And so I turn away and leave her to run up the church path towards the man that she loves while I continue, drearily, walking up the steep and muddy road, pulling my cloak around me as the heavy mist begins to blow across the valley, dragging my hood over my curls, as the drips from the trees turn into rain.
The storm is increasing. I feel as though I am out at sea. The strength of the wind snatches the breath from between my lips. The roadside stream has turned into a raging torrent, its foaming waters are thundering down the hill and the branches overhead bend and creak.
I can see something on the top of the hill. Someone. A figure.
I push back the hood of my cloak and allow my blonde curls to whip around my face.
And at that moment the figure begins to run.
And the wind in my face feels like icy hands, one on each side, freezing my flesh and dulling my brain. Still I do not know; I cannot let myself hope.
‘It’s Frank,’ I make myself say aloud, but I know it is not Frank. Frank is not tall; not broad-shouldered and long-legged like this man.
It’s his ghost, I think then. A gentle loving ghost who has come back to earth to visit his wife-to-be.
And now he is beside me. His hands are on the sides of my face. Burning heat replacing icy cold. His mouth is on mine...
Thursday, 1 December 1791
I have just taken this poor journal from the trunk. Someday I will write the whole story of how Thomas’s ship was caught in a terrible storm, how the sails broke, how they were driven on to a barren rocky island, how he and his sailors lived there for months repairing the ship, getting food . . .
But now I just want to write about my wedding.
It will take place in two weeks’ time.
Thomas has gone to London. He has to give an account of the shipwreck to the Admiralty. There is talk that he might be decorated for bravery, Frank says, but Thomas says that’s nonsense . . .
Mr Austen has written, this very night, to Edward-John and Augusta, inviting them both to Steventon to celebrate my wedding.
Mrs Austen has written to the Leigh-Perrots.
Jane and I have discussed my wedding dress.
Monday, 5 December 1791
We are in Bath! This is how it happened.
Mr and Mrs Leigh-Perrot arrived three days ago.
They brought a letter from the admiral. He hopes to see us in the Isle of Wight in the New Year. He spent a long time explaining why he can’t come to Steventon at this time of the year (Thomas says that his uncle doesn’t want to stir from Bath) and he sent a present of a beautiful cloak lined with swansdown.
But the big event was that Mr and Mrs Leigh-Perrot invited Jane and me to go to Bath for a week to choose my wedding dress, so here we are! We arrived last night and are now all ready for the great shopping trip.
The shop was as beautiful as I remembered it.
I rushed past all the colours though, past the rainbow shades of delicate flimsy muslins.
And there was the white satin!
It hung from a pillar in the darkest part of the shop.
There was just one lamp near to it, but that was enough. The material itself seemed to be full of light. It gleamed with a high gloss.
‘That should drape beautifully,’ said Mrs Leigh-Perrot with satisfaction.
Reverentially Eliza took it down and held it up against me.
‘Parfait!‘ she said with a nod of approval.
‘It’s a bit plain though, isn’t it? What about something over it? What would you think, madame?’ Mrs Leigh-Perrot was determined that I should have the best possible dress in town, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted anything other than that glorious white satin with its wonderful sheen.
‘Not too much,’ said Eliza. ‘Let the material stand by itself. C’est très beau.’ As always when discussing clothes, Eliza was decisive and confident. She trotted away – we could hear her high heels clicking as she moved from shelf to shelf. Jane followed her, but I just stood very still gazing at the wonderful white satin and thinking of the moment when Thomas would first see it.
‘I have an idea.’ Eliza was back, followed closely by the shopkeeper, a brown paper parcel in her hands. She waited patiently while Eliza explained how she thought the dress should be made. ‘And then,’ she concluded, ‘the V-shaped centre of the bodice will be covered with this . . .’
And like a conjur0r she whipped off the brown paper and showed the most heavenly gauze, heavily embroidered with a gold thread.
‘And the sleeves – long like this – they will be ending in a point so we must find something to draw attention to the hands, n‘est-ce pas?’
‘Eliza with clothes always reminds me of a little terrier on the scent of something tasty!’ Jane whispered in my ear as Eliza went scurrying off, closely followed by the shopkeeper. Mrs Leigh-Perrot, I was glad to see, still wore an indulgent smile. I was hoping that Eliza would not involve the Leigh-Perrots in too much expense, but I knew that she would not be satisfied with anything less than perfection.
But when she came back with some lace, white embroidered on white, Mrs Leigh-Perrot gave a genuine cry of delight.
‘Perfect! We’ll take enough for a veil as well as wrist trimmings,’ she enthused. ‘And an ear-of-corn motif – most suitable for a wedding!’
‘Fertility, she means,’ murmured Jane in my ear, and I blushed and said hurriedly that we should now look for the material for Jane’s gown.
‘A nice pink satin,’ suggested Mrs Leigh-Perrot, but Jane had already gone, striding confidently down the aisles, through the draped pillars.
‘I’ve found it,’ she called back.
It was a length of poppy-red satin that flamed in an explosion of colour. It was the brightest, most exuberant colour that I have ever seen. Eliza took it down and held it against Jane. With her dark eyes and dark hair, it looked wonderful!
‘Red for a wedding, for a church – is that a little old-fashioned? They tell me that white is the latest fashion.’ Mrs Leigh-Perrot sounded a little dubious, though I could see that she was unable to prevent a smile of pleasure at the beautiful picture Jane made.
‘Dearest Aunt,’ said Jane solemnly, ‘I think red is so suitable for a church. In fact, I got the idea from the book of sermons written by Jenny’s brother. As soon as I read the phrase: “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow,” I suddenly thought that I would love a scarlet gown. Jenny will be in white satin, white as snow, and I will be in red,’ explained Jane, her eyes wide and innocent.
‘I see,’ was all that her aunt could manage after that, while Eliza gazed at her young cousin with admiration. I hugged Jane and told her that the dresses would be beautiful together.
Today a letter came from Edward-John and Augusta. They fear they will be unable to attend my wedding. It is a very cold letter . . . no present . . . no wishes for my happiness . . .
Till death do us part...
Mrs Austen, Cassandra and Jane are all helping to dress me. I can see my reflection in the cheval looking glass: a small, slight figure in the most beautiful gown in the world. The dressmaker has done a wonderful job; the bodice fits like a glove, with the lovely V-shaped panel of gold-embroidered gauze in the front. The sleeves are bell-shaped, ending in a froth of white lace, and the skirt billows out from the narrow waist.
‘Stand still,’ says Cassandra as I twist to see the back. She is mounted on a small stool and is pinning a short veil of exquisite lace to the back of my head beneath the knot of curls.
‘It’s snowing,’ screams Charles, bursting in through the door, and everyone except me – and Cassandra – moves to see.
‘Stand still,’ says Cassandra again, and now she arranges the swansdown cloak around my shoulders, leaving it open so that the gown can be clearly seen.
‘Now walk slowly and keep your head up. Jane, you put back the hood when she reaches the church. Do it carefully. Don’t dislodge the lace!’
When I reach the bottom of
the stairs Thomas comes out from the parlour. I think he looks magnificent in his gold braid and navy-blue uniform. He has a sword by his side and so does Lieutenant Price.
Mr Austen had wanted to hire a post-chaise for me, but I refused and said that I would prefer to walk like everyone else.
And now I am so pleased that I said that.
We are a true bridal procession. Thomas and I first, Jane and Cassandra next, then Mrs Austen with her eldest son, James, Henry and Frank side by side, followed by the Leigh-Perrots and Eliza, with Charles racing between everyone. I hold Thomas’s arm with one hand and with the other I hold up the satin gown. The ground is still crisp and frosty, and it’s perfect for walking. My swansdown cloak makes me glow with warmth.
And the snow is falling gently, slowly, drifting down in pretty crisp flakes, settling lightly on the bare black branches of the elm trees and crystallizing on the small green shoots of the snowdrops.
Mr Austen, already dressed in his cassock and white surplice, meets us at the church porch door and he is the one that puts back my hood. He kisses me like a true father and then tells me to wait for a moment while the others take their places.
Jane and I wait in the little porch with James. It has been arranged that James will give me away; for a moment I am saddened that Edward-John has not bothered to make the journey from Bristol to Steventon, but I put it from me.
And then James opens the door to the church and I gasp.
Yesterday Jane and Cassandra had gone off to ‘do the flower vases’ in the church. Tom Fowle, Charles, Frank, Harry Digweed, Henry and even James had been with them when they came back in a merry shouting crowd and I was sorry not to have joined them. However, Mrs Austen had kept me busy with some sewing and now I see why.
The small bare church is filled with light from about twenty tall candles. The ledges in front of the six pointed windows have been piled high with branches of yew, the red berries sparkling in the candlelight. Trails of ivy decorate the pews, and here and there a small Christmas rose shows up wired against the smooth glossy green.
The altar table is like a tapestry of red, green and white. Every vase is filled with the mixture of the three colours: red-berried holly stands stiffly behind the delicate Christmas roses and great scrolls of ivy are stitched carefully to a cloth covering the front of the altar.
And then there is a touch on my shoulder. I look around. Edward-John is there. Gently he takes my arm and James falls back.
‘You look beautiful,’ whispers Edward-John. ‘You are so like Mother.’
Slowly I pace the small aisle of the church, my hand on Edward-John’s arm, and Jane holds up the train of my dress although the tiles have been scrubbed as clean as Mrs Austen’s dairy. Everywhere I look, I can see the care and the love the Austen family have shown me. The small fireplace in the north aisle is blazing with pine logs and the church is so warm that I know Frank has been tending that fire since before dawn – he was chopping wood for most of yesterday and then bringing it to the church in wheelbarrow loads. Over the altar steps there is a large, rather unsteady arch that I’ve seen Charles hammering together in the barn. It is made from nailed-together elm branches decorated with strands of ivy. Beneath it are two brand-new kneeling cushions – I have had glimpses of Mrs Austen and Cassandra embroidering these over the last few days – and I recognize James’s handwriting on the decorative order of service that Mr Austen handed me at the door. When we reach the chancel arch Jane nudges me and whispers in my ear, ‘Harry climbed up there yesterday.’
I look up, and hanging down from the high roof beams is a large bunch of mistletoe, dangling from a long red ribbon. Mr Austen glances up too, but he just smiles.
And then the service begins. Cassandra sobs, and I hear Mrs Austen whispering, ‘Control yourself, girl,’ but when I look sideways I can see tears sliding down my aunt’s face.
The candles flicker, the fire crackles, words slide through my head and out from my lips...
‘I take thee . . . lawful husband ... for richer, for poorer... in health...’ And the awful solemnity of ‘...Till death do us part.’ And then Thomas slides the gold ring on to my finger... And his lips meet mine and I stand encircled in his arms. And we are together and will never be parted.
Author’s Note
Many readers of my first Jane book, I Was Jane Austen’s Best Friend, have written to say how much they enjoyed the notes at the back where I record which parts of the novel are truly biographical, which parts I guessed from evidence and which parts I made up completely.
So now I want to do the same for the second book, Jane Austen Stole My Boyfriend.
I think that my inspiration for this book and for its jokey title was a quote from Mary Russell Mitford about Jane as a teenager: ‘Mamma says that she was then the prettiest, silliest, most affected, husband-hunting butterfly she ever remembers.’ I like that quote. I feel that it makes Jane stand out from the rather well-behaved genteel girls of the period and it was a great help to me when creating her character and describing the fun the girls had in Bath.
As I said in my author’s note to Book 1, I have changed Jenny’s name from Jane Cooper (couldn’t have two Janes) and made her younger than she really was so that she could be nearer in age to Jane Austen.
So what is true? Well, Jane and Jenny truly were great friends. Jane’s nephew and biographer, James’s eldest son, talks of this. Jenny (Jane) did fall in love with a Captain Thomas Williams, he did propose marriage three weeks after they met and they did get married in Steventon church in the month of December.
Mr and Mrs Leigh-Perrot did have a West Indian man acting as a servant or butler in their house. In reality he was called Frank, but I renamed him Franklin to distinguish him from Jane’s brother. Mrs Leigh-Perrot was accused of shoplifting, put on trial in Taunton and acquitted in rather the manner that I suggest. The records of her trial still exist and I read through them very carefully.
I had a delightful visit to the beautifully preserved city of Bath before writing this book and I hope that I got the details right. You can visit the Assembly Rooms where Jane danced, look at the chandeliers, see the Pump Room and the baths which feature in her novel Northanger Abbey, walk past the house in Queen’s Square where she stayed with her brother Edward (where I have lodged Eliza in my novel) and see the Leigh-Perrots’ house in the Paragon.
Jane’s cousin Eliza is a great favourite of mine. I feel that I know her generous, fun-loving character very well from her letters which have been preserved. Many of these letters were to her cousin Philadelphia Walter (Phylly). I’m afraid that I took a great dislike to Phylly from her letters (some of which have also been preserved). She was very rude about Jane when the poor thing was only twelve years old, calling her ‘affected and prim’ and ‘not pretty’, but I think the worst was the letter that she wrote to her brother when poor Eliza’s mother died. Eliza had nursed her mother, who died of breast cancer, devotedly for months and months, but at the news of the woman’s death Phylly seemed to gloat over the fact that Eliza would be left ‘friendless and alone’ and that it served her right after the ‘gay and dissipated life’ she had led.
I think that the most important piece of research that I did for this book was the story of Harry Digweed.
As I describe in the book, Harry was the son of the Austens’ neighbour, literally the ‘boy next door’. Though I feel sure that Jane’s elder sister Cassandra burned the majority of the letters where she mentions Harry Digweed, one – which is mainly about how her writing desk was put on to the wrong coach – was rather revealing, as Jane alludes to Harry as ‘my dear Harry’. In the eighteenth century this was most unusual. Jane normally, once she was grown up, talks of Mr Lyford, Mr Chute, etc. I think her use of those words might imply that Cassandra knew all about the love affair, but would not want to encourage Jane, as Harry had no money and Jane herself would be penniless.
I followed the career of Harry Digweed as best I could by looking up documents in
the Hampshire Records Office and discovered that he rented two farms (from Jane’s rich brother Edward) in Chawton and used them to grow hops. Hops were used in beer-making and were a very profitable crop at that time. It looks possible that Harry then went into the brewing business in Alton, a few miles from Chawton. The main brewery there was owned by an elderly lady and the chances are strong that she would have needed a young man as a general manager. Harry rented a house in Alton at the time.
However, even so, he would not have been considered a good match for Jane. And it looks as though her family conspired to part the two.
Fifty years later James’s eldest son wrote about a letter written by Mrs Leigh-Perrot which expresses the opinion that the Austens moved to Bath in order to ‘get Jane away from that Digweed man’.
Acknowledgements
Anyone writing a biographical novel is always conscious that their airy work of fiction is resting on the shoulders of those who have gone before – those wonderful people who spend years studying books, following up leads in archives, delving into dusty piles of handwritten letters, wandering through draughty graveyards, inspecting the sites of buildings that no longer exist, and always checking that every word they write can be substantiated.
Chief among this heroic band to whom I owe so much must be Deirdre de la Faye. She not only edited the definitive edition of Jane Austen’s letters – tracking down every reference with that infinite capacity for taking pains which certainly amounted to genius – she did the same thing with Eliza de Feuillade, Jane’s other first cousin, and allowed me to sense the personality of this fun-loving, brave, endearing woman. Deirdre de la Faye has also produced a book, The World of Jane Austen, which sat by my bedside during the months when I was writing these books and which proved of inestimable value to me.
The three great biographers Claire Tomalin, David Noakes and Park Honan have added to the picture that I had formed. Penelope Byrde and Sarah Anne Dowling wrote informative and delectable books on fashion in the time of Jane Austen. Maggie Lane on Jane Austen’s Bath and her world was another essential book to have at hand.
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