The ball was held in the Assembly Rooms and we found ourselves part of a crush of humanity so dense it was difficult to move beyond the entrance without getting poked in the face by high feathers or elbowed in the ribs by some fan-wielding matron. Mrs. Austen spotted a friend sitting on one of the high benches that edged the ballroom and, with some determination, managed to push her way through the throng and take a seat beside her. She beckoned Fanny and Anna to join her, which they did willingly, for it afforded the best view of the assembled crowd.
Fanny was wearing a new gown of pale green taffeta, but Anna was wearing the same rather tight-fitting dress she had worn to the fireworks. I noticed that her father and stepmother were both splendidly and expensively attired. Mary wore an open-fronted gown of fuchsia silk edged with lace, worn over a white satin petticoat. On her head was a hat of the same deep pink, lined with white silk and trimmed with tiny beads of jet. Three ostrich feathers curled from the front: two white and one dyed to match her gown. The soft brim of the hat flattered her face, casting a shadow over the pockmarks.
She seemed very much the master of her husband, summoning him to her side with a flick of her fan when he got caught up with someone of his acquaintance. He wore a mauve waistcoat with a matching silk cravat—chosen, Jane told me, to complement his wife’s costume. Observing him at the fireworks display I had not been able to distinguish his face very well. I saw now that he had similar features to Jane and Henry but lacked the magic ingredient that lit up their faces. He had a look of bored resignation in his eyes, which, together with his unfortunate habit of walking about with his nose in the air, made him appear arrogant and irritable.
When the Grand March was called, Mary took James firmly by the arm and propelled him to a place as near to the front of the procession as she could get. Henry escorted Cassandra, leaving Jane and I together. There must have been fifty couples at least, which made the business of walking around the room without treading on the hem of a gown very difficult indeed. As we reached the place where we must curtsey to the Master and Mistress of the Dance, we turned to the left and I caught sight of Mrs. Warren Hastings. She and her husband were only half a dozen places ahead of us, but I could not see him because of the turban she was wearing. It was the size of a goodly pumpkin, but of a creamy hue, with a fountain of black feathers erupting from her forehead.
Jane had spotted her too. “Her head looks like a half plucked turkey,” she whispered, “and she will tickle all her partners till they sneeze.”
We squeezed each other’s arms in mirth when we saw Mr. Hastings take out a handkerchief and wipe his nose. It happened during “The Duke of York’s Fancy,” for which each person retained their partner from the Grand March. The next dance saw Jane and I separated, for her card had been marked by Captain Jenkins, an elderly gentleman who lived next door to the Austens in Trim Street.
“He smells of dogs and has only three teeth in his head.” Jane grimaced as she showed me her card. “I rather hoped that he would ask Mama, but it seems that I am to be the lucky one!” As the captain rolled up to claim his prize I saw Henry leading Cassandra to a seat on the bench near her mother. Then he took Anna’s hand and raised her to her feet. I saw a blush come to her cheeks and she would not look up, her long dark lashes attempting to mask the embarrassment her skin betrayed. I saw Henry beckon to his brother, who looked at Mary for approval before moving across the room to join his family. He took Fanny’s hand and the two men led the girls to a little alcove off the ballroom as the music announced the start of “The Prince of Wales’ Favorite.”
“Henry is such a darling!” Mrs. Austen declared as I took the seat Anna had vacated. “He knows how much those girls were longing for a dance and he has found the very spot: a place where they can hear it all but not be seen by anyone save the musicians.”
Mary did not look in the least bit impressed by this gesture of Henry’s to her stepdaughter. She complained that he had taken James away for what was her favorite dance. Then she began to grumble about the price of the tickets.
“It is all very well for you, living here,” she said to her mother and Cassandra, “but the expense of visiting such a place is not to be borne! Austen and I have had to have six new outfits each, not to mention James-Edward’s new boots and coat and the baby carriage for Caroline…” she trailed off into a litany of moans and groans, culminating with the observation that the Leigh-Perrots would do well to give away some of their money while they were still alive to see the benefit it would give.
I stole a glance at Mrs. Austen, for it was her brother and his wife that Mary was discussing so disrespectfully. Her face bore a version of the weary irritation I had seen in her eldest son. I was reminded of the words Madame Bigeon had spoken in the kitchen at Henry’s house. Yes, I thought, James is married to a scold.
The dance ended and the girls returned from the alcove bright-eyed with excitement. Henry gave Anna a little bow as he released her and she flashed a shy smile at him. Then Mary was on her feet, getting between them and simultaneously seizing her husband by the hand.
“It is high time you were going home, girls,” she said, in a voice that defied any appeal that might be forthcoming. “Clarkson is waiting for you over there. Off you trot!” With a wave of her fan she dismissed them. “Now, James,” she went on, “you must take your sister for the next.” She pushed his hand toward Cassandra and took Henry by the arm. “Brother, do you like ‘The Royal Meeting’?”
“I do indeed, Sister,” he replied with a wide smile, “but I fear I cannot be your partner, for I have promised this dance to Jane.” With that he set off to claim her from the octopus arms of Captain Jenkins.
James was already on his way with Cassandra and Mrs. Austen had gone to see Fanny and Anna off. That left me alone with Mary, who looked as peevish as a cat turned off a cushion. There was noise and movement all about, but the silence between us was oppressive. I was racking my brains for some suitable topic of conversation when, to my great surprise, Warren Hastings appeared at my side.
“Would you do me the honor, Miss Sharp?” He was holding out his hand to me. From the corner of my eye I saw Mary Austen’s frown deepen.
“Why, thank you Mr. Hastings,” I said, grateful for this unexpected chance of escape. As he led me away I heard Mary Austen muttering to herself. I could not tell what she said, but no doubt it was something spiteful.
For an old gentleman Mr. Hastings was very light on his feet. Before long I spied his wife dancing with an admiral whose brass coat buttons looked as if they might fly off with the strain of holding his stomach at bay. He was not sneezing, although he did look very red in the face. She wore a fixed smile and was obliged to shift this way and that to avoid being bumped by his belly. She did not look happy.
After complimenting me on my gown and remarking on the exceptional weather, Mr. Hastings revealed the motive for his act of chivalry to me. “Tell me, Miss Sharp,” he said, “how was my Betsy when you saw her?”
“Oh,” I replied, “she looked very well to me. We spent a most pleasant afternoon together.”
“Was her husband there?” There was a flicker of something dangerous in his faded blue eyes.
“Not that afternoon, no,” I said cautiously, “but he dined at home in the evening.” I thought it best not to say that Eliza had left the house before he returned. I was mindful of Henry’s warning about the implications for Jane of stoking any suspicions Warren Hastings might already have formed about the marriage.
“I suppose you saw him more often at Godmersham?” He smiled as he said it, but I was certain he was fishing.
“When I worked there, yes,” I replied.
“I hear that it is a very fine house indeed,” he went on. “If I had a brother with such a place I daresay that I would be a very frequent visitor.” I said nothing in reply to this, hoping that a puzzled sort of smile would put him off. It did not. “Did Betsy visit much while you were there?”
As luck would have i
t, the dance demanded a star formation at this point and I was required to turn away from him as we joined our right hands with the couple opposite. The circular walk we next performed gave me time to think of a suitably evasive reply. “I’m afraid that I was not always aware of visitors,” I said, as we came together again. “I did not enjoy very good health while I worked at Godmersham. I was sent away to convalesce for several weeks on account of my eyesight. That, in the end, was why I had to quit my post as governess.”
“Ah”—he nodded—“I am sorry to hear it.” To my relief he abandoned the subject of Henry, having apparently decided that a woman with bad eyes was a hopeless sort of witness to interrogate. The dance ended and his wife was upon us in a moment, her feathers twitching like the feelers of an ant. She touched her hat with the folded tip of her fan in a gesture that perfectly conveyed her opinion of me and her impatience with him. He bowed and took his leave. As I made my way back across the floor I felt Jane’s hand on my arm. I turned to see Henry standing beside her.
“Well, Miss Sharp—a distinguished partner indeed!” His eyes searched mine. “I trust that Mr. Hastings did not overtax you with conversation? ‘The Royal Meeting’ is such a vexing dance to perform correctly, is it not?” Just like Mrs. Hastings with her fan, Henry’s message was crystal clear.
“He was a most considerate partner,” I replied. “Alas, I am not as practiced as he, but I was able to play my part without too much disgrace, I think.” I saw a smile of relief spread across his face. Jane saw it too and cast me a curious look. But before another word could be spoken James came bustling up to us.
“Where is Mary?” he asked, his face agitated. “I cannot find her anywhere!”
His inquiry caused us all to go off in different directions, searching inside and out to no avail. When we came together at the high bench, we found him talking to his mother.
“She came running out as the carriage was departing,” Mrs. Austen said. “She felt unwell and decided to go home with the girls.”
“What was wrong with her?” James frowned.
“She did not say,” his mother replied with a shrug. “It is vastly hot in here; I expect she felt faint from the dancing. I’m sure that I should have felt so at five-and-thirty with a child not a twelvemonth old!”
I saw someone else approach our little party then. It was Warren Hastings, who had seen our confusion and wanted to know the cause.
“It was my brother, sir,” Jane told him. “He had lost his wife.”
“Is that so?” Mr. Hastings inclined his head very slightly and fixed his eyes on James. Then he looked at Henry. With a sage sort of nod he said: “You Austen men really should take better care of your wives!”
Nineteen
I wish that I could dwell on the joy of dancing with Jane that last night in Bath, of breathing her in as I held her in “The Duke of Kent’s Waltz.” I took a bottle of lavender water back to Yorkshire to remind me of the scent of her, and to relive the days we spent together during the long, dark months when work and family ties kept us far apart.
I wish, indeed, that I could continue this memoir as I originally intended it to be: an honest portrayal of Jane and her family and the depth of my attachment to her. But a few days after recording my memories of the ball, I made a discovery that transformed my perception of the tragic events that unfolded in quick succession of my visit to Bath. Suspicion has weighed so heavy on my mind that I have been unable to write anything for a long, long time. In taking up my pen again there is a sea change in my motivation, a pressing need to clarify thoughts that are too dangerous to voice.
There was a brief lull before these calamities began, during which my life in Yorkshire continued much as before the trip to Bath. I decided that enough time had elapsed to claim an improvement in my eyesight and before long I was reading novels to Mrs. Raike every evening. One night I happened to get up during the reading to close a window that had been left ajar and I spied Rebecca, tucked behind the door, listening. She ran off in tears when she realized I had seen her. It took me a while to comprehend what the matter was, but with the aid of a paper and pencil, I managed to persuade her to draw pictures of what troubled her. The explanation was quite simple: she could not speak, but she could hear quite clearly—and she loved to listen to the stories we read aloud each night.
With Mrs. Raike’s encouragement, I began trying to teach her to read. It was more of a challenge than anything I had ever attempted, but she was an eager pupil. Within a month she had mastered the alphabet and was able to draw pictures of a hundred words whose written shape she recognized. It was a wonderful thing for me to behold her progress. I had missed teaching more than I realized and Rebecca gave a new dimension to my life, a sense of purpose.
Before long she was able to write sentences as well as read them. She would sit alongside me sometimes when I wrote letters, copying passages from the Bible or a favorite book. Sometimes I read snippets of Jane’s letters aloud to her, for if she found something amusing it seemed to stick in her brain all the better.
“It will be two months on Friday since we left Bath for Southampton,” Jane wrote to me in August. “What happy feelings of escape! I do not think I told you what happened the night before we left: Captain J. came from next door to bid us all adieu, but when he arrived, Mama and Cass were still upstairs packing. I was forced to entertain him in the parlor while we waited. As I went to pour him a glass of wine he said: ‘Well, Miss Austen, I suppose this is my last chance?’ whereupon he seized the bottle from my hand and tried to kiss it (my hand, not the bottle, I should say). I did not wish to wound the poor old gentleman—in body or in mind—but this surprise attack produced the strongest reaction from me. I swung my other hand at his head and caught him on the nose (which, being fat and purple, was an easy target). Mama and Cass appeared at that moment to find him bleeding all over Martha’s rag rug. He told them he had tripped over it and banged his face on the mantelpiece. I did not want to add to his humiliation by contradicting this: I only hope that his new neighbors will not be a gaggle of husband-hunters—the excitement could prove fatal.”
I laughed with Rebecca over this, although I have to admit that the thought of anyone trying to claim Jane, however unlikely their chances, made me jealous. I squirreled away every fond word, every tender phrase that she bestowed on me. And when I wrote back I tried not to betray myself. Her letters were full of the other people in her life while I, with a much smaller cast of characters to draw on, filled up the page with my opinion of some new book or volume of poetry I had acquired. I itched for news of her novels, but I dared not reveal what Henry had told me.
Of him there was no mention in her letters. I wondered whether she regretted confiding her fears about him to me and sought, by silence on the subject, to expunge it from my memory. The only intelligence I received about Henry in the months that followed was from my correspondence with Fanny and Anna and each of them referred to him only indirectly.
Anna wrote in her usual, direct fashion of her fury at missing a trip to London: “I am so angry today I can hardly control my pen. Last week I received an invitation from Aunt Eliza. She said that Uncle Henry was coming to Hampshire on business at his bank and would like to bring me back with him for a fortnight’s visit. She promised trips to the theater and the shops, and, as you can imagine, I was only too eager to accept her invitation. But what do you think? My stepmother took it upon herself to write back on my behalf, turning the offer down flat. She said I had recently suffered a cold and was still weak; the excitement would be too much for me. This, of course, is utter rot. I am as strong as a horse.” Evidently Mary Austen’s jealousy of Henry’s wife burned as bright as ever.
Fanny, on the other hand, wrote me a very cheerful letter announcing that Uncle James and Aunt Mary were to visit Godmersham for the first time in ten years. “I’m so looking forward to seeing Anna again,” she wrote, “and it will be most interesting to see how James-Edward and little Caroline get on with
my brothers and sisters. Uncle Henry is sure to come during their visit, so it is a good thing that Aunt Eliza cannot cross the Thames, for there would certainly be war in our house if she and Aunt Mary found themselves under the same roof.”
The next letter I received from Fanny described all the fun the children had had together, although she did not include herself and Anna in this description as both were now in their fifteenth year and thought themselves young ladies. “Papa took Aunt Mary and Uncle James to Southampton at the end of their visit,” she wrote. “They all spent a week with Grandmama Austen and Aunts Jane and Cassandra. Uncle Henry stayed behind to keep Mama company.”
I raised my eyebrows at this, conscious of the fact that Fanny had made no attempt to qualify this arrangement: on the contrary, she had stated it quite baldly when she need not have mentioned it at all. Alarmingly, the letter following this one informed me that her mother was expecting yet another child. Her last-born, Cassandra Jane, had not yet reached her second birthday. Once again I had to wonder if Henry was the natural father of this coming baby.
A few months later I went to stay with Jane in Southampton. I anticipated the visit with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Jane had written that Cassandra, her mother, and Martha Lloyd would all be away when I arrived, so we could spend the whole week together undisturbed.
“The wind from the sea makes the house rather cold, I’m afraid,” she added, “but we can share my bed if you like.” I had shared a bed many times with my cousins. The memory of Catherine and Constance laughing with me late into the night was something I cherished. But the thought of lying beside Jane was as far from that image as the moon is from the sun. I had no idea how it would feel, how it should feel.
Jane’s bed was a wonderful tented creation of white dimity which, with the curtains drawn, reminded me of a ship in full sail. When I climbed in beside her, I was trembling, and thinking I was cold, she wrapped her arms around me. I lay there very still until she said: “Are you asleep already?” She tickled me and made me laugh so much I forgot to be afraid. Then we lay with our arms entwined, talking until the bell in the castle square rang two o’clock.
The Mysterious Death of Miss Jane Austen Page 18