Jane Austen’s First Love

by Syrie James

  “Oh!” cried Charles. “It is every bit as grand as Sir Brook described!”

  All expressed their avid admiration for the house.

  “It was certainly the most significant house in the area when it was originally built, in 1634,” admitted Edward Taylor indifferently.

  I wondered at his attitude, which indicated a lack of real interest in or affection for the property. Perhaps, I thought, he is affecting indifference, because it feels strange to be at his own house as a visitor, while it is occupied by others. But then, recalling what he had told me regarding his feelings for the aristocracy, I wondered if there might be a very different reason.

  “Why is the house called Bifrons?” asked Mr. Cage.

  “It means ‘two fronts,’” replied Edward Taylor, “and refers to the two large wings on either side.”

  We rode up to the front sweep, where we were met by a flurry of grooms and Frederic Fielding at the door. Our party was welcomed and ushered into the drawing-room, where the Admiral and Mrs. Fielding were happy to receive us. I marvelled at the space, for it was beautifully appointed and embellished by high ceilings, carved plasterwork, fine draperies, and a large and elegantly carved mantel.

  The business of arriving took some minutes, after which we were admitted to the dining-parlour, where an abundant collation was served and enjoyed by all. The admiral then excused himself, in his quiet and officious manner, and repaired to his study. The next object of the day was now discussed, as all of us shared our eagerness to see the rest of the house and grounds.

  Mrs. Fielding, conscious of having Edward Taylor as a visitor, asked very thoughtfully if he might like to shew the place. “The admiral and I, and our Frederic, are very pleased with the house; it is very comfortable, and we are delighted and proud to live here; but it does not really belong to us. I cannot take credit even for the furnishings, for Frederic and I used to live in a much smaller place, and when the admiral retired, we leased the house with everything in it. It would be more appropriate, I think, if the true owner of the house—the future owner, I should say—were to shew you all around.”

  Edward Taylor bowed but graciously declined. “I am happy to let you do the honours, Mrs. Fielding. It is your house as long as you occupy it. Today I am merely a visitor, and am content to follow along with the others.”

  This declaration was warmly received. The whole party rose, and under Mrs. Fielding’s guidance, we were shewn through a great many rooms on both the ground floor and the floor above, all of them lofty and handsomely furnished. We reached a picture gallery hung with innumerable family portraits, several of which dated back to Elizabethan times, which meant nothing to the Fieldings. Here we relied on Edward Taylor for an explanation of the family history, which he was able to relate with some knowledge.

  “I am told that my ancestor, John Taylor, purchased Bifrons and other estates in Kent in 1694. I am of the sixth generation of Taylors here.”

  “Does not our family’s connection with yours go back even further than that?” inquired Sophia.

  “It does. My family were originally from Whitchurch, in Shropshire; in the 1500s they spelt Taylour with an o-u. Nathaniel Taylour, Esquire—who I understand represented the county Bedford in Parliament, and was also recorder of Colshester in Essex during the usurpation of Cromwell—he married the daughter of Colonel Bridges, of Wallingford, in Essex—ancestor of your father; that is how far back the relationship goes. They had eighteen children, and his eldest son, John Taylor, is the one who purchased Bifrons.”

  Sophia smiled and acknowledged that, no matter how distantly they were related, Edward Taylor should always be a cousin to her, a sentiment he warmly returned.

  We now came upon the painting of Bifrons which had been done in 1700, a large and beautifully rendered effort, in a gilded frame as tall as myself. Edward Taylor gave a brief explanation of the work, and we all studied it with pleasure. The painting featured a hunting party in the foreground, who from a hill top, overlooked a prospect of the house and property as it had been nearly a hundred years before, in all its red-brick, Elizabethan grandeur. The building was fronted by a large, walled, cultivated garden, surrounded by fields, and backed by abundant woods.

  “It is extraordinary, to think that this is the same house!” cried Mr. Deedes. “Although I recognise the setting in a general sense, the building and approach are so vastly different, that if you did not tell me it was Bifrons, I should not know where I was.”

  “Your father is truly a visionary,” said Cassandra to Edward Taylor, “for he has worked wonders here.”

  “It is a beautiful house,” agreed I with feeling. “To think that you shall be master of this place some day!”

  He did not reply, but merely glanced away with a slight frown. Again, his manner and expression were very puzzling. How could anyone be anything but enthusiastic about this house? Bifrons was a positively extraordinary property!

  I observed a silent, conscious look pass between himself and both Charlotte and Thomas Payler, and knew they must be privy to whatever Edward Taylor was thinking and feeling on the subject. I was determined to find out what lay behind it.

  Chapter the Twenty-fourth

  We returned downstairs, where Mrs. Fielding said she wished to sit down, but as it was still fine out, we young people might enjoy a turn about the grounds on our own—a suggestion which was met with eager interest. An outward door was thrown open, and all walked out and down the flight of steps which led immediately onto a manicured lawn and all the delights of the pleasure-grounds.

  Our party naturally dispersed across the wide green turf, admiring the plants, and making our way towards a long terrace walk. Small groups were formed, but with a sigh, I noticed they were not the associations to which I aspired; for Mr. Cage had reclaimed Fanny, and Mr. Deedes was now chatting with Sophia. Thomas Payler had been appropriated by Frederic, who must take him to see the den of foxes he had recently discovered in the adjoining wilderness; Charles went with them.

  This left a party of four: myself, my sister, Edward Taylor, and Charlotte. As we traversed the first planted area together, he exclaimed his delight in the joy of liberty, in being out of doors on such a fine day. All concurred and remarked on the beauty of the setting. It was indeed lovely. I had greatly looked forward to this excursion, and was particularly happy to be in the company of Edward Taylor in a setting removed from Goodnestone, and all the cares and worries about the play. However, for some reason he did not appear to feel so carefree.

  “Bifrons is everything I could have imagined it to be, Mr. Taylor, and more. I should think anyone would be thrilled to know that all this will be his one day; yet—correct me if I am wrong—you seem to have little affection for it.”

  He looked conscious, but made no immediate reply.

  “You have found him out, Miss Jane,” said Charlotte softly, shaking her head. “My cousin is rather ridiculous on this subject, I am afraid; but he must tell you himself.”

  Still, he glanced away and said nothing.

  “Do you not care for this place,” persisted I, “because of what it represents? Because such a holding designates you irrefutably as a member of the upper class?”

  Edward Taylor sighed, considered, and at last said, “No; that is not it at all. I have great respect for my ancestors, and for the property they built; and I am not such an idiot as to wish away a fortune, for the sake of principle alone. My uncertainty stems from a very different source. I do wish I felt more; but try as I might, I cannot feel any connection to Bifrons.”

  “Why not?” said I.

  “I think—part of the problem at least—is that I have not lived here enough. It is true that I passed the earliest years of my life here, but we moved way when I was five years old, so I do not have any particular memories of it. The only time of any substance which I have spent here recently was two years ago, when we returned fr
om Germany for an interval of eleven months. Up until that time, we lived in a series of smaller, quaint, European apartments; in contrast, this house feels too large and cold to me. Many of its rooms seem to have no purpose other than to give work to housemaids and contribute to the window-tax. I suppose I have got used to a transitory existence. I have learned to appreciate the freedom that comes with a leased property, which offers the ability to move on, to see new vistas and experience new places, whenever the mood should strike. The idea of being tied down to one location for life does not really appeal to me.”

  “Oh,” responded I. “Your explanation makes sense, now that you put it that way. But surely, owning a property such as this should not tie you down, if you do not wish it to?”

  “It has not kept your father from travelling the world and taking his family with him,” pointed out Cassandra.

  “Precisely what I have been telling him,” said Charlotte. “But he has not told you all. There is another reason, a much bigger reason, why Edward is not enamoured of being heir to Bifrons.” She sighed. “He explained it to me only last week.”

  Cassandra and I turned to Edward Taylor, all attention. He very calmly said:

  “I am aware of the privilege bestowed on me as the eldest son. I do not wish to appear ungrateful, but—it is not the future I foresee for myself.”

  “What future do you see?” asked I.

  “I wish to go into the army.”

  “The army!” cried my sister and I in unison.

  He nodded. “Were I allowed to follow the bent of my own mind, I would choose no other occupation than active military service.”

  Shocked, I exclaimed: “A first son can never go into the army! That is an occupation for second and third sons!”

  “That is the traditional thinking, yes. But a man cannot choose his birth order, any more than he can mindlessly accept, with any reasonable chance of happiness or success, whatever personal or professional fate has been decreed for him. My family’s position in society guarantees that I would advance to a very great degree in the army. Every nobleman of rank I know who is thus employed, chooses to use his military title rather than his aristocratic title; do you know why?”

  “Because,” answered I, “to be an army officer is the most prestigious of all professions.”

  “Yes!” Passionately, he continued: “I cannot envision myself as master of this vast estate, worrying every day about money and the farm, employing dozens of servants, and being responsible for so many tenants. I have no faith in my ability to handle the financial aspect of it. I would let my family down, I feel certain of it. If only I could step aside and give the estate to my brother Herbert—” Here he sighed deeply and corrected himself. “No, that would never do; for Herbert is as resolved to entering military service as am I; it is something we have talked about together since we were very little, and first removed to Brussels. We inhabited there a house near the governor, General Ferraris, who commanded the garrison; we used to walk by and talk to the sentry placed at his door, and in his uniform, he seemed to embody all that manliness, honour, and valour could hope to represent. In Heidelberg, we occupied part of the house with a major of the Elector Palatine Dragoons, who told us stories of his experience in the military, which excited our imagination and furthered our ambitions. Ever since, I have read every book I could find about history and the military; they continue to be the favourite objects of my attention.”

  It was charming to think of Edward as a little boy, falling under the spells of a colourful uniform and valiant tales from the battlefield—but his ambition troubled me. “Certainly,” said I, “the profession, either navy or army, has much in its favour: heroism, action, courage, even fashion. Nobody can wonder that a young man without property should choose to distinguish himself as a soldier or a sailor. But I cannot understand how you could conceive of trading the advantages which you have been given—and an estate which has been in your family for six generations—for a life of danger, hardship, and privation!”

  “And yet I would, in an instant. What you call danger and hardship are to me excitement and adventure; I would prefer, infinitely prefer, to experience these privations on a daily basis, than to be trapped in the quiet, agrarian life of a gentleman, doing the same dull things day after day, with nothing new to look forward to. I have tried to explain all this to my father, but in vain. I have twin brothers, Brook and William, either one of whom could very well take over the responsibilities which he feels must devolve on me; they have heads for this sort of thing, and I feel certain would not only greatly enjoy the legacy, but be thrilled and honoured by it. To expect it of me is like forcing a square peg into a round hole. It would be a very bad fit. But my father is intractable on the subject. He insists that, according to law, the property must go to the eldest son; it is my privilege and my duty; there is nothing to be done; &c. It is not fair. My brother Bridges is currently at sea, a midshipman on the Acquilon, and father has no scruples about that; but he will not hear a word about the army, even for my brother Herbert; he intends him for a clerkship in the Foreign Office.”

  “Perhaps your father cannot bear the thought of his two eldest sons entering professions so fraught with peril,” said Cassandra.

  “That is part of it,” admitted he. “He has frequently stated that he fears Herbert’s spirit might lead him into dangers.”

  “If Herbert is anything like you, I cannot wonder at it!” My remark elicited a quiet laugh from Mr. Taylor, but then he said:

  “If he feels we are men of spirit, that is precisely why he ought to let us go. If England is truly to be at war with France soon, as I suppose, we will need every good man we can find to serve and protect our shores. Instead, I am to go to Oxford.” He invested the name of that institution with disgust.

  “You do not wish to go to Oxford?” repeated I, shocked. “I would give anything to go there!”

  “I wish I could send you in my place, Miss Jane. I have already studied so long and so hard with the best masters in Europe; I cannot conceive what my father expects me to gain from a university education. If I am obliged to sit in a schoolroom and read the classics again while our nation is at war, I shall go truly mad. And later—if I must sit here, idle, for all the rest of my days—” He broke off, sighing. “It is all a sad twist of fate that has put me in this position. My father only inherited Bifrons because his older brother died and had no children. Had my uncle lived, I would be free to follow the profession of my choice. I will of course do my duty if required, but I would rather not be required, for I fear I will do it badly.”

  He spoke with such feeling as to evoke my deepest sympathies. “I am so sorry, Mr. Taylor. My heart does go out to you; but—I can envision no solution to your dilemma, if your father is as intractable on the subject as you say.”

  “I had never before considered that the blessings of property and fortune might be a burden to some men, as to you, they are,” added Cassandra.

  Charlotte said, “Even knowing how you feel, cousin, I cannot share your wish. I should not like you to go into the army; for if you did, then every day I should be worried for your safety. I prefer to think of you at Oxford, or just a few miles away, living quietly at Bifrons.”

  “Quietly? If I do live here, Charlotte, it will not be quietly; I promise you that.” He paused; then, shaking his head, he added with a self-deprecating smile: “Forgive me, ladies. I have been selfish. We have talked of nothing but me and my problems, aims, and desires since we got here. It is too beautiful a day to spend on the negative. Let us move on to brighter, more hopeful subjects: let us hear what you aspire to. What do you see in your futures?”

  “Our futures?” I laughed. “That promises to be a very brief discussion, Mr. Taylor. We are women. We do not have many choices.”

  “All I have dreamt about since I was a child,” said Charlotte Payler, with a certain consciousness, and a slight blu
sh, “is that I should love the man I marry, raise a family, and have a comfortable home.”

  “My aspirations are identical to yours, Miss Payler,” admitted my sister.

  “I think anyone of sense, regardless of gender,” concurred Edward Taylor, as we continued along the gravel path through the shrubbery, “hopes to have a comfortable place to live, and to share their life with a person they can love and respect.” He darted a sidelong glance at me as he spoke, continuing, “But apart from marriage and home: is not there anything else you ladies aspire to? Some noble goal or ambition? Some worthy yet difficult accomplishment you wish to attain? Some exotic place in the world you wish to visit?”

  Charlotte shook her head, colouring more deeply as she said, “I do not need to see the world. Marriage, to the right person, will be enough for me.”

  My sister again echoed the sentiment.

  “What about you, Miss Jane?” said Edward Taylor. “What do you dream about?”

  “If I may speak to the immediate future: I should like to eat ice for dinner, and drink a very good wine.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “And after that?” said Edward Taylor.

  “This summer has given me a real taste for the society of new and interesting people—and I wish more than anything that I could be out sooner than seventeen.”

  “Entirely understandable,” agreed he. “But what of the distant future?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose—I share the same hopes as have just been expressed—which are common to every woman.”

  “I detect a hesitation in your voice.” He looked at me. “There is something else which you are not telling us.”

  Reluctantly, I admitted: “Well. I do have other ambitions, but—”