The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  We had not been seated in the drawing-room five minutes, engaged in conversation regarding the success of our outing the previous day, when I felt my eyelids droop and my head begin to sag and, to my horror, I began to plummet from my chair. I quickly caught myself and sat upright, but Mr. Ashford leapt to his feet and glanced at me with great concern.

  “Are you quite well, Miss Austen?”

  “Forgive me, I am not myself, I did not sleep all night,” said I, adding with a smile: “And you, Mr. Ashford, are chiefly to blame.” He looked dismayed, until I explained that his inspiration and encouragement had been so great, I had spent the entire night engaged in writing.

  “I admit, I did not sleep well, myself,” said he. “I was concerned that what I said might have offended you, but you have set my heart at ease about it. I am thrilled to hear that you are at work again.”

  I acquainted him with some particulars regarding the book itself, and agreed, at his request, to let him read it when I felt ready. Then, insisting that I should take my rest, and satisfying himself that he might call again the next day, he took his leave.

  Mr. Ashford convinced the Churchills to extend their visit in Southampton to a stay of three weeks. During that time, Cassandra was adamant that I should devote myself to writing, and to spending time with my new friend, while she and our maid took it upon themselves to pack up our belongings, leaving only those basics required for our subsistence.

  The next few weeks passed in a happy blur. In the morning, I wrote. In the afternoon, Mr. Ashford came to call.

  Our impending removal precipitated invitations from several neighbours, which my sister and I declined. We attended no more dinner-parties, and no more balls at the Dolphin Inn, preferring to keep to ourselves. On warm afternoons, we sat in the garden, or took a stroll along the top of the old city wall which bounded our property on one side, and admired the view out over the river and the water of the West Bay, all the while talking and discovering that we shared similar views on many topics, and entering into lively debate on those topics on which we did not agree. One fine day, Mr. Ashford, Cassandra and I took a lovely drive to New Forest. When it rained, we sat in the drawing-room by the fire, and I read aloud to him and my sister from the new pages I had been writing, voicing the respective parts as best I could to comic effect.

  Mr. Ashford professed himself to be an immediate fan of my story and my work. Both he and Cassandra seemed to look forward eagerly to hearing me read, even if I had only finished a new page or two.

  “Your book is charming and witty and romantic,” declared Mr. Ashford with enthusiasm one afternoon, as we took a walk beyond the city walls in a wooded area beside the sea. “And, if I may be so bold, it is in a style entirely new. Your writing possesses an almost lyric quality, something intangible, I cannot put it into words. I have never read or heard any thing quite like it before.”

  “Surely it is not so unique as all that,” said I modestly. “It is only a story of two young sisters with differing views.”

  “It is more than a mere story,” insisted he. “Although I have heard but a small part, it seems to me a debate, brilliantly conceived, regarding how much emotion it is right and proper to feel and shew.”

  “Yes!” I replied excitedly. “That was always my intent with this book; I fear I did not succeed in expressing it in my previous attempts. I am delighted that it should come across now.”

  “Your characters, I feel I know them as if I have lived with them all my life. Chapter two is exceptional; I believe it to be some of the most clever dialogue ever written.”

  “You are too kind,” said I, blushing at his praise.

  “I am not being kind. I speak the truth. You shall be published, you must be. You have only to finish this book and submit it. I feel certain of it.” He turned to me with a hesitant glance. “Although—”

  “Although?” I smiled. “Is there something you are not telling me, Mr. Ashford? Some imperfection in my work, perhaps, that you have perceived?”

  “There is one small suggestion I would make, if I may?”

  “Please.”

  “The family’s name, Digweed.”

  “Yes?”

  “It is a singularly unappealing name.”

  “But we have old friends called Digweed.”

  “Please. Do not make us suffer as they do.” He glanced at the nearby woods, thick with undergrowth, and his expression brightened. “How about Wood? Digwood? Dogwood? Dashwood? There you have it, Dashwood. Now there is a name.”

  “Dashwood,” I repeated, with a nod. It had a nice ring to it.

  The next day, as I read aloud my newly completed pages, I noticed a change in Mr. Ashford. He seemed in low spirits, which was unlike him, and appeared lost in thought several times. When I asked if any thing was the matter, he apologized, said his mind had only wandered for a moment, and pressed me to read on.

  I thought that perhaps Mr. Ashford’s melancholy stemmed from the thought of the necessity of his returning to Derbyshire at the end of the week, and of our intended removal to Chawton. Indeed, I could not contemplate this impending separation without the lowest of feelings.

  Although it had been only a few short weeks since Mr. Ashford and I had renewed our acquaintance, I could not be insensible of a sincere and mutual growing attachment between us. When we were parted, except for those hours spent in writing, I thought of little else but him. My heart quickened at the sound of his carriage drawing up outside, and his footstep approaching our door. In the hours we spent together, in our discourse, debate, and exchange of thoughts and feelings, I experienced a kind of complete happiness, which had, until that time, been foreign to me.

  I had given up the idea of marriage long ago, and had found contentment in my single status; but I could not help but think of marriage now. In Mr. Ashford, I saw grace and spirit united to great worth; his manners were equal to his heart and understanding. He was, in every respect, a man with whom I believed I could share my life long and happily. I loved him. I loved him! How he felt about me, however, was a matter still in question.

  He had, in our time together, shewn every proof of his pleasure in my acquaintance; I had little—scarcely any—doubt in my mind that his feelings matched my own. But of those feelings he had never spoken. I could hardly dare to raise the subject myself; he was, after all, a gentleman of great fortune and heir to a baronetcy, whereas I was a woman of three-and-thirty, with nothing to recommend me but a wit he seemed to admire. If indeed he thought of me in any way stronger than friendship, I could not be certain.

  One afternoon, as we sat alone together on an old wooden bench in my back garden, with no thought but to enjoy each other’s company and the beauty of the day, Mr. Ashford said, “What do you like most about writing, Miss Austen?”

  “Creating my own world, I suppose, filled with people who must think and act and speak as I tell them to.” His very proximity, as he sat beside me, made my heart beat more rapidly than usual and brought a thrilled flush to my countenance, which I hoped he would attribute to the sun’s warmth.

  “In other words, playing God.”

  “Mr. Ashford, please. I am a clergyman’s daughter.”

  He laughed. “Which sister is based on you? Elinor or Marianne?”

  “Neither one, I should think.”

  “Oh come now. Surely every author and authoress reveals a measure of their own thoughts and feelings through their characters.”

  “Perhaps I do, a bit. I think of Elinor as the model of goodness, discretion and self-control, the way every one should think and act, in any given circumstance. Many times since her creation, when I have faced an important decision, I have found myself asking: What would Elinor do?”

  “And does Elinor answer?” enquired he, amused.

  “She does. She is an infallible guide to correct and prudent behaviour.”

  “But surely you do not think of Elinor as perfect,” said he. “She is practical, she is admirable, she governs her
emotions beautifully. But can any one truly live their life that way? Do not you find something very appealing in Marianne’s openness and enthusiasm for life?”

  “Yes. Although at times, Marianne carries things too far.”

  “But she has such spirit and fire! If I were to fall in love, sense be damned! I—” Here he caught himself, paused, and glanced away, as if struggling to check his feelings.

  He had opened the door. I saw no reason not to run through it. “If I were to fall in love,” I replied, with rising emotion, “I would want to act as Marianne does.”

  He turned to face me with a fervent nod, sliding closer to me on the bench. “Yes. To speak spontaneously.”

  “From the heart.”

  “To feel love beyond reason.”

  “All wonder and amazement.”

  “An all-consuming passion!”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes!”

  Our gazes locked. I saw deep, ardent affection in his eyes. Was this the moment? I wondered, my heart beating so wildly, I thought surely he must be able to see and hear its pounding. Was he about to say that he loved me? Did he intend to kiss me? Would he ask me to marry him?

  But all at once, to my dismay, his countenance clouded over, and he drew back, colouring slightly. A brief, awkward silence ensued in which he seemed distracted and agitated. At last, he said: “In your novel, you express those feelings very well.”

  My cheeks grew warm with disappointment. I hardly know what I said in reply. I was astonished at myself. For the first time in many years, I had desired—nay, I had longed for—a man to kiss me.

  Chapter Twelve

  Take care, Jane!” said Cassandra the next morning. “You must wrap each dish full round with the gauze, or it will never survive the journey.”

  “I thought I had,” said I, quickly rewrapping the dish in question.

  “To what do we owe this distracted air?” asked my sister. “Not to your book, I think.”

  I placed the wrapped dish in the crate and buried my face in my hands, struggling to contain the wealth of emotions coursing through me. “Oh, Cassandra!” I cried at length, throwing out my arms wide, “How can I tell you what I feel? I want to take the entire world in my arms and embrace it! I think—I think I am in love!”

  I seized Cassandra by the hands and spun her in circles around the dining-room, laughing, until we careened into a chair and sent it crashing to the floor, which provoked further bursts of laughter.

  “I have never known a man who is Mr. Ashford’s equal!” said I, as I stopped to right the fallen chair, and to catch my breath. “In my eyes, he is perfection. From the first moment we met, I felt such a connection between us, I can scarcely describe it.”

  “I am so happy for you,” cried Cassandra. “He is, indeed, a most engaging man.” The words had no sooner left her lips than she let out another laugh. “Pray, do not keep me in suspense another moment. Tell me all, and quickly. Are you engaged?”

  “Engaged? Do not be silly. Things have not progressed with that degree of rapidity. We have been together less than three weeks.”

  “Yes, but when feeling and inclination are in harmony, people have been known to reach an understanding in a shorter time than that. Has he said that he loves you?”

  “He has not said the words. I believe he was on the point of it yesterday when we were in the garden, but he lost his nerve.” My smile faded as a sudden, niggling voice of caution called from deep within me. I sank into a chair. “The truth is, as much as I feel for him, I am by no means assured of his regard for me.”

  “Oh, but Mr. Ashford loves you, of that I am certain.”

  “I cannot be so sure. In the last few days especially, there have been moments when he seemed distracted, and at times even melancholy.”

  “I have noticed that, as well. Perhaps he has been concerned with business matters, or received an unsettling letter from his father or sister.”

  “That is what I thought, but he does not seem to wish to speak of it, so I have not enquired further. His family, you know, may not approve of his forming an attachment with me,” I added with a frown.

  “There is that possibility. But he is a man of four-and-thirty who can surely make his own decisions. He has been here nearly every day, Jane, for more than a fortnight. That alone speaks highly of his regard for you. His manners, his attention and respect, his delight in every thing you think and say and do, all bespeak his interest and affection; and if that were not enough, I have witnessed what you could not. I have seen the look in his eyes as he listens to you read aloud. It is a glowing look, filled with such admiration and esteem, that I have felt certain for some days now that he is as much in love with you, as you are with him.”

  A burst of joy and hope coursed through me at her pronouncement. “I pray that you are right. But I am growing most anxious. We cannot correspond unless we are engaged.”

  “Let us pray, then, that he declares himself before he leaves Southampton.”

  I sighed. “That does not leave much time. He departs tomorrow.”

  At eleven o’clock the following morning, when Mr. Ashford called, he seemed distracted. He expressed his regret that he had only an hour remaining before his departure, and suggested that we take a walk. I quickly donned my pelisse. 27

  As we passed the castle in the tiny open square—a fantastic edifice built by the Marquis of Landsdowne, of a style and shape far too large for the contracted space in which it stood—we were treated to the sight of the Marchioness’s phaeton28 as it departed on an outing. The equipage was drawn by eight little ponies, each matched pair decreasing in size and becoming lighter in colour, through all the shades of brown from dark to light, as it was placed farther away from the carriage.

  “My nephew Edward loves to see these horses when he comes to visit,” said I, as we watched the boyish postilions drive the phaeton away. “He says it is like something out of a fairy tale.”

  “It is indeed. Would that we could all drive ponies that are perfect, and live in a fairy tale.” As we walked on, he added, with a brief glance at me, “I am sorry to leave this place. I shall miss our daily readings.”

  “As shall I.”

  “Every morning I shall awake and wonder: what has become of the Dashwood sisters? What new torments will Miss Austen put them through to-day?” His smile seemed forced, and his voice and eyes held a rather grim and subdued look, which caused me much alarm.

  “We shall be moving, ourselves, soon,” said I, hoping to prompt him into a discussion regarding a possible correspondence.

  “But not straight to Chawton?”

  “No, the cottage there will not be ready until July. We plan to first join my mother at Steventon for a few weeks, and from there to my brother Edward’s estate at Godmersham.”

  He nodded. We walked on for some minutes in silence, as my anxiety grew. He seemed equally agitated, as if turning over a matter of some great importance in his mind. At last he said: “Miss Austen. There is something I must speak to you about.”

  My imagination leapt forward, anticipating his next words. “Yes?” said I, hoping not to appear too eager.

  “These past few weeks have—we have only been acquainted a short time, and yet—”

  “It is true that our acquaintance is not of long standing.”

  “There is something which I should have—you do know that my family estate is in Derbyshire?”

  “You have mentioned it.” My heart pounded. I knew little about his estate, only that it was large, and apparently very beautiful.

  “And you know the Churchills. My friend, Charles Churchill.”

  “Charles Churchill?”

  “Yes. My family, we have long been acquainted with—with that family. They reside some six miles to the west.”

  “To the west?” I repeated uncertainly.

  “Our fathers have been the best of friends for years.”

  “Your fathers?” Why was I idiotically repeating every thing he s
aid, like a parrot? Why was he talking about their fathers, instead of asking for my hand in marriage?

  “Exactly,” said he. “And you see—what I mean to say, is that—”

  At that moment, a carriage turned into the narrow street, four horses trotting smartly in our direction. I recognised the black, gleaming equipage with its family crest immediately; it belonged to Mr. Ashford. We stopped in surprise as the driver pulled up beside us. Mr. Churchill, seated inside, called out from the open window:

  “Ashford! There you are. We have been all over town looking for you.”

  “Why?” Mr. Ashford glanced at his pocket watch. “It is not half past eleven. I promised to meet you at noon.”

  “What? No! We said nine.”

  Maria Churchill poked her head out. “We have been packed and ready all morning. We could not imagine what had become of you!” Nodding in my direction, she added: “Good-bye, Miss Austen.”

  “Good-bye,” I echoed softly, with mounting apprehension. Was this to be our good-bye? This enigmatic conversation, which had barely begun? Would I never see Mr. Ashford again?

  “Forgive me,” said Mr. Ashford in some confusion, a comment which seemed to be directed at both the Churchills and myself.

  “No matter,” replied Mr. Churchill, with a farewell wave in my direction, as the postilion opened the coach door and pulled down the steps, “but do come, Ashford. All your luggage is on board with ours, and we are most anxious to get underway.”

  “I so long to go home!” cried Maria. “We have a long journey ahead of us. Do not keep us waiting another instant!”

  Mr. Ashford turned to me with a look of intense frustration. “Forgive me,” said he again, with a formal bow. “I shall write to you.” With reluctance, he climbed aboard, the door slammed shut, and I watched in speechless dismay as the carriage rumbled off down the street.