Jane Austen’s First Love

by Syrie James

  “How sage is Shakespeare’s line, What fools these mortals be! How ironic that I was obliged to speak those words on this very day, for he may as well have written it specifically about me. Like Puck, I have mistakenly misaligned everybody! I feel like such an idiot.” I sank down onto a chair and covered my face with my hands, too mortified to look at her. “My romantic schemes did not end with those four people, Cassandra. There is yet one other couple whom I hoped would form a connection during our stay at Goodnestone.”

  “Oh? Who is that?” Cassandra replied, an odd tone in her voice.

  Flushing, I peeked at her from between my fingers. “You and Thomas Payler.”

  “Me and Thomas?” She smiled. “Jane: I may not have understood your intentions regarding the others, but did you truly think I did not notice what you were up to on my behalf?”

  My hands dropped to my lap. “You knew?”

  “Of course I knew. How many times did you ask what I thought of Mr. Payler? How often did you mention his many attributes to me? It was obvious you were promoting the match.”

  A ray of hope darted through me. Perhaps not everything I had done was in vain! “He is perfect for you, Cassandra. He is a sensible, kind, good-looking young man from an excellent family, with whom you share common interests.”

  “So you have said many times; and while that may be true, Jane, I am not interested in Thomas Payler in that way. I could never love him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I am in love with someone else.”

  I was so astonished, I could hardly formulate a reply. “In love with someone else?”

  She nodded, blushing.

  “But—with whom?”

  “Tom Fowle.”

  Tom Fowle was one of our father’s former students—a young man who had lately become a clergyman. I had barely given him a thought since the day he left our household many years before. “How long have you been in love with him?” cried I, astounded.

  “Ever since I was a little girl, I think, and he came to live with us.”

  “All these years, you have had such feelings, and you never said a word?”

  “It has taken all this time to truly know Tom, to understand and appreciate his many good qualities, and to feel certain that we are right for each other. When I did know that I loved him, I did not have the nerve to voice my feelings aloud, even to you, dearest; for Tom is so much older than I. I never dared to hope he would notice me; but on his last visit, he gave me reason to believe that my feelings are returned.”

  I thought back to the time of Mr. Fowle’s last visit as well as I could, but I had only the vaguest memory of it; I had been very engrossed, as I recalled, in writing a story at the time, and had paid him little attention.

  “Tom is still struggling to establish himself,” added Cassandra softly, her colour heightening even further, “but one day, when the time is right, I think it likely—I hope—that he will declare himself.”

  I was surprised, confounded—stupefied. I, who prided myself on my powers of observation, had lived side by side with my sister since childhood, sharing every thought and confidence—yet I had never had a clue that she harboured such deep feelings for another.

  “How mortifying it is, Cassandra, to discover that I have so little understanding of others.” I crossed to the window again, greatly vexed with myself. Below, I observed Elizabeth and my brother Edward emerge from the house, intimately conversing; she carried a basket of roses on her arm. Behind them came Edward Taylor with Thomas and Charlotte. I sighed, adding:

  “There is someone else whom I misjudged for a long while as well: Charlotte Payler. I disliked her unjustly when we first met. Considering how she feels about Edward Taylor, it would be only natural for her to feel threatened by his regard for me; yet she has been very sweet to me.”

  “I always thought Charlotte a good and amiable young lady.”

  “Oh! How could I have been so grievously in error about everybody? My first impressions were all completely wrong!”

  “I tried to warn you, dearest, particularly where the others were concerned, but you would not listen.”

  “I am so ashamed. What a treacherous effect my schemes produced! I attempted to employ a home theatrical, an otherwise innocent activity, for a less than respectable purpose—to manipulate the feelings of others—and what a dangerous intimacy was created! Now Sophia and Fanny are utterly wretched, as are the men who love them. Two sisters who once were close may never speak to each other again—and it is all my fault!”

  “The heart cannot be easily deciphered, nor can it be directed or managed; in matters of love and matrimony, people must be left to their own devices.”

  “I know that now. Oh! I have made so many blunders. If only Papa were here, I should ask him what to do; he always has such excellent advice.”

  “I think I know what Papa would say, if he were here.”

  “Do you?”

  “Do you remember many years ago, when an elderly friend of Mamma’s came to call, whose face had been ravaged by the pox?”

  “No; when was this?”

  “You were very young, seven or eight perhaps. We laughed at the old woman behind her back, and called her pox-face, and said any number of unkind things, believing she could not hear us. Before she left, she shook our hands graciously, but I saw the hurt in her eyes; she said that she had once been as young and pretty as we were, and that we should take care not to fall ill, or we should meet her fate and both be called pox-face one day.”

  “Oh!” My cheeks burned now as a fragment of the memory came back to me. “Papa found out what happened, and as I recall, he sat us down and gave us a very stern speech—but I have forgotten what he said.”

  “He said he was going to share one of the essential truths he had learned in life: that happiness and well-being ultimately depend on character—the way we treat other people on a day-to-day basis. He made us walk three miles to her house the next day to apologise.”

  The entire incident came back to me then, along with the rush of guilty feelings it had engendered; no wonder I had done my best to forget it. “To further demonstrate our good intentions, we worked in her garden all afternoon pulling weeds.” At my sister’s confirming nod, I sighed grimly. “I understand your implication, dearest. I must apologise for this mess I have made, and find a way to rectify it; but I fear, when I admit to Fanny and Sophia what I have done, they will never forgive me.”

  My first order of business, in addition to an apology, was to get Fanny and Sophia to speak to each other again, so that the rift between them should be mended. However, despite our most valiant efforts—Cassandra and I knocked on their respective chamber doors several times, begging them to let us in—our appeals were rebuffed. “They did not wish to speak to anyone; they had no wish to attend the bonfire; they preferred to be alone.”

  “What shall we do?” said I, greatly disappointed, as my sister and I gave up the attempt and started down the passage towards our room. “How shall I mend what I have done, if they will not even hear me? And that is only the first step. Somehow, I must let Mr. Cage and Mr. Deedes know that Fanny and Sophia truly love them—but how? I cannot write to them, nor can I ride to Canterbury to visit two single gentlemen—and the information must reach their ears by tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Why tomorrow?”

  “Because according to Edward, tomorrow is the only day Mr. Cage will be in Canterbury, and within our reach; the next morning he is to travel on to his own house, some eight-and-thirty miles distant. The day after that, we return to Godmersham, the Bridgeses leave for Bath, and Mr. Deedes will be preparing for his tour to Scotland. The opportunity to reunite the lovers will be lost.”

  As my sister and I pondered this dilemma, two housemaids emerged into the passage from the upper stairs, each carrying a small basket over her arm. I recognis
ed one of them as the maid who had styled and powdered my hair for the ball.

  “A lovely evenin’ for a bonfire, i’nt it?” said Sally as they both dropped a curtsey before us.

  “It is indeed,” replied Cassandra.

  “So kind o’ Lady Bridges to invite us,” said the second maid, a fair-haired girl, smiling, “and to let us cut her roses.”

  “Roses? What do you need roses for?”

  “Why, they’re to wish on,” replied Sally. The two girls exchanged a look, and burst into giggles.

  “To wish on?” repeated I, mystified.

  “Don’t tell me you never made a wish on Midsummer’s Eve?” said the second maid.

  “I never have,” said I.

  “Nor I,” added Cassandra. “Some of our neighbours in Hampshire have bonfires, but I have heard nothing about roses or wishing.”

  “Perhaps it i’nt common in your part of the country, miss, but it’s a tradition hereabouts; roses are ever so important. It’s said that any rose picked on Midsummer’s Eve or Midsummer’s Day will keep fresh until Christmas.”

  Sally, with a toss of her dark curls, said, “That’s a load of twaddle, Nancy, and well you know it. Howsoever, the legend about wishing at midnight is real.”

  “Tell us about the legend,” insisted I.

  “It’s said,” replied Sally solemnly, “that at midnight on Midsummer’s Eve, if young girls scatter the petals of roses before them and repeat the ancient saying, the next day their true love will visit them.”

  “Indeed?” My curiosity was now truly piqued.

  “My mother sprinkled petals of roses for my father on Midsummer’s Eve, and he come to her next morning, not knowing a thing about it! They’ve been married now seven-and-twenty years! My young man and I’ve been courting since Christmas, and I keep hoping he’ll pop the question. If I repeat the saying loud enough, maybe he’ll do so tomorrow!”

  “My own grandmamma swears she married my grandfather because of a Midsummer’s Eve wish, and they are very happy,” said the fair-haired maid. “I’m going to say it above a dozen times, and scatter every single petal in my basket; and if my John should come calling tomorrow, I’ll know he’s my one true love, and the one I am to marry!” Giggling, the two girls started to dash off.

  “Wait!” cried I. “What is the old saying that one should repeat?”

  Pausing, the two maids recited to us in unison: “‘Rose leaves, rose leaves, rose leaves I strew; he that will love me, come after me now.’” They ran off down the stairs.

  I watched them go, my thoughts in a whirl. An idea began bubbling up in my brain, and at length took hold. “Cassandra: I know what we must do, to help the couples I have misaligned!”

  I revealed my plan to my sister in its entirety. She concurred that while the first half was fanciful, the second half was sensible, and therefore worth a try. However, to work as a whole, it required the complicity of my brother Edward, as well as Fanny and Sophia. “Edward has already gone down to the bonfire,” she reminded me.

  “I will speak to him there.”

  “How will you get Fanny and Sophia to listen, if neither will open her door to us?”

  “There are many different methods to deliver a message,” responded I.

  We returned to our chamber, wherein I immediately sat down and wrote two notes. The first read:

  My Dearest Sophia,

  I know of the pain which you are presently enduring, and I am writing to offer my deepest apologies—and to admit, to my everlasting shame, that I have had a hand in everything which has caused your grief. This may surprise you, but it is true. Pray, allow me to explain. For some weeks now, I have been under the impression that Fanny did not love Mr. Cage (a presumption which turned out to be entirely false). In my naïveté, I had a strong wish for him to pay attention to you, believing you to be a better match; at the same time, I hoped Mr. Deedes would look in Fanny’s direction. When I could, I gently nudged you all in that direction, and I cast the play with these pairings in mind, believing that the intimacies of the theatre might help you discover your true affections. Only now do I know the real truth, and how wrong I was!

  I am so sorry for the rift I have caused. All this ill will must be mended, and without delay. Fanny believes that you stole her fiancé; you must tell her how you really feel! With regard to Mr. Deedes: do not give up all hope. I have an idea of how to bring him back—but you must act to-night. Please, please, do me the honour of coming out and speaking to me—now. I await in my chamber with bated breath, a mortified heart, the greatest respect, and—

  All best wishes,

  Jane Austen

  The second note I addressed to Fanny, expressing similar sentiments, and revealing the truth not only of Mr. Cage’s feelings for her, but of Sophia’s feelings with respect to Mr. Cage and Mr. Deedes.

  I folded both notes, knocked to announce my delivery, and quickly slipped them under each young lady’s door; I then returned to my room to wait with Cassandra. Not five minutes passed before two chamber doors were heard opening down the hall, followed by Fanny’s and Sophia’s tearful voices. Their tender exclamations echoed in the passage; after an interval engaged in conversation, both burst into our room, holding hands, red-eyed, and exchanging loving looks.

  “Well, Jane!” cried Fanny. “I suppose I should thank you; you have given me my sister back. But I am very, very angry with you!”

  “So you should be,” replied I, rising, my cheeks burning with shame.

  “I forgive you,” said Sophia, wiping her eyes. “I cannot count how many times Fanny has insisted that she did not love Mr. Cage. It is not wonderful that you took her at her word.”

  “All that is in the past,” insisted Fanny crossly. “What matters is what we do now. You said that Mr. Cage truly loves me?”

  “He does; he told my brother so,” replied Cassandra.

  A smile lit Fanny’s countenance and she heaved a great, relieved sigh. “That is the best news I have ever heard. What is your idea, Jane? How do you propose that we get our gentlemen back?”

  Before I could reply, Sophia shook her head, and said:

  “There is nothing you can do for me. It is too late. You were affianced to Mr. Cage, Fanny; he might return, and your relationship might well be mended. But Mr. Deedes has no reason to return to this part of the country.”

  “Then we must give him a reason.” The second part of my plan I thought best not to reveal until I had spoken with my brother, lest I falsely raise any hopes; so I only said: “Are you familiar with the old legend regarding the strewing of rose petals on Midsummer’s Eve?”

  Sophia nodded. “Of course.”

  “We tried it once, when we were girls; we scattered petals at midnight, and repeated the saying.” Fanny shrugged with a faint smile. “Sadly, no robust young lads came looking for us the next morning.”

  “Perhaps,” said I, with a knowing look, “that was because you had not yet met your one true love.”

  Sophia and Fanny exchanged a glance; then the former cried, “What are you saying, Jane? You think the legend might work for us to-night?”

  “It has worked for other couples. It is certainly worth a try.”

  The sun had long since set, but its last dusky rays and the brightness of the moon illuminated our way as Sophia, Fanny, my sister, and I stopped in the walled rose garden. The Bridges sisters had quickly changed into the new gowns which had been made for them expressly for the occasion, and together we sought out the oldest-looking roses we could find, sweeping the loosened petals from the stems into our baskets until they were brim-full.

  I was not sure I could trust in old legends—I depended on my other part of the plan to be the real means of bringing Fanny’s and Sophia’s wishes to fruition—but I had read and heard enough tales to believe in the possibility of magic, and fully intended to scat
ter rose petals myself to-night, with a certain young gentleman in mind.

  Cassandra was going to strew rose petals as well. “It might be impossible for Tom Fowle to visit me tomorrow,” said she, smiling, “but he might think of me, and come to call after we return home.”

  We made our way to the park at the front of the house, where the evening air was filled with the sounds of music performed by a trio of hired musicians, and the lively chatter of the sizeable group assembled on the lawn.

  An assortment of dry brush, tree branches, and twigs had been formed into a pile as wide as a horse-cart and nearly as tall as myself. Thankfully, the last few days of sun had so warmed the grass as to make it dry enough to sit upon. The servants reclined on blankets on one side; the family were convened on the other, where chairs had been set up for the senior members of the party. Lady Bridges was engaged in conversation with Mrs. Fielding, Mrs. Payler, and my mother; upon noticing Fanny, a troubled look crossed the former’s countenance, but she glanced away.

  My eyes sought and found Edward Taylor; he was chatting congenially with his cousin Thomas. My heart ached to be with him; but first, I had important business to attend: I must speak with my brother Edward. I observed that Charlotte, seated not too far off, had her own basket of rose petals. I knew what—or should I say who—she would wish for at midnight. If the legend were true—suddenly, I wanted more than anything to believe that it was—then only one of us could prevail. Which one would it be?

  Chapter the Thirtieth

  Our presence was immediately detected by Elizabeth and my brother Edward, who, hurrying to our side, expressed their pleasure at seeing us all amongst the company.

  “You must sit with us,” insisted Elizabeth to her sisters with real sympathy. “Fanny, do sit over here by me; and Sophia, here.” Such a kind display on Elizabeth’s part, particularly in the manner in which she addressed Fanny, with whom she had up till now been on such unfriendly terms, was both surprising and commendable. Fanny and Sophia obliged, laying their blankets beside her, and a tête-à-tête immediately began.