Then I realized that I was being obtuse. Of course, Harry would be at the Assembly Rooms on Saturday night, but there was no chance that he would have an invitation to a ball given by a French princess. So I proposed that I would wear my white gown on Saturday and Jane would wear her new yellow gown. Then the following week, Jane would wear white and I would wear my bluebell gown.
I would have to have a little talk with my uncle and assure him that ladies never wore the same gown twice in a row and explain to him that I really, really wanted to keep my beautiful bluebell gown for the ball given by a real ‘princesse’.
Thursday, 28 April 1791
Something terrible happened today.
Two terrible things, really.
But one will probably turn out to be just a ridiculous mistake.
When Jane and I came downstairs Franklin was already putting letters by the plates.
‘Cassandra,’ said Jane, examining the folded piece of paper beside her mother’s place at table. It seems awful now, but we were both giggling over a teary splash on the ink of the capital P of Paragon on the address.
‘Perhaps she’s eloped with Tom Fowle,’ said Jane dramatically. ‘This is her letter of penitence. Dearest Mama . . . love conquers all . . . I could no longer resist his manly arms . . . I have lost my virtue . . . pray consent . . . my tears flow as I write . . .‘
And then Mrs Leigh-Perrot arrived, closely followed by her husband. A minute later Mrs Austen came in and plumped down in her place.
For a moment she hardly noticed the letter – she was busy sipping her tea and crunching the toast that Franklin handed to her on a silver dish, straight from the toasting fork. She liked her toast hot and crisp, with no butter or honey on it.
Then she looked at the letter and gave an amused smile, recognizing Cassandra’s handwriting.
‘Some trouble with the laundry, or the hens, no doubt,’ she remarked tolerantly, breaking open the seal.
There was a moment’s silence. Mrs Leigh-Perrot was reading her own letters, Mr Leigh-Perrot was busy with his newspaper, which Franklin had just warmed at the fire to make sure that the ink was dry on all the pages, and Jane and I were immersed in drinking the frothy hot chocolate Franklin prepared for us every morning.
When I looked up I saw Mrs Austen on her feet, her weathered complexion drained of colour.
‘I must go home,’ she said, gathering up her reticule, first having stuffed the letter from Cassandra into it.
‘Goodness gracious, sister, what is the matter?’ Her brother looked very alarmed. My heart stopped for a moment. Could Jane have been right? Perhaps Cassandra had eloped.
But no, Mrs Austen was looking anxious, almost frightened, but certainly not annoyed. It seemed to take her a minute to speak, almost as though her throat had swelled for a moment.
‘My little boy, my little Charles,’ she said. ‘Cassandra writes that he is in a high fever . . .’
I saw Mrs Leigh-Perrot open her mouth as if to say that children get fevers all the time, but then she shut it at the expression on Mrs Austen’s face.
‘I must leave. Jane and Jenny, go and pack your things!’ And then she stopped. Her face contorted. ‘What am I thinking of? No, I can’t bring you girls back into the house.’ She looked at her brother. ‘Cassandra says that he has pustules on his face and body. The apothecary fears smallpox.’
A moment ago that breakfast parlour had seemed the snuggest place on earth with the warm velvet curtains, the flames from the fire reflected by the highly polished Sheraton furniture, but now that terrible word, smallpox, seemed to turn everything cold and grey – and to go on echoing for a long time afterwards. We all knew that people died in huge numbers from smallpox. Those who did manage to survive were usually scarred for life. I thought of Charles’s smooth young skin and the tears rose to my eyes. I bit my lips, swallowed hard, and saw that Jane was doing the same thing.
Mr and Mrs Leigh-Perrot were very practical and sensible. Jane and I were to stay in Bath – that would be no trouble. Franklin was sent running down the hill to the White Hart Inn to ask the stagecoach to stop outside the house and pick up Mrs Austen. It was not normal to pick up passengers in that way, but it would be on their way to the London road and my uncle was confident that the stagecoach would do this in the case of a mother being summoned home to a sick child.
‘Don’t mention the word smallpox, Franklin,’ advised my uncle, putting some coins into Franklin’s hand – no doubt for the coachman. ‘Just say the child is very ill.’
In the meantime, Mrs Austen had gone upstairs to pack, sternly refusing any assistance. Jane and I looked at each other uncertainly when she was gone. I suspected that Mrs Austen wanted to shed a few tears in private, but it did seem bad not to help her to gather her things together. Neither of us spoke, and although we managed to hold back the tears I think we probably both envied Franklin running at full speed down the hill towards the White Hart Inn. It would have been good to have had something to do.
‘Would you like me to escort you to Steventon, sister?’ asked our uncle when Mrs Austen reappeared with her bags. She shook her head resolutely and told him cheerfully that he should stay and look after his gouty leg, so he had to be content with lending her his own special travelling rug and telling one of the maids to pack a small basket of things to eat.
Franklin arrived back in style, sitting up beside the coachman. Mrs Austen kissed us all in an absent-minded way and was in the coach before her brother could even lend her his hand.
No one quite knew what to do after she left. Jane and I wandered around aimlessly and then Jane decided to practise her music. Mr Leigh-Perrot went off, accompanied by Franklin, to drink the waters at the Pump Room and his wife settled herself down with a little-used embroidery frame.
And then there was a loud peremptory knock on the door.
And this is how things went then.
The maid came in to say that a constable was at the door; Mrs Leigh-Perrot said to send him in. She sounded quite cheerful – she probably welcomed a break in her thoughts about smallpox. The constable was probably just coming about some wild young soldiers who had been doing various tricks, like stealing carriage lamps in the neighbourhood.
And then the constable came in looking embarrassed. He asked her to confirm her name and address, which she did in a slightly annoyed way.
Then he told her that she had to come down to the Roundhouse in Stall Street, where the police constables had an office and a small jail. My aunt frowned at him and asked him why.
Then Jane came in. She had been crying, I could see, and I had noticed long pauses in her playing. However, she looked from her aunt to the constable with eyes that held just a little of their usual sparkle.
The constable consulted his notebook and enquired whether my aunt had bought some white lace at Miss Gregory’s shop on the day before.
‘I did not.’ My aunt’s voice was harsh and her face had darkened. The constable looked at her in surprise and then consulted his notebook again.
‘I beg your pardon; I meant to say black lace.’ He sounded a bit nervous, and I didn’t blame him as Mrs Leigh-Perrot looked very fierce. He dived back into his notebook.
‘Miss Gregory says that you also took a card of white lace for which you had not paid. We would like you to come down to the Roundhouse and make a statement about this matter.’
‘Certainly not!’ exclaimed Mrs Leigh-Perrot. Her eyes were flashing and she stood very tall and straight.
‘W-what?’ stammered the constable.
‘Go to the Roundhouse alone and unprotected! Certainly not.’
‘Your husband can accompany you, of course.’ The constable seemed to breathe a little easier at the thought of Mr Leigh-Perrot. ‘Perhaps I could speak to him.’
‘My husband is not at home,’ said Mrs Leigh-Perrot firmly. ‘In any case, this silly business has nothing whatsoever to do with him. Now take yourself off, my man.’
As Jane said later,
that was where things began to go wrong. Mrs Leigh-Perrot might have done better to stick with the lone-unprotected-female line of conversation, said Jane.
‘I’m afraid there is a very serious complaint made against you, Madam. You are accused of theft. You know the law of the land. Any stolen article over the value of five shillings – and this lace was worth twenty shillings – is classified as grand larceny.’
Jane and I were quite frightened by this. We looked at each other. Mrs Leigh-Perrot showed no signs of anxiety though.
‘May I ask who makes this complaint?’ Her voice was haughty and quite loud.
‘The complaint was sworn by Miss Gregory, the shop owner.’
‘A woman,’ said my aunt with emphasis, ‘without moral or financial probity.’
Jane’s eyes glinted. She liked these sorts of phrases.
The constable snapped his notebook shut.
‘You will kindly attend the Roundhouse in Stall Street as soon as your husband comes home, madam.’ He then picked up his hat and strode out, banging the front door behind him.
An hour later my uncle came home, but nothing was said. We talked of Charles. We heard of Franklin’s opinion that it probably wasn’t smallpox, just some fever. We heard of the opinions of most of the people who drank the waters in the Pump Room, many of whom thought smallpox was nothing, some of whom had various recipes for herbal drinks and others who believed in bloodletting immediately. My uncle sat down to write to his poor sister with all this advice, but my aunt said not a word of the constable’s visit.
It rained heavily for the whole afternoon and none of us ventured out. No one visited the Roundhouse to see the constable.
I’ve just asked Jane what she thought my aunt meant by calling Miss Gregory ‘a woman without moral or financial probity’.
This is what Jane said: ‘She cheats her customers and lives with a man outside marriage.’
I said to Jane that in that case surely no one will believe her but Jane just replied, ‘Grand larceny is very serious.’
Friday, 29 April 1791
Another terrible day. When Jane and I were talking it over tonight we both said that we guessed at breakfast that Mrs Leigh-Perrot had told her husband about the constable’s visit and about the accusation.
Our uncle ate very little and he shot from the table when Franklin came in and whispered to him that the lawyer had arrived. Before he left the room I saw him touch his wife affectionately on the shoulder. She made no reply or gesture in return, but both Jane and I had a suspicion that her eyes were wet.
When the breakfast table was cleared she suddenly spoke for the first time to ask whether Eliza had two or three bedrooms in her lodgings at Queen’s Square. Jane told her that there were three bedrooms, and Mrs Leigh-Perrot nodded calmly and said that was good because if there were some temporary problem then perhaps Eliza would have us to stay with her at Queen’s Square.
‘Why? What could happen?’ asked Jane bluntly.
Mrs Leigh-Perrot gave a superior smile, ‘Well, you know men and how they worry,’ she said. ‘Your poor uncle has got it into his head that this Miss Gregory might make trouble. Apparently . . .’ and when she came to this our aunt turned her gaze away from us, stared at the window and finished by saying, ‘apparently, she has some sort of . . . of friendship with the chief constable.’
Jane’s eyes met mine and her eyebrows shot up. We neither of us had the spirit to make any jokes though, and when my aunt told us to go and write letters or something we did not even discuss the matter. We were both too worried about Charles and the possibility that the poor little fellow has smallpox. Jane is writing a letter to her mother and I am writing my journal.
At about eleven o’clock, Jane and I went out to have the last fitting for our new gowns. It was sort of sad, because our aunt declined to come. Since breakfast time she had worn a worried expression, and her husband, who seems devoted to her, kept casting anxious looks in her direction.
We set off alone, and were soon joined by Harry. I must say that I began to suspect that he kept a watch on the house because whenever we come out in our bonnets and cloaks – and alone – he is soon by our side.
Jane told him about Charles, and oddly for Jane, who seldom cries, tears overflowed from her eyes. Harry was very upset. I think that if I were not there he might have taken her in his arms instantly.
‘He’ll be all right; he’s a tough little lad. I know about six or seven fellows who had smallpox when they were young. Got a few marks left, but he won’t mind that. He’ll be off to the navy school at the end of the summer, won’t he? He’ll be proud of a few scars then – make him look tough.’ While he was talking, I could see how he was racking his brains to think of the right thing to say.
Jane gulped a little, and then laughed and then gulped again. She stopped by the railings of the Queen’s Square garden and faced into the bushes. Once again I bent down to fiddle with my lace. When I took a peep upwards, Harry had his arm around Jane.
A moment later two ladies with parasols came along the pavement chattering noisily and Jane moved away.
‘Dear Harry,’ she said affectionately. ‘I’ll stop making a fool of myself and embarrassing everyone.’
When we returned from the dressmaker’s shop, the stagecoach from Bristol was just coming up Gay Street. There seemed to be only two people in it, but a large number of bandboxes in the luggage carrier at the back.
‘Two women,’ I guessed.
‘Or one man and one woman with many heads,’ said Jane. She kept trying to make jokes all the morning. I think she was embarrassed that she had cried in front of Harry. He had offered to wait outside the dressmaker’s while we were having our fitting, but Jane told him not to be silly and not to waste a nice fine morning and to go and have a ride around Sydney Gardens, or something. He looked very miserable when he went off, poor fellow.
I was so busy thinking about Jane and Harry and trying to work out whether she was in love with him or not that I didn’t notice for a moment that the stagecoach had stopped outside the Leigh-Perrot house. It was only when Jane gasped that I realized that the tall, rather plump man who had stepped down on to the pavement was my brother.
‘Oh no,’ I moaned under my breath. I didn’t think that I could stand having Edward-John and Augusta around as well as the worries about poor little Charles – and the worry about Aunt Leigh-Perrot being accused of stealing.
I felt embarrassed about seeing them again. The last time I was in such a temper with them that I just ignored them and didn’t bother saying goodbye. Now I felt that I couldn’t go up and hug them or even shake them by the hand.
Luckily the door opened just then. Franklin came running down, beaming with delight. He glanced at the stagecoach, but came quickly over to Jane. ‘Good news, Miss Jane,’ he whispered, and then went over to assist with the baggage. By this stage our uncle and aunt had come out, Uncle waving a letter and calling out, ‘Nothing but chickenpox! The little lad is fine.’
Jane went so white for a moment that I thought she might faint. I put my arm around her as she held on to the black metal railings. After a minute, her colour came back and she laughed a little hysterically. ‘Honestly, Cassandra! Couldn’t she tell the difference between chickenpox and smallpox?!’
I tried to excuse Cassandra’s mistake, saying that it was sometimes hard to distinguish between the two in the beginning stages, but Jane wasn’t listening. She was shaking hands very politely with Edward-John and Augusta (I just dropped a quick curtsy and kept my eyes on the pavement) and saying in her most grown-up tones, ‘What a shame that we have to run away the moment that you arrive, but we really must bring the good news to Cousin Eliza. She was so very upset when we told her about Charles.’
Instead of going to Eliza – she hadn’t even been told about Charles’s sickness – Jane and I went for a walk. Harry joined us and we went up to the Crescent and looked at the view from there. Then we had a good look at number 1, also. Even though
it was still quite bright, we could see hundreds of candles already burning within the house.
‘To think that we will be dancing there next week,’ I said longingly. I felt a little guilty because Thomas would not be there, but then I imagined what a lovely long letter I could write to him describing the event (and give to Harry to post). Thomas had given me the name of a ships’ post at Southampton. Apparently ships take letters for each other.
‘I will be dancing with a comte,’ said Jane, gazing up at the stately windows.
‘Not Monsieur Baddy, I hope; you’ll make Eliza envious,’ I said.
‘Every Frenchman is a count,’ said Jane very positively, and Harry laughed. He knows her so well, and is always amused at her conversation, especially when she is living in one of her stories.
After supper we went up to our room, saying we were going to write letters. Mr and Mrs Leigh-Perrot looked as if they would be glad to join us but Augusta was talking about two brothers, friends of theirs, very rich merchants, who had shared the stagecoach with them and who were now staying at the Greyhound, which, according to her, is the best inn in Bath.
‘There’s Harry outside,’ said Jane, going to the window to close the curtains. She gave a sigh. ‘Oh dear, how romantic it would be if he were to pace the pavement until dawn! Do you think that is what he is going to do?’
‘Poor Harry!’ I went and joined her, pulling the curtain back a little so that I could see him. The movement was enough to attract his attention. He gave one quick look upwards and then took a folded letter from his pocket and pretended to be busy scrutinizing the address.
‘Jane,’ I said quickly, ‘I think Harry has a letter for me. Or perhaps it is for you . . .’
‘Let’s go down.’ Jane was already at the door. We both crept down the stairs and opened the front door as softly and carefully as we could.
Jane Austen Stole My Boyfriend Page 13