Jane Austen’s First Love

by Syrie James

  Frederic blushed a deep red and kept his eyes on his food.

  Determined to engage Edward Taylor in some fashion, I whispered to him,

  “What an interesting remark with regard to Mr. Fielding’s musical ear, in that it sounds very clever, yet there is no way to prove it.”

  Edward Taylor laughed.

  “My girls are also very accomplished on the pianoforte,” exclaimed Lady Bridges with a sniff. “They have all studied with the best music-masters, and were trained especially at an elite academy in town.”

  “My nephew Edward is a great proficient on the violin,” remarked Mrs. Watkinson Payler proudly. “His entire family has performed concerts in Europe.”

  “Is that so?” inquired Mr. Cage with interest.

  “I do play the violin, sir,” replied Mr. Taylor modestly. “Music has always been my father’s hobby, and his partiality to it was gradually imparted to all his children; but I would not wish my abilities to be overstated.”

  “My brother-in-law—this young man’s father—told me,” said Mr. Watkinson Payler, “that his children performed a sort of travelling concert at least once a week, wherever they happened to be living, and the locals often came to listen. Some months ago, he wrote of a particular evening in Verona, when their family was invited to join a group of professional musicians, and they held a magnificent concert before a vast audience including all the grandees of the town.”

  “How delightful!” cried Mr. Deedes.

  Edward Taylor’s blush deepened. “It was an unexpected but very pleasant introduction to the society of Verona, yes.”

  “I have never heard anyone play the violin as well as my nephew!” cried Mrs. Watkinson Payler. “Edward: you must play for everyone sometime, perhaps next week, after the concert at Bifrons? Lady Bridges, your daughters might delight us with their talents on the same occasion.”

  Lady Bridges coloured violently at this, and said, “There will be no time for personal demonstrations on that evening, I believe. Mrs. Fielding, have you not engaged musicians for two full hours?”

  “I have,” replied Mrs. Fielding.

  “Well!” cried Lady Bridges. “We would not wish to tire our audience with too much of a good thing.” She quickly changed the subject, and the conversation at the table turned to other things.

  I glanced at Edward Taylor with wonder; there seemed to be no end to the extent of his accomplishments. It was both sad and amusing to think that Lady Bridges (apparently) found his abilities such a threat to her own progeny, that she would not allow him to display them. “I hope to hear you play one day myself, Mr. Taylor,” murmured I, “although, while I confess to a love of music, I dare say I will hear the notes in the same manner as everyone else.”

  He laughed again and seemed about to reply, when our attention was captured by a commotion at the far end of the table. Fanny was speaking in urgent tones with Mr. Cage, and the tenor of their discussion, which was escalating into a real argument, could be heard:

  “But I must have a chariot,” cried Fanny heatedly. “I cannot abide a chaise.”

  “A chaise is an excellent vehicle, my dear,” countered Mr. Cage. “I have owned one these past ten years, and never had a moment’s trouble with it.”

  “But everybody has a chaise. They are so common.”

  “I myself have never admired a chaise,” agreed Lady Bridges. “Why, every hack is a chaise.”

  “Precisely,” exclaimed Fanny. “It is very confined, barely half the size of a coach, and has that horrid seat which pulls out. I cannot ride facing backwards; it makes me very ill.”

  “You shall never be required to ride backwards, my dearest; I promise.”

  “You are entirely missing the point. A chaise is driven by a postillion, whereas a chariot, with its coach-box and driver, four horses, and seating for four passengers, with both seats facing forward, is ever so much more elegant!”

  “Well,” replied Mr. Cage, looking troubled, “I will give the matter some consideration, my dear.”

  “See that you do,” insisted Fanny.

  Sir Brook looked mortified by this exchange; he quickly stood and invited all the ladies and gentlemen who wished to escape the heat, to retreat back to the house. The younger people, he announced, or indeed all those who were so inclined, were free to enjoy shuttlecock and bilbocatch on the rear lawn, and archery in the park at the front of the house.

  The party then broke up into two distinct parts, with the elders retreating with Sir Brook and Lady Bridges to the mansion. As all the young people began to merrily advance towards the exit from the walled gardens, Mr. Taylor turned to Charlotte, and said:

  “Have you ever shot a bow and arrow, cousin?”

  Miss Payler shook her head.

  “I have practised archery with my brothers ever since I was small,” said I, feeling rather smug. “Mr. Taylor, may I challenge you to a round?”

  “I would love to,” returned he sincerely, “but I promised Charlotte the first game of shuttlecock.”

  He whisked Charlotte away. Deflated, I walked on with my sister.

  “Charlotte is a very pretty and demure young lady,” observed Cassandra.

  “She is demure, indeed. Does she ever speak? I do not believe I have yet heard her utter a single word!”

  “I am sure she speaks, dearest. She is merely quiet and modest, two very becoming attributes for a young lady.”

  “Well then, she is the very opposite of me! Oh! She dresses so perfectly, and nods so sweetly—do you think she is the sort of girl whom Mr. Taylor prefers?”

  “I could not say.”

  “Mrs. Watkinson Payler certainly thinks so. She is convinced that he and her daughter are in love with each other. She is determined that they will wed some day.”

  “How does Edward Taylor feel about that?”

  “I have no idea.” I could not prevent a frown, for as much as I hated to admit it, Edward Taylor and Charlotte Payler did make a lovely couple. I averted my glance, as it pained me to see them together.

  As we approached the rear lawn, I told Cassandra bits and pieces of what I could remember from my conversation with him that morning.

  “Edward Taylor’s childhood has been truly extraordinary,” remarked my sister.

  “It has! I have never met anyone else half so fascinating. Oh, Cassandra! When we were together earlier, picking strawberries, it seemed almost as if time had stopped, as if no one else in the world existed but just us two. It felt so right to be with him.”

  Cassandra hesitated, then gently said, “However right it felt to you, dearest—you must know that a match between you and Edward Taylor is extremely unlikely.”

  “Unlikely? Why?” responded I, nettled. “Because his family is so wealthy? Because he is the heir to Bifrons, and has consorted with princes and princesses?”

  “Yes. We have nothing, Jane, but our father’s good name. No property, no dowries. Edward Taylor will no doubt—certainly his father will expect him to—marry someone like Charlotte Payler, who comes from money and property.”

  I knew in my heart that she was right, but was not ready to accept it. “Our brother Edward was born of the same parents as ourselves, yet he is considered perfectly eligible for the rich Elizabeth Bridges.”

  “Yes, but only because he was adopted by an even wealthier family.”

  I sighed. “It is not fair.”

  “Nobody said that life was fair, dearest.”

  “Did you see the way Elizabeth spoke to him about the wine? I think her a dictatorial, self-centered snob, with no sense of humour and not a shred of imagination. They are very ill suited to each other.”

  “I disagree. I believe it to be a most promising match.”

  “You do? Why?”

  “Because there is true love on both sides; it is very evident. I think our brother,
coming from our comparatively humble beginning, must feel he requires a strong, aristocratic wife to help him fit into the society he now keeps. We have observed Elizabeth, on several occasions—including the incident with the wine—prove herself very adept at doing just that.”

  I nodded slowly, conceding her point. “They do seem to be very much in love; and perhaps she is good for him. Therefore, I will try to think better of her. But this brings me back to my earlier point: why should not Edward Taylor marry for the same reason? Is it inconceivable that he should ever love someone like me?”

  “It not inconceivable at all, my dearest. I believe that any young man of taste and sense, once making your acquaintance, should fall madly in love with you.” She spoke with such deep and genuine affection, as to make me smile.

  “May I repeat the compliment with regard to you? Cassandra, I observed Thomas Payler looking at you earlier this morning with the most earnest and yearning expression! It was clear to me that he wished to pick strawberries with you, but lacked sufficient courage to make the overture.”

  Cassandra coloured slightly. “Please, do not joke about such things.”

  “I am not joking. He likes you, I know it. Were he to follow his inclination and seek out your company—”

  “Jane: I insist—for all the reasons previously described—that it is highly unlikely Mr. Payler would ever be interested in me. And I—” She seemed unable to go on.

  “You are wiser than I in many things, Cassandra; but I think you are wrong about this. I cannot believe that wealth, class, and status are irrevocable impediments to love. Where true love reigns, I believe anything is possible.”

  “That is a fine belief, dearest; but it is not really practical.”

  We had arrived at the rear lawn, where several nets had been set up for shuttlecock. Edward Taylor and Charlotte Payler were already engaged in playing a game. Shuttlecock was a sport in which I had very little experience, and I watched with a pang of envy as they bandied the feathered shuttle to and fro, each of them playing with enjoyment and expertise.

  “We are only here for three weeks,” continued Cassandra. “We may not return for many years. Even if you should form an attachment with Edward Taylor, you must know it would have to be of very brief duration.”

  With an aching heart, I replied:

  “Then it will be brief. And who can say what the future might hold?”

  Chapter the Thirteenth

  Goodnestone Park

  Tuesday 7 June, 1791

  My Dearest Martha,

  Thank you for your letter, which found its way to me here this morning. It is refreshing to hear news of home, particularly to learn that you are faring so well as mistress of the rectory, and more to the point, enjoying said duties. As for my last letter, wherein I gave a description of Goodnestone Park and all its inhabitants, although it might seem to be a shame to destroy anything written by my own hand (and I am flattered that you think the epistle contains several clever turns of phrase), I insist that you burn it (along with all the rest of mine) when you have finished reading it for the seventeenth or eighteenth time. I would not wish its contents ever to be made known to those few whom I so good-naturedly abused, even if they were all accurately depicted!

  I have scarcely had a moment to myself since our arrival. The house is so full of people that there is hardly a quiet corner to be found anywhere; and you know how much I love quiet corners. My mother and the Knights are to come tomorrow. The strawberry-picking party proved to be particularly diverting. I was so fortunate as to spend time conversing again with Edward Taylor, the young gentleman who so obligingly retrieved us from the road upon our journey hither. He is truly the most engaging, well-travelled, and accomplished young man I have ever met in my life. I must tell you more when next I see you, for there is not room enough in this missive to do him justice. I wish I could scold you for your implication; but indeed, the Bard’s line, “Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?” does apply, at least to me; I am already in a fair way towards falling in love with him! Should he ever return the sentiment, it will be a great disappointment to his aunt, Mrs. Watkinson Payler, who has designs on him for her daughter Charlotte (a pretty, rich young lady whom Mr. Taylor seems to dote on, but who is far too reserved for my taste). Yesterday, I hoped to capture his attention by displaying my considerable skills on the archery range, but as I am already proficient at the sport, he spent all his time teaching Charlotte how to shoot a bow and arrow. How irritating it was to see him standing over her for such a lengthy period, and in such an intimate posture! How I wish he had been instructing me! It seems that a young lady, if she has the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can.

  Now I have something truly unexpected to tell you. This morning I rose early and, before breakfast, I removed to the drawing-room, which was as yet uninhabited, hoping for a rare, quiet moment to practise on the pianoforte. I had just sat down at the instrument when my brother Edward suddenly appeared, hastened within, and shut the door. “Jane,” said he, in great distress and perturbation, “I need your help.” “My help? Why?” said I. He explained that he and Elizabeth had quarrelled last night. He had made a thoughtless remark, his fiancée was furious with him, and he wanted to write her a note of apology. “However,” said he, “I think something more than a standard letter is required—a poem perhaps, or something in the romantic vein—but I am hopeless at that sort of thing. You are a clever writer, Jane. Would you do me a great favour and draft a note to Elizabeth with pretty words of apology, which I can then transcribe in my own hand? It will have to be our secret, of course; it must seem as if I wrote it myself.”

  You can only imagine how surprised I was by this request! At the same time, I was delighted by his faith in my abilities. Of course I told him that I would be only too happy to help. (I break no vows of secrecy in this disclosure, for he said I might tell you and Cassandra, but no one else.) He required my services immediately, in the hopes that the breach could be mended by this evening at the latest (for the engagement ball is tomorrow). I spent a good two hours labouring over the endeavour. It was rather a trial to compose, as he did not wish to share the particulars for which he was apologising, requiring the admission of guilt to be constructed in the most general terms. At length I found inspiration in Shakespeare (three copies of his complete works, which appear to have never been read, adorn the library shelves here). My brother proclaimed the finished work to be brilliant. He is recopying it now; we must wait to see its effects, which I hope will prove fruitful!

  I expect I shall hardly sleep a wink to-night, for the ball is tomorrow—my first real ball! Although it will not be held at an assembly room filled with handsome strangers, as you and I so often imagined, there will be one tall, handsome young gentleman with whom I hope to dance (his identity I leave you to guess); after that, I will have nothing else to wish for. From the bustle which has been going on all day in preparation for the event, I predict it will be very grand; my only regret is that my mother steadfastly refuses to allow me to powder my hair. I can only hope, when she arrives tomorrow, that I can succeed in changing her mind. I must close now, for Sophia, Marianne, and Cassandra are calling me to join them for a walk into the village. Fare you well.—Please give my greatest love to my father when you speak to him, and a handshake to all the boys.

  With best love, &c., I am affectionately yours,

  Jane Austen

  How ill I have written. Your hand is so much more delicate than mine. I begin to hate myself.

  Here is the note of apology which I wrote for my brother Edward:

  My Dearest, Loveliest Elizabeth,

  Words cannot express my chagrin over the words I so errantly spoke last night; and yet I must appeal to you in words, for they are my only ally. I spoke in haste, without thought or consideration for your feelings; I was self-serving and thoughtless. To know I have hurt you p
ains me so deeply, that I can never forgive myself; I only hope that you can forgive me.

  Do you have any idea how much you mean to me? My heart has been yours from the very instant I first beheld you. When I look to the future, our future, I know that we are meant to be together. To thee I belong, and always will. Pray, allow me to quote the words of the world’s most celebrated poet:

  Hear my soul speak; my heart beats for none but thee . . .

  One half of me is yours, the other half yours . . .

  And so all yours . . .

  My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

  My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

  The more I have, for both are infinite.

  My dearest Elizabeth, I admire you; I honour you; I look up to you; I adore and love you. Indeed, thy sweet love such wealth brings, that I do scorn to change my state with kings. Pray, forgive me, say you will, this moment, else my heart will be torn asunder, and I shall never recover, for without you at my side, I am nothing.

  With greatest love,

  Your Edward

  In reviewing the note, I thought that some might consider it overly dramatic, but I deemed it appropriate for the circumstance and for the individuals involved. My theory proved to be correct, for when I descended for dinner that evening, Edward drew me aside, glowing, and said that Elizabeth had cried when she read it. The intent was achieved; they had made up their quarrel.

  “I cannot thank you enough, Jane, or tell you what I owe you. You are truly a genius.” My brother hugged and kissed me, beaming with happiness; then, spying Elizabeth coming down the stairs, he spoke softly in my ear: “Remember: this is our secret.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes were lit with affection for her fiancé, a sight which did my own heart good. I could see that she and my brother truly cared for each other, and to know that I had been of some small service in this matter—that my own words had brought them back together, and helped to rekindle her love for him—was a source of great satisfaction. I had truly proved useful at last!