I cannot say that Green Park Buildings is the most congenial of dwellings—the reception rooms are somewhat small and the offices dark and forbidding. They keep only two servants, which is just as well since there would be no room for more. My aunt and uncle, however, seem vastly content with their life here.
Uncle George said to me and Henry: ‘It was a good day’s work when we decided on the move from Steventon.’
I can see that the routine of their days suits them both perfectly. He walks down Great Pulteney Street each morning, usually with Jane or Cassandra or sometimes both, to accompany him. He drinks his two glasses of that foul yellow water—how I have always hated the smell!—and discusses the day’s news with his friends, many of them retired clergy like himself. He might then call at the butcher or the fishmonger on an errand from his wife or go as far as the library in Milson Street if ‘the girls’ have to change their books. On Sundays they now attend St Swithin’s in Walcot, though to please me he agreed to the Abbey on the Sunday of our visit.
‘The Abbey is too lofty for me nowadays, you know,’ he said, ‘and Mrs Austen and I were married at Walcot so we feel comfortable there.’
My aunt, too, appears content. Cassandra now seems to have most of the housekeeping to her share and my aunt is free to make a four at whist or bezique with her sister-in-law or other friends.
But anyone with half an eye about them could see that it is ‘the girls’ one should have concern for—especially Jane. She does not like cards, so she is often left out of evening parties, which are the thing in Bath. Many of the residents lack the resources for dinners so give such parties as an alternative. I have always loved her quick wit but have to own that it can be disconcerting when she allows one of her sharp remarks to escape her. There are few balls and I think she spends many an evening, even in company, sitting quiet in a corner, just observing. I cannot help noticing that her gaiety and sparkle are not in such abundance as they were and she has even taken to dressing in subdued tones, like the spinster she is fast becoming. I do not think it fitting either for Jane and Cassandra to dress alike as they do—nothing proclaims the fact that they believe themselves past marriage more than those dull matching bonnets.
They are a contrast to their parents, who are a fine sight arm in arm, both tall and well looking. I understand he is a great favourite in the Pump Room, where his company and that of my aunt is sought out by their large acquaintance. I tell him again and again about our French adventure and he never tires of hearing about it. But one day when we walked on the Royal Crescent he took my arm and Henry’s and confided his worries about Jane.
‘Cassandra somehow seems to have recovered from her terrible loss, but as for Jane…She was ever a dear child to me but somehow at present I cannot seem to reach her. Mrs Austen says it is because she resents our move to Bath. Perhaps that is so, but you know part of our reason for coming here was so that she and Cassy could go about a little more. We were beginning to fear that our somewhat confined life at Steventon was denying them opportunities for…well, for…well, to speak plain, we thought Bath might afford them more opportunities for meeting potential suitors.’
‘And it has not done so?’ asked my husband, though nothing after all could be more clear.
‘No, and it seems that Jane has had a further disappointment this year—my knowledge of this is sketchy and gained only from overheard snatches of conversation. And then there was the business at Manydown…’
‘What was this business at Manydown?’ I asked. ‘We hear references to it but no one speaks plain and I have not asked Jane herself as I feared to distress her.’
My uncle explained the whole sorry business to us as we turned back to Green Park Buildings.
‘So you see, I do not know if she now regrets refusing Harris Bigg Wither and sees that possibly her last chance of matrimony is gone…or it is something else? Henry, you have always been close to her and she admires you prodigiously, Eliza, so I wondered if you could ask her, or perhaps find ways of cheering her?’
‘She is welcome to return to London with us Papa,’ said Henry, ‘and we could distract her with concerts and dinners.’
I put my hand in his arm, for I, too, had been struck by the change in Jane’s appearance and manner. Her eyes had lost their sparkle and she, who would once have delighted in our French adventure and thought how she could turn it into a story, had scarcely paid us any heed.
‘No, my dear, she needs more than distraction and diversion. She needs occupation. Think, when was Jane happiest? Think of times she seemed fulfilled and content.’
They were both silent.
‘Think—is it not when she is scribbling and reading her work to the family? Let us encourage her in that and I guarantee her spirits will lift.’
Uncle George smiled broadly and his eyes lit up. ‘Yes, I am minded that she began a tale some while back about an impressionable young lady in Bath. When we return, take her on one side, Eliza, and encourage her to take it out again.’
TWENTY-SIX
Henry Austen at Bath
Summer 1803
Now, my dear,’ said my wife, ‘have you the conversation clear in your mind—you know how you are going to put it to her?’
Dear Eliza, she was longing to bring the matter of Susan up with Jane herself, but we had agreed that it was better coming from me and today, our last in Bath, was to be the time when I suggested to my sister that she should take out the work again and update it.
‘Yes, my love, fear not, I shall suggest we take a turn upon the Crescent this afternoon and bring the matter up.’
‘Be sure to let her know that we have connections with publishers who would be amenable to reading the work—that may encourage her.’
I was surprised. ‘Have we such connections, my dear? I never heard of them.’
She laughed—I always love the sound of her laugh.
‘Dearest husband, did you not hear Mr Seymour boast at our last dinner with him that he can find a connection with anyone in London? That surely includes publishers.’
I was not so sure but could see that the thought would be an encouragement to Jane. Cassandra had told me that although Jane made light of it, she had shed tears about the rejection of First Impressions in such a heartless manner—clearly no one at Cadell’s had even bothered to read the work.
I made certain that no one else accompanied us on our walk and was at first somewhat heartened by the animation of Jane’s manner.
‘Do you know who we saw on our morning walk to the Pump Room with Papa today?’
‘No. Someone important?’
‘Why yes, no one other than the wife of Admiral Nelson himself and she looked as disagreeable as everyone says she is.’
‘So it is no wonder then that he has taken up with Lady Hamilton?’
She looked for a minute as mischievous as she was wont to do in happy times at Steventon.
‘Brother, do not let Mama hear you talk so; she will not countenance an unfaithful spouse as you know, but’—putting her hand in front of her mouth and speaking low—‘I do not find it at all surprising.’
We shared the joke and strolled harmoniously for a few more yards. We passed some volunteers from the militia drilling furiously as all leave had been cancelled since the peace was at an end.
‘Are you content, Henry, that you are now a banker not a soldier in these troubled times? I am sure your wife is, even if you are not.’
‘But I am—I think I will make an adequate if not a fine banker and I am certainly pleased to be living with my dear Eliza again.’ She had given me my opportunity: ‘And you Jane—are you content?’
She looked at me warily.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, it strikes me that you want animation at present and I wonder how this life in Bath suits you.’
She stopped and looked at me, her hazel eyes suddenly shining with tears.
‘I like it not at all, but as you know I am powerless to change
it. It suits Mama and Papa vastly well and that has to be enough.’
‘You know we are always glad to welcome you in London for a change of scene, but I do wonder if more could not be done to make your time here more enjoyable.’
‘Please do not mention going more into company—that is what people always suggest and Henry, you know me well enough to know that is not what I want.’
‘No, my dear, nothing was farther from my mind—in fact the opposite was what I was thinking of, staying at home and taking up your writing again.’
She looked into the distance. ‘Cassy tries, the dear girl, to persuade me but, but…’
‘But what?’
‘I fear I have lost the ability to do it. It used to be such a source of pleasure but somehow now…’
‘Will you not try again? For your brother and sister who love you so? There is that story you began about the young girl who visits Bath—it sounded a fine plan and one that would be most entertaining.’
‘Do you think so? I fear the fashion has rather passed for those sorts of tales—you know I meant it as a sort of joke on Udolpho and I am not sure that anyone would be interested.’
‘Your family most certainly would and you used to find delight in entertaining us.’
‘True. They were good evenings, were they not, when I read First Impressions to you all—or even Elinor and Marianne. Eliza loved that one I believe?’
‘Indeed she did—she often wonders what became of those two young ladies.’
‘Does she? Well, perhaps…but I do not know even where the manuscript is.’
‘Cassy does.’
‘Why you sly dog, Henry—have you been plotting?’
She looked merry and I decided to leave the matter there and not to mention the possibility of publication. It would surely be sufficient to get her started.
When we returned to Green Park Buildings she went immediately upstairs and when the dinner bell went, Cassandra whispered to me that she had been rummaging in her trunk.
After dinner this evening, she retired early and I hoped she was setting to work again.
We return to London tomorrow, but I am to be here again in a month or so. I hope progress will have been made.
September 1803
My business in Bath has proved satisfactory in more ways than one.
I have persuaded Uncle Leigh-Perrot to invest more money in my business—Mr Maunde and Mr Tilson will be delighted. I may not know much about banking but I am confident of my ability to persuade investors. I could, of course, put in more money of my own—or rather our own, since it is Eliza’s really—but my uncle was pleased enough and I am sure my promise to him of a good return will be fulfilled.
But the real excitement was hearing Jane’s progress with her story. It is delightful! There is a young man in it named Henry—how flattering that she has named him for me—and he is a fine handsome young man and an excellent dancer. There is a wonderful character, a fearsome General Tilney—I wonder if Jane took as a model the general who was James’s first wife’s father. Best not say if she did—Mrs JA does not like to be reminded of any rivals, alive or dead!
At Eliza’s suggestion I contacted Messrs Crosby of Paternoster Row—a tolerably respected publisher—and they put me in touch with their Bath branch. I called in on them on my way home from my uncle. They have agreed to read the story when Jane and Cassandra have copied it out freshly. They did suggest that Susan was not now a very fashionable name for a heroine—I cannot think why Jane has persisted in using it again. Eliza thinks Georgiana would be a more suitable name or even Charlotte for Her Majesty the queen, but I do not think Jane will be persuaded.
November 1803, London
I am just now in receipt of an express telling me that Crosby’s have accepted the manuscript for publication and will pay Jane £10! She is touching in her gratitude to Eliza and me both for the introduction to Crosby’s but also for, as she puts it, ‘persuading me that I had something tolerably interesting to say.’
The £10 is a fortune to my sister—how proud everyone will be that her talent is recognised outside the family at last. We shall invite her to stay and take her about with us. I wonder how long before Catherine—that is the name she settled upon—is published and how it will be received?
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jane Austen at Brompton, London
Spring 1804
How I wish Eliza would not do that! As we go about, she will insist on telling all her acquaintance that my ‘charming novel’ has been accepted for publication. That inevitably leads to them asking when it is to appear and of course there is nothing to say.
‘Soon,’ she says, with her charming laugh and a little shrug of her shoulders, ‘and we shall give a large evening party to celebrate.’
But clearly it is not to be soon. I have heard nothing at all. Henry set Mr Seymour to make enquiries, as he had made the original introduction, and he brought back the news that my work Catherine had been advertised in a journal or a sort of brochure called Flowers of Literature.
‘The advertisement says that it is “in the press,”’ announced Henry when he returned from dining with Mr Seymour, ‘so it will surely be completed very soon.’
That was almost three weeks ago, when I first arrived here, and still there is nothing definite to be heard. I begin to fear that it is all an illusion. I did receive the £10, which raised my hopes at the beginning, but now I feel this to be an even worse situation than the rejection of First Impressions. At least that happened by return of post so I did not suffer this agonising wait.
Eliza and Henry try to distract me and pay me no end of attention, always arranging new amusements, and I have to own I enjoy many of the activities that are always so plentiful. I cannot believe that Eliza’s fortune, large though it may have been, will last forever when they seem to spend at such a rate. A French cook—Eliza calls him a chef de cuisine—fine wines, boxes at the opera, and lavish parties are a great change for me, but it seems this is how they live every day.
They seem to have no end of servants, too, and it is extraordinarily nice to have the fire made up and hot water brought before one gets out of bed in the morning. I like Madame Bigeon very much, although I find her difficult to understand sometimes because of her charming French accent and yesterday walked into London with her and her daughter Madame Perigord, who seems now to have joined Eliza’s household, too. I cannot quite make out if these two ladies are servants or friends. They call Eliza ‘Madame la Comtesse’ and address Henry as ‘Milord,’ which he loves of course. They do not sit at table with us if Henry is present but do dine with us if he is dining out, and Eliza seems to treat them more as equals than as servants. It is very puzzling. At Godmersham the distinction is always clear whereas here…
I am glad though to have their company when Eliza is out on her endless calls. I often ask to be excused and sit or walk with the two Frenchwomen instead. I like to hear how they have managed to shift for themselves and earn their living. I know only too well that the time may come when I shall have to do the same. Henry, of course, protests that he will always look after his sisters, come what may, but I wake at night worried about what will become of Cassandra and me when our father dies. Henry is profligate, James mean, Charles and Frank are at sea and anyway have growing families of their own. Edward, of course, does not lack resources but I have never been a favourite with Elizabeth. It is clear that Cassandra would ever be welcome at her lyings-in but I am only tolerated. My brothers will help our mother, of course, as she, too, will need support but I had best think of becoming a governess if I cannot earn my living with my pen.
If only my meeting with my dear friend in Lyme had led to…I had hopes, of course, though I confided them only to Cassandra. But like all my other hopes, they have been dashed. He was a fine man, not rich like Harris Bigg Wither, but noble in his thoughts and inspirational in his ideals. I could have made a life with him—a clergyman’s wife is a suitable occupation for me. But
perhaps I should not have told him about my wish to be a writer. Many men find it a less than respectable aspiration for a lady, especially if done for publication rather than for the amusement of the family. I believed him though, when he said that he wanted to meet again. I even asked Henry and Eliza to accompany me to Lyme so that I could see him. They have been extremely tactful and never asked me about it, but it is as much an embarrassment as the book. How cruel it is to have so many hopes raised, only to be dashed again.
One week later
How different I feel after this morning’s outing! How much more enjoyable I found it than the calls and card parties to which Eliza subjects me! I was not inclined to accompany her to church this morning and to think what I might have missed! She rose from the breakfast table and said: ‘Now Jane, today we shall not attend church locally as we have done on each Sunday you have been here.’
‘What, shall we walk to Kensington? ’Tis a fine morning and I would enjoy a walk.’
‘No, today we shall take the carriage and be conveyed to Bloomsbury to attend church in Coram Fields. It has become quite the fashion and afterwards we shall—’
I interrupted her with a laugh but I must own, quite sharply: ‘Fie, Eliza must even going to church be to follow fashion now?’
Eliza was not one to take offence easily and simply replied, ‘It is not the church that is fashionable so much as the visits that are paid afterwards to the Foundling Hospital. One goes to see how the poor street children fare and some ladies and gentlemen even decide to adopt one if they like the look of them.’
‘What, you choose a child as you might choose a puppy? For shame, I shall not go.’ I was horrified and did not mind if she knew. But she only said gently: ‘It is kindly meant and the children thrive, I believe. The hospital has a Royal Charter and attracts the attention of the finest in the land—the children are not only trained as servants but also are taught music and drawing and altogether have a fine education. Adoption can be a great advantage for a child, as we in our family have reason to know. I shall make ready and hope you will decide to accompany Henry and me.’
Dearest Cousin Jane Page 16