I Was Jane Austen's Best Friend (18 page)

Jane and I rushed upstairs to fetch our work baskets, and as we came out of our bedroom again we saw something strange. Henry was going upstairs very quietly, making no noise on the wooden boards, and we saw him turn the handle of Eliza’s door and slip inside without even knocking. Jane looked at me and raised her eyebrows and I did the same back, but I didn’t know what to think. We tiptoed downstairs, and as we passed Eliza’s room we could hear them both laughing and joking.

I’ve decided that I don’t really like Cousin Eliza very much. I think she is a shallow, insincere sort of person. I don’t believe that she cares for Henry. I think that she is just leading him on.

It’s night-time and Jane and I are in our bedroom. We should be in bed, but we are both writing, she in her notebook and I in my journal. I have just finished writing about the gowns and I am trying to think of something else to write in order to fill up the page. Jane is writing very fast. I think she is very clever. She is almost a year younger than I am, but she can write much more quickly.

I’ll ask Jane to read out what she’s writing so I can finish my page …

She says she has finished copying and has tossed the piece of paper to me. Here it is:

It may now be proper to return to the Hero of this Novel, the brother of Alice, of whom I believe I have scarcely ever had occasion to speak; which may perhaps be partly owing to his unfortunate tendency to alcohol, which so completely deprived him of the use of those faculties Nature had endowed him with, that he never did anything worth mentioning. His Death happened a short time after Lucy’s departure & was the natural Consequence of this heavy drinking
.

When he died, his sister became the sole inheritress of a very large fortune, which as it gave her fresh Hopes of rendering herself acceptable as a wife to Charles Adams, could not fail of being most pleasing to her – & as the effect was joyful, the cause could scarcely be lamented, so she did not mourn her brother
.

I read it through and laughed, but then I asked Jane how she could write about things like love and marriage when she had never been in love.

‘I’ve never been drunk either,’ she said, ‘but I can write very well about that.’

I told Jane that for all I knew she was drunk every night before I came here, and that it was a good job I was such a good moral influence on her, and she laughed.

Then I asked if she would ever write a love story with Eliza as the heroine.

‘Oh, Eliza is not in love,’ said Jane impatiently. ‘She just flirts. That’s different. Flirting is great fun. What about you? You’re in love with Henry, aren’t you? I know by the way you blush.’

I said that I thought Henry was in love with Eliza, but Jane just laughed at me.

‘He’s just flirting too,’ she said. ‘Henry is a terrible flirt; everyone knows that. There’s a difference between flirting and being in love. Real love is what Cassandra feels for Tom Fowle.’

I wish Eliza would go back to London. I’m sure Jane’s right and that Henry is just flirting with her — but I wish she would go.

Oh, and I forgot, we taught George the sign for the letter
B
today. He learned it by having bits of bun.

Thursday, 17 March 1791

One of Augusta’s many letters arrived this morning. Mrs Austen passed it to Eliza with a grin, and Eliza read out bits of it with great spirit and soon she had the whole table rocking with laughter, as she skimmed down and picked out the choicest snippets in her wonderful French accent.

‘
My dearest husband — He really is engaged from morning to night — There is no end of peoples coming to him, on some pretence or other — The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without him. “Upon my word, Mr C.,” I often say, “rather you than I — I do not know what would become of my drawings and my piano, if I had half so many people calling on me” — Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree — I believe I have not played a bar this fortnight — But I have so many calls on my time — Mrs John Colwell, herself, called on me yesterday. “Mrs Cooper,” she said, “you are such a good charitable person — I declare to goodness that I actually saw you speak to one of those poor creatures that came to hear your husband preach”— pray tell Mr Austen that Mr Cooper means to pay him the compliment of posting the book of his sermons to him
 …’

‘Well, that’s very kind …’ Mr Austen sounded a little taken aback.

I told him that I thought his sermons were better than my Edward-John’s — I wanted to reassure him because he is always so nice to me.

‘Still, to have a published volume of his sermons! And such a young man too! There’s writing ability in your family, my dear.’ He gave a nod at his wife, who preened herself; she is good at writing funny poems, I must say.

‘Jane will be the writer of this family,’ said Henry, and Jane looked very pleased.

After dinner Jane asked Susan if she could have a tiny slice of cake. She had been making herself useful in the kitchen and complimenting the cook on the dinner so I wasn’t surprised when the cake tin was opened and a slice given to her. I had already prepared my drawings so we went straight down to the village.

There was no sign of George anywhere around. He wasn’t near the pump, nor hanging around outside the inn. We went to Nanny Littleworth’s house, but she hadn’t seen him for a while.

And then we found him on the lane to the church. He was lying on the ground, on his side, and he was twitching. There was still enough light to see how his eyes rolled in his head and how his lips were covered with froth. He was having a fit. But it wasn’t the sort of fit that Augusta would have; this was a
real fit. I had never seen anyone have a fit before and it seemed terrible.

I think I will always remember how Jane dropped to her knees beside him and cried over him as if it were the end of the world. I couldn’t stop crying myself. And then Mrs Littleworth came along and told us both to go home immediately. Bet was with her, and it was Bet who lifted up Jane and walked us to the gate of the parsonage.

‘He’ll be fine tomorrow, he’ll be fine,’ she kept saying in her country voice. ‘He doesn’t mind. He’s used to it and we’re used to it. Now, go home the pair of you, and for God’s sake don’t say a word to your mother about this. Promise me, Miss Jane, and you, Miss Jenny, nothing must be said, or it will be trouble for my mother.’

Jane and I cried the whole way up to the house, and now I am crying again.

I must stop crying or else I will just start thinking about my mother’s death and Jane will notice. I’ve told her that I don’t like talking about it and she doesn’t ask me any questions, but I think it upsets her when she thinks I am unhappy. Even though she and her mother fight from time to time, I think that she finds it a terrible thing to imagine being someone like me with no family — I can’t count Edward-John, as I don’t believe that he cares anything for me. We hardly knew each other before he married and came back to Bristol, as he lived in Berkshire.

And now I’m going to try to stop worrying about this by thinking about the ball at Basingstoke Assembly Rooms.

The gowns are progressing very well. They’ve been cut out and the side seams have been sewn so that now we have an idea of how beautiful they will look. Mrs Tuckley pinned them around us today, and tomorrow she will sew the seams in the bodices so that they will fit us snugly. I just can’t wait. Every time that I think about dancing in the Assembly Rooms in less than a fortnight I feel little thrills running up and down me. I think it will be the most wonderful night of my life. Even Cassandra is excited. She goes around singing to herself and exchanging small, secret smiles with Tom Fowle. Jane and I think that being in love must be very good for the complexion; Cassandra looks very nice these days, with lovely pink lips and pink cheeks — even her hair seems to curl more beautifully.

Friday, 18 March 1791

This morning at breakfast Henry had a little parcel beside him.

‘What’s that, Henry?’ asked Jane as soon as she saw it.

‘Curiosity,’ teased Henry. ‘Just something that I bought at the mercer’s shop yesterday when I was escorting Cousin Eliza to Overton.’ I saw him give a quick, joking look at Eliza who was at the breakfast table for once, pouring out the coffee she insists on having for breakfast. She blew him a kiss, and Mrs Austen scowled, though Mr Austen just laughed.

‘A pair of gloves,’ guessed Jane, but Henry shook his head.

‘He’s got six pairs of gloves already,’ said Gilbert East.

‘A cravat then,’ persisted Jane.

‘And he’s got a drawer full of them,’ said Tom Fowle’s brother William.

‘In any case, I am hoping that Jane will make me a cravat if there is a square of muslin left over from her gown,’ said Henry. He didn’t really need another cravat, I guessed. He was always beautifully dressed, and this morning he was wearing a snowy white one knotted under his chin in the latest style.

‘I will if you show me what you’ve got there.’ Jane kept on pestering him until he undid the twine and took out two beautiful bandeau-style ribbons.

‘Something for you girls to wear in your hair on Saturday night,’ he said. ‘There’s a pink one for you, Cassandra, that should match your gown.’

‘Oh, thank you, Henry.’ Cassandra rushed over and admired herself in the looking glass.

‘And the red one for Jane — matches her rosy cheeks.’ Henry pinched Jane’s cheek. She wriggled away, but she was pleased with the bandeau. It was made from silk, like Cassandra’s.

Cassandra was still admiring herself. She had a quick look at Tom Fowle and a smile passed between them. I think Tom really loves her. There is a look of adoration in his eyes. I made a promise to myself not to laugh at them any more, no matter what jokes Jane makes. I feel very sorry for the two of them and hope that Mrs Austen will allow them to get engaged. I’m sure Mr Austen won’t mind. He seems to like Tom Fowle very much.

‘And this is for Jenny, to match her beautiful blue eyes.’ I was so busy looking from Mr Austen to Tom Fowle that I got a shock when Henry opened the parcel a little more and slid out a gorgeous bandeau made from the deepest and softest blue velvet. I couldn’t say anything; I loved it so much.

‘Let me put it on.’ In a moment Henry had it around my head and had pulled one of my curls forward. He placed one hand on my shoulder while he
was arranging my hair and I could feel myself tremble. I wished that we were alone and that the whole of the breakfast table wasn’t staring at us. He was so close to me that I could feel a warmth coming from him and could see that his dark eyes had little flecks of light in them. I felt myself moving closer to him and then jerked back.

‘Come on, look at yourself.’ He was smiling down at me, smiling just the way that he smiles at Cousin Eliza. I didn’t dare look at her. I didn’t dare look at anyone. I was too embarrassed to move and I knew that I had started to blush when he touched my hair.

So Henry unhooked the looking glass and brought it over to me, putting one finger under my chin and turning my head slightly so that I could see myself perfectly in the glass.

‘Very nice,’ said Mrs Austen drily. ‘Now, girls, thank Henry and put these upstairs until Saturday night. Jane, your satin slippers definitely need cleaning before the ball, and, Jenny, you had better check yours also.’

‘You do mine, will you, Jenny?’ said Jane in an offhand manner. ‘I must do my practising.’