by Syrie James
I looked away. As Edward Taylor and I proceeded down the row of plants, he helped me move his coat to the new location, and we resumed our conversation. “Did you ever meet the prince who owned the farm?” I asked him.
“We inhabited a house which looked towards the margrave’s palace and on the intervening gardens, so we kept company on a regular basis.”
“A regular basis?” said I in surprise.
“He was a popular and courteous fellow. He had been in England and spoke English fluently. He patronized literature, art, and science as far as local circumstances and his means admitted. His eldest son, the hereditary prince, had married a princess of Darmstadt, a most delightful Frau, and we associated with them and their kinder. From every member of this family we experienced, during our stay at Carlsruhe, the greatest kindness and attention.”
“What illustrious acquaintances!” cried I in wonderment. “Did you have other such associations while abroad?”
He shrugged, and said indifferently, “We regularly met with all the English travellers of rank.”
“Such as?”
“You wish to know their names?”
“I do.”
“Well, let me think. In Germany, it was the Lord Chancellor Thurlow and the Lord and Lady Hertford. In Florence, the Duke of Argyll, Lady Charlotte Campbell, and Lord Hervey, to name a few. During our stay in Rome last winter, the Princess Santa Corce, wife of the Spanish ambassador, had balls and dinners frequently. Her house was open to the English, as was, for a time, that of the Cardinal de Bernis, who had been the French ambassador—”
He paused; I suppose I was staring at him in awe, as I tried to imagine attending assemblies and dinners in the Italian capital with lords, princesses, cardinals, and ambassadors; but it was entirely beyond my comprehension. To think that he had experienced all this! It was incredible.
Edward Taylor blushed, and said: “Pray, forgive me; this must all sound very tedious.”
“No—no—it is not tedious at all. I am most interested, I assure you. Please go on. Who else have you met?”
He seemed embarrassed now. “Well. There was the Princess Giustiniani, Duchess of Corbara, and her sister; they were the beauties of Rome last season.”
“How elegant they must have looked.”
“They were lovely—but as to meaningful conversation, they had nothing to offer.” The look and smile he gave me indicated, without words, that our present discourse was far preferable to him than had been the other.
My cheeks grew warm; I was flattered. He seemed to feel he had already said too much, but I was too fascinated to leave the subject. “Tell me more. Who else did you associate with?”
“At Rome, a great many French emigrants passed their evenings at my father’s house when we were disengaged and had music. But really, I would rather not—”
“Who?”
“Who?” He laughed lightly. “All right, if you must know: the Prince and Princess of Monaco, the Marquis de Duras (he sang well, and took a third in trios with my sisters), the Abbe Maury, various artisti including Canova—” Noting my expression, he stopped again, and coloured more deeply.
Struck dumb, I worked in silence for a moment, adding berries to my basket. I was familiar with the names of some of those mentioned, having read about them in the newspapers, or heard them talked about in my father’s dialogues with his most worldly friends; but I did not know anyone who had actually met such well-known persons. Yet it was clear that to him, such acquaintanceships had been an everyday occurrence. At length I said,
“What a fascinating life you have led, Mr. Taylor. My own life seems very small in comparison.”
“I am sure it is not.”
“I have never been abroad. I only know of the world’s many wonders from reading about them in books and seeing pictures of them. It can never compare with viewing such places in person. I am envious of all that you have seen and experienced—and at so young an age.”
“I have had an unusual upbringing, I am aware; I am grateful for it, and I long to see more. I would like to live abroad again some day.”
“Would you really?”
“Yes.” He sighed, as if the weight of the world were upon his shoulders. “But that is highly unlikely, since—” He did not finish, seeming to think better of his remark. We moved on again along the row of strawberry plants, and instead he said: “We have talked far too long about me, Miss Jane. Pray, tell me more about yourself. Forgive my ignorance; I know you hail from Hampshire, but where exactly is Steventon?”
“It is a small village not far from Winchester.”
“How do you like it there?”
“I like it very well. We have many good friends.”
“An excellent recommendation for a neighbourhood.”
“Our house is comfortable—although nothing like the houses I have seen in Kent, which are so large and magnificent. The way you live here—it is like a dream!”
His smile vanished. “There is more to dream about in life than a large house.” He fell briefly silent, pulling a berry from beneath the leaves with such force that juice squeezed onto his hand. He seemed perturbed about something, although I knew not what. Before I could inquire into it, he said, “Do you have other brothers and sisters, besides the ones I have met?”
“Cassandra is my only sister. I have six brothers in all.”
“A family of eight children! The same as me.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about them.” He popped the fruit he had just picked into his mouth and ate it.
I obliged him with details about my other brothers. He seemed particularly interested in the fact that my brother Frank was a sailor, and that Charles was destined for the same profession.
“My brother Bridges is a midshipman, currently serving on the frigate Acquilon. He is, I think, about the same age as your brother Charles.”
“Is he enjoying his time at sea?”
“Very much.”
“You said he is called Bridges?”
Edward Taylor nodded, his lips twitching to hold back a smile. “I know; it is remarkable, is it not, how unimaginative is our race, when it comes to choosing names?”
We laughed. “It is remarkable, too, that our families are so alike. My father, like yours, is both a clergyman, a scholar, and an agriculturalist. He is not the sort one might have expected to take to farming, and yet he has, and he is much respected for it. The chief difference, it seems, is that your father was so fortunate as to inherit great wealth and property, while mine scrambles every day to earn his living. This, I believe, motivated his interest in farming: with many sons to educate and a houseful of students to feed, I think he saw in it the potential of both a source of income and a supply of food.”
“He sounds like an intelligent and resourceful man.”
“He is. I quite admire him.”
The sun was past its zenith now, and it had grown quite hot. I wiped the perspiration from my brow, noting that Edward Taylor was in a similar glow. He removed his hat and ran his sun-browned fingers through his glossy reddish brown hair, then shook his head as if to cool it, an action which made my heart beat to an irregular rhythm. To distract myself, I plucked the stem and leaves off a particularly rosy strawberry and partook of its juicy sweetness. Mr. Taylor did the same.
We ate the berries in silence, kneeling side by side, just inches away from each other, my skirts nearly touching his bent leg. Of a sudden, he said softly:
“You have a bit of strawberry, near your mouth, just there.” Reaching up, he gently brushed something from my cheek. That slight pressure of his fingertips caused a tingle to rush through me. Our eyes met and held; the expression on his countenance as he looked at me was very arresting—filled with deep interest and something more, which seemed to indicate a rising esteem. My heart pounded.
He
hesitated, then dropped his hand.
I sat down and looked away, my cheeks burning, struggling to recover both my mental and physical equilibrium. We returned to berry-picking. The sweet aroma of sun-ripened berries filled the air. Around me I heard the twitter of birds in the trees, the delicate buzz of bees, the chatter of the other gatherers, the intimate murmurs of my brother Edward and Elizabeth beneath an apple tree, and the hum of conversation from the gentlemen and women who sat in the shade fanning themselves. Edward Taylor seemed to be having as much difficulty resuming our discussion as did I. At length he said, with an unfamiliar trace of awkwardness:
“I believe we were speaking about your father’s farm?”
“I believe we were.”
“How large is it?”
“My father’s farm?”
“Yes. How many hands does he employ? What is he growing this annum?”
In some bemusement, I answered: “I cannot tell you.”
“No? It is a secret, then?”
I laughed. “Hardly. I simply do not know. He leases, I believe, about two hundred acres just up the road from our house—it is called Cheesedown Farm—but as for the specifics to which you refer—I have not the vaguest idea!”
“I take it, then, that farming is not one of your passions?”
I shook my head. “I have the greatest respect for farmers. We cannot do without them; the food they produce sustains us and the community. I have a deep appreciation of the land—and there is much amusement and many comforts attending a farm in the country. But I admit, on a day-to-day basis, my interests lie elsewhere.”
“That is something else we have in common!” Mr. Taylor smiled as he added another berry to his basket.
“Oh? I thought, when you asked such probing questions, that you shared your father’s enthusiasm for agriculture.”
“Not at all. I was just attempting to be—polite.” We both laughed, as he continued, “My brothers and sisters and I spent the bulk of our time studying while in Carlsruhe, but we were also obliged, for health and exercise, to work on the farm several mornings a week. Do not get me wrong; I love to be out of doors. I take pleasure in vigorous activity. I enjoy a morning of berry-picking, like this, or a long walk through the woods; but I would rather hop a fence than mend it, would rather climb a tree than trim it, and would rather ride an ox than feed it.”
“How I agree with you! I know this might sound shameless or even sacrilegious—and I do so admire my father’s devotion to his farm—but to constantly be worrying about the vagaries of the weather—”
“—and the rise and fall of the market—”
“—to oversee labourers, and till the soil—”
“—plant seeds, and clear weeds—”
“—the work and responsibilities have always seemed to me very tedious.”
“Yes!”
We exchanged a smile; I felt the mood ease again between us, to something fine and comfortable.
Gesturing towards our baskets, which were now filled to the brim, he said, “In that vein: I think we have done our duty where agriculture is concerned today—do you agree? Shall we move into the shade and sit for a little while?”
This idea, while very appealing to me, never materialised; for at that moment Lady Bridges made a general announcement, observing that everyone seemed to have completed their berry-picking, and inquiring as to whether they had enjoyed themselves. Her question was met with enthusiastic replies and applause, after which her ladyship directed everyone to bring their filled baskets back to the tables in the first garden, where refreshments were now being served.
I retrieved Edward Taylor’s coat, shook it briskly to remove the dust which had there accrued, and returned it, uttering my thanks. The whole party began to remove en masse, and as we moved with it, Mrs. Watkinson Payler appeared abruptly beside us with her daughter in tow, and with a bright smile said,
“Edward! Charlotte has not entirely recovered from the heat, I dare say she would be most appreciative if you would give her your arm.”
Mr. Taylor, after the briefest hesitation, smiled handsomely, and hanging his basket over one arm, he offered her an elbow. “It would be my honour, Charlotte.”
My heart sank as Charlotte quietly slipped her hand through the bend of Edward Taylor’s arm; but my spirits immediately revived when, turning to me, and holding out his other arm, he added,
“Miss Jane? May I escort you both?”
Chapter the Twelfth
Afine-looking repast had been laid out, with pitchers of lemonade as well as wine and wine punch. A great many servants stood at attention, accepting the strawberry baskets and placing them strategically. Mr. Taylor selected a central location immediately across the row of tables from his cousin Thomas, and held out a chair for Charlotte to his left, and for me to his right.
My sister swept in and claimed the chair beside mine, and as all the party arranged themselves in congenial comfort, my sister bent to my ear and said in a low voice,
“You seem to be enjoying yourself this morning.”
I could not reply; but she squeezed my hand lovingly, and we exchanged a little smile.
Just then, I heard Elizabeth’s affectionate but softly reproving voice, as she whispered to my brother, “Surely, Edward, you would not think of filling my glass yourself.”
“Ah,” replied my brother, colouring slightly, as he set down the wine bottle in his hand. “You are correct as always, my love. Thank you.”
A servant rushed in to fulfil the duty. Even so, I winced inwardly at Elizabeth’s reproof. At home at Steventon, we would not think twice about filling our own wine-glasses while at table. It was a sharp reminder of how much my brother’s life had changed, and would continue to change in the years to come.
There came the sound of a knife tapping against glass; Sir Brook was calling for attention and urging everyone to settle down. When quiet reigned, he cried out in his booming voice,
“It is a great pleasure to see you all at an event which, I am proud to say, for the past twenty-odd years, has been deemed the highlight of the summer. That will surely not be the case this summer, however—for as you know, Lady Bridges has been busy as a bee planning a great many more festivities to follow this one—the first of which is the ball to be held here at Goodnestone two days hence, this very Wednesday, where I intend to make a formal announcement which you have all been anticipating. However, as I have my family and my dearest and most particular friends all gathered today in one place, I cannot deny myself the gratification of making a little advance, unofficial declaration regarding the two happy circumstances which have motivated this month of celebrations: the first of which, is that my daughter Fanny is to wed the esteemed Mr. Lewis Cage, Esquire, of West Langdon, Milgate!”
A hearty ovation followed. Fanny and Mr. Cage stood to be recognised. While he humbly bowed, her countenance gleamed with pride as she looked all around her, seeming to relish the approbation of the assemblage.
“I have not done!” cried Sir Brook, motioning for a reluctant Fanny to sit, and for the crowd to quiet down. “I have yet another proud announcement: my daughter Elizabeth is betrothed to a very fine young man, Mr. Edward Austen, of Godmersham Park!” More applause, as Elizabeth and my brother Edward happily stood, to receive the party’s adulation. “It is certainly a very singular instance of good fortune in one family, that two girls, almost unknown, should have attached to themselves two young men of such unexceptionable characters,” continued Sir Brook, “and I pray to God that their future conduct will ever do credit to their choice. The date of the weddings has not yet been fixed, but will almost certainly take place in December. In the meantime, let us enjoy the celebrations of these engagements, which begin on Wednesday and continue through Midsummer’s Eve. Ladies and gentlemen: will you please rise and raise your glasses to the affianced couples, and join me in wishing them
every happiness?”
All stood; glasses were lifted; words of congratulations were shouted; and everybody drank. Sir Brook then directed us to eat and be merry, which we accordingly did, enjoying the many offerings on the table from the cold meats, bread, cheeses, and cakes, to the salad and cucumber, and of course the strawberries and cream.
The meal, while delicious, would have been more agreeable from my point of view, had not Edward Taylor spent the preponderance of the time making observations to Charlotte, and engaging in conversation with his cousin Thomas across the table. My time with him in the strawberry garden had been so thoroughly engaging; we had experienced a connection which I should not soon forget. How could he now, not half-an-hour later, say nary a word to me, and act as if I did not exist? Meanwhile, Charlotte merely nodded and smiled sweetly at his every word.
Cassandra and I were limited as to conversation, for I could not speak openly about what—or who—was on my mind, with the very object seated immediately beside me.
We had all nearly consumed our fill, when Mrs. Fielding reminded everyone that the following week, in honour of the betrothed couples, she and the admiral were to host a concert at Bifrons, for which they had engaged professional musicians.
“It promises to be a truly delightful affair,” said she, waving one fat, white arm in the air. “I have a very great appreciation for music, and an excellent ear for it as well. I should have been very skilled at the art had I ever had the opportunity to learn, for my own brother played the oboe, and the apple does not far fall from the tree, for,” (nudging her son seated beside her) “my Frederic is a true prodigy on the oboe, which he has studied since he was nine years old, when he had learnt all he could on the clarinet and the flute; and I dare say he has such a musical ear, that he can hear particular notes in a sonata or concerto in a way that no one else can.”