I certainly must not tease about Elizabeth as the real purport of this letter is to tell you all about our family visit to their new—and very splendid—abode. Rowlings, where they have lived since their marriage, is a fine enough house, but as for Godmersham! As Cassandra and I walked around we agreed it was like a fairy tale or the Palace Beautiful in Pilgrim’s Progress.
It would have been nice to be conveyed to Kent in our own carriage, but as you know, we were unable to continue its upkeep and were obliged to give it up. So we went post as far as Canterbury but our discomfort was forgotten when we arrived at Godmersham. It is a fine brick house, with two wings and a most imposing façade with a set of steps to the front entrance where Elizabeth, Edward, and five of the children were waiting to great us, their coachman having collected us in the finest of their carriages (they have four!) from the Inn in Wye for the last stage of the journey.
Edward says he was reluctant to move in when Mrs Knight became a widow, but as she said, when they adopted him and he agreed to change his name from Austen to Knight, with that came all the privileges of an eldest son, which certainly include inheriting the family property and taking his own family to live in it. It is the rule, of course, and I am certain that Edward and Elizabeth are more gracious about it than my John and Fanny Dashwood—I am sure you remember them from my readings to you from Elinor and Marianne. Edward was very proud to show his family around, as well he might be.
It is a lovely house, long and low, built of warm red brick with decoration in white stone. It is most favourably situated in a green valley, surrounded by parkland and woods, which abound with game for the shooting parties. The trees were a fine sight, with their leaves just turning gold. We went in by the north front up a flight of steps and Edward proudly led our mother in. He is becoming quite portly, which I suppose is fitting for a landed gentleman. Elizabeth is as pretty as ever despite her many confinements.
All the rooms are magnificent but especially the main drawing room, which is very ornate and decorated with plaster depictions of fruit, flowers, and leaves. The chimney piece is vastly superior to any I have ever seen and I dearly wish I had had it as a model for the fixtures at Rosings or even Pemberley! The furniture is very fine, with silken chairs and gilt mouldings and embroidered chair backs. My favourite room, you will not be surprised to hear, was the library. Edward is not much of a reader as the estate takes up so much of his time—or at least that is what he says, though his steward seems very able and my father enjoyed walking the farms with him. But what a delight the library was to me and to Cassandra! And we sat there often just the two of us, with two fires, five tables, and twenty-eight chairs; we did not mind a wet day in the least! The other joy for us was that we had not only our own room but our own sitting room and dressing room, too, with a fire lit all day and all night—such a comfort to be able to rise in the early morning if I had an idea to set down and not sit shivering by a cold grate. Yes, I have been scribbling again and have started a whole new story that I believe will amuse you all. I have called my heroine Susan and she is young and impressionable and a great reader of novels such as Udolpho. What I hope will amuse in the story is that she has a little difficulty distinguishing fiction from reality. The story is set in Bath and I found our recent visit there useful for description, though to tell the truth staying with Aunt and Uncle Leigh-Perrot was not the most pleasant experience. Anyway, during the stay at Godmersham I found that I could increase my rate of writing because of not having to tidy away my papers so frequently. I could leave my work spread out, secure in the knowledge that no one needed to lay a table for dining and that the servants were too much in awe of ‘The Master’ to spy on his sister’s writing.
I made a new friend there, too—Miss Sharpe, the governess. Now Henry, do not scold me for calling a servant a friend. She is part of the family, a gentlewoman, and only obliged to shift for herself as her family fell upon hard times. I am only too aware that your sisters might find themselves in the same plight if our brothers are not generous to us after the death of our father, which I hope and pray may be long delayed. Miss Sharpe and I both enjoy walking and Edward’s estate gives us plenty of opportunity, with a large shrubbery, a park near ten miles round, a river, and even a Doric temple. Elizabeth took us visiting to the neighbours round about, principally the Knatchbulls and the Wildmans, and we went several times into Canterbury, where old Mrs Knight now lives. She is a kind lady and is prodigiously fond of Edward. What a lucky thing it was for him, and I suppose for all of us, that she and the late Mr Knight took such a fancy to our Edward on their honeymoon journey that they wished immediately to adopt him, for they never had any other children and their estate might have passed to a very distant family or been broken up. I remember at the time that you and I thought it heartless of Mama and Papa to agree to the arrangement, but I am sure they now feel their decision was vindicated as we can all enjoy Godmersham—as I told Cass ‘Everyone is rich in Kent.’
I confess I found it difficult to adjust to the different standards here at Steventon. I became used to dining at six on partridge and French wine, whereas here we dine on mutton at three thirty. I miss my sister greatly—you know that she has stayed on with Elizabeth and Edward as Elizabeth is to be confined again soon and would like Cass to help. I know full well that my sister will be a greater favourite than I at Godmersham as her sweet and docile temperament is more acceptable to them. Much though I enjoy the luxury I fear that their neighbours somewhat look down on us as Edward’s ‘old maid’ sisters and poor relations and I do not find that comfortable. But my mother’s poor health at present means I have much to concern me with household matters and when I have no time for my writing I become cross and ill tempered.
Speaking of cross and ill tempered, I beg you when you write to dear Eliza to suggest to her that she is less open in her correspondence with Philly. Your dear wife is so frank and open that sometimes she is easily taken in and I am sure she does not realise that Philly is always critical of her and does not hesitate to tell my mother or other members of the family of what she calls ‘ her latest extravagance’ or ‘ her ridiculous aspirations.’ She even criticises her mothering, which is especially wicked since we all know that there could be no more devoted a mother than your wife. I pray you remember me most kindly to her and send a kiss to dear Hastings.
I hope that this emergency situation is soon over and that you may be free to return to your family, of whom no one thinks of you with more affection than
Your devoted sister
Jane
TWENTY
Eliza at Her Residence in Dorking
September 1799
I confess that the letter received from dear cousin Cassandra this morning gives me some alarm. The most extraordinary event seems to have overtaken Aunt Leigh-Perrot in Bath. She has been arrested and imprisoned on account of a stolen piece of lace! Of course it is a most malicious falsehood and there has clearly been some terrible mistake. I have enough confidence in the legal systems of dear England to believe it may all turn out well, though do not deny there is a period of distress ahead for all my dear family. If found guilty she could be sentenced to transportation to the colonies! I cannot believe that this will happen to the old lady. My family here in England have not experienced a truly unreliable system of law as I have had the misfortune to do, or they would not be so alarmed. I can well believe such a transgression in France at present, but in England, in Bath, impossible!
I do feel that Aunt Cassandra has gone somewhat too far in offering the services of her daughters to support their aunt, to send unmarried young women to be with her in prison—a dreadful thought. Their innocence would soon be corrupted, and were I on more cordial terms with my mother-in-law I would strongly counsel against it. I know enough of my aunt, my mother-in-law, to understand this would not persuade her and my dear husband cannot be expected to take up the situation at present, concerned as he is with our own future.
But leaving aside
the plight of Aunt Leigh-Perrot, there is, I believe, more to concern us about dear Jane. I hear from Cassandra that Tom Lefroy is recently married—he did not let the grass grow under his feet when it came to securing his future; I understand the lady in question is well provided for. And Jane feigns indifference, but she gave her heart to him, of that there is no doubt, and though I believe Cassandra can well survive her own loss, I do not feel so confident of Jane. She needs love and romance to fuel her writing. She has been diverted by having Charles home and truly delighted that he is made. How fine he must look in his new lieutenant’s uniform! During the summer she sent me long letters from Bath while on a visit there with Edward, Elizabeth, and her mother. They were full of her usual wit. She told me that Edward had decided to take the cure in Bath as he had now reached the age and station where it was proper for him to suffer from gout! He had taken two whole floors in Queen Square, so they were tolerably comfortable, but I always felt a touch of melancholy in her correspondence. Edward went into the baths every other evening and Aunt Cassandra took the waters each day, but they had very little other diversion aside from shopping. Jane bought artificial bunches of fruit to trim a hat given her by Elizabeth and bought some small gifts for Cassandra, sounding sprightly enough, but when I heard that Edward had bought a matched pair of carriage horses for sixty guineas I was forced to wonder if Jane felt her own poverty and obligation to be constantly watching her pennies rather trying. I did feel, too, that Edward and Elizabeth might have made an effort to see that Jane went about a little more. They scarcely dined out at all and strolling about Barton Fields is unlikely to result in suitable introductions. When I heard they were to attend an entertainment in Sydney Gardens with music and a fine display of fireworks, the first thing I thought of was that Edward and Elizabeth would have made up a party that included at least one single man. They must know some and surely Jane, modest though she is, would have expected such a favour. Surely every parent, especially those in straightened circumstances like my aunt and uncle, have a responsibility to try to get their daughters married off. A brother may not feel the same obligation, yet Edward must know that Jane and Cassandra will be entirely dependent on him and the other brothers once Uncle George is dead. Not that I would begrudge that support to my dear sisters-in-law but if other arrangements can be made is it not wise to try to bring them about? They may now despair of Cassandra and marriage but Jane still has a great deal to offer and deserves more opportunity. Surely Charles has a dashing officer or two among his acquaintance? Was there not a young clergyman in the Pump Room with whom my uncle could have made contact? When I consider that even cousin Philly, who with the best will in the world one cannot call attractive either in looks or personality, has a suitor, it seems monstrous unfair that dear Jane is denied. Which thought reminds me that I had perhaps better heed my husband’s warning about Philly, since I have displeased her by my reaction to her request for intercession with my godfather.
When my dear husband returns from Ireland at last and we take up residence in London, to which I greatly look forward, I shall make it my business to invite Jane and take her about with me. So many of my French acquaintance are now in London that I am sure we shall have a fine time. There is no prospect of their returning to France in the immediate future, since Bonaparte now makes himself First Consul and is to rule France in the antique manner of three consuls. I doubt that the other two will have a great deal of influence!
TWENTY-ONE
Mary Austen [Mrs JA] at Deane Parsonage
March 1800
It is always my luck to miss out whenever anything pleasant is occurring. How I should like to have seen Aunt Leigh-Perrot return in triumph to Bath. She managed it all with great aplomb, I believe. It is reported that she said: ‘Alls well that ends well. The man who accused me is fled, the shop is ruined, and my character is cleared. Lace, I am glad to say, is not necessary to my happiness.’ A brave speech, indeed, but without her husband being willing and able to spend nigh on two thousand pounds to collect witnesses and pay for her keep and food and laundry while incarcerated she would have been in a fine pickle. Lucky they are to have it to spend and have no children to consider.
Then shortly afterwards I was kept from seeing brother Frank on his return from the Mediterranean with his decoration for bravery. What a fine evening they all had, and I deprived as usual because little James fell from a tree and broke his collarbone. I do not see why James was excused duty and could leave his son while I was expected to stay with the boy.
Now I hear that cousin Eliza is to have a fine new house in London. Henry wishes always to give her the best—even if he does it with her money. I do not suppose she will have to scrimp and save to furnish that fine place like I have to do here. Not that this small house is worthy of much attention anyway. We have been married now three years and James is thirty-five, after all. High time he had a stipend worthy of his fine mind and great preaching ability. He deserves more respect than he gets as a humble curate. Why, father Austen is looked up to almost like a squire in his parish at Steventon. The parsonage is spacious, too—far bigger than they need for two old people and two unmarried girls. We have James and Anna and could have more in the future. They really ought to be thinking of us and of retiring—he is not far off seventy.
May 1800
That east wind is still bitter in spite of it being spring. I said to my mother-in-law as we sat together at the parsonage that I did not think it wise for the old gentleman to be out in it at his age and that he should consider a warmer location than Hampshire.
‘Oh,’ she replied, ‘his parishioners like to see him and they are used to expecting him to call when they are sick or bereaved.’
‘But do you not find the winters dull here, as well as cold? I wonder you do not consider a place like Bath, where there would always be something to amuse you both—the book shops, the library, the Pump Room. Here you are so shut off from the world, whereas in Bath you would have your relations to hand, as well as much more amusement.’
‘Oh, I own it is dull in winter. I have lived here most of my life, you know, and would quite fancy a change. But we have the girls to consider. Cassy is so fond of the countryside, and Jane dislikes Bath intensely.’
‘Well, as to that, the girls should not be allowed to rule your lives. They should permit their parents to know what is good for them.’
‘I think it is good for them to be happy in the home they have always known.’
‘But Mama, have you not considered how they are ever to get husbands here? Jane will be twenty-five in December and Cassy is almost thirty. If we do not take them in hand, they will both die old maids. A larger society would greatly improve their chances. Cassandra is handsome enough, but she wants liveliness. If she could but meet a widower with a family in need of care, what a wife she would make.’
Mama smiled. ‘I do not think Jane would be suited to such a role, do you?’
I could not but agree. ‘No, but she is becoming sharp and disagreeable, making fun of the few young men she does meet and saying they are not clever enough to tempt her. She would be greatly improved by a larger society. She says herself, I have heard her on many occasions, that she often wants for partners at the balls and assemblies hereabouts. I do not like to see her passed over and I am sure you do not either.’
‘To be sure Bath is a good place to look for husbands, and perhaps Mr Austen would benefit from an easier life. I do not wish to see him work himself into the grave. You are a thoughtful girl, dear Mary, to consider us so kindly.’
I believe she may be warming to the idea. I am sure I can soon make her see that Mr Austen should be making way for a younger, fitter, cleverer man. A man like my husband.
November 1800
I have had an unaccustomed stroke of luck this autumn. It is very unusual for Jane and Cassandra to be absent from home together but that has happened these last six weeks. Cassandra is gone to Godmersham, where Elizabeth is to be confined yet again
, while Jane is staying with the Lloyds at Ibthorpe. It gave me the opportunity to sit with Mama and discuss what we have started to call ‘our plan.’ I can see she is becoming quite animated about the idea of removal to Bath, and best of all, has now contrived to make Mr Austen equally enthusiastic. At first James was astonished and tried to dissuade them.
‘But dear Mama, is your health fit for such a change of scene? Would you not find it too taxing?’
I soon put him off that I can tell you, and made him see that this was entirely the right course for everyone concerned. Who could quarrel with an easier life for his father, more diversion for his mother, and a wider society, with all that implies, for his sisters?
‘No James,’ I said, ‘do not let your own unwillingness to inherit your father’s parish divert you from doing what is clearly the right thing.’
‘I am not at all unwilling to take on the parish,’ he responded. ‘I am as willing as the next man to do my duty. I am only unwilling to put undue pressure on my father and mother for our benefit—we shall be moving into a much larger house and no doubt inheriting most of their property. I would not wish there to be any impropriety, real or perceived.’
‘Impropriety?’ I almost shouted. ‘Many would think the only impropriety was in their keeping you waiting so long.’
December 26th, 1800
We have not passed a cheerful Christmas, though it has been pleasant to have my sister, Martha, staying at Steventon. I was astonished by Jane’s reaction to the news of the removal to Bath. True, my mother-in-law was not very tactful in announcing it the minute Martha and Jane walked through the door—tired and cold from their journey back to the parsonage.
Dearest Cousin Jane Page 13