Jane Austen’s First Love (5 page)

G
ood morning,” said he (his voice deep and commanding) to the postillion, drawing up beside our disabled carriage. “My cousin and I could not help but see your predicament. I hope no one is injured?”

“They are not, sir,” responded the postillion.

The young man had a long, oval face; dark eyes flashed beneath arched brows; his nose was perfectly straight; his lips were full and well shaped above a determined chin. His complexion was clear and a shade or two darker than my own, suggesting that he had recently spent time in sunnier, foreign climes, or spent a great deal of time out of doors. His hunter green coat and dark brown breeches were so perfectly tailored as to shew off his fine figure to great advantage; and contrary to fashion, he sported no wig or powder; rather his hair, which fell in a haphazard manner to just below his ears, was as sleek and silky as the mane of his magnificent horse, and in precisely the same shade of deep auburn.

Nimbly dismounting, and unheedful of the mud (his tall, sturdy boots giving him some protection), the young man walked around the vehicle, and bent to study the half-submerged wheels. “From what I can determine, the wheels are not broken, but only stuck in this quagmire. I have already sent a servant to fetch two dray-horses. They should be here momentarily, and can pull you out.”

“Why thank ye, Mr. Taylor, sir. We’d be most grateful, for surely otherwise we’ll be stuck here till nightfall and beyond.”

The young man appeared very surprised at being addressed by name. He looked at the side of our chaise as if seeking proof of its owner, but the coat of arms was obscured by splattered mud. Returning his glance to the servant, he paused, and said, “Are you Thomas Knight’s man, of Godmersham Park?”

“I am, sir, and I am honoured that you should recall it; for it has been a good two years I believe since I last saw ye, and even then I was never formally made known to you.” Removing his hat, and bowing respectfully, the postillion added: “May I further say: welcome back to England, Mr. Taylor, sir.”

“Thank you.”

I darted Cassandra a look of surprise. From this exchange, and the age of the young gentleman, I deduced him to be the son of the afore-mentioned Reverend Edward Taylor, who owned the nearby manor house.

While his companion sat silently upon his steed, young Mr. Taylor asked, “What is your name, sir?”

“Sam, sir.”

“Where are you going, Sam? Are Mr. and Mrs. Knight within the coach?”

“They are not, sir. I am taking Mr. Knight’s house guests to Goodnestone for a visit, sir.”

“Ah! I see. How many passengers are on board?”

“Three, sir. Two young ladies, sisters as they are, and a lad.”

“Well, let us get them out. Even with our dray-horses, it will be a piece of work to pull this chaise from the mire, and harder still with three people weighing it down.”

Sam pulled down the steps and threw open the chaise door. “You’d best all step down.”

Charles moved dexterously to the opening and hesitated, frowning. I perceived the difficulty: the chaise was positioned at such an angle that the doorway partly faced the sky, and the steps led more to the side than down, complicating one’s descent; moreover, the road was deep in mud.

“I have got you,” said Mr. Taylor; without further ado, he picked up my little brother and carried him to the safety of the road-side.

Cassandra was next.

“Take my hand, miss,” said the postillion.

Mr. Taylor’s as yet nameless companion (whom I believe he had called his cousin) leapt from his horse and crossed to the carriage’s open door, silently offering his own assistance—an action no doubt prompted, I deduced, by my sister’s beauty.

Both men held out their gloved hands to Cassandra and helped her out, although so awkwardly as to result in her landing in a deep pocket of mud, which engulfed her feet to the ankles.

“Oh!” cried she in dismay, raising her skirts as she was assisted through the mud to the firmer bank immediately adjacent. In the process, she lost one of her slippers, which the postillion adroitly rescued from the mire and held aloft as if a dead thing. “Oh, Jane, do be careful; I am afraid I have ruined my shoes.”

While Cassandra’s rescuers quietly apologised at the road-side, and made what efforts they could to wipe her shoes clean on the grass before she put them on again, I attempted to determine my best means of exit; but before I could proceed, Mr. Taylor walked back to the open doorway of the chaise and stopped before me. With an accent and inflection on the final appellation so flawless as to resemble (at least in my imagination) a native Italian speaker, he said, “May I help you down,
signorina
?”

I froze; I could not avert my gaze; Mr. Taylor’s handsome countenance was but a foot or two from mine, and his arrival, like a knight in shining armour, had been so unexpected, his eyes were so dark and sparkling, and the overall effect was so appealing, that for the space of a breath, I forgot where I was or that any action was required of me.

“Miss? Are you quite well?”

I nodded.

“May I help you descend?”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

“I ought to carry you. Otherwise, you will ruin your shoes, as did your sister.”

“Carry me?” A picture formed in my mind, as I envisioned his proposal: my arms were wrapped around his neck, and my face was against his silken hair, as he swept me into his arms and brought me to the embankment. The notion caused my heart to beat with more rapidity than usual and a warmth to rise to my cheeks. Such familiarity would be
most
inappropriate—an action reserved for only the most dire of circumstances—which this decidedly was not. “I think,” replied I quickly, “I had rather climb down myself.”

He looked dubious. “Well then, if you want to avoid the mud, I only see one option. You must climb out past the back wheel and over the rear platform. From there I can jump you down to the bank.”

I stared at him in quiet disbelief. “A daring proposal, sir, and one which I imagine
you
could execute with ease. But it will be rather difficult to accomplish, wearing a gown.”

“I imagine you can find a way,
mademoiselle
. But it is up to you, and whether or not you wish to sacrifice your shoes.”

I paused, considering. His suggestion involved some risk, as the vehicle lay at a very marked pitch; but it
was
admittedly preferable to walking through the mire. Moreover, his tone, and the look on his countenance, seemed to me akin to the throwing of a gauntlet. “Very well. I shall try it.”

“Jane!” cried Cassandra from the embankment where she waited with Charles and the other gentleman. “Do not attempt it. You might fall.”

“I will not fall,” answered I, with more confidence than I truly felt.

Not wanting to soil my new gloves, I removed them and stowed them in my reticule; then, holding up my skirts, I placed my hands on either side of the carriage door, and propelled myself up and out. It was a precarious business; by supporting myself on the large, very muddy wheel, I managed to scramble onto the rear platform and over the trunks, but so precipitous was it, that I nearly slid off. Throughout my exertion, Mr. Taylor stood close by (I suppose to catch me if required); but with the greatest of efforts I was able to right myself, and from there to jump down as directed, onto the bank into his waiting hands.

I was vaguely sensible of a cheer (from Charles) and applause from Mr. Taylor’s cousin; but these sounds melted away, so overpowered was I by the circumstance in which, for an instant, I found myself. My hands were pressed against the soft wool of Mr. Taylor’s coat, and his large hands were firmly clasping my upper arms as he looked down at me. There was a fluttering in my heart and stomach such as I had never before felt or imagined, and my cheeks burned—from fear or exertion, I knew not which. Did he feel a similar emotion? I could not say; but during the brief interval in which he held me thus, as his dark eyes gazed down into mine, I imagined that they held a look of deep interest which matched my own.

Releasing me, he said, “There. That was not so hard, was it?”

“Not at all,” lied I, relieved that the exercise was completed, that I was safely on the ground, and that there was again some physical distance between us, so that I might regain some semblance of composure. It was ridiculous, a voice in my head cried, to swoon so over a total stranger, no matter
how
handsome he might be; but at the same time, another inner voice exulted over this unexpected meeting—for was it not exactly the sort of circumstance of which I had been dreaming for many years? These inner musings were instantly terminated when Cassandra, shaking her head, said:

“Thank goodness Mamma was not here to see
that
.”

Mr. Taylor now turned to her and Charles. “And how are
you
, miss? I trust you both have suffered nothing worse in this misadventure than a pair of muddy—” (glancing down at Cassandra’s shoes with mock alarm) “
very
muddy
—slippers?”

“We are quite well, sir. Thank you for stopping to assist us.”

“Yes! Thank you!” cried Charles, regarding our rescuer with undisguised gratitude, wonder, and veneration.

Mr. Taylor only shrugged his shoulders. “It was my duty. You broke down on the road passing my family’s estate. I could not ride by and do nothing. It is just lucky it occurred today, while I happened to be at Bifrons—I am not living here at present, but with my cousins at Ileden, a few miles distant—and a fortnight ago, I would have been out of the country.”

“From whence have you returned?” inquired Cassandra.

“From Italy. My family is still abroad.” He paused then, and with a smile, removed his hat. “Forgive me, here we are chatting away without a proper introduction. It is very awkward—but I trust that the necessity of the case will plead my excuse—it seems we have no choice but to circumvent convention. This fellow here—” (waving his hat towards his companion) “is my cousin Thomas Watkinson Payler, Esquire.”

Mr. Payler bowed, with a particular smile for my sister. “A pleasure to meet you,” said he quietly but elegantly.

With a bow of his own, our rescuer added: “I am Edward Taylor.”

I smiled to myself, for Edward was, and always had been, one of my favourite names.

Cassandra curtseyed and introduced herself, myself, and my brother, and when all of us had paid our respects, I asked,

“Do you have brothers, Mr. Taylor?”

“Four of them.”

“Are they all called Edward?”

“What? Of course not.” His eyes narrowed as he studied me. “What a strange question; why do you ask?”

I felt my cheeks redden. It was not only a strange question, but an impertinent one; what would he think of me? But having started down that road, I was obliged to continue. “The Bridgeses have five sons called Brook,” responded I with an impish, nervous shrug. “I thought it might be a tradition in this part of the country to name every son the same.”

Taking in my teasing manner, he laughed—a look and sound so congenial, it lit up his whole face, removed all my discomfort, and made me laugh in response. “It is a
tradition
,
I believe, only where the Bridgeses are concerned. We have two Edwards in my family, my father and myself—and that is quite enough.”

“We seem to run into Edwards everywhere we go,” remarked Charles. “We have a brother called Edward.”

“Ah yes—so you do!” replied Edward Taylor. “I had the honour to make Mr. Austen’s acquaintance only last week—he was not in the country the last time I was here. He is lately engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bridges, is that not so?”

“It is, sir.”

“He mentioned that his family was to be visiting from Hampshire—and here you are.”

All subjects suddenly ceased, as two servants arrived with a pair of large dray-horses. Edward Taylor ordered the postillion and a groom to unhitch the horses from the chaise and replace them with the sturdier beasts. Under his direction, our trunks were then unfastened from the carriage to lighten the load. At length, the vehicle was successfully pulled from the mire, deemed to be in sound condition, our own horses returned to their former positions, and everything made ready for us to proceed.

Once more we thanked our rescuer, and he and Mr. Payler helped us to climb aboard the vehicle again. I fully expected them to mount their horses and ride away (an idea which caused me a great pang of disappointment); but instead Mr. Taylor gazed ahead with a frown, and said, “It is still a good five miles to Goodnestone; I travelled that way the other day, and the road is fairly floating in places. There are some deep, hidden pockets that may cause grave difficulties to anyone not intimately familiar with them. Thomas: we ought to accompany the Austens on their way to Goodnestone, so that I might point out all the low spots to Sam and prevent further catastrophe. What say you?”

“I have no objection,” returned Thomas Payler.

“It is settled, then. We shall be your escort.
Adieu
.” So saying, Edward Taylor shut the chaise door. He and Mr. Payler went directly to their horses, mounted, and we were soon all on our way.

T
he remaining five miles of the journey were given over to a minute discussion of the accident in all its particulars, the manner in which we had been rescued—so quickly and with such a minimum of discomfort!—and our good fortune in the acquisition of the two gallant riders who now accompanied us.

“It was very good of them to stop and help us,” said Cassandra, “and particularly thoughtful of them to accompany us in this manner.”

I agreed. Through the window, as I observed Mr. Taylor on horseback, his hat tilted back, his lips curved in an easy smile, the sight unaccountably made my skin tingle. “I wonder how long Mr. Taylor lived on the Continent?”

“He spoke a few words of French
and
Italian,” noted Cassandra.

“He must have many fascinating experiences to relate.”

“I wonder what occasioned his family to go abroad?”

“I wonder what occasioned
him
to return on his own?”

“Well
I
am glad he is back,” cried Charles with enthusiasm. “I think Edward Taylor the best young man I ever met in my entire life. Did you see how he rescued me?”

“And what of Mr. Payler?” teased Cassandra, nudging my brother. “Do not forget him. Was not it kind of him to help me down from the carriage?”

“Yes, but he
should
have carried you.” Charles made a face. “Your shoes are a terrible mess.”

“They are indeed. Jane took the better route; and I do think she enjoyed every minute of it.”

I felt colour rise to my face.

“Generally you are rather shy with strangers,” added my sister, “yet you chatted very easily with Mr. Taylor.”

“Did I? I suppose it was the excitement of the accident. I—I was not myself.”

“There is nothing to be ashamed of, Jane. Mr. Taylor is a dashing young man—many a girl would feel as you did if she jumped down into his arms.”

My cheeks now burned, recalling the rush of feeling which had enveloped me at that particular moment, feelings which I was not equal to revealing aloud, particularly in the presence of my little brother. I turned to the window and for the rest of the way remained silent, attempting to redirect my thoughts to the object before us: it would be my first glimpse of the family into which my brother was marrying, and I was eager and curious to meet the young lady who was to be his wife. Yet my attention continued to be drawn to the young man riding beside us. Edward Taylor presented a fine figure on horseback; watching him now, as he directed the postillion to avoid unseen hazards along the muddy lane, my stomach was again all in a flutter. What would happen when we reached Goodnestone? I wondered. Would Mr. Taylor and his cousin immediately take their leave? It seemed likely, for what business could they have at the Bridgeses’ house? Yet I hoped it would
not
be so—for I wished very much for our acquaintance to continue.

We travelled through fine and level open country, and reached our destination with no further mishap. The property was set in a beautiful situation adjoining the small but charming village of Goodnestone. We passed the church, the farm, and what appeared to be the dower house, then turned onto a narrow lane curving upwards towards the manor house, which sat majestically on a high rise of ground. A handsome, rectangular, brick Palladian mansion standing three stories high, Goodnestone was very grand. I gazed up in awe at the roof, where a massive, central stone pediment was situated between two chimneys. Beneath it were arranged three symmetrical rows of innumerable windows and a handsome front doorway flanked by apertures topped by elegant half-moons. On the other side of the gravel sweep, a flight of stone steps led down to a circular parterre with an imposing central column; beyond that lay an immense, open park bordered by distant, verdant woods.

Our noisy and deliberate approach brought us to the attention of the household, and by the time we halted in front of the door, a large and impressive assemblage of servants, dogs, and family members (including our brother Edward) had produced and arranged themselves for a formal greeting. As we disembarked, I observed that the Bridgeses were as numerous as promised, the six daughters and three young sons all richly attired. I did not yet perceive a woman who might fit with Lady Bridges’s description, but the young ladies bore a great family resemblance: all were pretty, possessing the same long, angular noses, rose-bud mouths, and smooth, pale complexions; and their heads were each a mass of long, embellished curls.

The man who could only be the formidable Sir Brook William Bridges came forward. A fat, amiable gentleman of fifty-seven years of age with a florid, jowled face, he walked slowly, his breathing was laboured, and his speech was accompanied by a deep, periodic cough; but rising above these infirmities, he met us with a smile as he shook our hands.

“Hello, young Austens! I am Sir Brook; how lovely to meet you all. You must be Cassandra—Jane—and Charles. Welcome; you are very welcome here.” As we bowed and curtseyed, he turned to our companions, and cried, “What ho, cousin Edward. Good day, Mr. Payler. What brings you hither, did you meet up with the Austens on the road?”

This remark was interesting indeed, for it elucidated a relationship I had not anticipated: just as Edward Taylor was a cousin of Mr. Payler’s, it seemed he was a cousin of the Bridges family as well!

“We did, sir,” replied Edward Taylor. “Their carriage half toppled over just passing Bifrons, from an unfortunate encounter with a quagmire. We pulled them out and shepherded them here to avoid any further calamities.”

“A quagmire, eh? Well, that explains why this poor vehicle, the animals, and your boots are all over in mud!” Before he could comment further, a pale, graceful, extravagantly attired woman strolled through the front door, remarking elegantly:

“Ah! Here you are at last. I was beginning to worry.”

Sir Brook sighed. “Please forgive my wife’s belated appearance. Lady Bridges is too fashionable—or fancies herself to be so—to be punctual.”

Lady Bridges was, I recalled, forty-four years of age; she still retained the handsome features which had made her a beauty in her youth. “Punctuality, I find, is a highly overrated quality in an individual,” said she, as she patted the fashionable white cap which adorned her long, dark curls. “I had much rather be calm and tardy, Sir Brook, than rush about madly as you do, to please a clock. Our guests’ arrival was delayed in any case.” Glancing at us (with a quick review of our dress, which she seemed to find wanting), she added, “Is everyone all right?”

“They are. They suffered a mishap on the road,” said Sir Brook. “Their chaise was rescued by my cousin Edward here, and thankfully all survived with heads and limbs intact.”

“Thank goodness for that.” As Lady Bridges’s glance touched on Edward Taylor, she briefly frowned—a reaction which puzzled me.

“Edward!” cried Sir Brook, “Now that you are here, you and Mr. Payler must stay for dinner.”

With dignity, Edward Taylor replied: “Thank you for the kind invitation, sir, but we are not dressed for dinner, and our boots are in no condition to enter your hall.”

“Nonsense! Your coats are easily brushed and pressed, boys, and Andrew will shine your boots while we play a game of billiards—I believe you owe me a chance to win back my half-crown.”

Mr. Taylor hesitated; but upon observing Lady Bridges’s silent acquiescence and Mr. Payler’s unspoken assent, he said, “Thank you, sir. We should be happy to stay.”

The riders dismounted and waved off the groom, insisting that they would stable their horses themselves; they then walked off deliberately, clearly familiar with the place.

I watched them go, unable to contain my smile.

To perceive that Edward Taylor was so well known to Sir Brook and Lady Bridges—indeed, was
related
to them, and apparently very well liked by him—was agreeable indeed; but most importantly: he was staying to dinner! If I was lucky, I might have a chance to converse with him again!

Further contemplations of Mr. Taylor were cut short when my brother Edward stepped forward to make the formal introductions, beginning with Lady Bridges.

“It is a pleasure to meet the sisters of our Elizabeth’s fiancé,” said Lady Bridges, holding out her hand to Cassandra and me. “It is a shame that your mother and Mr. and Mrs. Knight were obliged to put off their appearance; but I am thankful that
you
were able to arrive before the main festivities begin, and the neighbours descend on us.”

“We are grateful to you for your kind hospitality,” said Cassandra, a sentiment I echoed, and to which Lady Bridges replied:

“Sir Brook was not
quite
truthful when he said you suffered no casualties on the road, my dear. Your slippers and stockings are a sight.”

“Sadly,” returned Cassandra, colouring, “the only other pair I brought are my dancing shoes.”

“A good pair of shoes will be procured for you—surely one of my daughters’ feet will be your size.” Turning to Charles, Lady Bridges said, “How do
you
do, little man? There is no doubt that
you
are Edward’s brother, for you greatly favour him. I have a son almost exactly your age, who has been anxious to meet you.” She called to her own boy, a well-behaved but grave little fellow who was introduced as “Edward,” to which Charles replied with a laugh,

“Not another Edward! My
brother
is Edward;
Mr. Taylor
is Edward; I shall never be able to keep all of you straight!”

“Well, I have two names,” responded the lad. “You may call me Brook Edward, if you like.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Charles. “That will do very nicely.”

From that moment on, and for several years after, I could think of Brook Edward Bridges with no other appellation.

Our trunks by now had been unfastened from the chaise, and as the vehicle was driven away to the stables, Lady Bridges glanced at it in some perplexity. “Where is your maid? Has not she come with you?”

“No, ma’am,” replied my sister. “We have no lady’s maid. We dress ourselves.”

“Indeed? Well, that will not do at
Goodnestone
.” (Her hand on her chest in dismay.) “Not in the home of the heiress to the title
Baron Fitzwalter
. But we have more than enough maids to go around, and will be happy to share.”

My brother Edward now introduced the daughters of the family. Fanny, the eldest at twenty, offered her hand to us with a faint smile. “I am flattered that you came all this way—from Hampshire, is it?—to honour me and my betrothal.” (An afterthought:) “And my sister’s. It is going to be quite a summer! I do hope our festivities will exceed all your expectations, and that you will go home with happy memories of your visit.”

This speech was extraordinary to me, as it was so self-satisfied, and so neatly encapsulated the entirety of our stay, while already anticipating our departure.

It was apparent, even before her name was pronounced, that the next young lady brought forward was my brother’s intended; for his broad smile, the deep affection in his gaze, and the manner in which he held her hand, proclaimed his adoration. It was not difficult to understand why Elizabeth had bewitched my brother. Although she was no prettier than her sisters, there was an air of elegance and confidence about her, which revealed her
self
-
awareness
of her own beauty, femininity, and charms, as well as the effect of those charms on others. That charm did not appear to reach great depths, however; for her soft voice appeared more to convey a discharge of a duty to
appear
welcoming, rather than a sincere reflection of the emotion.

The remaining Bridges daughters were very different from the first two, and all most amiable. Sophia was nineteen, and Marianne sixteen. Both possessed pleasant and cheerful dispositions, and an openness of manner which drew me to them immediately.

“Since we are soon to be sisters,” said Sophia with enthusiasm, “shall we dispense with the formalities and go by our Christian names?”

“That would be wonderful,” agreed I. “Surely it will make us
feel
like sisters ever so much sooner.”

We admired Louisa, age thirteen, and Harriot, ten, who looked very sweet. The lively dispositions of the youngest boys, John and George (who were eight and six) were betrayed by the great difficulty they had in standing still. The introductions being at an end, it was time to move within.

“Have you been told anything of Goodnestone’s history?” inquired Sir Brook as my sister and I followed the others into the house.

“We have not yet had that pleasure,” replied Cassandra.

“Oh! Do not bore these children with a tedious history!” warned Lady Bridges. “They have only just arrived, and are in need of refreshment.”

“I will be brief,” asserted Sir Brook with a smile. “Goodnestone has been occupied since Tudor times. During the reign of Queen Anne, the estate was sold to Brook Bridges, the first baronet, who demolished the Elizabethan structure and built this new Palladian house.”

“The date of its erection, 1705, is etched onto a brick just over there,” added Lady Bridges.

“Not 1705,” corrected Sir Brook, “
1704
. Since I took possession, I have enlarged and improved the house rather dramatically. Come, let us show you.”

We issued into an ante-room designed in an unusual oval shape and beautifully embellished with detailed crown moulding, a carved white marble fireplace, and a series of large niches beneath gracefully carved arches, wherein works of art were displayed. The walls were adorned with delicate, colourful paintings featuring floral patterns, cherubs, and scroll-work—designs which I had heretofore only seen in books.

“Oh!” exclaimed Cassandra in wonder.

“What an enchanting room,” remarked I. “And these paintings—are they Italianate in nature?”

“They are indeed, Miss Jane. As a young man, I travelled extensively on the Continent and spent a great deal of time in Italy, where I became enamoured of its architecture and art. This chamber is a small tribute to the Florentine masters.”

The ante-room was further distinguished by three mahogany-panelled doors leading to other parts of the house. Through the middle door, I perceived a central hall and a grand staircase; to the right, a formal dining-room; to the left, the drawing-room, into which we now progressed, to join the family who awaited us. The chamber was large, airy, and exquisitely furnished, with stunningly carved moulding crowning the high ceiling and doorway, and tall windows framed by shutters and heavy draperies. The walls were adorned with paintings, including a set of four views of Venice, a portrait of a young Lady Bridges, and two of Sir Brook as a young man, which (he proudly explained) had been painted by the celebrated, rival Italian artists Mengs and Bartoni.