by Syrie James
“I write because I cannot help it,” said I.
“I understand; but that does not make it important. What is important is that you improve and perfect your needlework skills, Jane, for they will be of infinite value when you have a family of your own one day.”
I turned in my chair to face her. “How do you know I will have a family one day?” We had always been allowed—nay, encouraged—to speak frankly within the confines of our family; outside the home, it was a different matter. Perhaps this was to my detriment, for I often spoke without sufficient consideration, regardless of the setting; but my mother and father said they wished to know what was on our minds. “That will only happen if I marry, which requires that I meet an eligible gentleman—which seems highly unlikely given that you will never allow me to attend a real ball!”
She sighed. “We have been over this too many times to count, Jane. You may come out when you are seventeen, just as your sister did. Your father and I do not wish you to enter society or marry at too early an age.”
“Dancing does not necessarily lead to matrimony.”
“No, but dancing facilitates the means by which one might meet her life’s partner, and is one of several, certain steps towards falling in love. I met your father at a ball.”
“I know; but Cassandra has been out more than a year already, and she is not in love, nor even close to engaged. No doubt we shall both be required to attend many balls before we each find our perfect match. What is the harm in me starting early? Cassandra and I have done everything together since the moment of my birth; our progress in everything we have learnt has always been the same. Cannot you forget our age difference in this one, particular matter?”
“No, I cannot. Now go wash your hands—your fingers are all black—and come downstairs at once.” So saying, she quit the room.
With a deep sigh, I returned my aborted manuscript to my writing-box, washed my hands at the basin, and joined my mother and sister in the sitting-room. I threaded my needle and worked beside them in silence, struggling to keep the conversation between the characters in my play alive in my mind; but my mother’s and sister’s chatter, and the sounds of my father’s Latin lesson issuing from the adjoining parlour, forbade it.
After two hours thus employed, I felt I could sit still no longer. Glancing out the rectory window, I observed that the sun had made a bright appearance, and there was nary a cloud in the sky. After a frigid and dreary winter, the last dusting of snow had at last melted away, and the fields beyond, covered in a sparkling frost, beckoned to me. “Mamma, I have finished the long seam on this sleeve, and made good progress on the cuff. May I stop working now and take a walk?”
“You wish to go out in this weather?” She was incredulous.
“The post will not deliver itself. Someone has to go to Deane and fetch it,” replied I lightly, adding to my sister, “Would you like to join me?”
“I would, very much,” answered Cassandra, lowering her work. My sister, a prudent, well-judging young woman, was generally less demonstrative of feeling than I—a characteristic which I struggled in vain to emulate. She was also my dearest friend in the world; I valued her advice and counsel above anybody else’s, and loved her more than life itself.
“Well! I, too, am ready to do something else for a while,” mused my mother, putting her work in her bag, “but to go out? The roads and fields are all covered in frost. You will catch your death of cold!”
“It is nought but a light frost, Mamma,” countered I.
“There is nothing worse than a light frost, for it will soon melt away, and then you are forced to walk over wet ground. I had a childhood friend whose death was occasioned by nothing more—she walked out one morning in April after a hard rain, and her feet got wet through—she never changed her shoes when she came home—and that was the end of her! Have you any notion how many people have died in consequence of catching cold? There is not a disorder in the world except the smallpox which does not spring from it!”
“Mamma,” said Cassandra gently, “you are very right to be concerned, but I do not think there is any danger of the frost melting away today. The fields are still quite frozen.”
“We have walked for miles over fields far frostier than this,” added I. “We have been stuck inside such a long time this winter. I am dying to get out.”
My mother stood, and said, “Well, I can see there is no point trying to talk sense into either of you. If you catch cold, it will not be my fault. But see to it that you put on your boots, change your shoes the minute you get back home, and then it is back to sewing for the three of us.”
Cassandra and I donned all the essential accoutrements, and as we were about to leave the house, my mother cried, “Jane! That shawl will never be warm enough! Take it off and fetch your cloak! Why cannot you be more sensible, like your sister?”
Exasperated, I ran back upstairs and did as bidden.
As we stepped outside, I savoured the taste of the crisp, winter air and the refreshing bite of the breeze against my cheeks. “Is not it glorious to be outside? It is cold, but not too cold. Sunny, but not too bright.”
Cassandra agreed. “It is the perfect day in every way.”
“Yes—well—nearly perfect.” As we struck out along our usual shortcut—the well-travelled path carved across the half-frozen field in the direction of Deane Gate Inn, where the mail was delivered—I could not help but sigh. “Cassandra: why is Mamma so harsh where I am concerned? She is ever so sweet to you, yet constantly finds imperfection in me.”
“I think it is because she admires you more, Jane.”
“Admires me more? That makes no sense!”
“It does. You are ever so much brighter than I am, Jane.”
“That is not true.”
“The point cannot be argued. It is not in my nature to invent clever and witty stories, and relate them aloud in such a manner as to have the entire family laughing into stitches. Mamma perceives how very clever you are; so naturally, she expects more from you.”
“That is kind of you to say, but I fear it is not so. I know you all indulge me only because you love me. Mamma insists that my writing is not important. It is expert needlework, she said, which is to be the hallmark of my future.”
“Every woman needs to be skilled at needlework, Jane; but regardless of what Mamma says, she knows you are capable of far more than that; I feel certain of it.”
“If that is true—what do you think she expects of me?”
“I do not know,” replied she, troubled. “It is possible that even she does not know.”
“How confusing this is! How I wish I could oblige her! How I wish I could do more, Cassandra; more than darning stockings and making shirts and writing nonsense for no ears other than our own. Nothing of interest ever happens to me. I should dearly love to be useful somehow, to do something which might make a difference in the lives of others—but what that might be is a mystery to me.”
“You will discover it in time, Jane. You are still young.”
“Young! How that term exasperates me!” My footsteps crunched noisily against the hard, frosty ground. “I am not so very young, Cassandra. And what does age matter, in any case? How often have you said that you consider me your equal in every way? Oh! If only I were seventeen and out like you!”
“Do not wish your life away, Jane.”
“I am not wishing it away; I only wish to be out. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sit home while you go off to the assembly rooms without me?”
“I understand how you feel, my dearest; and I am sorry for it.”
“There are so few real amusements in the world. Dancing is such a glorious activity! It exercises both the body and the mind, all while moving with spirit and elegance to lively music.” Holding out my arm as if to an imaginary partner, I curtseyed, then practised my dancing across the field, making s
everal turns.
Cassandra smiled. “You are an excellent dancer, Jane—so much more elegant and animated than I could ever be.”
“You are too modest. I love nothing more than watching you dance, dearest; except, perhaps, dancing myself. Oh! We know of parents who allowed their daughters to come out at fourteen, when accompanied by their mother or an older sister. Why must I be denied the same pleasures? How I wish I could powder my hair and put on a new gown, white gloves, and satin slippers with shoe-roses, and make my debut at the ball at Basingstoke with you tomorrow!”
“It is not all that agreeable to powder one’s hair, Jane; I only do it when I absolutely must, and because Mamma insists upon it. And with regard to your debut—you know Mamma will never bend on this matter. I wish you would not continue to let it vex you so.”
“How can I do otherwise?” The breeze whipped the strings of my bonnet, and I pulled my cloak more closely about me as we walked along. “It is so unfair. I am tired of dance lessons with Catherine and Alethea, improving my skills for nothing more than children’s balls at Manydown, or snug dances in our own parlour with pushed-back furniture and our brothers and neighbours’ sons for partners. How I long to converse and dance and flirt openly with gentlemen I have never met!”
With a little laugh, Cassandra said, “What appeals to you more? The flirting or the dancing?”
“The flirting, absolutely!” We had reached the opposite side of the field now, and holding up the hems of our skirts, we made our way up the mud-encrusted lane, past the tiny village and the church of St. Nicholas, over which my father presided. “Oh, Cassandra! Every night I dream of meeting a worthy young man who incites all my passions—a gentlemanlike, pleasant young man who is intelligent, thoughtful, kind, and accomplished, who shares my enthusiasm for literature and music and nature, with whom I can converse on any topic at length with spirit and debate—if he be good-looking, all the better—”
“Where are you to find this paragon of virtue?”
“I have no idea—but I have conjured him in my imagination. He must exist.”
“I fear you expect too much, Jane. No one man can be all these things to you.”
“But he must be! For he is the only man I shall ever marry. Were I to meet him tomorrow, I should fall instantly and happily in love with him.” With a deep sigh, I added, “But that can never happen until I am out. Why cannot Mamma and Papa be more liberal-minded on this subject? Can they truly expect me to wait nearly two more years?”
“You reflect a maturity well beyond your years, dearest. Perhaps Mamma will allow you to come out next year, at sixteen. In any case, the time will pass more quickly than you think—and there is much sense in waiting.”
“Do you really think so? I cannot agree. I think a girl ought to be introduced into company in a more gradual manner, so as to slowly become accustomed to the alteration of manners required of her. Was not it difficult, Cassandra, for so many years, to be allowed only to smile and be demure, and say barely a word except to friends and relations, and then suddenly at seventeen to be introduced to society with no real preparation?”
Cassandra coloured slightly; it was a moment before she replied. “I suppose it was unsettling.”
Our discourse was at that moment curtailed by the sight of two friends, Martha and Mary Lloyd, who were just emerging from the Deane Gate Inn with their own daily mail.
Martha and Mary, who resided at Deane parsonage with their widowed mother, had moved to the neighbourhood two years before. Although Mary, at nineteen, was closer in age to me than her sister, it was the kind, intelligent, and sympathetic Martha, ten years my senior, with whom I felt a deep connection, and who had become my own particular friend. Martha had generously finished my new cloak for me the year before, when my fingers had been suffering from chilblains, resulting from a particularly cold winter; and in return, I had dedicated a short story and poem to her.
We exchanged greetings; and upon learning that the Lloyds had no engagements that afternoon, I inquired as to whether they might like to return with us to the rectory.
“We are making clothes for our darling Charles, for the Naval Academy,” explained I.
“Oh! I would be happy to help,” announced Martha with a smile. “The endeavour will be more enjoyable if we work together, and—” (with a twinkle in her eyes) “I am certain your mother will not mind.”
I laughed. My mother, more often than not, embarrassed me by mending clothes and darning stockings when people came to call, insisting that it was an excellent use of her time. Mary also agreed to join us, and while the Lloyd sisters dashed up to the parsonage to get their work-bags, Cassandra and I retrieved our mail. There was only a single letter, addressed to my father, from our brother Edward.
Edward was my second-eldest brother, and he had led a charmed life. At the tender age of twelve, he had so impressed my father’s wealthy cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Knight, with his charm and sunny disposition, that they invited him to accompany them on their wedding trip, and to visit several times at Godmersham Park, their manor home in Kent. When it became clear that they were not to have any children of their own, they expressed their desire to adopt Edward and make him their heir. My father had initially been reticent to the idea, but my mother wisely insisted that Edward should go if he wished it—and wish it he did. The move had elevated Edward’s status into a world of wealth and privilege which he could before have only imagined.
“A letter from our Edward! Why, we are starved for news from him!” cried my mother, when we returned to the rectory. “He is so good, so amiable and sweet-tempered. Any letter from him is always a high point in the day for me. Do read it, Mr. Austen, without delay!”
My father, an intelligent and amiable man of nearly sixty years of age, adjusted the fashionable white wig which curled above his ears, and disappeared into his study. Not long after, he came out to the front parlour, where we ladies were at work, and after calling my brother Charles to join us, said,
“This is a most interesting letter. I see no reason why Mary and Martha should not hear it.” He gave me the letter, then sat down in his favourite chair. “You may do the honours, Jane.”
I opened the letter and read it aloud.
Chapter the Second
Godmersham Park, Kent
11 March, 1791
My dearest father,
I trust you are well. I have news which I had hoped to share sooner, but Mr. Knight has kept me much occupied since my return from the Continent with matters of business on the estate, with a view to furthering my education in such matters—and we have just returned from a brief trip to town. Both you and my mother will be pleased to learn, however, that in my moments of leisure, I have had the opportunity to involve myself again in the social activities of the neighbourhood—which brings me to the purpose of this letter. I have developed a strong regard for a particular young lady: Miss Elizabeth Bridges, the third daughter of Sir Brook William Bridges, 3rd Bt, of Goodnestone Park. She will soon be eighteen years of age and was educated in town. She is an elegant, graceful, accomplished, beautiful young woman.—I am honoured and gratified to say that she returns my affections; for I have asked her to be my wife, and she has accepted.
Here my reading was interrupted by a great cry of thrilled astonishment from my mother. “Engaged! Edward is engaged! Heaven be praised! My first child to be married! I thought it would be James, but no, it is Edward after all, and to the daughter of a baronet!”
“I am so pleased for him,” said Cassandra, beaming.
“Did not I tell you all those years ago, Mr. Austen,” continued my mother, “that it was for the best that we let him go to your cousins? That it should elevate him beyond any expectations we could ever have for him?”
“You did indeed, Cassy my dear.”
“And now I have been proved right! Such a match! It is a great blessing that he i
s to one day inherit all that property, with Lord knows how many mansions and houses, but to see him happily married, that has always been my greatest wish.”
“Mine as well, my dearest.”
So delighted was I by this news, and so eager was I to read the rest of the letter, that I could yet vouchsafe no comment; but my sister added, “She sounds a most appealing young lady.”
Martha and Mary offered their congratulations, and Charles exclaimed his own excitement; but all were silenced when my father held up a hand and announced in a firm voice, “Let Jane finish the letter, if you please.”
All eyes turned to me in expectant silence, and I read on:
Sir Brook and his lady have approved the match, as have Mr. and Mrs. Knight; and my dearest hope now is that you will be as forthcoming with your good wishes. No date has yet been set for the nuptials, but it is Mr. Knight’s wish that, (in his words) as we are ‘both very young, the event should not take place immediately.’ When we do marry, he thinks to give us his small house at Rowling, where we shall be quite content, although our income will be small.
—
16 March, 1791
Please forgive the interruption in my writing; I received a summons to Goodnestone Park where I spent the past several days, and I have even more good news to impart: Elizabeth’s eldest sister, Fanny, is now also engaged! She is to marry a Mr. Lewis Cage, a propertied gentleman thirty years of age of excellent character. It has been decided that both weddings should not take place until the end of the year. However, Lady Bridges feels such happiness at the good fortune of her daughters, that she does not wish to wait so long to celebrate the impending unions. There is talk of a fortnight or more of parties at Goodnestone during the month of June, the details of which are not yet final, but which will almost certainly include an engagement ball, a picnic, a strawberry-picking party, and a Midsummer’s Eve bonfire. To these events, a number of relations and neighbours will be invited; and I have been graciously allowed to extend a special invitation to my family at Steventon. I sincerely hope that you, my mother, my sisters, and Charles will be able to attend. Sir Brook generously offers you accommodation at Goodnestone for the length of your stay, and furthermore, invites you all to arrive a few days ahead of the other guests, in order that our families might have time to become acquainted.