‘He knows lots of letters now.’ Jane was on her feet now, her back to the piano and facing her mother and father.
I noticed that they both looked very tired, almost as if they had spent a lot of the night awake — perhaps talking about George.
‘The problem is, Jane,’ scolded Mrs Austen, ‘that you always think that you know best. You’re only fifteen years old, so you should allow your father and mother to know what’s best and do the right thing.’
I believe that if Jane had just nodded here, all might have gone quite well. I imagine that Mrs Austen didn’t really want to scold, but of course Jane, being Jane, had to argue. ‘So you think it’s the right thing for your son to live down in the village like an animal.’ Her voice was very harsh and rough. Tears came to my eyes and through my tears I could see how she glared at her mother.
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Jane!’ snapped Mrs Austen. ‘George, you deal with her. I have too much to do!’ And then she was out of the room, slamming the door behind her. I had never heard her call her husband by his first name before; it was always ‘Mr Austen’ with her. That showed how angry and upset she was.
Jane didn’t look worried though. She faced her father, cheeks blazing and eyes sparkling. ‘I suppose it’s nonsense to care about your brother. Well, I do, and I’m the only one in the family that cares. You must realize he’s not properly looked after.’
‘Jane, Jane, that’s not true.’ Mr Austen sounded very upset. ‘You know that Dame Littleworth looks after him very well.’
I wiped my eyes with my pocket handkerchief, but Jane was not tearful. She was almost shouting at her father.
‘He doesn’t look like Frank or Charles or Henry or any of the other boys, does he? He’s not cared for in the same way as they are cared for, is he? Would anyone guess that he is your son?’
‘But, Jane,’ said Mr Austen gently, ‘George is not the same as the other boys.’
Jane frowned, but she didn’t say anything else. She couldn’t really argue with that, I thought. George was not the same as the other boys, and dressing him up and even teaching him his ABC wasn’t going to make him the same.
‘However, I think that in some ways you are right,’ continued Mr Austen. His voice was loving, and he looked very anxiously at Jane. ‘It is possible that Dame Littleworth has too much to do to care for George in the way that we would like him to be cared for.’
‘I don’t want to get her into trouble.’ Jane sounded a bit calmer now.
‘No, no, Dame Littleworth is a good woman and she does do her best, but she doesn’t have a husband or a son and I think the task might be too much for her. I’ve heard tales that George is allowed to wander alone even up as far as Deane Gate Inn. Goodness knows what might happen to the poor lad with the coaches going at speed along that road. Something has to be done. We can easily compensate Dame Littleworth by taking her daughter, Bet, on as a kitchen maid, if we make other arrangements for the poor fellow. We want to do the best thing for George. You do believe that, don’t you?’ He hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘There is another man with George’s problem — a relative of ours — who is happy and being well cared for at Monk Sheraton. Perhaps George could join him.’
Jane frowned. I could see that she did not know what to think about that. I swallowed hard to get the lump out of my throat and forced myself to speak. I said that I thought that would be a good idea and that George would be happier if he had someone like himself for a companion. I kept on talking for a while. I was trying to give Jane time to get used to the idea. The trouble between Jane and her mother usually happens when Jane speaks too hastily. It would be best if her father could calm her down before she left the room and perhaps bumped into Mrs Austen again. I hoped that Mr Austen would not ask her what she thought.
I think that Mr Austen knew what I was doing because he started to talk also. He described George as a baby — and how he, Mr Austen, had taken comfort in the fact that he could not ever be a bad or wicked child.
And then that was that.
Jane said nothing. She loved her father very much and she would not argue with him, and I apologized for the two of us and then, somehow, we were out of the room and going into the breakfast parlour with no cross words spoken.
Edward and Henry were having fun at the breakfast table, talking nonsense French, and Frank was joining in and for once Henry treated him like an equal. Tom Fowle was calling Cassandra ‘Mademoiselle’ and Charles was going around saying ‘Excusez-moi’ and purposely bumping into everyone. It was the usual fun and high spirits and it was as if the tragedy of George had not come into all our lives for a few brief minutes. I could see Jane’s lips quiver from time to time, but she said nothing.
Saturday, 2 April 1791
My white dress has been carefully washed in the best soap and lavender water by Mrs Austen herself. She waved me away when I wanted to iron it and she did it herself, rubbing the bottom of each iron with a piece of coarse cloth every time she took a new one from on top of the stove. Not a single one of the beautiful blue glass beads was damaged as she took such care with it.
No Eliza to get us ready this time — but she left her soaps and her bath oils and some of her special shampoo so Jane and I confided in Sukey, who was happy to light the fire in the guest bedroom, lug up the pails of hot water and allow us the use of the hip bath and the wonderful full-length cheval mirror. I’m going to do Jane’s hair and she’s going to do mine. I’m going to have one change though. I’ve put away Henry’s bandeau and I’ve carefully unpicked Eliza’s blue velvet rose from my gown. I will wear that at the place where my hair is gathered at the back — just as Eliza had intended.
‘Wish we had the Turkish towels,’ said Jane while we were getting everything ready. ‘If you marry that Captain Williams, my dear Jenny, I hope you will have a guest bedroom that supplies Turkish towels.’
‘And Indian bath oil,’ I said.
‘And shampoo and soap.’
‘And a glass of wine to sip while bathing.’
‘And rose petals heaped upon the bed.’
‘And three dozen beeswax candles.’
‘And Indian spices burning in an oil lamp.’
‘And soft music in the background.’
‘And then our imaginations ran out. The room was looking quite lovely already. ‘Lucky no one has discovered us,’ said Jane. ‘If Mama finds out, well, I shall just say that Eliza told us to do all of this. And she did, in a way, because she left us the soap and the shampoo and the bath oil.’
The funny thing is that I think Mrs Austen knows. She couldn’t not know — she knows everything that goes on in the house.
When we were having our rest after our bath, Jane read aloud several remarks that ladies could make to gentlemen and I obediently repeated them after her until I got too sleepy so now I will blow out my candle and go to sleep — perhaps to have a happy dream about Thomas and me, whirling and dancing together at the ball.
The Portsmouths’ Ball
And now I am walking under the stone portico of Hurstbourne Park. The house is huge – bigger than anything I have ever seen.
Everything is very formal here. We are invited to leave our wraps in a beautiful room downstairs and then a footman precedes us up the stairs and announces us with great formality:
‘The Reverend George Austen, Mrs Austen, Miss Austen, Miss Jane Austen, Miss Cooper, Mr Henry Austen and Mr Frank Austen.’
The earl and his lady are very grand and they bow ceremoniously to us. I don’t suppose that we would have been invited if Mr Austen had not tutored their three sons so well. Lady Portsmouth is saying something about knowing my sister-in-law – ‘Dear Augusta’. I hardly look at her; I am too anxious to see whether Thomas is there.
And then we are through into the ballroom.
The ballroom is huge, bigger than the Assembly Rooms at Basingstoke.
I know many of the people here though: the Chutes from the Vyne, the Portals from Laverstok
e House, the Biggs from Manydown House, the Digweeds from Steventon Manor.
‘Big London crowd here tonight,’ says Henry, and he saunters off towards the Portal family. Mrs Austen has been impressing on him the necessity of asking Miss King to be his partner for the first dance, but he’s been muttering that Miss King is too opinionated and that he is tired of her. I’m not sure that there will be a match there, no matter how much Mrs Austen tries to push Henry. I don’t care one way or the other but I do think that Henry should have a chance to choose a wife that he loves.
‘Do as you please,’ Mrs Austen said to him before we left Steventon. ‘But remember your father can’t afford to buy you a commission in the militia. You’ll have to find the money somewhere. Just face the facts, Henry. You must marry money.’
‘Oh, Jane, Jane,’ says Alethea Bigg, rushing into the suite of huge bedrooms where we took off our wraps, ‘Jane, John Harwood has asked Elizabeth to give him the first two dances. He took her card and wrote his name twice and then he squeezed her hand! Shh, here she comes – don’t say that I told you.’
Elizabeth and her older sister, Catherine, are walking rather apart and not looking at each other as they come in. There is a rather sour look on Catherine’s face. I guess that she is jealous of Elizabeth. All these girls are so anxious to secure an offer of marriage. I don’t think that their parents give them a chance to fall in love.
Neither stays long – Catherine goes off with Cassandra, Elizabeth gives her face a hasty glance in the looking glass, pinches her cheeks and bites her lips to bring the colour to them and goes after them.
‘She shouldn’t wear green,’ observes Jane to Alethea. ‘It makes her too pale.’
‘Oh, Jane,’ says Alethea. ‘I would so like to have a beau.’
‘A man of fortune, I should hope,’ says Jane primly.
‘Well, that would be nice,’ admits Alethea, ‘but to be honest, any old beau would do to practise on.’
We all giggle and then Jane says that she is thinking of setting up a school for young ladies. ‘No time-wasting nonsense about globes and needlework and such things,’ she says, imitating her mother’s downright tone. ‘I’ve been coaching Jenny in how to make conversation with her beau and if you like I’ll take you on as a pupil too, Alethea. Teaching is in our family: my father coaches young gentlemen for Oxford; I’ll coach young ladies for marriage.’
She says all this with such an air as Alethea and she go out giggling. I stay behind, pretending to fix my curls, but really I just need to have a few minutes on my own. What will I do if HE’s not here, or if he has forgotten that he asked me to dance with him tonight?
And what about my midnight walk in Southampton? I ask myself as I walk out. Has he kept it to himself, as he promised? It seems so strange that he has the power to ruin me with one careless word, and yet I trust him implicitly.
The music becomes a little louder now and people are leaving the supper buffet table and starting to take their partners over towards the line that is forming down the middle of the ballroom.
Elizabeth is with John Harwood now, and Cassandra is scolding Jane and Alethea when I join them.
‘Jane, don’t be silly,’ snaps Cassandra. ‘You and Alethea are just two stupid little girls. You don’t know what you are talking about.’ She sees me smiling and she adds, ‘And you too, Jenny. At your age you are too young to be thinking of gentlemen.’
I’m not smiling because of what she said; I’m smiling because I can see Captain Williams. He’s pushing through the crowd, making his way towards me.
Jane is not taking any notice of Cassandra either. ‘There’s that Irish cousin of the Lefroys,’ she says. ‘He is rather fun. His name is Tom. Did you know that, Cassandra? I think I am fated to marry a Tom … It used to be Tom Chute and now it is Tom Lefroy.’ And then Jane is off, making her way down the ballroom, before Cassandra can say another word.
In a minute Captain Williams is bowing over my hand. He kisses it and the kiss seems to last a long time. I feel his lips on my hand. The backs of my fingers feel hot. I know that I am blushing, but I don’t care.
‘I’ve been thinking about you every day this week,’ he says. ‘I wanted to come to see you again, but I had to go to Southampton. We are recruiting men for a voyage to the East Indies; I’m so busy that I mostly only have the weekends to myself.’
I hardly hear him; nothing seems to matter except that he is with me and that he has missed me during the week. I don’t need Jane to tell me that I am in love. My heart is beating very quickly and I want to go even closer to him; I want to feel his arms around me.
‘Let’s dance,’ he says.
And we dance.
I don’t know who is beside me, or who is opposite me when we cross over. I am conscious of only three things: a pair of brown eyes that are looking into mine, a hand that touches my waist as we walk down to the end of the line and a voice as smooth as chocolate in my ear.
And then the dance is finished. Everyone is standing in the line, breathless and laughing.
‘I think Jenny is the prettiest name in the world,’ says Captain Williams. In quite a natural manner he keeps his hand at the back of my waist. I don’t move away from him; I don’t care who is looking at us.
‘I like your name too,’ I say.
‘Don’t call me Tom, though, will you? I hate Tom. Everyone is called Tom; I much prefer Thomas.’ There is laughter in his voice as he speaks. I so love his voice. I laugh too as I think of Jane and her two Toms. We are both still laughing when we reach the buffet table and he says, ‘Would you like an ice?’
I nod. I have never eaten an ice, but at this moment I would agree to anything he suggests.
There is quite a crowd there; I am squeezed up against some very fat lady with a large fan and a hat full of swaying feathers. She is much taller than I am, and on my other side is Thomas, tall and broad-shouldered, towering over everyone in the room. No one can see me. Thomas glances around and for a moment he bends towards me. I think he is going to kiss me, but he just touches my cheek with his finger and then he is gone.
‘Let’s get out of this crowd,’ he says when he comes back with two plates. So we go and sit under the palm-filled colonnade at the side of the ballroom.
‘How do you like your ice?’ he asks.
Anything he had brought to me would have tasted good, but the ice is especially delicious. I have never tasted anything like that. It is frozen and yet sweet.
‘Sweet.’ He just murmurs the word. I find myself wondering whether he is talking about me or the ice.
‘Let’s dance,’ he says when I finish. He takes my hand and tucks it around his arm, and gently sweeps a stray curl away from my face with his other hand. I wonder whether it is improper, but no one seems to have noticed. We join the line that is forming and he releases me with one of his ravishing smiles – the flash of white teeth drawing attention to the smooth colour of those very high cheekbones and the softness of his brown eyes.
He is a very good dancer. He keeps perfect time with me – all the Austens are good dancers, and so are their pupils, but Thomas is the best partner that I have ever had. Up and down the row, crossing hands, whirling around, marking time, my train with its lovely blue beads swirling behind me – I want that dance to go on forever. From time to time I remember his shoulder and am careful not to put my weight on his arm during left swings, but mostly I just enjoy myself. My busy, worrying brain has gone silent – only my body is working.
‘Like another ice?’ he asks when the music has finished and he has led me to a seat under the colonnade of marble pillars. And then he is gone before I can even answer. I look after him, admiring the way he makes his way so quickly and neatly through the crowd that’s clustered around the laden supper table, how he smiles and nods and says a few words here and there but never allows himself to be slowed or diverted from his task. He is the most handsome man in the room, I think, as he comes back smiling with a bowl of pale pink ice in his
hand.
‘What about yourself?’ I ask.
‘I’ll finish yours if it’s too much for you,’ he says. It sounds rather improper, I think, but there is no one near enough to hear.
And then we talk, mostly about our childhoods. He tells me that he went to a naval college when he was only twelve years old – his uncle, the admiral, paid his fees, and his mother was glad that her brother took such an interest in her son. Then, when his mother died, his uncle became guardian to both him and his sister.
‘Tell me about your family,’ he says then. And so I start to tell him about Augusta. I wish that I could make it sound funny, as Jane would have done, but my feelings are too strong for that, and from time to time I hear my voice wobble. I am only about halfway through telling all the things that she used to say to me, when it occurs to me that I am sounding childish and silly so I stop abruptly, take another spoonful and say, ‘Tell me some more about your sister.’
‘You should stand up to her, you know,’ he says, ignoring me. ‘People like your Augusta are just bullies. If you stand up to them, they back down, but if you give in to them they get worse and worse.’
‘That’s easy to say.’ I surprise myself by saying that quite loudly, and he looks a little surprised too. And then he grins. ‘That’s the spirit,’ he says with another of his devastating smiles. ‘I know it’s not easy.’ His voice is very gentle now and the tone of it sends shivers down my back. He stretches out a hand and I place mine in his. He runs a finger of his other hand up and down the stitching on my glove, just between my own fingers. His eyes are not looking at me though, but gaze unseeing into one of the potted palms. ‘I know when I was about your age I tried to stand up to the admiral and insisted that my sister should be brought home from that awful boarding school that she hated, but he just told me to leave the room, and I’ll never forgive myself for going off with my tail between my legs.’ His smooth voice deepens and roughens and his eyes harden. And then he says, ‘That’s the last time that I ever allowed anyone to push me around. Girls died in those boarding schools, you know. If my sister had died from lack of food or care, I would have killed the admiral.’
I Was Jane Austen's Best Friend Page 19