by Syrie James
“I have waited too long, I can endure it no longer, you must hear me out! The day Isabella was born, our fathers decided we would marry.” His anguished words and tone stopped me half way across the room.
“It was a solemn pact made between two old friends,” he went on, “the marriage to take place sometime after Isabella’s eighteenth birthday. I was seventeen years old on the day of her birth, and she was this, this newborn infant. I protested, I begged my father to reconsider, all to no avail. No thought was given to my needs or happiness, or hers. Their only thought was to unite two great families.”
I slowly turned to face him. He stood but a yard away, and spoke with rising agitation. His tormented aspect, and the agony in his expression, sent a wave of pain and sympathy through me that tore at my heart.
“I was much away at school while she was growing up, always aware that this little girl, this child, was to one day be my wife. My father made it clear that this was my duty,” Mr. Ashford spat out in a deep voice filled with anger. “I met other women over the years, of course, but I never allowed myself to feel any thing more than friendship for them. I could not, for I had no choice. I grew to esteem Isabella as a sister, and hoped that would be enough. And then,” his voice finally softening, “then, I met you.”
His eyes rose to meet mine, his gaze so filled with affection, it nearly stopped my heart.
“I knew at once, when we met at Lyme, that we shared a deep and rarely felt connection, something most people only dream of. I knew, as well, that I should tell you of my obligation to Isabella, but every thing was so perfect that first day; you were so vibrant, and our conversation so invigorating, I did not wish to say any thing to break the spell. I promised myself I would explain my situation the next day, on our picnic, but the next day never materialized. I returned home with a heavy heart, believing I would never see you again, and I resigned myself to my fate. But every moment that I was forced to endure Isabella’s company only served to remind me of how unsuited we were to one another. I did not love her, and never could, and it was clear that she did not love me. Again, I pleaded with my father to release me from my engagement, but he became incensed, and insisted that honour forbade it. I was miserable. A day did not go by that I did not think of you and wonder what might have been. The next March, I came to Southampton, Miss Austen, specifically to find you.”
“To find me?” My voice was so thin and reedy that I barely recognised it, while his was filled with growing urgency.
“I could bear it no longer. I had to discover if you were real, if what I felt was real, or some fanciful creation of my own mind. I hoped that somehow, even then, I might be able one day to convince my father to free me from my obligation, or that, at the very least, we might become friends. I intended to tell you about Isabella at once, but I could not bring myself to say the words. The time we shared at Southampton was the happiest of my life. As each day went by, and my attachment to you grew stronger, the subject became even harder to broach; I was afraid that you would send me away.”
“So I would have,” I whispered, wiping away a tear which had come unbidden. I would have said more, had not emotion closed my throat.
“Jane!” cried he softly, moving closer. “All these long months that we have been apart, even believing it to be impossible, it is of you alone that I have thought and planned. You are my heart; you pierce my soul. My behavior at Southampton was wrong, unjust and weak, and for that, I shall always feel regret. But it was out of fear of losing you, and the knowledge that, bound as I was by my father’s vow and Isabella’s expectations, I had no right to speak—until now.”
“Until now?”
“There has been a recent change, most unexpected, which—” He drew in a long breath, struggling to compose himself. “I was told in the strictest of confidence, but I cannot keep it from you. Isabella, since she came to London, has apparently been much in company with a gentleman she met, a Mr. Wellington.”
My pulse quickened. “I have seen him.”
“Last night, she came to me, to reveal a great secret. She said that Mr. Wellington had asked her to marry him.”
“To marry him?”
“She explained, politely, that she had always intended to honour the long-standing promise of our fathers, but that her affections were now placed elsewhere. And she deeply regretted any unhappiness this might cause me.”
I turned away, my mind all in a whirl, afraid to hope or feel. “What says her father to that?” I managed.
“She will tell him next month, when he returns from the West Indies. We agreed to say nothing to any one until she has revealed all to her father, and received his blessing. Needless to say, I released her from our engagement without an ounce of regret or crimination, for which she was eternally grateful.”
I was overcome with a flood of such deep emotion that I wished to run from the room, but as there was nowhere to go in a house full of people where I might avoid detection, I could only cover my face with my hands, whereupon I burst into tears of joy, which I thought at first would never cease.
“Forgive me,” I heard Mr. Ashford’s anguished voice, “I think only of myself. Please, Miss Austen, please, do not cry.”
My tears flowed at such a rate that I was incapable of speech. Mr. Ashford, his brow furrowed with distress, offered me his handkerchief, which I accepted gratefully. As I struggled to compose myself, he said, in a concerned tone, “My circumstances have changed in such a substantial way, that I—but perhaps too much time has passed, since—”
He waited tensely while I dried my eyes and noisily blew my nose, actions which did nothing to increase the romantic aspect of the moment. At last, he continued with resolve, “Miss Austen. You have allowed me to speak, and I have made my feelings clear. I realise I have no right to ask any thing of you. If you do not share my feelings, please tell me so at once and I shall leave, and never trouble you again.”
“I cannot tell you that,” said I, raising my eyes to his with a joyous smile.
“Then,” said he, with new-found anticipation in his earnest gaze, “do you mean to give me hope?”
“If my deepest affection and admiration give you hope, then yes.”
He quickly bridged the gap between us, took my gloved hand in his, and, bringing it to his lips, he kissed it, his eyes never leaving my face. “Then at last, I am free to speak the words that I have so longed to say. I love you, Jane, my dearest Jane. It is you alone that I wish to marry. Will you have me, Jane? Will you be my wife?”
My heart was so filled with happiness, I thought I must be dreaming. “Yes,” I said, breathless. “I will.”
He gave me a look of pure joy, then bent his head, and—dare I say it?—he brought his lips to mine, and kissed me.
This thrilling moment was very rudely interrupted when, of a sudden, Cassandra burst through the open door, a perplexed look on her face, calling my name. Catching sight of us across the room, Cassandra froze in shocked embarrassment and gasped, her hand going to her mouth.
“Oh! Forgive me!” cried Cassandra, her face turning scarlet. “I am so sorry.”
Mr. Ashford released me and took two steps back.
“Cassandra,” I began, but she had already turned and fled.
Mr. Ashford’s eyes met mine, and we burst out laughing; then he took me in his arms and kissed me again and again and again.
Chapter Twenty-four
There are some who might complain that August in London is akin to a month in Hades; that the hot, stifling, humid air coming off the Thames is unhealthful and clots one’s lungs; that the streets are reminiscent, in sight and smell, of a stable-yard; and that the glaring sun reflecting off the buildings and pavements is injurious to the complexion. But to these naysayers, I say pshaw. London is a wondrous place at any time of year, and that blissful August of 1810, I was unmindful of any such objections. Au contraire, I floated through the remainder of the month, and all of the one following, as if wrapped in the perfection of a
dream.
I told no one of my secret engagement except my sister, and made her promise not to breathe a word of it to any one. Mr. Ashford was frustrated by the necessity of waiting. He wanted to proclaim his love for me to the world, he said, and set a wedding date at once. But Isabella had begged him not to speak of her involvement with Mr. Wellington until the matter had first been made known to her father, who was not expected back from the West Indies for at least a month. Mr. Ashford’s father was currently in Derbyshire, but intended to return to London in October. It would be best, we agreed, to present the news to Sir Thomas in person when he came to town, after Isabella was formally and publicly engaged to Mr. Wellington.
In the meantime, it was Mr. Ashford’s goal that I should enjoy all the sights in London that could possibly be of interest, and that he should be my guide. We first climbed the 378 steps to the Stone Gallery at the top of St. Paul’s, where we were afforded a marvelous view of the compact city, which spread along the river, from Billingsgate to Westminster. Its borders were clearly defined by the fields and groves to the north and south, with the west end beginning at Hyde Park Corner. We could see the village of Paddington in the distance, and a series of pastures called Belgravia.
We admired what had once been the royal city of Westminster in the West End, where sat the palaces of St. James and Whitehall, as well as breathtaking Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, and we paid to cross the old London Bridge, just west of the Tower, at the entrance of the city, where we watched a great numbers of small ships and boats sail by.
With most of the fashionable elite now removed to their country houses, the town was comparatively quiet, although we were still compelled to raise our voices over the unceasing clatter of carriage-wheels and horses’ hooves, the resounding cries of street pedlars, the garish songs of itinerant musicians, and the clang of the muffin-man’s bell—sounds which, in their confluence, had been known to give me the headache, but which I had come to regard with a new-found affection.
Twice, that summer, Mrs. Jenkins came to call, and my sister and I returned the favour.
“Oh dear!” cried that good lady in some distress, at our second meeting. “I declare, I do not know what our Isabella is about. She has been writing letters day in and day out, and several missives have arrived for her, but she will not disclose with whom she is corresponding. I have been unsuccessful in every attempt to intercede.”
Bound as I was by my promise not to mention, as yet, her affair with Mr. Wellington, or the dissolution of her engagement to Mr. Ashford, I could say nothing to elucidate the matter; but I attempted to lessen her distress by making such supportive comments regarding Isabella’s strength of character, as I thought appropriate.
We dined at more cafés in those six weeks of summer, I believe, than I had frequented in the entire preceding four-and-thirty years of my existence, retreating, several times, to take our meals at the imposing Ashford family residence on Park Lane, which overlooked the immense greensward of Hyde Park on the west border of Mayfair. The magnificent rooms of that house, unused in the absence of his father and sister, were maintained by a faithful but unassuming staff, who seemed predisposed to cater to Mr. Ashford’s every wish.
We attended concerts and the theatre, visited the Liverpool Museum and the British Gallery, and the fashionable shops on Bond Street, where I could not dare to look at the prices, and refused to allow Mr. Ashford to purchase me a single item.
On several of these excursions, we were accompanied by Cassandra (who had considered returning to Chawton, but was convinced by an enthusiastic Eliza to stay through the summer), and on other occasions, by Eliza and Henry as well; but as, at our ages, a chaperone was no longer requisite, more often than not, we preferred to spend our time in the exclusive company of each other. One of our favourite activities was a stroll through Kensington Gardens, which was in full, glorious bloom. We found a particular bench there, overlooking a lovely pond, to which we returned again and again, simply to sit and talk, share confidences, and bask in the delight of each other’s presence.
One afternoon in mid-September, as we sat on our favourite bench in the gardens, Mr. Ashford announced that he had finished reading my book.
“Oh?” I replied, my heart leaping in sudden alarm. Henry’s efforts to find a publisher, despite all the connections he had made at the party, had so far been in vain. At Mr. Ashford’s urging, I had, despite my misgivings, agreed to give him the manuscript to read. I had awaited his reaction with dread, afraid that he could not fail to recognise certain situations in the novel, which had clearly been inspired by my encounters with him.
“It is clever and beautifully written, every thing that I had hoped and expected,” said he. “You should be very proud.”
“I am pleased you liked it,” I replied in relief. Perhaps, I thought, he had not noticed his own connection to the story, after all. “At present, the manuscript is extremely useful as an aid in propping open the kitchen door.”
He laughed. “It should, it must be published.”
“I am afraid my foray into the publishing world has been a very humbling experience.”
“Perhaps I might be of some help. I have one or two connections of my own. If you would permit me, I would be glad to make some efforts on your behalf.”
“I would be most obliged. But you must promise me not to blame yourself if nothing comes of it. In truth, I have become convinced that my little book would be a poor bargain for a publisher. I cannot imagine it would ever sell in sufficient quantities to earn back its cost.”
“I disagree. It may not be perfect, but I believe it is a work of art, good enough to sell any number of copies, and make a handsome profit.”
“What? Not perfect?” I cried in mock indignation. “In what way, pray tell, is my book—this work of art which no one will publish—imperfect?”
“I cannot recall exactly,” said he, “but it was some small thing about the ending. I remember feeling that something was missing, or not quite right.”
“I see. If you ever retrieve your thoughts on the subject, I hope you will share them with me.”
“I will.” He smiled, and added, with a sidelong glance at me, “There was something else, I must confess—in no way a sign of any imperfection, but there were some aspects of the novel that I found, how shall I put it—familiar.”
A hot flush spread over my cheeks. “Did you, indeed?”
“For example: your Elinor feels a deep attachment to this Edward character, a rather dull but amiable fellow, only to discover, after he has left without a word of commitment, that he has long been engaged to another. And she is later confronted, at precisely the same moment, by both Edward and Lucy.” The knowing but discomfited twinkle in his eyes, and the raising of his brows, communicated his perfect understanding of his own part in the conception of those scenes.
“They were very dramatic situations,” I replied, inwardly cursing my tendency to blush.
“And clearly, ones that you could write with insight. I must admit, when I read your book, there were times that the hair on the back of my neck stood up on end. That moment in the drawing-room at Mr. Morton’s parsonage, when I walked in on you and Isabella, will be for ever branded in my memory as one of the most mortifying of my life.”
“For me as well,” I replied, mortified myself at the thought of how much discomfort that scene must have inflicted. “You see, now, why I was so reluctant to let you read my book.”
“I am glad I read it.” He turned on the bench to face me. “Tell me, Jane, am I taking this too personally, or was some of your anger towards me incorporated into your depiction of Willoughby?”
His expression was so serious, and so forlorn, it tugged at my heart, yet for some unaccountable reason, I could not help but laugh. “Perhaps it was,” I admitted. “Willoughby is quite appalling, is he not?”
“He is the epitome of the self-centred cad. At the other end of the spectrum, of course, are Colonel Brand
on, and Edward—who, despite his offences, is redeemed as a saint.”
“Edward is no saint!” I retorted hotly, my sharp tone provoking a flock of birds to burst, of a sudden, from a nearby tree.
“Indeed he is. His sense of honour and morality is so high, that he remains committed to his vulgar, grasping fiancée to the bitter end, in spite of being given every reason to abandon her.”
“Did not you do the same?” I enquired quietly.
He went silent for a moment, focusing his attention on the ducks splashing in the pond. “I suppose I did,” said he at last, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. “But in my case, my duty was to honour the wishes of my father, a gentleman who has devoted his life to work, property and family, and as such deserves my respect. But had it been up to me—” He broke off with a sigh, and glanced at me with a tight smile. “It is a sobering experience to read of one’s transgressions on the page, and the effects of those transgressions, particularly when they are expressed in such a heartfelt manner.” He took my hand and held it, looking at me with affection. “I am so sorry, Jane, for all the pain I have caused you in the past. I promise you, I mean to make up for it.”
“I will hold you to that promise, Mr. Ashford,” said I teasingly.
“I hope you will,” said he. “But do not you think it is time you started calling me Frederick?”
The next day, determined to escape the noise and heat of the city, Mr. Ashford (despite his protestations against such formality, he was, and would continue to be, my dearest Mr. Ashford, until we were formally engaged) invited me on a drive out to the countryside. We passed a very pretty afternoon picnicking on a high eminence in the dappled shade of an elm grove, with the view of a magnificent valley spread out before us. On our return journey, having decided to take a different road, we came unexpectedly upon a country fair, which we both expressed an inclination to stop and see.
Leaving the curricle and horses with the stable-boy, we ventured out onto the grounds. It was a grand, loud and colourful event, with acre upon acre of market stalls, bazaars, travelling musicians and performers, and a lively crowd of country gentlemen, women, and farmers, who had come to shop, flirt, dine, and be entertained.