The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  Chapter Thirteen

  It is cruel to leave me in such suspense,” said Cassandra unhappily, as we folded linens into a packing box. “If you will not give me new pages of your book to read, at least satisfy my curiosity, as it has been many years since I read that story, and this version is very different. Why did Edward not declare his love for Elinor before he left Norland? Why was he so reticent to speak?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “Cannot? Or will not?”

  “I cannot tell you,” said I, “because I do not know.”

  In the four days since Mr. Ashford’s departure from Southampton, I had found myself unable to write a word. I had made the attempt. I had read over my old copy of Sense and Sensibility, seeking sections which I might alter or copy out, but nothing pleased me, and page after page found their way into the fire. I pored over the new chapters I had recently written, which I believed to be an improvement over my earlier effort, but the characters and the story’s plot had, of a sudden, become an enigma to me. I felt I did not know or understand Edward, in particular; and Willoughby, who was designed to be a charming rascal, had become so appealing to me of late, that I could not bear to let him break poor Marianne’s heart.

  “But you must know,” cried Cassandra. “It is your story. They are your characters. You invented them.”

  “I did. I had intended for Edward’s reticence to stem from the knowledge that his mother will disinherit him if he marries any one of whom she does not approve. But the more I have written of Elinor and Edward, the more I think that is not enough. A man of Edward’s character and principles would not care about the money, and he would never allow his mother to dictate his choice in a wife. To keep true lovers apart, I believe the reason must go far deeper. But what it is—what it should be—” To my dismay, my voice broke, and I felt unexpected tears sting my eyes.

  Cassandra turned to me with a look which bespoke her understanding of the pain that lay behind my words. She took me tenderly in her arms, and said, “Jane. Mr. Ashford would have declared himself the day he left, if he could have, I am sure of it. He was only prevented by the Churchills’ inopportune arrival.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  She stepped back, took my hands in hers, and looked me calmly in the eye. “He seemed agitated, did he not? And distracted of mind, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was exactly Tom’s behaviour when he proposed to me. Mr. Ashford meant to make an offer, I promise you.”

  “I do not think so. When I look back on our conversation, I cannot help but think that he did not have the aspect of a lover in his words or tone.”

  “Men are always nervous on such occasions, and find themselves robbed by the power of speech. Did you not find it so when Harris proposed to you?”

  I nodded. “But that was typical behaviour for Harris. He was rather permanently robbed of the power of speech.”

  “It is not typical behaviour for Mr. Ashford, is it?”

  “No.”

  “You see? Circumstances have only delayed events. You must be patient. He will write to you. He will come to visit us at Chawton, and every thing will be well in time.” She sighed. “And then you will be engaged, and married, off to live on a grand estate in Derbyshire, and I—I shall lose my Jane, my dearest sister and companion, and I shall spend the rest of my days living with mamma and Martha, only to see you once or twice a year if I am very lucky.”

  She looked so forlorn, but said it with such a twinkle in her eyes, that I could not help but laugh. “Do not think so far ahead, dearest,” said I, my spirits recovering. “It will be three long months before we are settled at Chawton, and we have only ten days left to enjoy our acquaintance here. So let us make the most of the bargain.”

  That very afternoon, we accepted an invitation from our neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, to a small musical party to be held the following evening, a party which proved to be unremarkable in and of itself, distinguished only by the shocking circumstances which followed.

  As most of our clothes were already packed, Cassandra and I were obliged to wear our second best gowns, a pretty pink muslin in my sister’s case, the spotted blue in mine—the very same gown I had worn on our excursion to Netley Abbey, I reflected with a sad little twinge as I dressed.

  We arrived, were pleasantly greeted, and shewn to the Smiths’ drawing-room, where all the furniture had been removed and replaced with rows of chairs. At the appointed hour, when all the guests had been seated, an elegantly dressed woman made her way to the front, and, accompanied by a grand pianoforte, a harp, and a violoncello, sang very prettily for the better part of an hour.

  Like many such parties, the company in attendance comprehended a great many people who had real taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all. I considered myself to be just musical enough to find true pleasure in the proceedings, although that enjoyment was somewhat diminished by an attitude on the part of the musicians themselves, who seemed to think that they were, in their own estimation, the first private performers in all of England.

  “What a touching love song,” whispered Cassandra, at the end of the first recital.

  “It would have been more touching,” I replied in a low voice, “had the performer not been so obviously singing to herself.”

  In one of my excursive glances about the room, I perceived a familiar face several rows to the fore: Mrs. Jenkins. I pointed her out to Cassandra, at which moment the lady herself turned and caught my eye, broke into an effusive smile, and began an urgent and quiet discourse with the attractive, finely dressed young woman seated next to her.

  “Who is the girl she is talking to?” whispered Cassandra.

  “I have no idea.”

  The mystery was solved when, at the concert’s conclusion, Mrs. Jenkins marched through the crowd with the young woman in question upon her arm, and upon reaching us, called out, “Hallooo there, ladies! This is a piece of luck! I had no idea you were still in town, I thought you had long since left for the country, and I did so want you to meet my darling niece. Miss Austen, Miss Jane, may I present Miss Isabella Churchill.”

  “How do you do,” said Isabella. A slender young woman of perhaps seventeen years of age, she was of middling height, with dark, stylishly arranged curls, a delicate porcelain complexion, and brown eyes which studied us with an air of self-importance. She appeared at first glance to be the epitome of a carefree young woman, untried by the stresses of life, accustomed to all the comforts and privileges that wealth, youth and beauty could provide.

  We exchanged courtesies, but were prevented from further speech as Mrs. Jenkins went on, “Isabella was so disappointed that her recent illness caused her to miss out when her brother and his wife were in town, that I insisted she come down on her own as soon as her health improved. And what do you think, no sooner had we said good-bye to Charles and Maria, than a letter arrived from Isabella that she was right as rain again, and ready to take their place. And here she is! What do you think of her? Is she not the prettiest girl you have ever seen?”

  Cassandra and I readily agreed that she was. I glanced at Isabella, expecting her to blush or protest, but she did neither; she only giggled and smiled demurely, as if accustomed to such praise.

  “It is four years now since my dear, dear sister—Isabella and Charles’s poor mother—passed on, leaving us all quite inconsolable, particularly Isabella,” said Mrs. Jenkins.

  At this, the smile left Isabella’s face, and she endeavoured to appear inconsolable.

  “It is a hard, hard thing to lose one’s mother at such a young age,” continued Mrs. Jenkins, “and having no children of my own, I was only too happy to provide solace where ever I could. Why, I do believe Isabella and I are as close to-day as any mother and daughter could be. Do not you agree, Isabella?”

  “Indeed I do, Aunt Jenkins,” said Isabella, with a polite smile.

  “Ladies, you simply must join us for tea tomor
row,” cried Mrs. Jenkins, “so you can get better acquainted. It may be the last time I see you for a great, great while! I will not take no for an answer.”

  Feeling that we had little choice in the matter, we graciously accepted her invitation.

  The next afternoon, as promised, found us seated in Mrs. Jenkins’s parlour around her tea service, awaiting a break in that lady’s enthusiastic conversation, to utter a word.

  “Did you enjoy the concert last night, Miss Isabella?” I asked, when Mrs. Jenkins briefly paused between soliloquies to sip her tea.

  “Oh yes! Very much,” replied Isabella.

  “Isabella loves music,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “She has just taken up the pianoforte again. I expect she will become a proficient in no time.”

  “I have always found the pianoforte a most enjoyable pursuit,” said I.

  “It might be more enjoyable,” said Isabella in a petulant tone, “if only it did not require so many hours and hours of practice.”

  “But the practice itself is a great part of the pleasure, is it not?” was my reply.

  Isabella looked at me blankly. “Is it?”

  “Isabella adores art as well,” declared Mrs. Jenkins. “She had a private tutor for years, of course, and studied both drawing and painting. She has dozens of unfinished sketches with such promise, they would take your breath away.”

  “I would love to see them,” said Cassandra courteously.

  “You should have brought one or two of them with you, my dear,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “You could have worked on them here.”

  “Oh! No! I have given up art, Aunt Jenkins. It was not for me. I am far too busy these days calling on friends, to bother with a pencil or water-colours. And are we not going to London again, soon? The season begins next month.”

  “So it does!” cried Mrs. Jenkins. “I have a house there, you know, in Berkeley Square. Isabella has stayed with me many times, and we always have such a grand time. Do you remember that wonderful play we saw last year, Isabella?”

  “Which one, aunt? We saw so many.”

  “I was thinking of King John.”

  “Oh, yes! With Sarah Siddons playing Constance, the bereaved mother! Was she not to die for?”

  “To die for?” repeated Mrs. Jenkins. “The bereaved mother!” Whereupon the two burst into laughter. “Isabella! I declare! Is she not the world’s cleverest girl?”

  Cassandra agreed that she was. I nodded and smiled, striving to appear sincere.

  “I think London the most exciting place on earth,” cried Isabella, her eyes shining. “I would live there if I could.”

  “Last year was particularly memorable, of course,” added Mrs. Jenkins, wiping away happy tears, “since it followed Isabella’s coming out.”

  “You came out in London, Miss Churchill?” I enquired. “How wonderful that must have been.”

  “Well, no. I wanted to, desperately, of course,” said Isabella. “To be presented with the other debutantes to the sovereign at St. James, oh! It would have been the most thrilling moment of my life! But papa would not hear of it. He said there was no point in wasting money on a London season, when I was already engaged.”

  “Still, you had a very nice ball at home to mark the occasion,” said Mrs. Jenkins consolingly. “I do hope you will not give up our trips to London once you are married, Isabella.”

  “Oh! I would not think of it, aunt.”

  “Are you to be married, Miss Churchill?” I enquired.

  “Why, yes,” answered Isabella, in a tone which implied that every one in the world should be well acquainted with the fact.

  “We expect the date to be set within the year,” said Mrs. Jenkins.

  “I know that I am very fortunate,” said Isabella, in a matter-of-fact tone. “He is a most honourable man.”

  “If you met a thousand men,” said Mrs. Jenkins, “you could not find one more decent or more honourable than Mr. Ashford.”

  Cassandra and I both froze with surprise at the same moment. “Mr. Ashford?” repeated Cassandra.

  “Yes,” nodded Isabella, with a heavy sigh. “My friends will keep remarking that he is very old, and it is true, for he is twice my age, and old enough to be my father. But I remind myself that he has always treated me with the highest regard and affection.”

  “Some of the world’s most successful marriages were founded on an age disparity far greater than yours, my dear,” said Mrs. Jenkins.

  “He is still in good looks,” admitted Isabella, “for an older man. I can only hope that he will not grow infirm too soon.”

  My sister and I sat in stunned disbelief. My heart pounded; I saw that the colour had drained from Cassandra’s face, and knew that I must look ghostly pale as well. At last I managed, in a halting voice: “Surely you are not speaking of Mr. Frederick Ashford? Of Pembroke Hall, in Derbyshire?”

  “Why, indeed I am, Miss Jane,” replied Isabella. “Do you know him?”

  “I—we—we are a little acquainted with that gentleman,” said I. “We had the pleasure of meeting him again at your aunt’s house, just this past month.”

  “Why, that is so!” cried Mrs. Jenkins. “Dear me, I had quite forgotten! Then you know what a fine man Mr. Ashford is, and why her family is so delighted in the match, for he is so intelligent, so modest and unassuming, without a trace of arrogance, qualities not often found in a man of title, with so large a fortune. Think of it! When the title and property pass from father to son, our Isabella will be Lady Ashford, mistress of the largest estate in all of Derbyshire. Such a grand property, such an excellent house and such beautiful gardens, and his woods! In all my travels, I have not seen such timber any where!”

  “No one really cares about timber, do they?” said Isabella. “And there are far too many gardens for my taste, although Mr. Ashford does seem to think so highly of them. Miss Jane, are you unwell?”

  “I am fine, thank you,” said I, although it had suddenly become difficult to breathe.

  Cassandra, recovering her powers of speech, said, “My sister will not mention it, but in fact, she has not been well of late, and I see that she needs some air. If you will please excuse us, Mrs. Jenkins, Miss Churchill, we will take our leave. Thank you so much for the tea.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mr. Ashford engaged?” I cried with great emotion, when we were safely on the street and on our way home. “To Isabella Churchill? It cannot be true!”

  “It must be true,” said Cassandra gravely. “Mrs. Jenkins backed up every word.”

  “How could he do this? I do not understand! Not six days ago, he was here, calling on me, giving rise to my hopes that—” I was so stunned, I could not go on.

  “Oh, Jane, Jane. I am so very sorry.”

  I burst into tears. For some moments, I was too consumed by shock and grief to speak. “Why did he not tell me?” I cried, at length, as I withdrew my handkerchief from my reticule and tried to stem my flow of tears. “There was, apparently, nothing secretive about their engagement. Isabella seemed to think that all the world knew.”

  “Perhaps that is what he was attempting, with such difficulty, to explain on the morning of his departure from Southampton.”

  “If so, his admission came many months too late. He should have told me the truth of his circumstances the very first day we met, at Lyme.”

  “We cannot be certain, Jane, that he was engaged when you met at Lyme. Isabella said that she was engaged last year, at her coming out; his offer to her may have come shortly before. You went to Lyme nearly two years ago.”

  “That is true,” said I, softening a bit. Perhaps Mr. Ashford had been unattached when we first met. But anger and mortification soon returned full force. “Still, it does not excuse his behaviour in the past few weeks!”

  “No. In this, he has treated you very ill.”

  Pain seared through my chest, as I struggled to hold fresh tears at bay. “It seems too impossible to believe! Why would a man like Mr. Ashford choose a girl like Isab
ella? They are so unlike. Can he truly love her?”

  “I do not see how. And it seems clear that she does not love him.”

  “She called him old. Old! Mr. Ashford, a man of four-and-thirty, and one of the most handsome, fit and virile men I have ever met!”

  “I found that quite offensive,” admitted Cassandra, “particularly since he is two years younger than myself.”

  “Perhaps he had reached an age when he was made to feel he must marry, to produce an heir.”

  “That is likely.”

  “But why, in that event, choose Isabella?”

  “She is the sister of his best friend. The family is well-known to him. Perhaps he was infatuated by her youth and beauty.”

  “This must explain the strange look I saw pass between Charles and Maria on several occasions,” I cried. “They knew of his engagement, and yet observed his attentions to me. Why did they not say any thing?”

  “Mr. Ashford is the son of a baronet, and engaged to their sister. They would not dare say any thing which might offend him.”

  “Oh! It is too horrible! To think that I fell in love with him! To learn, in this manner, that he is not at all the man I thought he was!”

  “I do not think we were completely deceived in him,” said Cassandra softly. “Mr. Ashford seemed to me an honourable man. You said yourself that you could not be certain of his feelings for you. I am the one who insisted he was in love. Perhaps he did come to us only in friendship. I still believe his regard for you was sincere.”

  “Sincere? How can you call him sincere, or a man of honour?” I cried. “What man of honour would call on a woman day after day, affecting a deep interest in her, and cultivating an atmosphere in which she would come to feel affection for him, when he was already promised to another? No; I would not call Mr. Ashford sincere. Clearly, he is adept at presenting one face to the world, while all the time shielding his true nature from view. He is nothing but a blackguard and a villain. I was only a dalliance, an amusement to occupy his time while he was in town.”