cried Mrs. Jenkins in parting, as she moved off down the street, her fruit hat bobbing in the wind.
On the appointed Thursday evening, Cassandra and I, attired in our best white muslin gowns, walked the two short blocks to Mrs. Jenkins’s house, escorted by our man-servant Sam and a lanthorn. 24 In honour of the occasion, I paid more than usual attention to my hair; instead of covering it with a cap, as was often my custom, I wore it plaited up in what I hoped was an attractive style, with a band of bugle beads that matched the border on the hem of my gown. Cassandra wore her best velvet cap.
Upon arrival (precisely at seven), we doffed our cloaks in the vestibule with another newly arrived couple in formal dress, who were a great deal older than ourselves, and whom we did not recognise.
“I wonder if we shall have any acquaintance here,” whispered Cassandra in concern, as we were led up the stairs.
“We could live a full year for the price of that gown,” I whispered in return, taking care not to tread on the train of the stunning, beaded evening dress enveloping the elderly lady preceding us. As Cassandra pressed her lips to hold back a smile, we emerged into the beautifully appointed drawing-room, where Mrs. Jenkins, a vision in cream-coloured silk and ostrich plumes, greeted us with enthusiasm.
“Ladies! I am so delighted that you were able to come!” cried she, adding privately, “Among such an elderly crowd, we desperately required a few more young faces.” Taking us each by an arm, she drew us towards the fire-place, where a small group was chatting, several with their backs to us. “My niece Isabella fell ill and was unable to travel after all, it is such a pity, I know you would have got on famously. But do allow me to introduce you to my nephew and his wife. Charles! Maria! Come here and meet the daughters of a dear friend of mine!”
The couple in question turned to face us, and I gasped in surprise. It was Charles and Maria Churchill, the couple I had met with Mr. Ashford at Lyme.
“Mr. Churchill! Mrs. Churchill!” I cried. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Is it possible that you know each other?” said Mrs. Jenkins, all astonishment.
Mr. Churchill looked puzzled, but Maria said, “We do,” and produced a smile that (I thought I might be imagining it) did not quite reach her eyes. “We met at Lyme, the summer before last, I believe. Miss Austen, is it not?”
At my nod, Mr. Churchill cried with sudden recognition, “So we did! Well I’ll be dashed! How extraordinary!”
The gentleman who had been standing behind him suddenly whirled to face us; my breath caught in my throat.
It was Mr. Ashford.
“Miss Austen! How wonderful to see you!” exclaimed Mr. Ashford, his handsome features lighting up with what appeared to be equal parts pleasure and surprise.
“And you, Mr. Ashford,” was all that I could manage. Many months had passed since I had seen him, and I had begun to wonder, should I ever be so fortunate as to meet him again, if I would even recognise him; but standing before him now, it was as if time had melted away. His hunter green full-dress coat and snowy white cravat were a pleasing contrast to the deep blue of his eyes and the natural wave of his dark hair, and his smile was warm and genuine.
“My, my, is it not a small world!” cried Mrs. Jenkins, as I stood mute and tongue-tied.
The gentleman turned to my sister. “We have not met. I am Frederick Ashford.”
“I beg your pardon,” said I, my cheeks reddening. “May I present my sister, Miss Cassandra Austen?”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Austen,” said Mr. Ashford with a bow, as the Churchills echoed the sentiment.
“The pleasure is mine, I assure you,” replied Cassandra, giving me a private, meaningful look which conveyed at once her understanding of the gentleman’s identity, and her thrilled awareness of its importance.
Turning to me behind her fan, Mrs. Jenkins said in a lowered tone, “To think, of all people you should know Mr. Ashford, a most distinguished man from a very great family, the son of a baronet, and one of Charles’s intimate friends. They travelled down together, you know, and I am honoured that he chose to stay with me, and to join us at our little soirée.” Closing her fan with a flick of her wrist, she put her hand upon Mr. Ashford’s arm and gave him her brightest smile. “I do hope you will do me the honour of escorting me in to dinner, Mr. Ashford, at the head of the line.”
“It would be my privilege, madam,” said he with a bow, although, as he straightened, his eyes met mine, and I felt certain I detected there a look of frustration and regret.
“You must forgive me, Jane,” said Mrs. Jenkins, as, to my consternation and dismay, she quickly drew me and my sister away towards the other end of the room, “for depriving you of your acquaintance, but these little things are, as you know, so difficult to manage.”25
In a matter of moments, she quickly and discreetly paired us off with the other single gentlemen in the room, who were of appropriate status—in my case, the fat and perspiring widower Mr. Lutterell, a man who had long since passed the age of sixty, and who my mother had once suggested as my ideal mate in life; for Cassandra, a bald-headed banker named Woodhole, with thick spectacles and a jutting tooth.
A servant rang a bell and announced that dinner was served.
We all proceeded down to the dining-room, where a fire blazed in the hearth and an elegantly laid table awaited us, with Dresden baskets of preserved fruits as décor and a bill of fare placed next to every setting. Mr. Ashford was, of course, seated beside Mrs. Jenkins at the head of the table, in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill; my sister and I were relegated to the lower end with our solicitous but rather witless escorts, with whom, for the next two hours, we engaged in conversation of little sense and no real content.
The dinner was excellent, and exactly as it should be on such occasions, with a succession of far too many courses, and more food than any one could possibly consume in a single sitting. As the evening progressed, I found my eyes drifting frequently to the other end of the table, as if to reassure myself that I was not dreaming, that it was truly Mr. Ashford sitting in the very same room, chatting amiably with our hostess and his friends. Several times, as I glanced in his direction, I found him looking at me. When our eyes met, he did not glance away, but rewarded me with a smile, and later with a slight apologetic shrug, as if to acknowledge his own frustration with the seating arrangements.
When the desserts and wine had finally been served, Cassandra and I made our way with the ladies back to the drawing-room for coffee and tea, where I waited for half an hour in anxious expectation for the men to finish their port and join us. They made their arrival ensemble just as the clock chimed ten. Mr. Ashford’s eyes sought and found mine the moment he entered the room, and he quickly crossed to the sofa where I sat alone, finishing my tea.
“Miss Austen,” said he with a relieved and rueful smile, as I stood to greet him, “at last, we have a chance to speak.”
My heart began to pound; there was so much I wanted to ask him, I hardly knew where to begin. “You are looking we
ll, Mr. Ashford.”
“As are you, Miss Austen. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to find you here.”
“It has been a long time since our meeting at Lyme.”
“Indeed it has. Too long. And I believe I owe you an apology.”
“An apology? Whatever for?”
“For my hasty departure. My friends and I left Lyme that day with barely a word. I worried that you might think us rude, and I regretted, most sincerely, that we had not exchanged information, so that I might have written. I felt I owed you an explanation.”
Unwilling to betray the intensity of my feelings on the subject, I said lightly: “You owed me nothing, I assure you, Mr. Ashford. Although it could be argued that you saved my life at Lyme, in truth, our acquaintanceship there was very brief and incidental.”
He looked taken aback and fell silent for a moment, as if a little hurt by my reply. “I see. I am relieved to hear that in communicating no further, I have done you no harm. But for my part, I must admit”—(here he shrugged with a charming, unpretending smile)—“I have often reflected with great pleasure on the afternoon we shared at Lyme, brief and incidental though you may have found it.”
My cheeks flamed, even as an unexpected surge of happiness rushed through me. He had reflected on our meeting of long ago! He had not forgotten me! “Forgive me; I meant no offence,” I said quickly. “I only wished to relieve you of any feelings of obligation on the matter. I, too, have often found myself reflecting on our meeting that day, and the interesting discussion which followed.”
Before I could say more, Mrs. Jenkins tapped me on the shoulder with her fan. “Miss Jane! We could do with a little music. May I entreat you to play for us?”
“Surely some one else should have the honour,” I replied, forcing a smile at this unwelcome interruption. I had loved the pianoforte since I was a girl, and had hired one for the past two years, so that I might stay in practice; but I much preferred playing for myself or for my family, than a public show. “I assure you, I have little talent for it.”
“That is not how I remember it! You entertained us all most beautifully the last time you were here. Come, do play for us.”
“If you would be so kind as to indulge us with a few airs, Miss Austen,” said Mr. Ashford, “I would be honoured to turn the pages for you, if it would be of any help.”
“It would be. Thank you.” I was immensely pleased by his offer, which (as we both acknowledged, with a smile) would allow me not only to appease our hostess, but afford us the opportunity to continue our conversation, as well.
I took my seat at the instrument, found a sheet of music I recognised, and began to play.
“I see you are too modest, Miss Austen,” said Mr. Ashford as he sat down beside me. “You play very well.”
“You are too kind.” His nearness, I confess, sent my heart skittering into a little dance; it required my most concerted efforts to concentrate and follow the music. “I would be most grateful, sir, to hear your account of the reason behind your sudden departure from Lyme, if you still wish to share it.”
“I would,” replied he. “Early that morning, before we were all to meet, the innkeeper roused me from my sleep. A letter of some urgency had arrived for me, for which the messenger had been travelling for several days, and ridden through the night. The missive brought word that my father had been taken ill. I made a hasty departure as there was no time to lose. There was some question as to whether he would live or die.”
“I am so sorry. I hope he has recovered?”
“He has, completely, thank you. But while he was indisposed, he insisted that I stay by his bedside at every waking moment. Fearing for his life, he said he wanted to acquaint me, for the first time, with certain affairs of our family estate, which he had always kept closely guarded. To my dismay, when I began to look into the matters he described, I encountered numerous problems. It took a great deal of time to try to set things right.”
“And were you successful?”
“I hope so. I tell you all this, by way of explaining my preoccupation in the weeks and months following my departure from Lyme. When, at last, I had the leisure and presence of mind to think of writing to you, so much time had passed, that even if I could have learnt your direction, I felt foolish at making the attempt.”
“I understand completely, and am flattered that you feel you can confide in me.”
“I have long hoped for an opportunity to share that confidence,” said he, as he turned a page of my music. “It is indeed wonderful that we should meet again.”
“Your timing could not have been more opportune, for we are soon to quit Southampton, permanently.”
“Indeed? To go where?”
I told him of our impending move to Chawton Cottage, and answered his many enquiries on the subject.
“Well then,” said he, “I consider myself most fortunate that my business in Portsmouth brought me here when it did. I had planned to travel on my own, when Charles announced his intention to visit his aunt nearby for a fortnight. I recalled you mentioning that you lived at Southampton, and had found it charming. I was, of a sudden, consumed by an intense desire to see the place for myself.”
“And what do you think of our town, Mr. Ashford? I hope you are enjoying your visit, and that I did not mislead you in my description.”
“I hardly know. I am only just arrived this afternoon, and have seen very little. But as of this evening, I believe my chances of enjoying Southampton are greatly improving.”
The lively sparkle in his eyes and tone, as he glanced at me, made me smile. “Do you, indeed? This presumption, I assume, can only be based on your appreciation of my remarkable skill at the pianoforte.”
“That, and the fact that I intend to take advantage of my time here, by making good on a promise I made to you all those months ago, at Lyme.”
“Pray tell, what promise was that?” I enquired.
“To take you, and my friends, on a picnic.”
Chapter Nine
I told Mr. Ashford that a picnic in early March was an undertaking bordering on madness, particularly since it had rained nearly every day for the last fortnight; but nothing could dissuade him. The weather in the south, he insisted, was much milder than in the north, and he was determined to enjoy the countryside while in the area. He predicted that the day would be lastingly fair.
He enquired if I could suggest any place in the vicinity that might offer a restful respite from the city, and would provide that pleasing atmosphere of natural beauty which was so necessary to a picnic; if the location could include a view of the sea, so much the better. I told him that I knew of the ideal place, Netley Abbey.
An extensive, picturesque Gothic ruin, Netley Abbey lay only a few miles to the south-east across Southampton Water, in the tranquillity of a wooded valley, not far from shore. The visitants of Southampton, I explained, seldom made any considerable stay without surveying the abbey’s ancient ruins. Cassandra and I had made several excursions there, both alone and in each other’s company, and I thought it would make for a most agreeable day, if we had good weather.
There was no good road leading directly to the abbey. The ruins could be reached by water or on foot. The three-mile walk began by crossing at the Itchen Ferry, followed by a delightful wander through varied fields and woods, embellished with water-views. “The recent rains, however, will have turned the lanes and fields to mud, making for a very dirty walk. It would be best, at this time of year, to take a boat thither. It is the more direct route, and the tide should be right, I think, for our going immediately after noonshine.”
Mr. Ashford expressed his enthusiasm for the prospect, seeming particularly pleased by the notion of going by sea. A plan was immediately made for a little water-party the next morning which would include Cassandra, myself, and Mr. and Mrs. Churchill. Mr. Ashford promised to make arrangements to bring along a supply of cold provisions, and any thing else that might be required.
Having long s
ince resigned myself to the fact that I would never see Mr. Ashford again, the sudden expectation of spending a day with him was so thrilling that I spent the better part of the night listening anxiously to the incessant drum of a heavy rain, lapsing into a brief sleep only a few hours before dawn. To my relief, when I awoke early the next morning, the clouds were dispersing across the sky, and the sun was making a frequent appearance.
Cassandra, who had admitted the night before that she approved of the gentleman, at least in looks and general manner, did not appear surprised to find me up long before breakfast and dressed in my blue sprigged muslin gown, with my hair tidily arranged. “I always liked that colour on you,” said she with a knowing smile. “I only hope you will be warm enough for a water crossing.”
“Our wool cloaks will protect us from any sea-breeze, no matter how frigid,” I insisted, eager to enjoy every aspect of the experience before us.
When Maria first learned of the proposed journey, she had insisted that she would not go, so certain was she that the weather would be miserable. But when Mr. Ashford arrived in happy spirits at Castle Square at ten o’clock the next morning on horseback, alongside his carriage—a sleek, black equipage painted on both sides with the family’s coat of arms in gold—we were pleased to find both Mr. Churchill and Maria on board.
“I am prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened,” said Maria as we sat down opposite the couple in the coach for the short ride to the quay, “but I am determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships, if it will make you all happy.”