She seems quite content about her eventual rejection of cousin James’s proposal. I could have told the fool that she would never have him. Eliza as the wife of a country parson—it is too absurd! He clearly thought that because they were both widowed with a child to raise they could suit each other. Is he surprised that she preferred, as she put it, ‘dear liberty’? Well yes, he did seem surprised, as I have heard not only from Eliza but from cousin Cassandra also. I suppose he thought his literary aspirations with poems and the like would conceal from her that life at Deane parsonage would have been very dull indeed compared with a life where you dine with exiled French aristos and curtsey to Her Majesty. How could she have ministered to his parishioners? She cares for little Hastings, ’tis true, but cares for little else except her beloved Pug. Neither I nor anyone else could see her taking soup to the poor of the parish. I suppose it was when she returned to London to think over his proposal that she saw the disparity in their persons and realised that she could not give up the style she so much enjoys, however much poetry he wrote for her and however pretty the countryside was looking in the spring.
So now she has rejected both the Austen brothers, and Henry I hear has found consolation with a Miss Mary Pearson. She has fine black eyes, I understand, and her father is in charge of the naval hospital at Greenwich, so she will have a fine dowry. Eliza writes of this a little wistfully, but you cannot blame Henry after all—he made her the offer and she refused him as she has now refused James. I do not believe that Aunt Cassandra will find this very flattering to her sons, though I imagine she would not have much welcomed Eliza as a daughter-in-law—there is no love lost there.
Mind you, I wonder if Eliza herself is not at present counting herself fortunate that she has escaped a closer connection with that part of the family, for I hear that Jane has been behaving in a way like to bring shame upon it. Eliza herself always professes such admiration for Jane and admires her compositions excessively. While she was at Steventon this time she heard reading from what she called ‘Jane’s best effort yet’—this is a full length novel if you please—about two young ladies called Elinor and Marianne. I do not know if there is any limit to cousin Jane’s impudence—does she think herself a Miss Burney? I am astonished that Uncle George permits it and he a clergyman, too. Does he not know that lady novelists are considered profligate and shocking by decent people?
Anyway, it seems that the writing is not the limit of Jane’s impropriety, as she has developed a reputation for madly husband hunting and recently behaved in the most indecent manner with a visiting young Irishman named Tom Lefroy. It is my belief that Cassandra’s being absent visiting her future in-laws may have been a factor here, as I have always observed that Cassy is by far the steadier of the two. In my view she is the handsomer, too, though I know that others do not agree with me. This Mr Lefroy is the nephew of Jane’s old friend Mrs Lefroy, and he and Jane met at a ball. My correspondents in the neighbourhood were profoundly shocked by how she set her cap at him and threw all good manners to the wind. I believe she even refused one of her promised partners in order to sit out with him and was seen entering the conservatory quite alone with him. Well, of course, it came to nothing—how could she have expected anything else? He is one of a large family with no money, and he is entirely dependent on some great-uncle who pays for his law studies in London. The boy’s family depends on him to make a great match with a wealthy young woman, and Jane has not a penny. He probably just intended to have a few days amusement and she took it all too seriously and had her head turned. She is a shameless creature and, as she writes of romance, no doubt thought that love could overcome all obstacles. Well, she soon learned the truth. His aunt sent him packing pretty smart and Jane is left looking foolish and duped. They have now packed her off to her brother Edward’s in Kent till the neighbourhood have forgotten that she behaved so ill—and perhaps until Cassandra is safe at home so she can keep her in control.
I received a nice letter from cousin Frank, who is also in Kent, on leave before his next venture on the high seas. He and Edward have been out shooting together and he told me—I suppose he thought to amuse me—that Jane had expressed a desire to go out shooting with the gentlemen instead of sewing shirts for her brother! There is no end to the impudence of that young lady.
A few weeks later
There is more bad news from Steventon. Tom Fowle is dead. Even as poor Cassandra sewed her wedding clothes he had been dead some weeks—of yellow fever in the West Indies. How sad for her—but really he should never have gone, engaged as he was. Where was his duty to his family and fiancée? But I suppose the sad truth was that without such a venture they could have no hope of marrying. Cassandra will bear it well—there will be no hysterics for her, no wailing, just bravery and dignity, I am sure. Indeed, Jane herself clearly admires her self-control—no doubt thinking that in similar circumstances she herself would not be a model of restraint. Jane told Eliza that her sister behaves with a degree of resolution and propriety that no common mind could evince in such a situation. There is some consolation for her, too; it seems that Tom has left her £1,000. Those girls could never have imagined the receipt of such riches. I wonder how she will spend it? It will give her at least some small degree of independence, which Jane can never hope for unless she makes a living with that much admired pen of hers. I shall believe that when it comes to pass!
James, too, is mightily afflicted by Tom’s death, as they were friends from boyhood. I believe he gave a most moving oration at the funeral service. Well, not a funeral, of course, because Tom was buried at sea long ago. I believe that both Jane and Cassandra wished to attend the service and would have done so had not their parents forbade them. How unseemly that would have been.
James, I hear, is finding consolation for his disappointment with Eliza. He seems to be courting at Ibthorpe. Mary Lloyd will be far more suitable a wife for him than Eliza, and I am sure my aunt Cassandra has had a hand in this. I have heard her express great affection for both the Lloyd girls, but for my part I never cared much for Mary. Martha is altogether a kinder soul and gentler. It is a thousand pities that James has been so open about his pursuit of Eliza, for everyone must know that Mary is his second choice. What woman would be content with that? I am sure that Eliza will never be a welcome visitor in that house!
Eliza has recently been taking the waters in Cheltenham, a little town that begins to fancy itself another Bath, they say. She reports that the waters have done wonders for her abscess, which is now completely cleared. She tells me often in her letters now that she is desirous of taking control of her financial affairs herself instead of being reliant on Uncle George and Mr Woodman.
‘After all, dear cousin,’ she writes, ‘I am a mature woman, well versed in the ways of the world and quite capable of managing my own money.’
She asks me to intercede on her behalf with my uncle, that he may be persuaded to grant her wish. In vain do I tell her that I can have no possible influence with my uncle, and in any case am not likely to see him in the near future. She has invited me to accompany her next time she goes to Steventon—what cheek she has to issue an invitation to a house that is not her own!—but I do not wish to see those girls again. Jane has returned home from Kent and I think Mama would not wish me to associate with someone who has behaved so ill. Cassandra, meanwhile, is surely too distraught from her own sorrow to welcome visitors.
I advised Eliza to seek the approval of her godfather for her plans as I am sure that neither my uncle nor Mr Woodman would hold out if the great Warren Hastings consented—Mr Woodman is his brother-in-law after all. She told me joyously some weeks later that my advice proved entirely right and Mr Hastings had replied:
As Madame de Feuillide is desirous of taking the money which is now in trust with you and Mr Austen, into her own hands, you certainly ought to comply with her desire if you have the power to part with the trust. If you have doubts respecting this, it is your business, not hers, to satisfy them
by applying to some able counsel for advice upon it and this I think you ought to do.
Upon receipt of this advice, all the trustees needed was proof of the death of the Comte, so that he might not have a claim on her fortune and this is easily furnished.
So she will soon be in complete control of her assets. I have a curiosity to know why she is so set on this. Has she another husband in her sights for whom this would be an inducement? She is now begging me to accompany her to Lowestoft—this lady never stays still for more than a month together. I have heard her speak of a certain Captain Smyth and it is possible she pursues him there, but I remember that I have heard Henry’s regiment is now quartered in East Anglia. I shall not go. She wants me only to confer respectability on what is a far from respectable journey. She is set once more upon Henry, I think.
SIXTEEN
Eliza de la Feuillide, London
December 30th, 1797, or 10 Nivose VI
As I w rite the French version of the date I think of my dear husband, the Comte, writing to me from his prison cell the night before his death almost four years ago and fall to thinking of my decision and if it is the right one.
But the die is cast. Tomorrow is my wedding day when I shall change my name to Austen. So is this my last day as a countess? I suppose so, yet Henry, my dear husband-to-be says I shall always be noble to him. In truth, I daresay he likes the use of the title and the effect it has on those about us. His commanding officer was clearly impressed by it, and it never comes amiss to impress those who can advance or, for that matter, hinder one. Henry has been courting me for so long that I think even he was a little taken aback when I finally said yes, and as I write letters to my dear godfather, my dear uncle, so soon to be my father-in-law, and dear cousin Jane, now to be my sister-in-law, I have been gathering my thoughts as to why I acquiesced after having resisted him for so long.
Attending James’s wedding at the beginning of the year made me envious, I suppose. Not of Mary—I long ago decided I did not wish to marry James and did not regret my decision. In truth, I was rather amused by the unfriendly looks that passed from Mary to me and by how she contrived to take his arm whenever he chanced to look my way. No, it was not them I envied, nor even the state of being married, but rather the state of being in love. That careless rapture, the pounding of the heart when the beloved comes near, was what I found myself missing. And then, too, it can be comforting as well as occasionally exciting to have some physical affection and to enjoy the moments of intimacy when one is preparing for bed in one’s chamber.
It is not as though I was ever madly in love with the Comte, but we had our moments of passion and intimacy and I would not wish to think I shall never know those again.
Then there was the reading I heard from First Impressions while I was at Steventon. Dear Jane’s talent is developing magnificently and there was one scene she read to us that was particularly fine. It concerned her heroine—I suppose that is what we must call her and she is in many ways rather like Jane herself, although she has been kind enough to give her my name—and a suitor, a man of large fortune whose name I have now forgotten. They were dancing partners and the conversation between them was so alive, so flirtatious yet so guarded, that it quite made me long to be involved in such matters again. They were on the edge of intimacy, so suspicious of each other yet so attracted somehow. I told Jane that she had quite inspired me to read more and begged to know the fate of the two characters.
‘Pray tell, dear cousin—do these two marry or have you other plans for them?’
Jane smiled a touch mysteriously. ‘I have not yet decided. I think they may but many difficulties are to be overcome, you know.’
‘You mean that he is wealthy and she is poor?’ I asked. ‘Why, to be sure, a writer as clever as yourself must surely find a way around that.’
Henry had been listening to the reading also.
‘At least there are no other obstacles to their marrying—they are each unattached and are near enough in age I fancy.’ He looked at me meaningfully as he said this and I thought how handsome he looked now that his hair was its natural colour and curled a little around his ears.
I wondered if he was indicating to me that for him the disparity in our ages was still of no concern to him, and perhaps it was then that I began to consider whether I was growing tired of being single after all.
It is a considerable burden to be a woman alone when all one’s affairs have to be dealt with, and I do miss my dear mama, who was always so good to talk to about such things. I was indeed most anxious to have charge of my own fortune and grateful to dear Uncle Austen and Mr Woodman for agreeing to give me control of it—spurred on, of course, by the recommendation of my godfather and yet…when one has the charge of it, it proves indeed to be a great responsibility and one might imagine the relief of giving it over to a husband, even though the law does mean that the husband is himself totally in control. Yet I reflected that Henry—a mild-mannered man and not worldly—might still let me be in charge of the money and the decision making.
When I saw Henry again in the spring of this year I could see he was recovering well from the jilting he had experienced by Mary Pearson and reflected that his attachment to me might be as strong as ever.
I resolved to test it out by going to East Anglia, where he was stationed with the militia. I did not pursue him, whatever opinion Philly or Cassandra have on that subject. I went to Lowestoft solely for the health of dear Hastings—the sea bathing there did him a power of good—but the sojourn there was of material importance in persuading me that a match with Henry might just suit us both.
The officers in his regiment were of the greatest gentility and held me in such respect that I felt entirely at ease. Their conversations worried me somewhat though, as the talk was constantly of invasion and of the French arriving at any minute. What was a poor widow and her sick son to do for protection in such circumstances? In addition, I was made anxious by their musings on the financial situation. I had already reflected that with rents rising—especially in London—and with the increased costs of keeping servants and carriages, it might be that my fortune was not as secure as it had seemed hitherto.
I may be a mercenary creature and own it with some shame, but I state with great conviction that the principal factor in my considering Henry once more was his great kindness, nay, I must say love, to dear Hastings. Henry seemed not the least embarrassed by his backwardness, but played with him robustly as a father should. Hastings, who had hitherto been mostly in the company of women, responded with such happiness that any mother would have begun to wonder whether it was her duty to ensure such a stepfather. When my dear little one had convulsions and fever earlier this winter, no blood relative could have been more devoted than Henry at that time. Hastings has need of a father; that does not admit of a doubt.
So all in all, it seemed the right decision to report to my godfather when I wrote to him thus:
For some time in Possession of a comfortable income, and the excellence of his heart, Temper and Understanding, together with steady attachment to me, his Affection for my little boy, and distinguished concurrence in the disposal of my property in favour of this latter, have at length induced me to an acquiescence which I have withheld for more than two years.
I believe Henry will allow me sufficient separation that we shall be tolerably happy, and he is a dear soul and having courted me so long should have his wish granted at last.
I have written to Jane telling her of our marriage—she loves Henry dearly, but I will hazard she will be content with the news. How I wish I could contrive happiness in marriage for her. She would perhaps be content to earn her own living with her pen if such a course were not nigh on impossible for a respectable woman. She bears it well but how downcast she must have been with the rejection from Thomas Cadell this November. First Impressions is such a fine work that I can quite understand my uncle sending it to Cadell’s in the hope of publication. To have it returned so swiftly wi
th a dismissive ‘Declined by return of post’ scrawled across the first page—oh the disappointment, the humiliation! But Jane seems to feel it not and merely writes in her latest letter of how she is revising a former work. This is the one that was written as letters between the two delightful sisters, Elinor and Marianne. I heard her read parts of it some years ago and thought it most engaging. I remember that one of the sisters disapproved strongly of second attachments, but I am sure Jane will not share that view.
Well, as I have no such ability and can never earn my living by my pen or any other way, marriage is the way for me and I go, content and happy, to St Marylebone tomorrow.
PART III
Eliza Austen
SEVENTEEN
The Reverend George Austen
Steventon, January 1798
I know that my dear wife does not approve but it is a fine match for Henry. I know she is ten years his senior and has been married before, but she is a countess when all is said and done and his first cousin, too, so has good Austen blood. He was determined to have her from being a young lad and has had eyes for no other woman, despite that little interlude with Miss Pearson. In addition, she is well provided for, as I have reason to know. I have told Mrs Austen so but she retorted, ‘We shall see how long this so-called fortune lasts when the two of them set about spending on their carriages and fine wines. Henry, as you know Mr Austen, has no sense when it comes to money and she has always been so spoiled and indulged I doubt she knows the value of anything.’
Dearest Cousin Jane Page 11