by Syrie James
“What was your reply?”
“I said, ‘Sir, although I am sensible of the honour of your offer, I am convinced that I am the last woman on earth who could make you happy.’”
“How did he receive your refusal?”
“My words, unfortunately, did nothing to dissuade him. He insisted that I was being coy.”
“No!”
“Yes. He claimed he had heard it said that many women, on a first proposal, refuse the very man they mean to accept in an effort to appear more desirable.”
“I have never heard of any woman doing such a thing.”
“Nor have I. Where he obtains his information on the habits and attitudes of marriageable women is a subject we cannot hope to comprehend. In any case, I told him, in the most certain terms, that I was perfectly serious in my refusal; and that I would not, and could not, marry him.”
“I trust that in the end, he accepted your declination gracefully?”
“On the contrary. He grew upset, and assured me that he did not require my presence to continue a relationship with the Ashford and Churchill families. He then stomped off towards the parsonage and did not speak a word to me the rest of the day.”
“Oh, Jane! How mortifying!”
“When I related the events to Alethea and the squire, and it became apparent that I was no longer welcome in that house, the squire quickly made excuses for our immediate return to Hampshire. He wrote a letter to Mr. Ashford, apologizing for our removal, and for our inability to accept his gracious invitation to dine at Pembroke Hall, which only incensed Mr. Morton all the more. To my relief, we departed early the next morning.”
“Well, I am sorry that you were treated so uncivilly, but to receive a proposal cannot be a bad thing in itself, even if you do not admire the man in question. That he thought so well of you can only serve to flatter. And any thing which brings you back to me so expeditiously can only be viewed with a most grateful eye.”
I smiled at Cassandra with affection. “I declare, you will find a silver lining in every cloud. No matter how abominably a person acts, you always find something kind to say about him. I suppose you will find something good to say about Mr. Ashford next, that I should think well of him and be grateful for what little time we had together, knowing that a gentleman of his wealth and standing could never be expected to marry a woman as lowly as myself.”
Cassandra looked troubled now, and said, “I confess, I do not know what to make of that affair. I cannot help but think that there is more to Mr. Ashford’s engagement to Isabella than has been revealed at present. If only he had had a chance to explain; it is most unfortunate that, each time he has, apparently, attempted to speak to you on that subject, he has been prevented.”
“He had ample opportunity to speak of it every day for three long weeks in Southampton.”
“True. He did behave badly there, it seems; but I still think him a good man. I cannot believe we were both so completely wrong in our perception of him.”
“You may believe what you like,” said I, “but as far as I am concerned, that subject is closed. I think myself lucky to have escaped from Derbyshire unscathed.”
A few days later, Alethea unexpectedly came to visit us with the most astonishing news, in the form of a letter that the squire had received.
“Papa shared this with me only moments after it arrived,” announced Alethea, as she thrust the missive into my hands. “I knew I must come in person at once, no matter what the distance, to shew it to you.” The letter, I saw, was from Mr. Morton.
“What can Mr. Morton have to say to your father?” I enquired. “Does he write to thank him for his visit, or to reprimand him for bringing a guest who exhibited such poor behaviour?”
“Read it,” said Alethea with a laugh, “and see for yourself.”
Hartsford, Derbyshire—Friday 5 May 1809
DEAR SIR,
I trust you and your daughter are well, and that you enjoyed a safe return journey from my humble home. I would be inclined, were it at all within my power, to entrust these words to you in person, but the speed of your sudden departure made that event impossible, and I am obliged to commit my entreaty to paper. I flatter myself that you will not be entirely surprised by the contents of this missive; however, pray allow me to begin with a brief but, I think, necessary preface. You are no doubt aware of a certain offer which, based on a great error of judgment, was recently made to your daughter’s friend, who shall remain nameless. Please believe that my true feelings in the matter were, I see in retrospect, blinded by the prospects which that friend seemed to possess; namely, that of a connexion with the Churchill family, and through them, with the Ashfords themselves. But of these matters I will speak no further, they are in the past, they are forgotten. Time and economy require that I address the purpose of this letter without delay. I recall most vividly the intelligence you provided me of the dire circumstances which will befall your unmarried daughters in the event of your death (a melancholy event which, I trust, will not take place for several years). The thought that Miss Alethea, however well provided for, will be forced to leave your home at Manydown on that occasion to make way for your son and heir to take residence with his family is most distressing indeed. This concern has occupied all my thoughts since your departure, and made me cognizant of a regard which I have, upon reflection, felt ever since the first moment of my acquaintance with your daughter. In short, dear sir, it is your very own Miss Alethea who has captured my heart. I write to request your blessing and your permission to address my most sincere affections to your daughter, and to make an offer of marriage, an offer which I trust will be as acceptable to you as it will be to the lady herself. I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your family, your well-wisher and friend,
LUCIAN MORTON
“I am, I confess, entirely amazed,” said I as I folded up the letter and returned it to Alethea.
“Can you imagine it? He wrote this letter the very day after our departure! It is astonishing to me that any man could change his matrimonial allegiance so swiftly and decidedly, and with so little provocation.”
“Please do not allow my refusal to cloud your thinking. If you would accept him, do. He has a very pleasant rose garden, and a set of shelves in a bed-room closet which, I understand, are of the highest quality.”
Alethea laughed. “I would rather live alone and penniless the rest of my days in the smallest attic garret than to spend another five minutes under the roof of that man.”33
“Your father will be severely disappointed, I fear.”
“He is, for he continues to remind me that my sister made a highly satisfactory match with an older clergyman. But I am not Catherine.”
“Nor am I,” I replied.
We passed the remainder of May and June at Godmersham while waiting for improvements to be completed on our future home at Chawton. Unlike my previous visits, every day that I spent immersed in the elegant style of life at my brother’s grand estate in Kent was now a painful reminder of an even more imposing edifice and park in Derbyshire, and of the gentleman who resided there. Each time a memory of Mr. Ashford came to me, I scolded myself to put such thoughts for ever from my mind. In time, I believe I actually persuaded myself that I had succeeded.
Edward, still grieving from the loss of his wife the autumn before, was glad of our company, although much away from home overseeing the work at Chawton Cottage. It was lovely to be with my many nieces and nephews for a time, but of course there was no opportunity to write; and as always, I felt I did not quite fit in there. When the hairdresser came to do the girls’ hair, he charged my mother, my sister and me a reduced rate for the same effort, an acknowledgement of our reduced circumstances for which we were grateful, but at the same time, acutely embarrassed.
It was with relief and excited anticipation that, on the 7th of July, 1809, my mother and I said good-bye to Godmersham. Cassandra had decided to remain another few days, and Martha would soon be joining us, but
mamma and I were anxious to make ready the home which we could, at last, call our own.
During our stay at Alton, earlier, my mother had not felt well enough to endure a tour of the cottage while it was undergoing renovations and filled with workmen; as such, we had only had an opportunity to briefly view its exterior in passing.
“My, my, it is very close to the road,” said my mother now, clicking her tongue with dismay, as we alighted from my brother’s carriage and beheld Chawton Cottage in the hot July sun. “This small, fenced space is all that protects the house from the danger of collision with any runaway vehicle.”
“The passing traffic will be an interesting diversion,” said I, raising my voice as a coach and six suddenly thundered past not four yards behind us, causing the ground to rumble beneath our feet.
“Interesting, indeed,” replied my mother, coughing and waving away the rising dust.
Chawton was (and is, and I trust will remain so, long after I no longer live here) in the midst of very pretty wooded country, its green valleys and meadows filled with beech trees. Edward’s property was extensive. It included the manor house, which stood on the nearby slope of a hill above the church, a park and farms, as well as a village of some thirty cottages, most of whose tenants were labourers on Edward’s farms and woodlands.
The bailiff ’s cottage, built at least a century ago, was not a cottage in the usual sense. A two-storied, sturdy-looking building of red Hampshire brick, with sash windows and a high-pitched roof with two attic dormers, it began life as a posting-inn, and looked plenty large for our purpose. The house stood in the centre of Chawton village, directly on the corner where the road from Gosport intersected the Winchester Road, the busy artery which connected Portsmouth to London.
“Well, we are in Edward’s debt, and fortunate to have any place at all,” declared my mother, studying the austere brick façade, its asymmetrical appearance a tribute to its history of alterations. “Although I shall miss the society and shops and diversions of Southampton.”
“I, for one, am thrilled at the prospect of living in the country again,” said I, as the coachman unloaded our trunks and we headed for the door. “As for shops and society, Alton is an easy walk in fine weather, and large enough to merit a branch of Henry’s London bank. And the Great House, church and rectory are only ten minutes’ walk away.”
The interior of the house, which was snug and bright and smelled of fresh paint, proved far more promising, and even mother’s spirits began to rise. The front door opened onto a good-sized entrance; to the left was a pleasant, low-ceiling drawing-room with a fire-place and moulded mantelpiece, and roughly finished, white-washed walls. What little furniture we possessed had been sent ahead, and was placed at random about the room, awaiting our decisive eye.
We admired the results of the improvements Edward had ordered; the large drawing-room window (which, in accordance with its prior use as an inn, had faced directly onto the main road), Edward had blocked up because of noise, and turned into a book-case instead. To give the ground-floor a more cheerful aspect, he had cut a beautiful, new Gothic-styled window into the wall overlooking the garden.
“Oh! Isn’t that lovely!” cried my mother. “Edward always did have good taste. The view from this room is very pleasant, and the light is good. You ought to put your new pianoforte here, Jane, when it arrives.”
My mother, sister, and Martha had determined many months ago to pool their resources and procure a pianoforte for me. This act of generosity—particularly in view of the fact that none of them professed the same need for, or appreciation of music, as I did—brought me close to tears every time I thought of it. I had not owned an instrument since we left Steventon nine years before. I was determined to learn country dances, that we might have some amusement for our nephews and nieces, when we had the pleasure of their company.
“We were fortunate to locate so fine an instrument for thirty guineas,” said I. “It will go perfectly in this corner, and here, beside the fire-place, I can place my writing desk.”
The vestibule connected the drawing-room with an ample dining-parlour, which looked out on the road, and a narrow stairway led to six cozy bed-chambers up stairs.
“These bed-rooms are very small, to be sure,” said my mother, “but we are lucky to have six, seeing as how they are all already spoken for.” It had been decided that Cassandra and I would share one room, as always; Martha and my mother should each have their own; one would be for guests; and the others would be for the servants my mother had yet to hire: a cook and a maid, and a man for the heavy work.
“It looks as if Edward has done a fine job in fitting up the place,” said my mother, “although would it have been asking too much, do you think, to have added a water-closet?”
“One cannot expect the luxury of piped water in a country cottage, mamma. But Edward said he made improvements to the pump at back, and has dug a better cesspit for the privy.”
At the rear of the ground-floor was the kitchen, and in back, across the yard, was a stable, a granary and a bake-house, with a bread oven and copper-lined wash-tub. “Martha will be in seventh heaven when she sees this!” cried my mother. “She can help the cook try out all those new receipts34 of hers. I cannot imagine what we shall do with a stable, however, since we cannot afford to keep a carriage.”
“Perhaps, if we maintain strict economies, we might be able to quarter a donkey and a cart one day,” I suggested.
“It will be a fine day that sees me riding about in a donkey carriage,” sniffed my mother. She was, however, delighted with the size of the garden, which contained a thickly planted shrubbery, a fragrant syringa, numerous beds of flowers blooming with straggling sweet williams and columbines, a good deal of long grass, and a fruit orchard. Around the garden ran a pleasant gravel walk and a high hornbeam hedge, which screened it from the noisy road and helped maintain privacy and quiet within.
“This is all that I could ever wish for in a garden!” cried my mother in satisfaction. “That grass will require regular mowing, but we shall have a man to see to it. And those beds of flowers want some loving care, and a good weeding, but it is nothing I cannot handle. With so much space, I can plant a nice kitchen garden with plenty of vegetables and potatoes. Why, I have half a mind to give up housekeeping to you girls from now on and spend my days working in the garden.”
Three days after we moved in, I helped attend the birth of Frank and Mary’s second child, a boy named Francis. His was a much speedier and less difficult delivery than Mary’s first confinement, and my joy on the occasion prompted me to write a poem to my brother.
Chawton, July 26, 1809
My dearest Frank, I wish you Joy
Of Mary’s safety with a boy,
Whose birth has given little pain
Compared with that of Mary Jane.—
May he a growing Blessing prove,
And well deserve his Parents’ Love!
Endow’d with Art’s & Nature’s Good,
Thy name possessing with thy Blood;
In him, in all his ways, may we
Another Francis William see!—
(I continued thus for several more stanzas, expressing the many ways in which I hoped the child would, if fortune smiled upon him, become exactly like his excellent father. Near the end of the verse, I added:)
As for ourselves, we’re very well,
As unaffected prose will tell.
Cassandra’s pen will give our state
The many comforts that await
Our Chawton home—how much we find
Already in it to our mind,
And how convinced that when complete,
It will all other Houses beat,
That ever have been made or mended,
With rooms concise or rooms distended.
The poem perfectly summed up my exhuberant feelings on the subject. Our house was a little odd, with some rooms too small, and others scarred by alterations, but it was ours, and as such, the ver
y best house in the world. The happy business of unpacking and settling in took up our time for many weeks.
“Where shall I place this candelabra, mamma?” asked Cassandra one morning as she unwrapped the item, not long after she and Martha arrived.
“On the mantelpiece. No, no, on the sideboard,” replied my mother with sudden excitement, “beside the silver plate. Set it in the middle, with the teaspoons to one side, and the tea-ladle, tablespoon and dessert-spoon on the other. Yes, just so, I declare, that looks magnificent.”
“There goes the morning coach from Winchester,” cried Martha, the stillness broken by the sudden roar of a carriage and horses dashing past, just outside our windows.
“You could set your watch by it.” My mother nodded contentedly, for she had come to share my view, that the constant stream of coaches and wagons was a welcome reminder of the larger world that pulsed not far beyond our door.
To see my family in such high spirits was infectious, and better than any tonic. I smiled and turned my attention back to the crate that I was unpacking, when I heard a knock at the front door. I answered; it was the postman.
“Welcome to the neighbourhood, Miss,” said he, handing me several letters.
I thanked him. He tipped his hat and turned to go, but upon seeing the direction on the first epistle, I quickly called him back. “Please return this one to sender,” said I softly, handing him the letter, which was written in Mr. Ashford’s hand.
“But it is the correct name and address, Miss, is it not? Are you not Miss Jane Austen?”
“I am,” said I quietly, wondering how on earth Mr. Ashford had found me. A glance at my mother and sister revealed that they were, thankfully, still occupied with their activities in the dining-room.
“Yet you refuse the letter?” asked the postman in puzzlement.
“I do,” said I emphatically, “and I would be most appreciative, sir, if you would return any future correspondence from this particular person addressed to me, should it happen to arrive.”