I must have shown my amazement for he laughed, revealing teeth that were sadly discoloured.
‘I have taken the liberty of engaging two maidservants for you at your lodgings,’ he said. ‘I know you will need more but at least you will have someone to help you settle in and no doubt you will need more suitable clothes—the muslins and silks the ladies wear are easily obtained I believe.’
I could scarcely take it in that I, who had never had so much as one maid, was now to consider that two were not enough—perhaps I was going to like it here in India!
When did I decide that I should marry Mr Hancock? I cannot now quite remember except that he seemed to expect it and I quickly realised that Madras was a difficult place for an unmarried woman. There were too many men there without wives and while in some respects that should have been exciting, in truth their manners and conduct were not those one would expect of gentlemen in England. I often felt threatened and soon became aware how quickly a young woman could lose her reputation.
So Mr Hancock it was to be. He was a doctor and enjoyed a level of society I could not have aspired to even as a governess, let alone as a milliner. I was to be mistress of a large household, now increased to forty servants and with no fewer than four personal maidservants. When I wrote to my dear brother and my uncle to announce my engagement I knew they would think I had done well for myself in moving to a higher social level than they could have expected. Of course, the letter would not have reached them before our marriage in February 1753, and by the time I received their congratulations, we had been married almost a year.
I suppose we might have remained in Madras for many years more with our only sadness being that no children came along. I did not know why this was. Some of the ladies with whom I spent days and for whom we gave dinners referred delicately to our childlessness and I remember one who even implied that as my husband was a doctor, he knew how to avoid pregnancy! I had very little experience in these matters and felt sure my husband had very little more, and although I imagine that he, like most unmarried men who spent time in India, had had a native mistress at one time, in truth he did not seem to be excessively interested in our conjugal relations. Nonetheless, we were puzzled as to why no children came and in fact we were beginning to plan a return visit to England so that I could see a specialist doctor, when our plans were thrown into disarray by receipt of a letter from the governor of Bengal. When the servant brought the letter in, with its elaborate seal, I was very excited and could not wait for Mr Hancock to open it.
‘’Tis from my friend Robert Clive,’ he said, smiling. ‘He offers me a post as surgeon general at Fort William. Shall you like Calcutta my dear?’ he asked, looking over his spectacles.
I was overjoyed and kissed him warmly. ‘Oh Mr Hancock, I shall be able to renew my acquaintance with my dear Mary.’ We had not met since we parted on the quayside at Madras, but we had corresponded regularly and I knew that she had lately found happiness again after her bereavement with a man who worked for the East India Company called Warren Hastings. Had I known how that meeting would change all our lives, would I have been so eager to go?
The sound of the dining bell, loud in the still evening air, brought me back from my reminiscences. I turned from the ship’s rail and went below to dine with my husband, my daughter and her…her…godfather.
TWO
Tysoe Saul Hancock
1775, Calcutta
I am once more feeling quite unwell and as I read the letter back that I am to send to my dear wife, I wonder if my state of health is reflected in its tone. Her last to me took less time than usual to reach me—just over five months—but it brought news of yet another addition to my brother-in-law’s family. I have responded:
That my brother and sister Austen are well, I heartily rejoice, but I cannot say that the news of the violently rapid increase in their family gives me much pleasure; especially when I consider the case of my godson, who must be provided for without the least hope of his being able to assist himself.
Poor little George, I reflected, had to be boarded out forever at Monk Sherborne and taken care of—he would never be able to shift for himself.
I wonder if the letter, which Philla will read many months hence, sounds bitter? I do not feel so, but I have more than a moment’s envy for my brother-in-law, George. His family is increasing rapidly—three sons in the first three years of their marriage and three more children, with a little girl at last, in not much more. He is not well off—that much is clear from the number of times he has had to borrow from me or his sister, though to be fair he has always repaid us promptly—but his letters and those of my sister-in-law, Cassandra, are always cheerful and optimistic. He seems genuinely pleased about his large family and content to take in boarders at the school, as well as his parish work. How I should have hated to have so many growing boys about the place, intruding on my home. And yet again, here I am in this great house with an army of servants but with no one to talk to and neither wife nor daughter to minister to me in what might be my last illness.
I call for the servant to light the lamps as I return to my letter.
Mr Hastings was here today as we had, as ever, matters of business to discuss. He shares my concern about the uncertainty at present about the tea exports. Unlike me, however, he has not so much of his fortune there invested to be excessively worried.
How shall I put it to her that our dear old friend, who has already been so good to us, has made a generous gesture to my wife and our dear Betsy? We are already greatly indebted to him for the monies he has given us in the past, but this last is beyond everything. I do not wish to give my dear Philla an excuse to be more profligate with money than she already is, and yet I must reassure her that she and the child will be well cared for when I am gone.
‘Old friend,’ Mr Hastings had said to me, ‘you must perhaps now face the fact that you are seriously ill and may never see your wife and daughter again.’ He is right, of course, though I have been resisting the thought.
‘You owe me nothing,’ I returned, ‘though you have a blamable generosity and would swallow your fortune as fast as you have made it. Why I have never known you to keep half a crown if a poor man wanted it.’
He smiled that warm smile of his. His hair, always sparse, is now almost gone, yet he still retains his youthful looks—his skin soft, his eyes clear, while I, at fifty-two, look and feel an old man.
‘Dear Tysoe, you have not always had the best of luck and I feel that I am responsible for some of that ill fortune. In hindsight perhaps we were foolish to return to England when we did—it cost us dear’.
‘Aye, it did, yet my dear Philla was so eager to see her family and I myself wanted to show my dear Betsy off.’
‘But we reckoned without the expenses of keeping a household in England, did we not?’
‘We had a good two years though, especially our times at Stevenage and of course with the Woodmans in London,’ I said.
‘How soon, old friend, did we realise that we should have to return here? Living in England, pleasant though it was, turned out to be simply too expensive—beyond our means—did it not?’
‘I think we knew that within the year but I put off the voyage as long as I could. Perhaps I realised that I would never see my family again.’
I could scarce forbear from weeping at that and it was then that he told me of the new arrangements he had made.
‘We must ensure that Betsy has the best education, that she is a lady in every sense. She can already sit a horse well, I understand, and her mother’s engaging a French governess will do her well in terms of language and behaviour.’ I had shown him Betsy’s last letter to me—they are not frequent but they do show she has not forgotten me.
I could scarce believe what he told me he was planning to do for Betsy and now attempt to tell her mother:
He has given a lump sum of £10,000 to be invested in a Trust fund. I thought no persons could be more proper for Trustees than your brot
her and Mr Woodman. You must get your brother to come to town and with Mr Woodman to sign the Deed, taking care that the proper seals are affixed before signing.
The interest of this Money will produce to you while you shall live nearly four hundred pounds per annum and the whole, if she marries be a large fortune to Betsy after your death.
As you and the child are now well provided for I may venture to tell you that I am not well enough to write a long letter. Give my love and blessing to Betsy.
And now that he has gone and the letter is sealed, I suppose I must ask myself just why Mr Hastings is so generous. True, my Philla was kind to his wife in her last confinement and our Eliza is named for the wee daughter who died so tragically at three weeks, just after her mother. True, Mr Hastings is her godfather. True, we took care of their little boy and the two stepdaughters when he was in the first paroxysms of grief. But he has little cause to thank us for our recommendation that the little boy should be sent to the school of my brother-in-law in Hampshire. I am sure Mr Austen took the greatest care of him and that his wife looked after him as she would one of her own, but the fact remains that the child was dead of a putrid sore throat within months of being there and never saw his father again. Mr Hastings has never cast blame on them or us and I suppose he looks on Betsy as a substitute child. A substitute? Well, of course there has been talk. But it was mostly from that spiteful wife of the governor and I have never found Hastings’s manners to my wife anything but proper, affectionate of course, but entirely proper. It was natural for him to give her financial assistance when I had to return to India. He followed the year later and could not leave his friends embarrassed for money. I frequently saw his letters to her and remember well how he used to conclude them:
Adieu my dear and ever valued friend. Remember me and make my Bessy remember and love her Godfather and her Mother’s sincere and faithful Friend
Surely no husband could object to that? The only time I had any ground for suspicion was when I wrote to Philla the year after he returned to Calcutta to tell her he had a new favourite among the ladies. This was Mrs Imhoff—very vivacious but of course a married lady. I was astonished when on receipt of this news my wife immediately proposed returning to India with Betsy, who was then about ten years old. I was truly horrified at this idea—she had surely seen the problems that could befall a young girl, especially if she was without the protection of both parents, if one of them should die, for example—we had seen young girls debauched or married far too young and I would not put my Betsy at such risk. I wrote immediately:
You know well that no girl tho but fourteen years old can arrive in India without attracting the notice of every coxcomb in the place of whom there is a very great plenty at Calcutta.
I am glad to say that Mr Hastings shares my concerns and bids me tell you that he is to settle £5000 upon his goddaughter.
I am sure my wife did not want to lose her place in Mr Hastings’s estimations nor have the child lose hers, but I was relieved when her scheme of returning was by this means averted.
I feel that my end is near and I shall die content that my dear ones are taken care of and that they remember me with affection. I have left detailed instructions for Betsy’s education and I feel she will make a brilliant match with a man worthy of her. With her looks, her fortune, and her connections, it is to be expected. How I wish I had their portraits near so I could look upon them again. I loved especially the one of my dear wife in her dark blue silk, the pearls I gave her at her throat. But the damp air here threatened to spoil them, so I had to have them returned to England for safekeeping.
In my will, which leaves everything I have—I fear there is very little; I have been a poor businessman and an indifferent and reluctant practiser of physic—to Philla, I have left the miniature set in a ring of diamonds to Betsy and have requested in the will that she never part with it as I intend it to remind her of her mother’s virtue as well as of her person.
Hancock died in November 1775. News reached his wife in England in the spring of the following year while she and Betsy were at Steventon helping Mrs Austen following the birth of her second daughter, Jane.
THREE
Eliza Hancock in Paris
1780
I hope dear uncle George likes the miniature portrait I dispatched to him yesterday. I thought that he, my aunt, and cousins would like to see me looking more a lady of fashion than they had seen me last time I was in Hampshire. It may encourage them, too, to stop referring to me as Betsy, since Eliza is a so much more refined name. My mother says the miniature is a remarkable likeness and, with my hair piled up and powdered, I am pleased that I resemble some of the elegant ladies of the court. The blue ribbons on the dress and threaded through my hair are remarkably becoming, and we took the idea from a portrait of the queen at Versailles, where Her Majesty had her hair arranged very like. I sent uncle George a note with the package, which I hope will amuse them all at Steventon. I imagine them all looking at the picture and laughing at my description of the liberal use of powder at court—indeed, no one would dare to appear in public without it, so the ladies look as though they had dipped their heads in a tub of flour.
Paris is a most remarkable place. I had heard tell before we arrived here of the dirt and dangers people encountered, but to my mind it is the most exciting place I have ever visited—even more than India, though of course I remember very little of Calcutta since it is nigh fourteen years since I left our home there. My only sadness is that my dear father is unable to be with my mother and me to experience the delights of this great city. I know it was his dearest wish that I should have the benefits of a French education, and my mother wished it very much, too.
It took so long to settle my father’s affairs and the poor man was in such financial difficulties at the last that I know my mother worried at one time that we should not be able to afford the life she and my father wished for me. All our income, £600 a year, would not have permitted us to live in style in London, but it was sufficient for us to live tolerably well sur le continent. Our maid Clarinda and I both loved Germany, where we went first, and Mama was happy in Brussels, but it was in Paris that we all three felt immediately that we could settle—filling at once our desires and my dear father’s wish that I should be given an opportunity to acquire French manners and develop fluency in a language he always called ‘the most elegant in the world.’
By the time we arrived in Paris I noticed that my dear mother had once again that distracted air that meant she was worried about money and that my father’s affairs—especially the amount still owing to creditors—were still uncertain even five years after his death.
‘There was never a man of better principles than your father,’ she said to me, ‘but some people are born to be unlucky. He suffered such a concurrence of unfortunate events as to make him much distressed financially.’
‘Are we distressed financially, Mama?’ I asked her.
‘Not immediately, my dear,’ she reassured me, ‘but this illness of Clarinda’s will cause us difficulty. The operations are costly, but she has been so faithful a creature that we must support her no matter what the cost.’
‘Could we not ask my godfather to help us again, Mama?’ I put my hand on her shoulder and was sad to find it much thinner than I recalled.
Her face darkened.
‘It has been nigh four years since I last heard from him and with his new responsibilities…He is a grand person nowadays and has a wife…’
I was concerned to see her sadness. I had once overheard some ladies talking of her connection with Warren Hastings and had, as a foolish girl, wondered if my mother had been in love with him.
‘But he has no children has he?’ I interrupted.
She looked at me closely. ‘No, only stepchildren ’tis true…. Perhaps I may…’
‘Come Mama, I will bring you writing materials and let us set to together.’
The letter began, of course, with apologies for being in to
uch after so prolonged a period but with the excuse of our concerns over Clarinda’s long illness, beginning as it did with a mere whitlow on her finger but escalating into almost half a year of severe disability, resulting in very heavy expense and great anxiety for us all. My mother enquired if my father’s affairs were yet settled and whether any monies remained for our benefit after all the creditors had been paid.
She would have ended the letter at that point but I encouraged her to add something more personal.
‘He was ever a warm and affectionate friend to us, Mama—let him know that we still think of him with warmth and gratitude.’
She hesitated but then concluded the letter thus:
I once thought to confine this letter to business, but knowing your heart as I know it and being convinced that in spite of appearances it has not changed for your friends, I cannot refuse you the satisfaction of knowing my daughter, the only thing I take comfort from, is in perfect health and joins me in every good wish for your happiness—you may be surrounded by those who are happy in frequent opportunities of showing their attachment to you, but I will venture to say not one among them can boast a more disinterested, steady, unshaken friendship for you than that which for many years has animated and will continue to animate the breast of, dear Sir,
Dearest Cousin Jane Page 3