Harry flushed a little and I went bright red.
‘Jane!’ I said.
‘You know that terrible sister-in-law of Jenny’s who is forcing her brother to refuse permission for the marriage – well, I was thinking that if we knew something about dear Augusta, something that might, shall we say, bring her round to understanding Jenny’s point of view, well . . .’
‘You’re not thinking of doing a spot of blackmail yourself, are you?’ enquired Harry with his attractive grin. ‘Bath is having a bad effect on you. What would your father say?’
‘I just thought you might have noticed her arriving by sedan chair at the Greyhound Inn last evening,’ said Jane with her most demure air.
Harry was deeply embarrassed, I could see. He kicked at the railing around the gardens with a well-worn riding boot. Eventually he said in a reserved tone, ‘Yes, she did come to have dinner with a gentleman.’
‘Private parlour?’ queried Jane with a lift of her eyebrow.
Again Harry gave the railings a few gentle kicks, but eventually he nodded.
Jane understood his feelings. Afterwards she said to me that all boys are like that – they hate telling tales. Jane is an authority on boys – as well as having her own brothers, she has been brought up with Mr Austen’s pupils filling the house for most of the year. Quickly she changed the conversation back to discussing whether or not she should draft something for Mrs Leigh-Perrot’s submission to the jury of twelve men at her trial. Harry was very enthusiastic about how well she would do that. He remembered, rather tenderly, I thought, a story that she had written when she was only eleven and how clever he had thought it. By the time he left us to exercise his horse, he looked quite happy again.
‘Let’s go and talk to Eliza about it,’ said Jane as soon as he left us.
Eliza was still in bed, her hair under her nightcap still in its curling papers. She looked blissfully happy as she sipped her hot chocolate and nibbled her toast.
‘Dear Phylly is out,’ she said. ‘She’s gone to the early-morning service at St Swithin’s and when that is over she will go to the post office. She spent yesterday writing letters.’
‘Shame about that,’ said Jane, sitting on the foot of the bed. ‘Think what fun you would be having going ten times around Queen’s Square Gardens in the fresh morning air, instead of lying there in your bed drinking chocolate.’
Eliza shuddered dramatically, but made no reply. One nice thing about Eliza is that she is very loyal to Phylly. Apparently Phylly used to write to her once a week during all the years that she was in France. Though Jane said to me privately, once, that was Phylly’s way of tormenting Eliza. She knew that her cousin was too busy with her social life to write back more than once a month, and so Eliza had to apologize a million times to Phylly for the delay in writing. Phylly probably deeply enjoyed making her feel guilty, according to Jane.
‘We wanted to ask your advice,’ said Jane, taking a bonbon from a silver box on the dressing table and offering one to me also.
Between the two of us, we told her about Harry’s latest news and his suggestion that Jane help her aunt with the submission to be read out to the jury. I had started to get quite enthusiastic about that idea. There was no doubt that Jane could put things into words very well, and Eliza would be able to tactfully tone down the exaggerations a little.
But Eliza disappointed us. She seemed unlike her usual flamboyant self – very, very cautious and circumspect – very wary about interfering in the Leigh-Perrot affair.
‘I think, Jane chérie, we should leave your aunt and uncle to work these things out themselves. They are both people of the world; they will know the right things to do. They have legal advice. They will be well looked after.’
We were both a bit taken aback by this, and to cover the awkward moment Jane began to tell Eliza about Augusta and her dinner at the Greyhound Inn. Immediately Eliza’s eyes began to sparkle. ‘Oh là là,’ she breathed. ‘Quel scandale!‘ In her excitement she spilt her hot chocolate on the silver tray.
‘And listen to what happened to Jenny,’ went on Jane, competently taking the tray and depositing the spilt chocolate into the slop pail.
I told Eliza all about how Augusta left me alone at Mr Stanley Wilkins’s house and how she went into Mr Jerome Wilkins’s house. Jane joined in with the account of how Mr Stanley had proposed to me and then tried to ravish me – ‘ravish’ was Jane’s word and it made me feel like a heroine in one of Mr Richardson’s books.
‘Alors!‘ was Eliza’s comment. She slipped her dressing gown over her nightdress and threw back the covers.
‘We were thinking, Jenny and me, that we might hint that we know something – make her worried. What do you think about that, Eliza?’
Eliza powdered her face and then carefully outlined her eyes with something called kohl, one of the many gifts brought from India by her godfather, Warren Hastings. Then she took from a jewelled box a tiny black patch, which she placed to conceal a minute pimple on her left cheek. Only when that was done to her satisfaction did she reply.
‘Mais non. Leave this to me.’
Quickly she pulled out a sheet of superfine writing paper, dipped her quill into the ink pot and began to write. The letter was short and soon folded and sealed with a drop of scarlet sealing wax. Then Eliza wrote the address on the outside.
‘An invitation for your dear sister-in-law to a little tea-drinking tomorrow afternoon,’ she said as she gave me the letter.
‘Oh, but we want to be there,’ complained Jane. ‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘Anyway, Augusta will say nothing if we are around.’
‘Quite true,’ observed Eliza tranquilly. ‘I have asked her to bring you both, but I will send you out of the room to fetch some petits gâteaux from the pastrycook. You will no doubt be able to listen well from the little kitchen and will arrive with the sweetmeats after I have finished talking about my daily visit to the baths and inviting Augusta to join with me in this health-giving process.’
‘I’m sure that you never visited the baths in your life,’ said Jane with conviction.
‘But, chérie,’ cried Eliza, ‘of course I did. How else could I turn faint on the way home last Thursday and have to drop into the Greyhound Inn for a small glass of brandy to restore me?’
Jane has just asked me whether I have put in the cleverness of Eliza in finding an excuse for knowing about Augusta’s visit to the Greyhound Inn, and when I told her that I had she said that she is pleased that Harry is not involved.
‘In fact, I think I’ll tell him the story about Eliza feeling faint after her bath and then he won’t worry about being dishonourable. Harry is so very honourable himself that he would never suspect Eliza of making the whole thing up.’
Saturday, 7 May 1791
At about four o’clock today we went out to visit Eliza. Augusta led the way, wearing her new and very magnificent purple pelisse and carrying her immense fur muff. Ever since I have come to Bath and stared in the windows of the shops with Jane I have begun to realize how much Augusta’s clothes must cost. Today she was also wearing a brand-new pair of yellow nankin boots and carrying a matching reticule. Her walking gown was of silk and her immensely large hat, crowned with its luxuriant bunch of floating ostrich feathers, was of the finest velvet.
Eliza greeted us warmly, ushering us rapidly through her small narrow hallway and into the drawing room, with its views over the square. There was something different about the room and for a moment I could not think what it was. Then Jane’s eyes met mine and I realized the plan.
At one end of the drawing room there was a large hatch with wooden doors that could be opened to hand food in from the tiny kitchen beyond. Today this hatch was screened off. Eliza had hung across it a hideous piece of embroidery, stitched by Phylly, with strange-looking flowers around the outside and a large text scrolled across the middle:
‘Don’t take off your cloaks and bonnets, girls,’ Eliza was saying with well-acted haste. ‘Something te
rrible has happened. The pastry-cook has not delivered the petits gâteaux for our tea. You must run down to Bath Street and fetch them. Here is the key for you to let yourselves back in again. Go quickly Madame and I will entertain ourselves with gossip until you return.’
In a moment she had pushed us out of the room with a quick wink and a nod towards the kitchen. We waited until she had gone back in, then walked noisily, tramping on the floor, towards the hall door, opened it, shut it with a bang and then crept back into the kitchen, where we were not surprised to see a great array of little cakes spread out on pretty plates. Jane tiptoed towards the hatch, whose wooden doors were clipped open, and I followed her. We both perched on the table there and prepared to listen. With just the screen between the drawing room and us, we could hear every word spoken.
Eliza, I realized, was playing the part of a lifetime. Sophisticated lady-about-town, deeply admiring of Augusta’s fashion sense, full of deprecating little jokes about ‘admirers’, sure that Augusta had many of these . . .
‘We don’t take any notice of men, do we?’ she said to the rather impressed Augusta, who judging by her giggled response to ‘agréables’, was flattered to be counted as a woman of the world by the sophisticated Comtesse de Feuillide, who was important enough to be invited to private balls at the Crescent by a princesse.
And then Eliza mentioned the baths. Perhaps she and Augusta could go there together one day, she suggested. Augusta was not keen, pretended that she could not go without Mr Cooper’s approval. Eliza laughed at the idea of a mere man having anything to say on the matter. However, she told her how right she was.
‘La,’ she said. ‘I do declare that the last time I went there – what with all this affair of wearing a canvas shift and the smell of the water, oh là là . . . and the crowds that were there . . . I felt quite unwell. In fact, on the way home – this was last Thursday – I felt so faint that I had the sedan chairmen stop at the Greyhound Inn to get me a glass of brandy. I fancy you may have seen me there . . .’
There was a long silence. I wished that I could pluck aside Phylly’s embroidery to see Augusta’s face. I almost thought that I had heard a quick gasp, and then Eliza spoke again, her tone light and teasing.
‘Don’t worry, chère madame,’ she said. ‘Les dames, they must have fun, hein? He is rich, this Mr Wilkins, n’est-ce pas?’
Augusta gave a shaky laugh. ‘I’ve heard that you are a great flirt,’ she said, trying to match Eliza’s lightness of tone, but only succeeding in sounding vulgar and stupid, as usual.
Eliza sighed. ‘Ah, flirtation!’ she said, sounding deeply sincere. ‘Hélas, mon amie, I am too old for all that sort of thing now. But you, that is another affair. You are young, you must amuse yourself.’
Then there was a short silence. I imagined Eliza tapping Augusta on the arm with her fan and exchanging smiles with her. Eliza is only a few years older than Augusta, but my sister-in-law was probably quite happy to be taken for a young woman.
And then Eliza spoke again.
‘However, permit me to give you a little advice. Have your fun, but be careful. Above all, be careful of sharp young eyes and sharp little ears. Keep them sweet, my dear. Don’t set them against you.’
Still Augusta said nothing. Jane was mouthing the words ‘little pitchers’. I shook my head at her. How was Eliza going to manage this? I wondered.
Eliza herself had no doubts though. Her voice was strong and confident.
‘It was a mistake, mon amie, to make an enemy of your husband’s sister and her cousin, bien sûr. They come to me, you understand, with stories . . . You must marry Jenny off. You don’t want her back with you in your house, do you? Accompanying you on every visit? Talking to her clever little cousin about you? No, no, you don’t want that. Give her what she wants – let her marry the captain.’
‘She is so without ambition. I could have made a wonderful match for her with a very wealthy man,’ sighed Augusta, but there was something about her voice, a sort of respectful sweetness, that made me think that she had understood the point. Her own flirtation – or whatever it was with that abominable man, the slave dealer – was more important to her than thwarting me and my hopes for the future. She had no doubt given up the thought of marrying me off to Mr Stanley Wilkins. He probably didn’t ever want to see me again after the way I disgraced him in front of his servants and neighbours at Bristol.
‘Talk to your husband tonight,’ advised Eliza. ‘He will be pleased to think that you have Jenny’s interests at heart and that you just want the girl’s happiness.’
I imagined a quick wink from Eliza at this point. I held my breath. Was it going to work?
Another deep sigh from Augusta. ‘I suppose you are right,’ she said. ‘It’s not as if she were a beauty or anything like that. I hoped to make a match for her – a very advantageous match, but her manners . . . her clumsiness . . . her stupidity – well, the gentleman will probably no longer be interested if she behaves again as she did a few days ago.’
‘You have done your best,’ said Eliza sedately. ‘Now get her off your hands, before the captain too changes his mind. No one would blame him as you have refused his offer. Let her write to him as quickly as possible. Alors, tell me, are you going to Lady Russell’s party next week? And have you heard the latest on-dit about her young admirer?’
Jane put her finger to her lips and slid carefully off the table. I followed her and we tiptoed down the hall. There was little fear of discovery – gales of laughter were coming from Eliza’s drawing room. We edged the hall door open quietly and went down the stairs towards the front door. After waiting for a while we returned noisily, went straight into the kitchen and appeared in the drawing room with plates of small cakes in our hands and demure expressions on our faces.
But now it is ten o’clock at night and Augusta has not spoken to Edward-John. Or else she has spoken and he was unwilling to grant his permission . . .
What is happening????
The Day of Mrs Leigh-Perrot’s Trial
I’m so sleepy that it feels like the middle of the night. I stumble out of bed while Rosalie wakes Jane. Neither of us speaks while we wash and dress.
Downstairs James is yawning over a cup of strong coffee. Mr and Mrs Austen have finished their breakfast and are waiting in the hall; she is dressed in a stout cloak and he in an old-fashioned greatcoat with many capes over his shoulders. Edward-John appears and says guiltily that Augusta is too ill to come. Jane looks sidelong at me but is too sleepy to make a comment.
Then we are walking down the hill to the White Hart Inn where we will get the stagecoach. The trial is not to be at Bath, but in another town called Taunton. In the coach I keep sleeping and waking with a start and sleeping again. James and his parents are playing cards, and Jane is sound asleep with her head on her father’s shoulder.
‘Taunton!’ shouts the coachman, and we are here at last.
We get out, stretch our legs, eat a second breakfast with some wonderful tea and scorched toast, and then we are on our way up through the town until we reach the courthouse.
‘It’s in the castle,’ says Jane, looking up excitedly. ‘It’s where Judge Jeffreys condemned all those two hundred men to be hanged in the time of King Charles II. He did that at the Bloody Assizes, you know.’
‘Jane, be quiet,’ says Mrs Austen fiercely, and I think it rather tactless of Jane to talk in this way. By the end of this day we will know the fate of our own aunt. I just can’t believe that anyone could hang an old lady – even if she did take that piece of lace! And would transportation be any better? Could she stand the journey of a year out to Australia and then have to live as a convict? I start to shiver and pull my cloak closely around me.
The court is held in the great hall of the castle. There is a sort of raised platform at the end with a large chair for the judge. Then there is one boxed-off enclosure for the accused and another larger one where the twelve members of the jury are already seated. At the end of
the platform, but at floor level, is a long table where the lawyers in wigs and long black gowns are sitting. Beside this is the witness box.
The hall is almost full – James says that he thinks there must be about two thousand people there. Mrs Austen takes a piece of paper and a pencil from her reticule, scribbles a note and tells James to take it to Mrs Leigh-Perrot’s lawyer, Mr Jekyll.
In a couple of minutes he comes over and shakes hands with us all and finds us chairs at the side of the hall, quite near to the dock. He tells us that there are four of them, four lawyers, all to defend Mrs Leigh-Perrot. He speaks confidently, but when he goes back to the table and whispers to his three colleagues I think that they all look worried.
Then Mr Leigh-Perrot comes in by himself. He looks very old, and his gout is troubling him. He walks with a stick. Mr Jekyll jumps up to greet him and takes him over to a seat beside us, whispering loudly that this is going to be a famous case and that most of the big London papers have sent journalists to cover it. He points out the journalist from the London Times, standing leaning against the wall nearby, but Mr Leigh-Perrot ignores him. He hardly even notices us as he stumbles along. He has cut himself shaving this morning and his hair doesn’t look brushed. His eyes have huge pouches under them as if he hasn’t slept properly for a long time. Mrs Austen jumps up, hugs him, and gets him to sit down beside her. I notice that she holds his hand. This brother and sister are very fond of each other, I think, and I look at Edward-John sitting at the end of the row. He hasn’t spoken one word to me today.
And then Mrs Leigh-Perrot is brought in from a door at the back of the platform. She is dressed very stylishly in her dark green pelisse, a fine muslin white scarf swathed around her neck, and a brand-new elaborate headdress in green velvet – not exactly a bonnet – is gathered in a sort of band around the front and covers her head, flowing down to her shoulders at the back in a very elegant style. She must have sent for this especially to wear at the trial. I had never seen it before, but Rosalie had been up and down to the prison with clothes for her mistress.
Jane Austen Stole My Boyfriend Page 17