I Was Jane Austen's Best Friend (30 page)

It was Mrs Austen who shut the door.

‘So how long has all this been going on for?’ she asked drily.

‘A few weeks,’ said Jane defiantly.

‘A few weeks …’ repeated Mr Austen, and then he smiled, that very sweet smile that he always seemed able to produce even in a situation where another man would be angry. ‘And you were teaching him his alphabet, were you?’

‘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 Laverstoke 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.