Jane Austen’s First Love (6 page)

“Robert Mylne himself designed and furnished this chamber,” proclaimed her ladyship with pride, as she arranged herself on a sofa. “It was a great
coup
on our part to retain him, for he has won a great many architectural awards, and designed a number of country-houses and city buildings, as well as bridges.”

Although I had never heard of Mengs, Bartoni, nor Mr. Mylne in all my life, I could not deny that the portraits were of superior quality, and the proportions of the room were very elegant indeed. “I presume,” said I teasingly, as I accepted a glass of lemonade from a footman’s silver tray, “that Mr. Mylne designed actual
bridges
, and not people by the
name
of Bridges?”

Lady Bridges, Fanny, and Elizabeth appeared to be either puzzled or taken aback by my comment, but everyone else laughed.

“Well well, you are a witty young thing, Miss Jane!” cried Sir Brook. “But surely you have heard of Mr. Mylne? He is from a remarkable Scots dynasty of architects and master-masons, famous for his beautiful interiors at Inveraray Castle, and of course the Blackfriars Bridge in town.”

Thankfully, I was not obliged to reveal my ignorance, for a general discussion now broke out concerning our mishap on the road, which seemed to be of great interest to everybody. In Charles’s retelling of it, the level of danger in the event, and the heroic efforts of our rescuers, rose to such great proportions, that when Edward Taylor and Thomas Payler at last entered the room (their boots freshly polished), they were treated like a pair of conquerors returning from battle.

Mr. Taylor laughed. “We are neither of us Sir Galahad, nor any other knight of the round table; far too much fuss is being made over a trivial incident.”

“Let us make a hero out of you, cousin,” cried Sir Brook, patting him on the back, “what is the harm in it? Lord knows we have little else to talk about.”

A tour of the gardens was proposed; but before the examination could begin, Lady Bridges insisted that my sister change her shoes and stockings.

“What do you say to that game of billiards in the meantime?” suggested Sir Brook to Mr. Taylor and Mr. Payler. As he led them away, Charles, declining the tour, dashed upstairs with Brook Edward and Louisa, with whom he seemed to have formed an immediate friendship.

I accompanied the ladies into the central hall, whose primary feature was the grand staircase, an elaborately carved affair of dark oak which made two turns in its upwards sweep towards the open first-floor landing. I felt like a princess as we issued up the wide steps, past the open string, paired balusters, swept and ramped hand-rails, and ornate panelling.

My sister and I were put in possession of a comfortable apartment, conveniently located near the chambers shared by the Bridges daughters. Cassandra conducted her toilette; several pairs of shoes and silk stockings were produced (in a style and quality superior to any my sister and I had ever possessed); a nearly perfect fit was attained; and the dirty articles taken away. Fanny and Marianne excused themselves, explaining that they would like to lie down before dinner. Her ladyship, Elizabeth, and Sophia alone now remained in our company; and retrieving our bonnets, we issued downstairs.

The distinctive sounds of a game of billiards in progress issued from a room just off the central hall. Lady Bridges remarked with a sniff,

“Sir Brook seems to spend all his time in the gun-room now, ever since he had that billiard-table installed. I really do not understand the appeal of—”

Although her ladyship continued speaking, the balance of her declaration was lost to me, for my full attention was captured by the sight of Edward Taylor within the chamber in question. As he leaned over the billiard-table with his cue, with his gleaming auburn hair casually falling over his forehead, and his dark eyes scrutinizing his shot, the picture he presented was so visually arresting, that I could not prevent myself from pausing in the doorway to watch. With a mighty crack, he struck one of the balls with his cue. Although I was unfamiliar with the rules of the game, from the enthusiastic reactions of the others, I deduced him to be skilled at the sport.

“Sir Brook!” commanded Lady Bridges. “You promised these children a tour of the gardens.”

“Forgive me, boys.” Sir Brook reluctantly put down his cue. “I trust you can find a way to play on without me.”

Edward Taylor bowed; as he glanced in my direction, I perceived a smile. Was it meant for me? As I turned to follow my group across the hall, the memory of that smile and those beautiful dark eyes made my heart beat like a drum, and I looked forward to the time, later that evening, when I knew I should see him again.

T
he park that you see before you
used
to be formal gardens, in that old, traditional style,” said Lady Bridges as we crossed the great lawn behind the house. “I insisted that Sir Brook tear it out as soon as we took possession.”

“It was a pretty thing,” said Sir Brook with a regretful sigh. “It put one in the mind of Versailles.”

“Precisely why we were obliged to do away with it! It was
so
out of fashion,” cried Lady Bridges. “I could not bear all those paths which crossed back and forth, or the tightly manicured flower-beds, with the trees and shrubs sculpted into unnatural shapes.”

“Our re-landscaped park is ever so much more stylish and picturesque,” agreed Elizabeth.

“I am sure it is a pleasant place to walk on a fine morning,” enthused I, appreciating the natural look of the landscape, which I favoured; yet I could not help but feel a pang for the poor, departed, formal gardens, which had no doubt required great effort and expense to design and install, and whose inhabitants, due to the whims of a changing taste, had met with such an untimely end.

As we followed a curving path to another part of the grounds, Lady Bridges described with pride every plant and shrub along the way. We passed through a wooden gate in an ivy-covered wall, and to my delight emerged into a large, enclosed garden, in which a verdant lawn was bordered by a riot of colourful flowers. Through a distant opening in the high brick walls I perceived the entrance to another garden, and beyond that, yet another; farther on stood the graceful stone tower of the church.

“This is the first of three walled gardens, each of which leads into the other,” explained Lady Bridges. “We have an excellent fruit orchard—quite the best fruit-trees in the country!—and our strawberry beds are superior to anybody’s in the kingdom, and celebrated for their variety and quality. The flower garden dates back to Elizabethan times, and the wisteria and roses are remarkable, for they are imported from the Far East.”

I wondered what made roses from the Far East particularly remarkable; did they emit a more potent fragrance than roses native to our country, or did they come in a different size or hue? I was saved from posing any such impertinent questions by Sir Brook’s experiencing a sudden coughing fit. Lady Bridges insisted that we retrace our steps in the direction of the house, where our hosts said they would rest before dinner. As they disappeared within, Marianne made a reappearance, and we ladies decided to take a turn in the park.

“We are so glad to have this interval to speak to you on our own,” remarked Sophia, as we crossed the expanse of lawn towards the woods, “for soon the house will be full of people.”

“We heard that your mother has a great many events planned,” said I.

“She does, indeed,” responded Marianne. “Monday is our annual strawberry-picking party, which will include an
al-fresco
luncheon and lawn games. All the Paylers will be here for that and everything else, as well as our neighbours the Fieldings, and Mr. Cage—Fanny’s intended—is due to arrive that morning with a friend.”

“After that,” added Elizabeth, “is our engagement ball. Edward is to wear his blue coat—he looks so handsome in it—and my new gown is so becoming, just wait until you see it!”

“There is to be a sketching and painting contest,” said Sophia, “a cricket match, horse-races, carriage rides, a dinner-party at a neighbour’s house, a concert—there is something else, I have forgotten what—and a Midsummer’s Eve bonfire.”

To have all these thrilling events before me, was a truly wonderful prospect. “It all sounds tremendous.”

“I only hope that in between, we can find a moment to ourselves,” said Sophia. “You must tell us what you particularly like to do.”

“Do you ride?” asked Elizabeth.

“We did when we were younger,” admitted I, “but Cassandra and I never became very adept.”

“What about drawing and painting?” asked Marianne.

“
My
previous attempts at art were dreadful,” responded I, “but that is Cassandra’s area of expertise. Her water-colour portraits are quite true to life.”

Cassandra blushed. “If you are such a proponent of my art, Jane, why do you never allow me to draw
your
portrait?”

“It is no mark against your skill, dearest; it is only that I cannot abide the thought of looking at myself hanging on a wall.”

“I hope you win the drawing and painting contest, Cassandra,” cried Sophia, smiling. “It will throw my mother’s plans into complete disarray.”

“Mamma considers all her children to be prodigies,” added Marianne. “It is why she is holding the contest, we are certain—because she feels one of us will take the prize. So please do your best work and shew her what you are made of.”

We all laughed congenially.

“What are your interests and occupations, Jane?” inquired Sophia as we walked on, enjoying the open expanse of the pleasure grounds.

I thought for a moment. I had many interests; it was hard to know where to begin. “Well,” answered I hesitantly, “although I know that
some
consider it to be the lowest and most coarse form of behaviour—I love to read—novels.”

Sophia gave a little gasp. “Marianne and I both love to read, and novels most especially!”

“Do you?” said I, delighted.

“My father has an excellent library, and we borrow what we cannot buy,” said Cassandra.

We began going over the titles of our favourite novels. After some minutes thus engaged, Elizabeth said:

“Forgive me, but I know nothing of books. I do not wish to take away from your conversation, so I will leave you and return to the house. Please enjoy the rest of your walk.”

We curtseyed, and Elizabeth departed.

“No one else in our family shares our enthusiasm for literature.” Sophia sighed. “It is delightful to be able to converse on this topic with
you
.”

As we continued our stroll, our shared admiration of the works of Henry Fielding (
Tom Jones
), Jonathan Swift (
Gulliver’s Travels
), Goethe (
The Sorrows of Young Werther
),
and Fanny Burney was brought to light.

“
Evelina
is one of my favourites,” said Sophia, to which Cassandra and I offered our assent.

“I believe
Cecilia
is the best book I have ever read,” said I. “Fanny Burney is a genius. I am captivated by her depiction of characters like Mrs. Delville, who are not perfect, but neither are they wholly good nor evil—they possess both noble qualities
and
incurable defects—as such, they seem to me more true to life than any I have read in novels elsewhere.”

Sophia’s eyes widened. “What a fine assessment of Miss Burney’s literature. I never thought of that before.”

I wanted to add that it was my dearest hope to write something equally fine one day; but my own efforts were so unworthy, and the dream so unattainable, that I could not voice it aloud.

Marianne soon grew weary (I recalled Mrs. Knight describing her as being something of an invalid), so we returned to the house. As we approached the grand edifice, Cassandra asked, “Should we change our gowns for dinner to-night?”

“No; you are to be our only guests,” replied Sophia. “That is—you and Edward Taylor and his cousin Thomas.”

“Is it true that Edward Taylor is
your
cousin?” said I.

“He is. His father is a very distant cousin of our father’s,” answered Sophia. “We are told the connection goes back a hundred and fifty years, to the time of King Charles I.”

“That is a very
distant
cousin indeed!” laughed Cassandra.

“How old is Mr. Taylor?” asked I.

“He is sixteen,” answered Marianne, “although he will turn seventeen later this month.”

I could not stop my smile. Edward Taylor was exactly eighteen months my senior—the perfect age, I thought, for
me
.

“We have not had much opportunity to get to know each other,” added Sophia. “We used to play together as children—he was the sweetest little boy—but when he and his brothers and sisters were very small, his family emigrated to the Continent. They have been gone ever since, other than one annum about two years past, when they returned to Bifrons to check on their property.”

“The Taylors have lived abroad all that time?” said I, astonished.

“Yes, and there the family still remains; it is only Edward who has come home for good.”

I wanted to ask why it was only Edward who had come home, but the opportunity was lost, for we had reached the house now, and as Sophia led the way up the main staircase, she went on:

“As far as we—and Papa—are concerned, Edward Taylor is a member of our family. Papa insisted that he and the Paylers, with whom he is residing, be included in all our festivities this month, and we are so glad.”

Boldly, I asked: “Does your mother share his enthusiasm for Mr. Taylor?”

Sophia hesitated; then, catching some understanding in my tone and expression, she replied in a lowered tone: “I think you have guessed that she does not.”

“Why not? He seems very amiable to me.”

“Oh! He is,” replied Marianne. “We
love
Edward Taylor. But Mamma disapproves of the way he was brought up, travelling all over the Continent as he has done since he was five years old. She considers him a little too wild, a great deal too foreign, and worst of all (and I do not agree), pompous and overly-educated.”

“Mamma’s favourite saying,” added Sophia with a sigh, “is:
a little bit of learning goes a long way at Goodnestone
. I think she fears that, with Edward’s wealth of knowledge, experience of the world, and many accomplishments, her own children will somehow appear to disadvantage—and of course
we
do not care a fig about that!”

We were now arrived upstairs, and all separated to our respective chambers to get ready for the evening—an event which I eagerly anticipated, as it meant I would have the opportunity to see more of Edward Taylor, who grew more fascinating with every moment.