Dearest Cousin Jane (4 page)

1781

M
r Austen, it is not to be borne. You must forbid it. You cannot allow our niece to marry this, this adventurer.’

My husband looked at me over the spectacles he had recently begun to need. They had lost a rivet and sat oddly upon his face. A face I noticed was wreathed in smiles.

Without allowing him to answer, I went on: ‘How can you smile so? You surely do not wish to contend that this news gives you pleasure? What are you about? You are her guardian and must surely protect her.’

‘My dear, calm yourself. I beg you to consider the facts. I may be Eliza’s trustee but I am not her legal guardian, and if my sister, who is, considers this Comte to be a suitable match, how can—’

I interrupted: ‘Eliza is not of age and needs guidance in these matters as she herself says. Where is the line…’

I took the letter up and read it again. Eliza had always had a neat hand, no doubt as a result of her father’s nagging her, since Philla’s scrawl is almost impossible to decipher.

‘Yes here it is:

‘She cannot mean her mother, as she refers to those who are of rank and title.’

‘No’ was my husband’s response. ‘I daresay she means Sir John Lambert—you remember that rich baronet she met in Paris last year, who now seems to have such influence with my sister.’

‘What do we know of him? Ten to one he has something to gain from this betrothal.’

‘Cassandra, what can you mean?’

‘Why, ’tis obvious to anyone with half a worldly eye, which as we know my dear, you sadly lack, and your sister is too easily influenced by powerful men, as we have reason to know from her past mis—’

‘My dear, you know we agreed never to refer to that sad business again.’

‘Yes, well as I was saying…’ I knew such a reference would displease him. He is a loyal brother. He is a loyal father and husband, too. A good man—too good perhaps to understand what was afoot in France.

I took a deep breath and decided to tell him my worst fears, even though I doubted he would take them seriously. At that moment we were interrupted by little Charles, who came toddling in, his rosy face cheerful as ever.

‘Cassy,’ I called, ‘come mind the babe for a few moments longer, your father and I need to talk.’

‘But Mama,’ I heard Jane’s voice, ‘Cassy and I were just set to pick apples and Charles cannot climb the trees with us.’

‘Hush, Jane.’ Cassy’s voice contrasted in its soothing tones with Jane’s complaining ones. ‘We can as well pick the apples tomorrow. Let us take Charlie to watch Frank riding his dear little pony Squirrel in the lane.’

Cassy is always the peacemaker and always does as she is bid—
unlike Jane. When Cassy goes away to school we shall have to take Jane in hand.

I returned to my task of trying to make my husband see what was very obvious to me.

‘Mr Austen, you know that Eliza is an heiress—not a great one perhaps, but good enough for most men. When she marries, all her property, all her wealth, becomes her husband’s. Perhaps Sir John, of whom after all we know nothing, has made a bargain with this Frenchman, that he—Sir John I mean—shall have part of her fortune in return for making the match.’

‘Oh come, dear wife, I may have permitted you too much freedom in your reading—’tis the plot of a novel you are setting out here. Besides, my sister says that the Comte has great connections and expectations. She also says the match is entirely to her satisfaction, so how can we possibly—’

Again I interrupted, not something I was in the habit of doing to my husband.

‘As I have said, your sister is too easily influenced by men and no doubt dazzled by this supposed Comte’s title and such. You know she told you how amused she was to have Eliza introduced as the ward of
Lord
Hastings.’

‘You do seem to be excessively concerned by this news, my dear. Could it be perhaps that you had hoped our niece would make a match with one of her cousins?’

‘To which cousins are you referring?’

‘Why, our own sons of course. Did you and Philla not once talk of the desirability of cousins marrying?’

‘Mr Austen, you take delight in vexing me.’ I was angry and showed it. ‘Eliza is far too old for any of our sons, as you know well.’

‘Oh come, my dear, there are barely four years between her and James.’

‘Yes, and you know full well that James is to become a clergyman and take over this parish after you. You cannot seriously be suggesting to me that Eliza, with all that fancy education, would be content as the wife of a country clergyman—still less make him a suitable one?’

His eyes twinkled as he responded. ‘No one knows better than I how important a suitable wife is to a clergyman and how fortunate I have been in my choice.’

He always knew how to placate me, and I could not help but smile back.

‘I fear you must hold on to your doubts and bear it well, however hard you find it,’ he said, apparently not at all perturbed, ‘though I do confess that one thing does worry me.’

I heard this with some relief. ‘Pray, what is that?’

‘Why, the question of Eliza’s religion, of course. I would be highly concerned if I thought she was to become a Roman Catholic.’

‘So you do not mind if she is at risk of being drained of every shilling as long as she is not a papist?’

‘If I thought there was a risk of her being pauperised by this alliance I would intervene, I assure you, but as we have heard, the young man has great estates in the south and loves her violently, so I do not think we need fear for her too much. And I do assure you that neither I nor Mr Woodman shall ever consent to having her fortune transferred to the hands of French bankers. Let us invite them to come to Steventon on a wedding visit, and then we can judge his character for ourselves.’

‘I do not believe the French are to be trusted, ‘I warned, ‘but it shall be as you wish.’

I knew when to close such a conversation.

The visit, however, was not to be paid for some considerable time, but so began the situation in which we were constant witness
to what Eliza herself called ‘a racketing life’ by means of her correspondence with us and other members of the family. In fact, her most frequent and fullest letters went to her cousin Philly, but that minx often forwarded them to us or allowed us to read them on our visits to Kent or hers to us. I knew my girls were very interested in Eliza’s doings and adventures, especially Jane, and I did not consider that the letters from France were always entirely suitable for the ears of young girls. I did not so much mind the ones in which she wrote of fashions, powder, curls in the hair, and jewels, or even the long descriptions of life at the French court.

No, I did not object to hearing these accounts, but when she came to accounts of her relationship with her husband, I would ensure that the girls were not present—or the boys, for that matter, for on one occasion Henry and Frank accompanied us on a visit to Kent, where we were shown a letter that in my view said far too much about her
marriage. It is simply not fitting to talk so freely—I wonder if she realises that Philly does not approve?

I was glad she felt thus but could not remove from my mind the uneasiness I had always had about the French and things I had read, though never even related to my husband, about most French nobles expecting to keep a mistress. Still, I must say that in her letters I always found two redeeming features. She continued to be devoted to her mother.

I also was impressed that she seemed genuinely to be devoted to her wider family, especially dear uncle George.

My husband was always pleased and flattered by her emotional responses but I must admit that I was touched and surprised when
she wrote me a most warm and thoughtful letter upon receiving the news of the sad death of my cousin Jane Cooper from a putrid sore throat that she had caught from her daughter Jane and from my Jane and Cassandra when they were away at that dreadful school in Southampton.

She also expressed gratitude that she herself had not been sent away to school but had always been able to have governesses.

We should have wished it, too, I thought to myself, had our income allowed it. I had considered that Jane was far too young to be sent away to school when she was only seven but she would not be parted from Cassandra. I never felt easy about it and feared that the dreadful illness to which they almost succumbed was a punishment for being careless of their welfare. They did better when we sent them to the Abbey School at Reading, though I believe that Madame la Tournelle, the headmistress, rather gave herself airs. I do not believe she was French at all. When my husband said we could no longer afford the fees for the school, I was not disappointed and was glad to welcome my girls home again. In my view they have had quite education enough. It does not do to have girls too well educated. They write a neat hand, Cassandra’s better than Jane’s, and have the run of Mr Austen’s library—that should be sufficient. I shall teach them housekeeping and how to manage servants. Already their sewing is neat and accomplished and they can play and sing tolerably well. Their main object must be to make a
happy marriage. We can give them no dowries to speak of, so they will not make brilliant matches, but if they can be good wives to a clergyman or a small landowner, I shall be content. Such a husband would surely not relish too clever a wife—we must remember that. Jane has a tendency to be too questioning, too willing to put herself forward. Only yesterday I saw her reading something dear James had written for his tutor at Oxford—the dear boy has a real talent for composition—and she actually suggested ways to improve it! I must have a word with her father about this; I think he indulges her and this may be encouraging her in these rather unladylike tendencies. Cassandra cannot be faulted and Jane should be encouraged to follow her fine example. My daughters may not be sufficiently accomplished to catch a Comte as a husband, but they will do well enough in the sphere to which they are born.

Paris, May 1784

I
have often joked about the many reasons I have for doubting my husband’s constancy. After all he is young, reckoned handsome, in the military, and a Frenchman besides, altogether adding up to a perfect picture of an inconstant spouse. I have always assured my friends that I am not of a jealous disposition and that I would take the matter very patiently. Not that I have ever had any reason to suspect him, but I am beginning to think he does in fact have a mistress. ‘But,’ as I said to Mama earlier today, ‘his mistress is not another woman but a parcel of land.’

‘Come my dear,’ said my ever sensible mother, ‘he cannot be blamed for wanting to improve the land that is rightly his inheritance.’

She is right, yet I cannot help but miss my handsome husband, who left us here in Paris when we had scarce been married a twelve month and has now been resident in the Landes—his native land—for almost two years. Of course, I have Mama for company, else he would never have been able to go, and we do live here in more than tolerable comfort. Our acquaintance in Paris is now very large and there are not the same restrictions on ladies going about that there would be in England. We dine and sup with at least four and twenty families here, and there are endless entertainments to
be had. Only last year we had the incredible excitement of the invention of aerial balloons and had the joy of seeing some of the ascents. I was so glad that my dear husband was paying us one of his infrequent visits at the time, so that he could be present at the wonderful event.

He had been rather melancholy as his project in the south was not going well, and he finally confessed to me that he was very worried because the whole project was proving a great deal more costly than he had anticipated and that he feared he would have to borrow more money in order to complete it.

‘But your father left you an inheritance for the draining of the land, did he not?’ I asked.

‘Yes, but not enough, and though I have now received permission to drain the land, it took two years for the licence to be granted and there were many expenses associated with that.’ I took this to mean he had had to lay out money to bring it about, which I had heard was often the case in France.

In his last letter he had told me that the work was proceeding but not swiftly. It seemed that some other landowners in the area of the Marais in the Landes were disputing his right to the land, even though it had been left to him and he had received his licence to drain the land from the king himself. And then, of course, there were the peasants. Everywhere in Paris nowadays one hears stories of peasants who are trying to assert themselves—who are actually saying they have a right to own the land where they have grazed their cattle and sheep. One of them asked the Comte how the draining of the land would benefit
him,
disregarding the fact that all the expense of the draining falls to my husband.

‘I do not know what is to become of a country where the lowest of peasants now dares to address a member of the nobility thus,’ wrote my husband.

It was my suggestion that he should approach my mother for money.

‘After all my love, we shall all, my mother also, benefit hugely when the land is drained and can be used for agriculture.’

I was not present at the discussions they had, but I know that the outcome was that she wrote to my uncle and Mr Woodman asking for the release of some of my inheritance. My dear husband was very restrained and polite, though he knew as I did that in truth the money was his to do with as he pleased. It was not held in France, however, and therefore when my trustees refused to release any to the Comte there was nothing to be done given that I am not yet of age. But dear Mama had sufficient income to advance him the money, on the understanding of two things: first, that when I had control of my fortune as my uncle had promised I should once I was more advanced in years, the money would be returned to her; and second, that the two of us should be permitted to see the Marais at firsthand and should travel south that summer.

The Comte was delighted with this proposal and his only stricture was that we delay sufficiently to allow him time to find a suitable residence. He would install his mother there also, as she had been most anxious to receive her new daughter-in-law ever since our marriage. So now the day approaches when we are to leave to undertake the six-hundred-and-fifty-mile journey south. I am happy at the prospect not only of seeing my husband’s family but also of seeing more of France. My only anxiety is that my mother does not appear to be at all in good health—she has grown thin and pale during the winter. I have a slight health worry also but think it likely can be attributed to a happy cause, and I wish that we may have hopes of issue for next year.

Château de Jordan, September 1784

They tell me that it is painful indeed to bear a child, but what is uppermost in my mind at present is how fearfully painful it is
not
to bear one. Perhaps it was the roughness of the roads, or the inadequacy of the accommodation Mama and I had on our long journey south that caused my sad loss.

‘You can never know the reasons for these things, Madame,’ said the old French doctor who attended me at the château following my accident. ‘But you are young and healthy as is your husband the Comte. There will be other children, of that you may be sure.’

How sad my husband was and his mother, too. They had prepared such a welcome for us at the end of our terrible journey. The château is a most charming place, so beautiful that it might be in a fairy story. Of course,
château
does not translate as “castle” as many an English person would suppose, but is more a gentleman’s residence with the sweetest chimneys, a fine roof, and dormer windows. Madame Belle Mere—how much nicer this sounds than mother in law!—was kindness itself, even though I was unable by virtue of the onset of my condition to truly appreciate the fine food and wine that had been set out in our apartments.

I seem to have been somewhat slow in recovering—perhaps it has taken longer than recovering from a lying in—but am at last beginning to feel a little stronger. Mama oversees the nursing and supervises my food in agreement with Madame Belle Mere and I have little to do but sit in the sun. I grow quite tanned because, though the summer is almost at an end, the sun is still strong so far south.

‘Before you return to England, my dear,’ said Mama, ‘we shall have to bleach your complexion with buttermilk lest your
English relatives think you have been working in these swamps yourself.’

She was joking, but I long to be strong enough to accompany the Comte as he goes about his work. Never did I think that I should be so interested in farming matters, but the work he undertakes is so exciting and the buildings that are beginning to emerge are so fit for the landscape that I fail to see how anyone could object to them. My husband says this project will immortalise him and now that I have seen it, I believe him. To have been so singled out by the king and entrusted with this heavy task is indeed an honour of which we must all strive to be worthy. It had seemed to me to be impossible, but I now see how he will manage to change stagnant water to a fertile plain and will be a benefactor to the whole province.

November 1784

The cold is now so acute that it is hard to grip my pen as I write the sad news to all my relatives. Dear Madame Belle Mere is dead. The event is all the more shocking because the dear lady appeared to have escaped the dreadful fever that is common in these marshes and that has affected Mama, my husband, and me. We are all weakened by it, but my mother-in-law seemed to be in the best of health in spite of the damp that penetrates to your very bones hereabouts, when a sudden seizure, of not more that three quarters of an hour duration, took her from us.

My poor husband is distraught and, weakened as he already was by the fever, is in very poor spirits. Indeed, I have never seen him so cast down. Shortly we are to go to Bagnères, a nearby spa, which I am told does wonders for depressed spirits, and I am hoping it will have the effect of uplifting us all.

New Year 1786

I could not have believed that we should find such pleasant society in this part of the world, but we have met with such elegant and fashionable people as I thought were to be found only in London and Paris. Dear Lord and Lady Chesterfield, whom we met at the spa last year, are now with us at the house party to celebrate the New Year. He has been ambassador to Madrid for some time and she could not be more affable and charming. They introduced us to several other English families—we were surprised to find so many in this far-flung place—and we have visited and corresponded these last few months.

We are to have theatricals at the house party and I hope that my condition will not prevent me from taking part. Lady Chesterfield was so delightfully solicitous of my health when I confessed to her the reason for my frequent digestive upsets.

‘You are far and away the best actress among us Madame la Comtesse,’ she declared, ‘but we must take no risks with your heath. The Comte, after all, needs an heir to inherit his great new estate once his work is completed.’

These new acquaintances have greatly increased my enjoyment of this part of France and I feel now I could settle here for some years quite contentedly.

I have written to my eldest cousin, James Austen, to beg he would visit us here. My uncle, I know, feels he should travel before he goes up to Oxford and what better place to visit than our works, which will be well advanced by the time he gets here.

February 1786

My plans for my cousin’s visit have been thrown into disarray by the urgent desire my husband has expressed for our child to be born in
England. I had not reckoned that he would feel this so strongly and had not considered that I might have to undertake the long journey again in my delicate state of health.

‘Consider, dear wife, the advantages of an English birth for our son, and I am sure they will overcome all your doubts. To be born an Englishman will no doubt be of great advantage to him in future years.’

‘But Comte, he—if it is indeed a son—will be born into the French nobility. Would that not be of equal—indeed greater—advantage?’

‘In former times I would consider you to be correct in that assumption, but as things are here at present I am not sure that to be related to the royal family itself could be called advantageous. Only yesterday in Guines, I heard a group of ruffians talking about wanting to be able to vote and to have the right to food—imagine, my dear, what we are coming to. No, mark me, English gentleman is what we should aspire to for our son and heir.’

I was dismayed, for I knew that the Comte would never be able to accompany me to England because of the progress of his works here. At a time when I should most have wished for and needed his company we were to be so far apart, with no fixed time for our being reunited. Had I not had the comfort of my mother to be with me, I could never have contemplated undertaking the journey. But it was my husband’s wish, so how could I gainsay him?

Rouen, May 1786

I have mixed feelings now about my arrival in England. I begin to yearn to see my dear relations and to be somewhere familiar, but I have grown so large that I am somewhat ashamed of my appearance and nervous about what my dear uncles and aunts and cousins will
think of my nonexistent waist and my tanned and roughened skin. I am afraid, too, that I lack the maternal skills and commitments that will shortly be called for. I know nothing of nurseries, nor of how to care for brats. Mama is reassuring and tells me such skills are found when they are needed. I am taken up with fearing that I have miscalculated my dates and the baby will be born in some inn en route, which would be the greatest shame and not at all fitting for the son of a count.

I worry too that dear cousin James, who has been urged so persistently by me to travel to France, will now arrive to find me departed.

One thing only brings comfort to me and to Mama. Our great benefactor, my godfather, is returned to England at last and has undertaken the task of finding us suitable lodgings. I am immensely grateful for this, for Lord knows the dear man has troubles enough with those dreadful Whigs in Parliament seeking his conviction for heinous crimes of which I know he cannot be guilty. He has been known throughout the subcontinent for his kindness and consideration for the people of India. My father always said he was the most generous of men and that has been amply felt by me and Mama. That he has been working all these years to ‘feather his own nest’ as
The Times
has put it is an outrageous falsehood. Would that I were able to give evidence at his trial, for I am sure I could convince the gentlemen of England of the goodness of his heart. Though only his goddaughter, I feel for him the love of a daughter, but on that matter it is as well to be silent perhaps.

London, June 1786

I am brought to bed of a fine son. He is to be called Hastings François Louis Henry Eugene. How I long to know that his papa has received the news with as much joy as I feel.