‘But my dear,’ I protested, ‘she is a wealthy woman and will be more so if this trouble in France comes to an end and she can come into her French property again.’
‘How can you hope for such a thing—why, did you not tell us only yesterday that this General Bonaparte or whatever he is called is raising a huge army and intends to conquer the whole Continent? He is as opposed to the old order as the others were and will surely never allow the wife of someone who was guillotined to inherit.’
‘Well, even without that,’ I replied, anxious to calm her, ‘she does not want for resources and Henry is now in charge of her affairs and will manage them sensibly.’
‘Nonsense, Henry is not sensible at the best of times and certainly not when it comes to money. No sensible man would ally himself with our niece—she is too much trouble’.
‘I know she has a tendency to be a little overdramatic—’
‘A little?’ interrupted my wife.
‘But you remember how thoughtful and caring she was to my sister as she was dying and she quite dotes on the little boy. I am sure she will make Henry a good wife.’
‘We shall see,’ she responded and left the room.
In retrospect, it was a good thing that the marriage took place quietly in London with no family member present, as I am sure Mrs Austen would have refused any invitation to attend, while Cassandra and Jane have been in Bath these last few weeks, so would not have been available to make the journey either.
I confess that I am rather worried about Cassandra. She is still in deep mourning for Tom and has grown thin and pale; all her previous bloom seems to be disappearing. Mrs Austen and I thought a few weeks in Bath with their uncle and aunt Leigh-Perrot might do her good but in truth it does not appear to have been a successful visit. From what I can gather the girls found their aunt very tiresome. She seemed to spend too much time either telling Cassy that she must pull herself together and stop grieving or teasing Jane about Tom Lefroy. Neither subject was likely to endear her to the girls, who have always preferred their uncle anyway. Also it rained a great deal and they could not be out of doors but were compelled to spend most of their time indoors at Number 1, The Paragon. I have always found that house so gloomy—too much dark furniture in too little space, and it gets no sun at all. I believe they did go out each morning with their uncle to the Pump Room, but according to Jane:
The evening assemblies were not a patch on those of Basingstoke. My aunt and uncle could not contrive to have us introduced to any partner, so we sat out dance after dance and the main entertainment was in listening to my aunt complain that the crowd was so thick she could see no one she knew or hearing a detailed description of my uncle’s five rubbers of whist.
I had hoped that they might have found more diversion in Bath—to help Cassandra over her loss and to veer Jane’s interest away from Tom Lefroy. They are both in need of husbands, that is the simple truth, though Mrs Austen and I rarely discuss this. I worry about who will take care of them when I am gone, though I know their brothers would always be good to them. But they should marry and have families of their own—what fine mothers they would each make! I fear that Cassandra, having given her heart so completely once, may never love again, but for Jane to live as a spinster would be a sad waste. She finds comfort and fascination in her writing, I know, and was more disappointed than she allowed at that rejection from Cadell’s. She tells me that Bath, although not very enjoyable, has provided her with material for another story. It seems that she and her sister read some fanciful novels—Gothic romances she calls them—to enliven their dull mornings during their stay there and she intends to write a story about a young girl who is too much under the influence of such books and the trouble it gets her into. It is to be set in Bath it seems, so as I said to Jane: ‘At least your visit, however disagreeable, may have some positive outcome.’
I have been wondering whether Mrs Austen and I have quite done right by our two daughters. Our quiet country life may not be putting them in the way of suitable acquaintance who might in turn contrive to introduce them to suitors. I was rather struck by the lines attributed to Mrs Bennet in the rejected novel, First Impressions, when she upbraids her husband about shirking his responsibilities so far as the matrimonial prospects of his daughters were concerned. Have I, I wonder, been similarly irresponsible? When James inherits this parish as, of course, he is set to do, should we perhaps consider a move to Bath, where the girls could have more of a social life?
Or perhaps Edward will be the one who could help? He is well set up in his estate now and he and Elizabeth are constantly entertaining—perhaps I should suggest a long visit there? We are all in need of some relief after what was a difficult year.
The more I think about it, the more I find pleasure in contemplating Henry’s marriage, even if my wife cannot. I think I shall send them a gift of money so that they may treat the regiment to a celebration. What would be an appropriate sum? £25? No, I shall make it £40—it is not every day one has a son who marries a countess after all. They will visit us soon on their wedding journey, and I believe they will lift the spirits of us all—even Mrs Austen.
EIGHTEEN
Philadelphia [Philly] Walter, Tunbridge Wells
April 1798
I knew it! I knew she had set her cap at Henry again, so I was not surprised to hear of the marriage. The countess herself has only just seen fit to write to me, but of course the marriage was the talk of Hampshire and in a letter sent not two weeks after the event Uncle George told me they were married. He, poor foolish man, seemed to think it gave him nobility to have a son married to a countess. I have often thought him naïve—Aunt Cassandra is the realistic one in that household—but I had never thought him stupid. But without a doubt it is stupid to send a large sum of money to Henry’s regiment so that they might toast the bride and groom. No doubt the militia drank a toast to the ‘Good Parson Austen’ too—everyone knows that the military indulges in alcoholic beverages far too much anyway, without encouragement from a misguided clergyman.
Uncle George did not tell me himself but I heard from another source that he has bought a carriage and actually had a coronet emblem engraved upon the side. I was always under the impression that money was too tight for them to afford a carriage—indeed Jane and Cassandra have often in their letters to me expressed regret that lack of a carriage is very disadvantageous for young ladies who like to attend balls as they are always dependent on being conveyed hither and thither by others. Now their father seems to think that a man in his position must have a carriage. What position is that, pray? He is a country parson and no amount of fine carriages will change that and neither will having a countess in the family. Of course, she is not really a countess at all now as she has re-married, but I cannot see Eliza easily giving up the title. Indeed, in the letter I have finally received from her this week she signs herself ‘Eliza, Comtesse de Feuillide, Mrs Henry Austen.’ The letter contains the shocking phrase that she does not like the word husband and will continue to refer to Henry as her cousin!
She is full of apologies that she has neglected me for so long, though she knows I will have heard of her marriage long ago. She is also extremely sorry to hear about the death of my father, though she knows that in truth this was a happy release as he had been senile for years. It seems that a new bride has little time for writing, as she is receiving so much attention from all Henry’s regiment and other acquaintance. Her time has been taken up with all the officers and their families who wish to pay their respects. There have been parties and balls and what with driving out with Henry in their new curricle every day—has everyone in the world a new carriage apart from me?—she has scarcely an hour free, and this explains her silence. The curricle cost fifty pounds at least, so Uncle George says, and also tells me they make a fine sight—Henry in his scarlet cloak with Eliza beside him in a fur pelisse and carrying a large sable muff. The inhabitants of Ipswich are ‘more fashionable’ than she had expected and it s
eems that they vie with each other to be hospitable to the military. In her letter she tells me that she has given up flirting now that she is married, but I notice she remarks how Henry’s friend Captain Tilson is ‘remarkably handsome’ and that she was already ‘quite in love’ with Colonel Lord Charles Spencer! How does Henry put up with this? But he has always thought her endearingly outrageous and I suppose it reflects well on him to have secured a well-looking and aristocratic wife. I will allow that Eliza seems to appreciate his tolerance and devotion. She writes:
But all the comfort that can result from the tender affection and society of a being who is possessed of an excellent heart, understanding and temper I have at least ensured—to say nothing of the pleasure of having my own way in everything, for Henry well knows that I have not been much accustomed to control and should probably behave rather awkwardly under it, and therefore like a wise man he has no will but mine, which is to be sure what some people would call spoiling me, but I know is the best way of managing me.
I hope Henry continues to be devoted to Hastings as well as to his wife. The boy does seem to have benefited by a change of surroundings and as they have a garden at their house he is able to enjoy the fresh air. Of course Madame Bigeon takes care of him most of the time—his mother is too busy driving out and attending parties of pleasure—but I am sure that fresh air and sea bathing will do him more good than any amount of medicine.
It is now plain to me why the military are made so much of in Suffolk, as they are here in Kent and even in Hampshire. Everyone is taken up with the fear of invasion. I am becoming fearful of reading the newspapers, which now contain almost nothing but details of pending invasion by the French. It seems that Bonaparte is at Boulogne and awaits only fair weather before crossing the channel. When the sun shines people speak of ‘raft weather,’ since this is how the French mean to cross the water—by means of giant rafts with paddles powered by windmills—the Morning Post; carried a print of such a contraption this morning. They could carry many hundreds of armed soldiers and we could all be overpowered in no time. They would come by night and the long dark nights of this month when there is no moon is when we are most at risk. Great beacons have been built on every hilltop to pass on the alarm of any landing and we are told to listen for the church bells ringing backwards, as that will be the sign that the invasion has begun. Mama has told our servants to lay in stocks of food, but so many people are doing the same that flour is now in short supply. My cousins Frank and Charles are both at sea and have told Jane that there is no risk at all and that the newspapers are spreading panic. They believe that Bonaparte has other fish to fry and that he intends to invade in the Mediterranean, not in England.
I am sure that Jane has passed this news to Eliza, as they are regular correspondents, but even if it is true—for which I sincerely pray—it will not stop the new Mrs Austen from parading herself in her new frogged riding habit, for all the world as though she herself were to be the defender of our realm.
I have to ask her a favour, which I am reluctant to do, but I need her to intercede with Warren Hastings on behalf of my friend—perhaps I might even call him ‘my admirer’—Mr George Whitaker. Now that I am left alone with my mother, who is not in good health, and that he has been cut off by his father, we shall never be in a position to marry if Mr Whitaker does not receive preferment from somewhere, and as he knows of my connection with the great Warren Hastings he has asked me to intercede with Eliza to seek commissions from him so that we might have enough to marry on. He has not actually made me an offer, but we both know that this is dependent on him securing a position. We would be quite prepared for him to undertake some business abroad. I cannot at present leave Mama and it may be some years before…I shall write back immediately and seek her support.
May 1798
Well, that did not take her long! When I think how she has often teased me about Mr Whitaker and wished me joy with him but when it comes to giving practical support…she can say only that it is utterly out of her power to comply with my request. She actually tells me she has the most insuperable aversion to asking favours and that she could never approach Warren Hastings as he is so teased with requests and supplications. She does give me his address for Mr Whitaker to write himself but actually forbids us to use her name in the matter—so what good would that do? She is as shamelessly selfish as ever—having had two husbands herself she does not scruple to deny the opportunity of marriage to one whom she professes to love. She merely says that she has observed there is a tide in the affairs of this life and she hopes mine will take a turn for the better soon.
Henry’s regiment is to be posted to Ireland soon I gather. She will not accompany him—it would serve her right if Henry found some consolation there.
NINETEEN
Letter from Henry Austen to Eliza Austen
Ireland, September 1799
My dearest wife,
My longing to see you and the boy again grows ever stronger with each month we are apart. It is now almost a year since I saw your dear face, though your charming letters are a great joy and consolation. I was so glad that in your last you were able to tell me of some improvement in your health. I had hoped that the air at Dorking would do you good, being drier and more bracing than that of East Anglia. I know that you, too, had thought that the quiet country life and early hours would suit your constitution. We had hoped the same for dear Hastings, too, and I know that he was the principle reason that you moved to Surrey when I was posted to Ireland. Alas, his seizures, or epileptic fits as you say the doctors now call them, seem to have grown worse and are a source of great grief to you and I assure you to his devoted stepfather. My love, I cannot help believing that your own poor health can be attributed in large measure to the worry of his condition. And I hope when the current emergency is over we shall be able to devise for ourselves a more stable life that will have the effect of soothing your spirits as well as his. More of this anon.
Now that we are stationed in Dublin, my life with the militia is considerably more agreeable. This is largely due to the kind attentions I have received from the Lord Lieutenant since our dear friend Charles Spencer did me the honour of making the introduction. He keeps a fine table and cellar and we dine with him twice weekly at least.
I know you say that you are content at home with your harp and your books, but I do feel that if you partake of some agreeable company it would lift the spirits of one who has always been so sociable. I know that Lady Burrell and Lady Talbot have sought you out and I do recommend that you take up their invitations when they next call. In truth, I would find our separation intolerable were it not for the friendships of the fine gentlemen I have mentioned.
It is of a conversation with them that I now wish to speak. The Lord Lieutenant, in company with most of the officers, thinks that the militia will be stood down next year if the war continues to go our way. Lord Nelson’s great victory in Egypt has raised morale and the navy now feels the French are almost vanquished. Now my dear, do not allow your hopes to rise too much on the subject of your French property—it will be a considerable time before we can address that issue—but when I am stood down, how should you like to be the wife of a banker and live in a fine house in London? This is a prospect I am now seriously considering. I can arrange a partnership with Henry Maunde who has much experience in this field and once trade begins again all the fellows think more banks will be needed so why should not I take the opportunity? We could also be agents for army transactions and many of my acquaintance would give us commissions, I am convinced.
Do let me know, dear girl, what is your view of this scheme. Apart from my friends I have mentioned it to no one but you, though I am in frequent correspondence with my sisters and my father. My brothers Frank and Charles are not the best of correspondents, as you know, but they have the excuse of being at sea and indeed in action from time to time. Brother Edward writes little but I have received a long letter from Jane, which I enclose, and from that y
ou will see what a fine life he now enjoys. As to brother James, you will have heard that Mary ([Jane calls her Mrs JA to distinguish her from you—Mrs HA) is safely delivered. It is to be hoped that now she has a boy of her own, she will be more kindly towards little Anna. If I were as bad a stepparent to your dear boy as Mary is to Anna, I should be ashamed.
Jane is scribbling again, as you will see from her letter. It was good for her to have space to spread her papers at Godmersham and I hope that with this book she might eventually find a larger audience than her family. She deserves that, does she not? I wonder if I could interest a publisher in her work once we are settled in London.
I now bid you adieu and send my fondest love. I have hopes of returning to England in December but that still seems too long to be apart.
Your most devoted cousin and husband
Henry Austen
My dear,
On rereading Jane’s letter before sealing this I wonder if I should add a warning about heeding Jane’s misgivings about cousin Philly. I know you are inordinately fond of her but the rest of my family thinks her a mischief maker, often given to saying cruel things. I wonder if they have heard her say such things about you? Might it be wise to be a little guarded in your intercourse with her?
Letter enclosed with This,
From Jane Austen to Her Brother Henry
My dear Brother,
I expect you have heard from Papa that Mary is brought to bed of a boy—named James Edward for his father. Things did not go too well with her and Mama made the journey to Deane in the dark to be at the lying-in. Thank God they both came through and we are all thankful. In presenting James with a son and heir it is to be hoped that Mrs JA will have overcome her resentment of poor little Anna, who quite dotes upon her new brother, though as you know she can rarely please her stepmother. Mary does not manage things as well as Elizabeth, who always looks so neat and tidy at her lyings-in. Henry I entreat you, do not tease—I expect you are saying that E has so much more practice—after all she has had seven already and shows no sign of stopping!
Dearest Cousin Jane Page 12