“Of course,” said Mama. “Jenny, would you ring for Kitty?”
“Mama, may I show Madame upstairs?” asked Jenny, glad of the opportunity to leave the company. She felt dazed. No, that was not quite right. She searched for a word that described her feelings, and it came to her: thinned. Like watered milk. Eliza’s story had entered her soul and weakened her resilience, never very great, to the harshness of the world.
Henry, silenced, watched as Madame Bigeon expertly lifted the child. Jenny longed to run to her brother, hang on his arm, see the realization in his eyes as they fell on Eliza in her widow’s weeds. But these were the actions of a child no older than the boy in Madame Bigeon’s arms. Instead, she spoke again to her mother.
“If you please, ma’am, I shall stay upstairs until dinnertime.” Mama nodded reluctantly, and Jenny turned to Eliza. “Cousin, I beg you to excuse me.”
“My dear, of course.”
Jenny’s longing for solitude had never been so strong. She had neither the patience of Cassandra nor the social ease of Eliza. She could not bear to hear the story of the guillotining repeated for Henry, then to pass the time until dinner in murmured condolences and news of mutual acquaintances.
Madame Bigeon was too fatigued to talk. She asked to be brought bread-and-milk for the boy and soup for herself, with a little bread and wine. Then she retired behind her door.
In her own room Jenny, with inexpressible relief, flung down the bonnet which still hung around her neck, peeled off her gloves and unbuttoned the close-fitting jacket she wore over her dress. How she hated these inconveniently fashionable jackets, so hot in summer and too short to offer any warmth in winter. And where was her parasol? Abandoned in the kitchen, probably, to be tripped over by Mrs Travers, the cook, who would blame Kitty for leaving it there. Not for the first time the thought occurred to Jenny that it was little wonder that men scorned – or, worse still, were unaware of – women’s true mental abilities, when all they saw and heard of the lives of the female sex was concerned with tight clothes and trivial objects.
She knelt on the tapestry cushion on her side of the window seat. She and Cass had each adopted “my side”, as children will, when this little sitting-room had first been presented to them, and they had never broken the habit. Jenny’s eyes felt hot. She rested her brow against the cool window pane, which faced away from the sun. The trees at the end of the garden looked black against the twilit sky.
Her heart somersaulted. The trees – tall, still, silent – brought to her mind a vision of that symbol of man’s hatred and destruction, the guillotine. She could not make it disappear. Her brain was alive with questions she could neither ask aloud, nor expect to be answered. What had been Jean’s thoughts as he mounted the scaffold? Did he have the chance to write a last message to Eliza, or his family in France? Did he break down, or face the blade proudly?
Jenny did not know when she had ever encountered a more distressing thought. She wished she could be calm about it. But the combination of an energetic imagination and a sympathetic nature made her agitated sometimes. And Cousin Eliza, so often the antidote to this woeful tendency, was now its cause. Jenny, you are making Eliza’s bereavement into a drama of your own, she scolded herself. Your vanity knows no bounds.
“God give Eliza strength!” she whispered. “And show me how to act in her presence!”
As the daylight crept away Jenny went on sitting there on the window seat, her head bowed, her hands in her lap, as if she were at church. But she was not praying; neither was she aware of time passing. She was thinking, thinking…
When Kitty came in to inform her that dinner was ready she had not even taken off her boots. “Oh, Miss Jane!” exclaimed the maid anxiously. “Do you not want your slippers? And you still have your jacket on. Let me get your shawl.”
Jenny allowed Kitty to help her off with the boots and jacket. “Kitty…” she began.
“Yes, miss?”
“You went to school, did you not, here in the village? You know your letters?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Do you ever read novels?”
“Novels, miss?” Kitty, inspecting the soles of Jenny’s boots, sounded uncertain.
“Yes. Mrs Radcliffe’s, for instance. The Romance of the Forest?”
“Oh! Yes, miss, I’ve looked into that one. Not when I was supposed to be at my work, though, miss, ask Mrs Travers.”
“Of course. Those boots are perfectly clean, you know. The lane is quite dry. Do you like romances, or stories which frighten you?”
This time Kitty’s bewilderment at being questioned by her young mistress overcame her. She tidied away the boots, folded the jacket, bobbed a curtsey and fled.
Jenny hugged her knees, wondering, wondering… Then she stirred herself, slipped her feet into her soft leather indoor shoes and went to the looking-glass on the wall. A round face regarded her, framed with curls crushed by her discarded bonnet. You are here, in your room, safely surrounded by those you love, she told her reflection silently. But where does Jean Capot de Feuillide lie now?
Jenny
Jenny often considered how lucky she was. Unlike the orphaned Eliza, she and Cassandra had both their parents living, and all their brothers too, despite the hazards of the masculine world. Five of these six brothers, including fourteen-year-old Charles, who was at naval college and would take great exception to being overlooked from the list, enjoyed a rudeness of health and brightness of prospect remarked on by many Hampshire friends. James, the eldest, was a clergyman like Papa, and lived close by with his wife and baby girl, while Edward, who was next to Henry in age, had also married and begun his family. Frank, whose place between his sisters made him especially approved of by both, was doing well as a naval lieutenant.
The remaining brother, George, who had a condition similar to that from which Hastings suffered, and had to be cared for away from home, was no less cherished by Mama and Papa than his more robust brothers. For all this Jenny daily thanked God. But a large part of her gratitude was reserved for what she considered an equally great blessing: Steventon itself.
The day after Eliza’s arrival she rose early and, leaving Cassandra sleeping, went out into the June morning. She breathed the calm air, surveying the view. However often she saw it, she would not be deflected from the opinion that the landscape of southern England was unequalled in its beauty. Nothing she had seen in art or life could compete with the spring-renewed glory spread before her. Born to it as she was, it never failed to awaken in her a reverence deep enough to be a passion.
The house was only a country rectory, surrounded by a garden which was only a vegetable plot, a few flower-beds, a pigsty and a run for Mama’s chickens. Papa’s school had room for only a few boys, though, as Mama frequently reminded him, they made up in high spirits what they lacked in numbers. Steventon was only a village like many another, containing the usual mixture of inhabitants, some delightful, some not. But the contentment that this small world gave Jenny was so profound, she could not imagine how she would bear its loss when – if – a young gentleman should ever come to take her away to his world.
She wandered up and down the lines of raspberry and gooseberry bushes, holding her skirt away from the ripening fruit. Kitty, in her milking apron, a bucket in each hand, emerged from the dairy and crossed the yard. The sour smell of manure mixed with the sweeter one of the bakehouse. From the kitchen came the sound of Mrs Travers alternately scolding Kitty and singing while she prepared breakfast. Jenny picked a handful of raspberries and leaned against the sun-warmed garden wall. She crushed a berry against the roof of her mouth, aware that each of her senses felt more than usually alert. The world had never seemed more beautiful, and, mindful of yesterday’s heart-stabbing news, she had never been more relieved to be in it.
I am simply the luckiest girl alive, she told herself.
“I would so love to see the Lloyds again” were the words with which Eliza addressed her aunt after breakfast. “Dear Ma
rtha and Mary! And Mrs Lloyd, of course.”
Scarcely a day went by when Jenny and Cass did not walk to nearby Deane Parsonage. Their particular friend was the elder Lloyd sister, Martha, whose simplicity of nature and keen intelligence had recommended her to them from the day the Lloyds had entered the neighbourhood.
“I am sure a visit can be arranged,” said Mama, contemplating the cluttered remains on the table. She could not rise until Hastings had finished, and Eliza was still patiently feeding him porridge.
“Let us go today!” suggested Jenny.
“But they do not expect us,” objected Cass calmly. “One cannot go calling on people without notice.”
“Oh, the Lloyds never mind about that.”
“Jenny!” cautioned Mama. “You forget, this will not be the usual sort of visit. We are in mourning, and must adhere to the formalities, as your sister points out.”
“As if I could forget that we are in mourning, Mama!” cried Jenny, mortified to be admonished before her cousin. “I merely meant to say,” she explained to Eliza, “that there is no need for us to put off visiting them. They are our closest friends.”
“Very well, then,” said Eliza, “it is settled. I shall write a note for your servant to take over to Deane this morning, and bring Mrs Lloyd’s reply. I am persuaded we shall see them this afternoon.”
“Am I to be included in the party?” Henry asked, looking at Eliza over the newspaper from his seat by the window. His side-lit features, youthfully bony, looked to Jenny quite handsome. For a brother, anyway.
“Would you like to be included?” Eliza asked him.
“Most certainly,” returned Henry. “The Lloyds’ cook makes excellent scones.”
“Then let us all walk to Deane together,” said Eliza. “Hastings must have his airing, and the weather is delightful. Shall you come with us, Aunt?”
“No, I must excuse myself,” replied Mama. “I shall be helping Travers bake pies today. I daresay you are not aware, Eliza, of the number of pies needed to satisfy our schoolboys’ appetites?”
“Oh…” Eliza looked concerned. “Are you able to spare Cass and Jenny, then?”
“My dear, they are more use in eating the pies than baking them. And as for you, Henry,” Mama added, “why not take Mrs Lloyd a jar of that apricot preserve Anne sent over yesterday so that you may spread it on your ‘excellent’ scone?”
Jenny took note of how lively, and how like Cass’s, her mother’s eyes were. Jenny had once teased her sister, saying that she was as beautiful as “Classical” Cassandra, the heroine of Greek legend, while she, Jenny, was “Plain” Jane. “You judge yourself too harshly,” had been Cassandra’s reply.
“I shall present the preserves to Mrs Lloyd,” volunteered Eliza, taking up a napkin to wipe Hastings’s mouth, “since I have no gift of my own to take. If she asks how they are made, however, I must disclaim all knowledge.”
Hastings was not able to walk as far as Deane. He was pushed by Madame Bigeon in an invalid chair stuffed with many cushions. Henry walked beside them, carrying a blanket in case Hastings should feel cold, and a basket of provisions in case he should be hungry or thirsty.
Eliza led the way. “How delightful Steventon is!” she declared, linking arms with her cousins and sniffing the air. “I do believe that scent is honeysuckle. Oh, you have no idea how insufferable sooty buildings and hard pavements are when the sun shines on them!”
It was a long time since Jenny and Cass had visited London, but they were familiar with Bath. Jenny remembered how violently she had hated its slippery cobbles and garish, torch-lit rooms. “We have no doubt of the advantages of Hampshire,” she said to her cousin, “but do you not remember the last time you were here? It rained every day, and the ford was flooded.”
“I do remember!” cried Eliza. “Henry and Edward went to Basingstoke to get that book I wanted, and they arrived back as bedraggled as if they had been sea-bathing in their street clothes. I never saw our good-natured Edward look so mortified!”
She turned her attention for a few moments to Madame Bigeon, instructing her briefly in French. Then she resumed her place at the head of the party. “Dear Edward. What news of him?”
“His wife, Elizabeth – you have met her, have you not, Eliza? – reports that their little girl, Fanny, is on her feet, and curious about everything in the house,” Cass informed her. “Fanny and her cousin Anna, James and Anne’s little girl, are the dearest children in the world, are they not, Jenny? Oh! I mean, except for Hastings, of course.”
Eliza suppressed a smile at Cass’s confusion. “Anna and Fanny must be very near in age.”
“Yes,” said Jenny. “Last spring Cass and I suddenly became aunts twice over, within a few weeks.”
“And do you see your nieces often?”
“We saw Anna only yesterday, when we called on James and Anne,” replied Cass. “And though we do not go often into Kent, we hope to visit Edward and Elizabeth at Godmersham later this summer, and look forward very much to seeing little Fanny then.”
“Do we?” asked Jenny amiably. “I have not heard about this, though I confess I do not listen to every single word uttered by our parents.”
To Jenny’s surprise, Cass coloured. “It is merely a suggestion,” she said uneasily. “I am not sure…”
Perceptive Eliza rescued her. “So James and Edward are each the father of a daughter!” she exclaimed. “And to think I slept last night in the very chamber they shared as boys. Did you know that their heights are still visible, marked on the door-frame?”
“So are ours,” said Cass, “on our door-frame. It is an Austen tradition.”
“Nobody ever measured me, and I am an only child,” Eliza observed. Then she gave her head a little shake, and turned to a new subject. “And now, my dear cousins, may I mention the name of Fowle?”
Jenny glanced at her sister. She looked very lovely. Fine skin and curly hair, prerequisites of any beauty, were Cass’s naturally. But Eliza’s words had immediately brought a softness to her eye and a rosiness to her cheek, and her normally serene countenance had grown animated. “You may, Eliza,” she said, “provided we are out of earshot of Henry. He does so love to mock the idea of Tom Fowle’s actually marrying me, you know.”
“Then his impertinence is greater even than I had realized,” said Eliza. “Why, he could not hope for a better match for you. Indeed, I have great hopes for another match, Jenny, between you and the younger Fowle.”
“Charles,” supplied Jenny, knowing Eliza had forgotten the name of Tom’s brother.
“What do you say to the notion?” continued Eliza. “Does he please you as much as his brother pleases Cass? Are we to have a double wedding?”
Jenny tried her best not to allow her feelings to colour either her face or her voice. “We are not, Eliza, so you may put away that ‘notion’ for good.”
In truth, Jenny did like Charles Fowle, but only in the same way that she liked any young man who was kind to her. He and his brother had lived at the Rectory when they were Papa’s pupils, and although to her childish eyes they had seemed impossibly mature (they were the same age as Henry and Edward respectively), their willingness to help a little girl learn to play cards and to allow her to join in ball games in the garden had made them a much valued part of Steventon life. Later, Tom’s superiority in age had ceased to matter, and when Cass was nineteen he had spoken, and she had accepted. Jenny knew that the expectations of her relatives were attuned to the possibility of a further alliance between the two families, but Charles Fowle was … only Charles Fowle. Try as she might to please everybody, Jenny could not make him into anything more.
“I refuse to be discouraged!” replied Eliza. “Now, another interesting notion has just occurred to me. When I am able, I shall make a point of having you and Jenny stay with me in Orchard Street. I shall prevail upon Tom and Charles to leave their labours for a few days, and we shall all venture out to a ball together. What do you say?”
; Cassandra was too bashful to say anything. So Jenny, who felt that she had never loved her cousin so much, replied for both sisters. “Oh, Eliza, you are so kind!”
Eliza turned to look at Hastings. Jenny saw a shadow of emotion cross her face.
“One thing I have learned over the years,” she said, watching her son’s pleasure as he trailed his hand along the honeysuckle hedge, “is that life is more precious than anything. While we have it, we must live it to the full.”
Taking tea in the Lloyds’ garden, Jenny was glad Henry had accompanied them. His presence, even if he did not speak – which could not realistically be hoped for – was a relief from the usual domestic cast thrown over these feminine gatherings.
Evidently Mrs Lloyd agreed. “Why, Mr Henry – or should I say Mr Austen, now you are grown into such a tall gentleman – how honoured we are!” she beamed, adding hurriedly, and bowing, “Indeed, we are twice honoured by the presence of your dear cousin Madame la Comtesse de Feuillide!”
Martha looked embarrassed. Mary smiled. Mrs Lloyd admired Hastings and offered Eliza condolences on the tragic news imparted in the note the Lloyds had received that morning. Eliza nodded her acceptance of these formalities graciously, setting the bunched black ribbons on her black straw bonnet rustling. Jenny saw Mary and Martha eyeing the bonnet, and the lace on Eliza’s sleeves, and the fine Indian silk of her shawl, gloves and parasol. Such gorgeous attire was rarely seen in the country, especially in the middle of the afternoon, and must be committed to memory for the benefit of others.
“Now, Mr Henry, tell me what you are about these days,” demanded Mrs Lloyd as Martha handed Henry his tea. “Your mama tells me your progress in the militia has been rapid. Where are you stationed?”
“At Petersfield,” Henry informed her. “At present I am visiting Steventon for a few days.”
“How lucky to have fallen in with Madame la Comtesse!” cried Mrs Lloyd. Then, remembering, “Although of course one might have wished for different circumstances. But Petersfield is so near, you must ride home often.”
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