Jane Austen’s First Love (27 page)

Already, ideas were forming themselves into complete sentences in my brain. I could hardly wait to set them down in ink.

Once in the privacy of my chamber, I took out the paper Edward Taylor had given me, folded it to my preferred size, assembled my writing materials, sat down at the little desk, and with enthusiasm began to write:

The Three Sisters

A NOVEL

Letter 1st

MISS STANHOPE TO MRS.—
MY DEAR FANNY

I am the happiest creature in the World, for I have received an offer of marriage from Mr. Watts . . .

I
was still writing an hour later when Cassandra joined me.

“Jane: I thought you were going to bed.”

“Forgive me for misleading you; I only said I wished to
retire
. In truth, I had an idea for a story.”

Cassandra smiled. “So I see.”

Cassandra knew better than to talk to me while I was writing, and she undressed in silence. I kept working, although my mind soon began to grow a bit cloudy, and I could not prevent a yawn. In my eagerness to compose my next sentence, I pressed the nib too hard, splashing a great blot of ink across the page.

“Oh bother!”

A gentle hand descended on my shoulder.

“Dearest, I can see how engrossed you are; but we are both tired. Will you come to bed?”

Reluctantly I nodded, yawning again as I cleaned my pen and my fingers. But even though I was exhausted, long after I had climbed beneath the counterpane and blown out the candle, the characters in my story continued to carry on conversations in my mind, both tantalizing me and frustrating me, as I struggled to fall asleep.

I awoke just as dawn was creeping through the shutters. On a typical morning at home, I might roll over and enjoy another hour or two of slumber; I would then rise, dress, practice an hour at the pianoforte, take a walk if the weather was fine, or sit by the fire and write until the rest of the household was awake and ready for breakfast. Today, however, there was no possibility of falling back to sleep, for the moment I opened my eyes, I recalled the story I had in progress, and the characters to which I was eager to return.

In short order I was back at work. Two hours flew by in an instant. I was so immersed in my tale that I did not even notice that Cassandra had got up until she was standing beside me, looking on silently but quizzically.

“Oh! Cassandra, I am having such fun. I am not yet finished, but—” I sighed, adding reluctantly: “I suppose I must put down my pen for the day.”

“Yes, you ought to, dearest. But it looks as though you have been very productive. What prompted this sudden burst of creativity?”

“It was Edward Taylor’s doing.”

“Edward Taylor?”

“Yes. I think he was trying to make amends for his part in Charles’s brush with death the other day. He gave me a packet of writing-paper and challenged me to write a new story. If I was tired of writing silly nonsense, he said, I should write something else—something I deemed more worthy.
This
is my attempt to do precisely that.”

“What is it about?”

“When it is completed, I will let you read it and discover for yourself.”

A busy day followed. Midsummer’s Eve was only three days distant, and we were mounting our first full rehearsal. It was exciting to see the entire play coming together, and the endeavour took over my every thought. With a cast of two dozen active young people, there was constant activity and commotion. My mother had found a new way to keep the youngest children and the Payler boys out of trouble—by recruiting them, along with all the ladies in the production and several housemaids, to help with the costumes. I was not exempted from this duty, either.

“Your sister and I have been slaving away till we can hardly see straight, Jane,” complained my mother. “I appreciate the leaves and flowers which you have been helping us construct, but they require a great deal of time to apply. And the wings! Who ever decided that fairies must have wings? How difficult they are to fashion! If we are to be ready for Wednesday’s performance, I will need more help from everyone, including you.”

Edward Taylor and I were supposed to sit in the audience with my brother Edward whenever we could, to observe the progress of those scenes which did not include us; but as we were all three also playing leading roles, we could not watch as much as we would like. Puck took all my powers of concentration. After leaving the stage, I often retreated to a corner of the green-room to go over my lines; but as nearly all the other actors were doing exactly the same, along with all the wing-makers and flower-sewers gathered around the room, there was hardly a space unoccupied.

What little I was able to observe of the play brought me satisfaction, however, particularly where the real-life lovers were concerned, whose fates were of such interest to me.

When Lysander (Mr. Deedes) declares his love to Hermia (Fanny), and requests to sleep beside her in the wood—

O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence!

Love takes the meaning in love’s conference.

I mean, that my heart unto yours is knit

So that but one heart we can make of it;

Two bosoms interchained with an oath;

So then two bosoms and a single troth.

Then by your side no bed-room me deny;

For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie.

—I rejoiced to see Mr. Deedes infuse his part with such emotion, and Fanny receive his attentions with such warmth. Their performance seemed to me to presage the future, when they should be lovers in real life.

Mr. Cage, who had watched earlier incarnations of that scene with little expression, now set his jaw and looked away. It must have prompted him to rise to new heights where acting was concerned; for in the third act, when Demetrius awakens under the effects of Puck’s love potion, and declares his love for Helena (Sophia)—

To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?

Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show

Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!

. . . O, let me kiss

This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!

—Mr. Cage proclaimed the words with such passion, as to bring a deep blush to Sophia’s cheeks. Indeed, she appeared to bloom before my eyes! I smiled, for it was lovely to see him speaking with such romantic verve to a young lady so
deserving
of his affections. Cassandra and Thomas Payler, in their scenes as Hippolyta and Theseus, were also sweetly demonstrative. Everything seemed to be proceeding according to my hopes and plans!

At the dinner table that evening, the play was all anyone could talk about. A few were certain that the production was not ready, and that we should embarrass ourselves; others were sure that it was an excellent work, and we should all triumph.

One end of the table, where sat Fanny, Mr. Deedes, Mr. Cage, and Sophia, was peculiarly withdrawn and quiet. All four seemed to be in an introspective mood; why, I could not fathom. All four were remarkable in their parts; soon, all would make their theatrical debuts in one of the world’s greatest plays before an audience of family and friends, from whom I knew they would receive great approbation and acclaim. Why, then, were their faces so grim? Why were they so short when speaking to each other?

I gave no more thought to the matter, for now that the rehearsal was over, my mind had drifted to that other matter which was of such interest to me: my story, which was only half-written, and awaited my attention upstairs. The interval following dinner was given over to the frantic sewing of costumes, and the final coordination of the potted greenery meant to portray the forest of Arden. When, at last, the preponderance of the work was in order, and everyone began to say their good-nights, I hastened upstairs and returned to my writing.

I wrote in a fever until I could no longer keep my eyes open, and again rose early to continue my labours. When Cassandra awoke, I put down my pen, gathered my pages, and handed them to her.

“Here, Cassandra. My story—if not
absolutely
finished—has at least reached a
sort
of conclusion. You may read it now. It is meant to be funny, but—I hope also it expresses my feelings and attitudes on a certain subject.” With a happy laugh, I added, “I think you will know at once
who
and what inspired it.”

As I dressed, Cassandra sat by the window and read my story. While perusing it, she cried out “Oh! Jane!” in a slightly shocked tone, shook her head more than once, and I heard her chuckle several times. When she had finished, she turned to me with a look of amusement tempered by concern. “Jane: you are very clever, but I think rather wicked.”

“Am I?”

“Of course I know exactly who this is about. It is about Fanny and her interminable quandary about Mr. Cage.”

“Do you think it humorous?”

“I do; and I am certain
our
family would find it so—but I fear the Bridgeses will
not
. I share your frustration regarding Fanny’s indecision, and her attitude towards her fiancé does not seem to
me
all that it should be; but she is never
quite
as disagreeable as you have presented her here.”

“Do you really think so? Well; were I not to heighten her weaknesses, the story would not be
funny
. Oh! Cassandra, I could not listen to Fanny’s moaning and relentless criticisms of Mr. Cage for another moment. Putting her, or this
version
of her, down on paper was so very satisfying!”

Cassandra laughed. “I admit, having listened to Fanny’s complaints for a fortnight, it was very satisfying to
read
. But—Fanny might be offended.”

“Only if she recognises herself, which I think extremely unlikely. People, I have come to observe, are rarely aware of their own flaws.”

“Lady Bridges might see the resemblance to her daughter.”

“Only if she reads it—and I have no intention of shewing it to her, or to anyone else in the house, except—” My voice broke off, my stomach tightening with apprehension as I thought about the one other person whose opinion I truly
did
wish to have. Edward Taylor had specifically asked to read whatever I might write, but did I have the nerve to shew it to him?

I had determined—very nearly determined—that
if
the opportunity should arise, if a quiet moment presented itself where Edward Taylor and I were out of the reach of others’ ears, I should
mention
my story to him, and inquire as to whether he was still interested in reading it. In a house so filled with people, I thought, such a chance might never occur at all.

However, shortly after Cassandra and I sat down at breakfast and poured our tea (the chamber was deserted except for Sir Brook, who was reading the newspaper, and Charles, Harriot, and Brook Edward, who were noisily conversing), Edward Taylor walked into the room.

I gathered my nerves, strove to even my respiration, and forced myself to raise my eyes until I was looking right at him; our gazes caught; he smiled and crossed to sit down beside me.
At that
, my heart felt as if it were truly in my stomach, and it was all I could do to return his friendly “Good morning.”

He asked if my sister and I wanted toast, and at my nod, presented us the plate. I concentrated on buttering my slice, drumming up the courage to speak what was on my mind, for I knew that time was short; at any moment, someone else might walk in, and the chance would be lost. After glancing up to be certain the children were otherwise occupied, I turned to Edward Taylor, and said in a low voice,

“I have done it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have written a new story.”

He stared at me in astonishment. “Already?”

I shrugged, adding covertly, “That packet of paper was staring at me. I had to put it to use.”

Laughing, he picked up the tea-pot and poured himself a cup, and matching my confidential tone said, “When on earth did you find the time? We only spoke of this the other evening.”

“I stayed up late and rose early.”

“Clearly, you were inspired.”

“I was.”

“I hope you will let me read it?”

I flushed with anxiety. “If you are certain you wish to.”

“Please!”

“I would prefer however that you did not shew it, nor speak of it, to anybody else. It is for your eyes only.”

“Absolutely. Mum’s the word.”

I was honoured by his interest and immediacy. At the same time, I was terrified. What if he hated the story? What if he thought my writing to be insipid? Would he be honest and tell me so? And
if
so, how could I live? It was hard to believe that only two days before, I had been almost too angry with Edward Taylor to speak to him! Now, to have his approval meant more to me than anything in the world.