Jane Austen’s First Love (2 page)

“Well! I, too, am ready to do something else for a while,” mused my mother, putting her work in her bag, “but to go out? The roads and fields are all covered in frost. You will catch your death of cold!”

“It is nought but a
light
frost, Mamma,” countered I.

“There is nothing worse than a light frost, for it will soon melt away, and
then
you are forced to walk over wet ground. I had a childhood friend whose death was occasioned by nothing more—she walked out one morning in April after a hard rain, and her feet got wet through—she never changed her shoes when she came home—and that was the end of her! Have you any notion how many people have died in consequence of catching cold? There is not a disorder in the world except the smallpox which does not spring from it!”

“Mamma,” said Cassandra gently, “you are very right to be concerned, but I do not think there is any danger of the frost melting away today. The fields are still quite frozen.”

“We have walked for
miles
over fields far frostier than this,” added I. “We have been stuck inside such a long time this winter. I am dying to get out.”

My mother stood, and said, “Well, I can see there is no point trying to talk sense into either of
you
. If you catch cold, it will not be
my
fault. But see to it that you put on your boots, change your shoes the minute you get back home, and then it is back to sewing for the three of us.”

Cassandra and I donned all the essential accoutrements, and as we were about to leave the house, my mother cried, “Jane! That shawl will never be warm enough! Take it off and fetch your cloak! Why cannot you be more sensible, like your sister?”

Exasperated, I ran back upstairs and did as bidden.

As we stepped outside, I savoured the taste of the crisp, winter air and the refreshing bite of the breeze against my cheeks. “Is not it
glorious
to be outside? It is cold, but not too cold. Sunny, but not too bright.”

Cassandra agreed. “It is the perfect day in every way.”

“Yes—well—
nearly
perfect.” As we struck out along our usual shortcut—the well-travelled path carved across the half-frozen field in the direction of Deane Gate Inn, where the mail was delivered—I could not help but sigh. “Cassandra: why is Mamma so harsh where I am concerned? She is ever so sweet to you, yet constantly finds imperfection in me.”

“I think it is because she admires you more, Jane.”

“Admires me more? That makes no sense!”

“It does. You are ever so much brighter than I am, Jane.”

“That is not true.”

“The point cannot be argued. It is not in
my
nature to invent clever and witty stories, and relate them aloud in such a manner as to have the entire family laughing into stitches. Mamma perceives how very clever you are; so naturally, she expects more from you.”

“That is kind of you to say, but I fear it is not so. I know you all indulge me only because you love me. Mamma insists that my writing is not important. It is expert needlework, she said, which is to be the hallmark of my future.”

“Every woman needs to be skilled at needlework, Jane; but regardless of what Mamma
says,
she knows you are
capable
of far more than that; I feel certain of it.”

“If that is true—what do you think she expects of me?”

“I do not know,” replied she, troubled. “It is possible that even
she
does not know.”

“How confusing this is! How I wish I could oblige her! How I wish I
could
do
more
, Cassandra; more than darning stockings and making shirts and writing nonsense for no ears other than our own. Nothing of interest ever happens to me. I should dearly love to be useful somehow, to do something which might make a difference in the lives of others—but what that might be is a mystery to me.”

“You will discover it in time, Jane. You are still young.”

“Young! How that term exasperates me!” My footsteps crunched noisily against the hard, frosty ground. “I am not so very young, Cassandra. And what does age matter, in any case? How often have you said that you consider me your equal in every way? Oh! If only I were seventeen and out like you!”

“Do not wish your life away, Jane.”

“I am not wishing it away; I only wish to be
out
. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sit home while you go off to the assembly rooms without me?”

“I understand how you feel, my dearest; and I am sorry for it.”

“There are so few real amusements in the world. Dancing is such a glorious activity! It exercises both the body and the mind, all while moving with spirit and elegance to lively music.” Holding out my arm as if to an imaginary partner, I curtseyed, then practised my dancing across the field, making several turns.

Cassandra smiled. “You are an excellent dancer, Jane—so much more elegant and animated than I could ever be.”

“You are too modest. I love nothing more than watching
you
dance, dearest; except, perhaps, dancing
myself
. Oh! We know of parents who allowed their daughters to come out at
fourteen
, when accompanied by their mother or an older sister. Why must I be denied the same pleasures? How I wish I could powder my hair and put on a new gown, white gloves, and satin slippers with shoe-roses, and make my debut at the ball at Basingstoke with you tomorrow!”

“It is not all that agreeable to powder one’s hair, Jane; I only do it when I absolutely must, and because Mamma insists upon it. And with regard to your debut—you know Mamma will never bend on this matter. I wish you would not continue to let it vex you so.”

“How can I do otherwise?” The breeze whipped the strings of my bonnet, and I pulled my cloak more closely about me as we walked along. “It is so unfair. I am tired of dance lessons with Catherine and Alethea, improving my skills for nothing more than children’s balls at Manydown, or snug dances in our own parlour with pushed-back furniture and our brothers and neighbours’ sons for partners. How I long to converse and dance and flirt openly with gentlemen I have never met!”

With a little laugh, Cassandra said, “What appeals to you more? The flirting or the dancing?”

“The flirting, absolutely!” We had reached the opposite side of the field now, and holding up the hems of our skirts, we made our way up the mud-encrusted lane, past the tiny village and the church of St. Nicholas, over which my father presided. “Oh, Cassandra! Every night I dream of meeting a worthy young man who incites all my passions—a gentlemanlike, pleasant young man who is intelligent, thoughtful, kind, and accomplished, who shares my enthusiasm for literature and music and nature, with whom I can converse on any topic at length with spirit and debate—if he be good-looking, all the better—”

“Where are you to find this paragon of virtue?”

“I have no idea—but I have conjured him in my imagination. He must exist.”

“I fear you expect too much, Jane. No one man can be all these things to you.”

“But he must be! For
he
is the only man I shall ever marry. Were I to meet him tomorrow, I should fall instantly and happily in love with him.” With a deep sigh, I added, “But
that
can never happen until I am out. Why cannot Mamma and Papa be more liberal-minded on this subject? Can they truly expect me to wait nearly two more years?”

“You reflect a maturity well beyond your years, dearest. Perhaps Mamma will allow you to come out next year, at sixteen. In any case, the time will pass more quickly than you think—and there is much sense in waiting.”

“Do you really think so? I cannot agree. I think a girl ought to be introduced into company in a more gradual manner, so as to slowly become accustomed to the alteration of manners required of her. Was not it difficult, Cassandra, for so many years, to be allowed only to smile and be demure, and say barely a word except to friends and relations, and then suddenly at seventeen to be introduced to society with no real preparation?”

Cassandra coloured slightly; it was a moment before she replied. “I suppose it
was
unsettling.”

Our discourse was at that moment curtailed by the sight of two friends, Martha and Mary Lloyd, who were just emerging from the Deane Gate Inn with their own daily mail.

Martha and Mary, who resided at Deane parsonage with their widowed mother, had moved to the neighbourhood two years before. Although Mary, at nineteen, was closer in age to me than her sister, it was the kind, intelligent, and sympathetic Martha, ten years my senior, with whom I felt a deep connection, and who had become my own particular friend. Martha had generously finished my new cloak for me the year before, when my fingers had been suffering from chilblains, resulting from a particularly cold winter; and in return, I had dedicated a short story and poem to her.

We exchanged greetings; and upon learning that the Lloyds had no engagements that afternoon, I inquired as to whether they might like to return with us to the rectory.

“We are making clothes for our darling Charles, for the Naval Academy,” explained I.

“Oh! I would be happy to help,” announced Martha with a smile. “The endeavour will be more enjoyable if we work together, and—” (with a twinkle in her eyes) “I am certain your mother will not mind.”

I laughed. My mother, more often than not, embarrassed me by mending clothes and darning stockings when people came to call, insisting that it was an excellent use of her time. Mary also agreed to join us, and while the Lloyd sisters dashed up to the parsonage to get their work-bags, Cassandra and I retrieved our mail. There was only a single letter, addressed to my father, from our brother Edward.

Edward was my second-eldest brother, and he had led a charmed life. At the tender age of twelve, he had so impressed my father’s wealthy cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Knight, with his charm and sunny disposition, that they invited him to accompany them on their wedding trip, and to visit several times at Godmersham Park, their manor home in Kent. When it became clear that they were not to have any children of their own, they expressed their desire to adopt Edward and make him their heir. My father had initially been reticent to the idea, but my mother wisely insisted that Edward should go if he wished it—and wish it he did. The move had elevated Edward’s status into a world of wealth and privilege which he could before have only imagined.

“A letter from our Edward! Why, we are starved for news from him!” cried my mother, when we returned to the rectory. “He is so good, so amiable and sweet-tempered. Any letter from him is always a high point in the day for me. Do read it, Mr. Austen, without delay!”

My father, an intelligent and amiable man of nearly sixty years of age, adjusted the fashionable white wig which curled above his ears, and disappeared into his study. Not long after, he came out to the front parlour, where we ladies were at work, and after calling my brother Charles to join us, said,

“This is a most interesting letter. I see no reason why Mary and Martha should not hear it.” He gave me the letter, then sat down in his favourite chair. “You may do the honours, Jane.”

I opened the letter and read it aloud.

Godmersham Park, Kent

11 March, 1791

My dearest father,

I trust you are well. I have news which I had hoped to share sooner, but Mr. Knight has kept me much occupied since my return from the Continent with matters of business on the estate, with a view to furthering my education in such matters—and we have just returned from a brief trip to town. Both you and my mother will be pleased to learn, however, that in my moments of leisure, I have had the opportunity to involve myself again in the social activities of the neighbourhood—which brings me to the purpose of this letter. I have developed a strong regard for a particular young lady: Miss Elizabeth Bridges, the third daughter of Sir Brook William Bridges, 3rd Bt, of Goodnestone Park. She will soon be eighteen years of age and was educated in town. She is an elegant, graceful, accomplished, beautiful young woman.—I am honoured and gratified to say that she returns my affections; for I have asked her to be my wife, and she has accepted.

Here my reading was interrupted by a great cry of thrilled astonishment from my mother. “Engaged! Edward is engaged! Heaven be praised! My first child to be married! I thought it would be James, but no, it is Edward after all, and to the daughter of a baronet!”

“I am so pleased for him,” said Cassandra, beaming.

“Did not I tell you all those years ago, Mr. Austen,” continued my mother, “that it was for the best that we let him go to your cousins? That it should elevate him beyond any expectations we could ever have for him?”

“You did indeed, Cassy my dear.”

“And now I have been proved right! Such a match! It is a great blessing that he is to one day inherit all that property, with Lord knows how many mansions and houses, but to see him happily married,
that
has always been my greatest wish.”

“Mine as well, my dearest.”

So delighted was I by this news, and so eager was I to read the rest of the letter, that I could yet vouchsafe no comment; but my sister added, “She sounds a most appealing young lady.”

Martha and Mary offered their congratulations, and Charles exclaimed his own excitement; but all were silenced when my father held up a hand and announced in a firm voice, “Let Jane finish the letter, if you please.”

All eyes turned to me in expectant silence, and I read on:

Sir Brook and his lady have approved the match, as have Mr. and Mrs. Knight; and my dearest hope now is that you will be as forthcoming with your good wishes. No date has yet been set for the nuptials, but it is Mr. Knight’s wish that, (in his words) as we are ‘both very young, the event should not take place immediately.’ When we do marry, he thinks to give us his small house at Rowling, where we shall be quite content, although our income will be small.

—

16 March, 1791

Please forgive the interruption in my writing; I received a summons to Goodnestone Park where I spent the past several days, and I have even more good news to impart: Elizabeth’s eldest sister, Fanny, is now also engaged! She is to marry a Mr. Lewis Cage, a propertied gentleman thirty years of age of excellent character. It has been decided that both weddings should not take place until the end of the year. However, Lady Bridges feels such happiness at the good fortune of her daughters, that she does not wish to wait so long to celebrate the impending unions. There is talk of a fortnight or more of parties at Goodnestone during the month of June, the details of which are not yet final, but which will almost certainly include an engagement ball, a picnic, a strawberry-picking party, and a Midsummer’s Eve bonfire. To these events, a number of relations and neighbours will be invited; and I have been graciously allowed to extend a special invitation to my family at Steventon. I sincerely hope that you, my mother, my sisters, and Charles will be able to attend. Sir Brook generously offers you accommodation at Goodnestone for the length of your stay, and furthermore, invites you all to arrive a few days ahead of the other guests, in order that our families might have time to become acquainted.

Charles, I believe, will particularly enjoy a visit to Goodnestone, as the Bridgeses have three sons still living at home, one of whom is exactly his age; and my sisters will also be in good company with their six amiable daughters. I should mention that Lady Bridges is a woman who, while strictly adhering to the rules of society in general, has somewhat lenient views where her daughters are concerned; as such, and particularly since these festivities are to include only family and close friends, all her children older than ten are to be included in everything (the ball as well); therefore, Jane and Charles are free to do the same.

I could not prevent a little shriek of delight at this last remark; but my mother and father both waved their hands impatiently at me to continue.

Father, I suppose it may be difficult for you to get away in June; indeed, on your account, I would have preferred the festivities to be held in July or August. However the Bridges family leaves for Bath at the end of June, for a stay of many weeks; and I have long been scheduled to take a Scottish tour with Mr. and Mrs. Knight and a few friends, departing 4 July. The timing, however, may prove to be a benefit to you with regard to travel arrangements: for at the end of May, Mr. Knight is obliged to oversee certain matters at his properties at Chawton, and he offers to bring you home with him to Godmersham, where I trust you will be very comfortable for some days until we remove to Goodnestone. This means that you will only incur travel expenses on your return trip. Should it prove possible for you to come, I will put you in touch with both Mr. Knight and Lady Bridges. Please know that all here would be very pleased to have you join us here in Kent in June for what promises to be a very pleasant and memorable summer.

I look forward to hearing from you. Please give my love to my mother, sisters, and Charles. With every good wish, and the greatest affection, I remain your son,

Edward Austen

My spirits, while reading my brother’s letter, can scarcely be described. Two weeks of parties, and an engagement ball—to which I was invited! I would get to see Godmersham Park at last!

“It is a thoughtful invitation,” said my father, leaning back in his chair. “What a shame we cannot go.”

With those words, it seemed as if all the light and energy had drained from the room.

“What do you mean, Papa?” cried I. “Of course we
must
go. This is an important occasion. Edward is the first person in our family to be engaged.”

“And I have six other children to follow. Let us hope that
they
will choose partners who live closer to our neighbourhood.”

“Papa,” said Cassandra, “if it is the expense of travel which worries you, it cannot be
very
great, as we shall only be obliged to travel post on our return.”

“It is not the cost, child. As Edward so astutely points out, I cannot get away in June. School is in session until the first of July. I could never think of leaving a month before my pupils’ studies are finished.”

My mother looked up from her work and sighed. “If they truly wished for us to come, they would be holding all these parties during our holiday from school, instead of gadding off to Bath and Scotland for their own amusement. It is too bad, for I would have truly liked to go. We have not seen Thomas and Catherine Knight these many years, and we had only those few, short days with Edward when he came back from the Continent. It would be gratifying to be in his company for several weeks on end. If only Kent were not so far away.”

“What matters how far away it is?” exclaimed I. “Kent is Edward’s
home
now! Are not you keen to see where he has been living all this time? Do not you wish to see the great house and lands that he is to inherit?”

“
I
do,” answered Cassandra quietly.

“I have
always
longed to see them,” said Charles.

“As do I,” admitted my mother, “but may I remind you: duty comes before pleasure.”

“My first duty is to the school,” insisted Papa, “for those boys’ fathers do not pay me to go off on a pleasure trip whenever it suits my fancy.”

“But Mamma, Papa!” cried I. “Edward is engaged to be married! How can you give your approval of the match unless you meet Elizabeth Bridges for yourself?”

“That
is
a dilemma, Jane,” replied my mother. “But whether or not we approve is of little importance, I fear.
Her
parents have approved
him
, and the Knights have approved
her
.
They
have all the consequence in this matter; our feelings will not make any difference.”

“Edward is three-and-twenty now. We must trust his judgement and his choice. And
you
cannot afford to miss a month of school, my boy.” Papa patted Charles’s knee. “Think of the consequences of so many weeks of idleness; you would fall behind in Latin grammar and all your other studies.”

A forlorn look descended on Charles’s countenance. “I suppose I shall never see Godmersham now.” Asking if he might be permitted to join the other boys outside, and receiving permission, he quit the room.

My heart went out to Charles, and when he had gone, I said, “Papa, after all these years under your tutelage, Charles must be far ahead of the boys at the Naval Academy where Latin grammar and his other studies are concerned. To miss these last few weeks of school would surely do him no harm.” I directed a silent, pleading glance at my sister, who took up my cause and added:

“Think how much it would mean to Charles to go.”

“We would be back before he departs for Portsmouth,” added I warmly. “It would be a last hurrah for him before he leaves us for so many years. You saw how dearly he wishes to go to Kent! And oh! So do I! Papa, Mamma, we never go
anywhere
. Am I doomed to waste all my days of youth in this humble spot? The Knights live in grand style at Godmersham (or so we are told)! I can only imagine the grace and refinement we should find at Goodnestone Park! It would be thrilling to see their houses and to meet the Bridges family and to live amongst them,
as
one of them
, even if only for a short time. I am certain if I were so fortunate as to experience a month in such company and in such surroundings, I should never forget it!”

As I spoke, my mother and father exchanged a discomfited glance. I suddenly felt all the impertinence of my remark; for although it was true that we had rarely travelled, and did not have a great deal of money, we lived comfortably enough. Before I could voice my remorse, however, my mother said solemnly:

“It
would
be lovely to indulge in that way of life for a little while. We may have given up Edward all those years ago, but he is still our son, and I am still his mother. He has invited us, after all; if I could, I
should
like to see where he lives, and meet the woman he is to marry.”

My heart leapt with hope and possibility. My father, reaching out and taking my mother’s hand, said:

“Would you, Cassy?”

“I would. But how can I?”

“Just because I am obliged to stay behind, do not let that stop you. If you wish to go, then go; and take the children with you.”

“And be gone for a month entire? Mr. Austen, this Mansion of Learning cannot run without me here to manage it! You do not realise all the work which is required to run a household of this size. There are the meals to plan, the bread to bake, the beer to brew, the cows to milk, and the butter to churn—the work in the poultry-yard is never done—and my vegetable garden is at its most productive in June. Were I to leave, who should supervise all that? Who would make sure all those hungry boys are fed, and that they and their linen stay reasonably clean?”

“You are indeed the indisputable leader of this establishment,” concurred my father, kissing my mother’s hand, “but you would only be gone a month. I feel confident that, for so brief a period, I can find a way to cope. I could perhaps hire a woman from the village to help.”

Martha, who (like her sister) had sat in respectful silence throughout this entire conversation, now spoke. “There is no need for you to go to that expense, Mr. Austen. If you wish, I should be happy to take on Mrs. Austen’s duties in her absence.”

My heart quickened and I sat up on my chair. “Would you truly, Martha?”

“It would be my pleasure—” (adding to my father) “if you and Mrs. Austen are amenable to the notion, sir. I am sure my mother and sister can manage at home without me. I am experienced at supervising a kitchen and poultry-yard. I could stop in every day and do what is needed, and I could look after the boys as well—I do love children, sir—and my sister and I could take care of the vegetable garden—would not you be willing, Mary?”

“I should be glad to oblige,” returned Mary with a nod. “Your garden is always ever so much more bountiful than ours, Mrs. Austen.”

“Oh!” cried my mother, tears dancing in her eyes. “What a generous offer!”

“You are very good and dear friends,” said Cassandra gratefully; and I concurred.

“Martha, Mary, thank you,” said my father with affection and appreciation; and turning to my mother, added, “It seems our friends have made it possible for you to go away after all, Mrs. Austen. What say you? Have you any more reservations?”

“Well—I do not like the idea of being parted from you for so many weeks, Mr. Austen, or travelling all that way without you.”

“You will be so occupied every day in Kent, you will not even miss me,” replied Papa dismissively, “and as you will be conveyed there in the Knights’ own coach, you will be perfectly safe and comfortable.”

“How can you vouch for our comfort and safety?” cried she. “We are to have the benefit of a private carriage in one direction only; and
they
are as prone to accident and overturns as any other vehicle. The roads in this country are very bad; the turnpikes—as they have the assurance to call them—are such a disgrace, it is a crime to make one pay for them! Some are full of stones as big as one’s horses, and abominable ruts and holes that threaten to swallow one up, particularly at the end of spring, after a hard rain, when they are floating with mud. And there are constant other dangers: highwaymen are everywhere on the long stretches of country-side. Have you forgotten? Did not we read just the other day about a post-chaise which was stopped by a vile criminal, and its passengers robbed of their watches and rings and all their money? Not to mention how prone I am to sickness while travelling—it is such a long journey, I do not know if I should survive it—and the inconvenience of stopping the night at inns which will no doubt be drafty, dirty, have hard beds, and serve bad food.”