The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen Read online

  “Indeed,” observed Squire Bigg-Wither, “riding about up high in the open air on two wheels has never seemed quite the thing to me.”

  “But I love sitting in the open,” argued Alethea, “especially when riding in the country; and a curricle is so much more expedient than a coach.”

  “The chaise and four may wheel off with more grandeur,” I agreed, “but it is a heavy and troublesome business. A curricle can pass a carriage with ease any day of the week.”

  “If speed were the only object, then you may have your curricle,” said Mr. Morton. “But may I remind you that it holds no more than two occupants, who are both subjected to sun and wind and rain, not to mention a horrible dust. I can never keep a shirt clean when riding in an open carriage. All this cannot be pleasing to a lady.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Morton,” said Alethea, “every lady I have ever met finds the open carriage extremely pleasing.”

  “We would not think to go out in the rain,” I added. “We are never out without a bonnet, sir, and we find the fresh air most exhilarating. As for the dirt and dust, its disadvantages are far outweighed by the attraction of the drive.”

  “I believe there are merits to both points of view,” said Squire Bigg-Wither diplomatically, with a rather stern look at Alethea, “and may I suggest a vehicle that might be acceptable to all: the barouche.”

  “Ah yes,” conceded Mr. Morton, “a barouche can make a fine compromise. For the power of two horses, you can accommodate a party of six; and with the top up, it affords a modicum of protection from the elements.”

  “I have nothing against a barouche,” said Alethea sweetly, with an acquiescent smile for her father, “as long as I am allowed to sit on the box, for it is the only seat that affords a charming view.”

  With the arrival of dessert, in the form of a very decent apple pie, the discussion turned to Mr. Morton’s library, a collection of some fifty or sixty volumes which, I had noticed earlier, were devoted to history and ecumenical studies, and were a source of some pride.

  “Alethea fancies books, herself,” said the squire. “Why, hardly a day goes by that I do not see her engaged in reading something or other.”

  “Oh, but I read only novels, papa,” said Alethea quickly, “and have no taste or aptitude for the books which seem to interest Mr. Morton.”

  “It is true that I am devoted to the more serious works,” agreed Mr. Morton, “but I admit, I have read one or two novels myself, and found them quite diverting. Have you read Coelebs in Search of a Wife, by Hannah More?”

  “No,” replied Alethea. “But I am sure Jane has; Jane has read every thing. She adores novels; why, she has even written several.” No sooner had Alethea spoken the words than she gasped and covered her mouth, with a look of apology at me.

  “Is that so, Miss Austen?” cried Mr. Morton, his pale eyes widening with interest as he turned to me. “Have you indeed written several novels?”

  “Long ago,” said I quickly. “It was a hobby of my youth. They remain unpublished. To-day I write only letters and the occasional poem.”

  “That is a great shame,” said Mr. Morton. “I have always thought the story of my life would make a fascinating novel: the habits of life and character and enthusiasm of an English clergyman, beloved by his parish, renowned for his sensible views, and his sensitivity and expertise in the management of his duties. I would write the book myself—I flatter myself that I have some talent with the pen, for my parishioners tell me that my weekly sermons are exceedingly inspirational—but I feel a more objective view is preferred. Perhaps, Miss Austen, you could be convinced to take up the occupation again, and this could be your next work.”

  “I am flattered,” I replied, trying to conceal my amusement and dismay, “that you would consider trusting me with the story of your life, Mr. Morton. But I am afraid, sir, I must decline. I am certain I would not be equal to the task of portraying such a complex and interesting character as yourself.”

  For the next three days, Mr. Morton took us on a tour of every church and manor home and field and graveyard in his vicinity, with a long, slow drive past the celebrated Bretton Hall, home of Lady Delacroix. The area was lovely, and despite Mr. Morton’s over-solicitous attention and ridiculous manner, I enjoyed myself. Events took a different turn, however, when, at breakfast on the morning of our fourth day, Mr. Morton suggested, to my great dismay, that we visit Pembroke Hall.

  “Pembroke Hall is only a distance of some six miles,” said he, “and if, during your visit to this county, I did not include it as a required point of destination, I would be remiss.”

  Alethea and the squire, who had heard of the place, expressed their wish to see it. I was distressed. I had no desire to go to Pembroke Hall; the possibility of meeting Mr. Ashford there filled me with alarm, and I could only imagine the discomfort and embarrassment it would cause him. I considered, for the briefest instant, telling Alethea about my relationship with Mr. Ashford; but I could not bear the thought. No, I decided, the less said about that affair, the better. As I could not speak openly of my objections, I was obliged to assume a disinclination to see the place.

  “We have gone over so many great houses in the past fortnight,” said I. “I would as well stay here, if you do not mind, and write a letter to my sister.”

  “Oh, but Pembroke Hall is one of the best houses in the country!” cried Mr. Morton. “The grounds are splendid, and they have some excellent woods.”

  “You must come, Jane,” insisted Alethea. “I have heard that Pembroke Hall is owned by a very great family, and is not be missed.”

  “To be sure,” said Mr. Morton, “the family is very great; Sir Thomas Ashford is a baronet and a widower with two grown children, a son and daughter. Although I have not had the good fortune to become acquainted with them, I believe I am correct in saying that they are among the most gracious and condescending people of their class. Sir Thomas allows all persons whatsoever to see the mansion and the grounds every day in the year, Sundays not excepted, from ten in the morning until five in the afternoon. The humblest individual is not only shewn the whole, but the owner has expressly ordered the waterworks to be played for every one without exception. This generosity, I feel, is acting in the true spirit of great wealth and enlightened liberality.”

  “Do you happen to know,” I enquired, striving to maintain a steadiness of voice, “if the family is currently in residence at this time?”

  “No, I am sorry to say they are not,” replied Mr. Morton with a sad shake of his head. “I have heard, on good authority, that they are all away in London.”

  Mr. Morton’s reply filled me with relief. My fears being now removed, I was free to examine my others feelings in the matter. While it was true, I admitted, that any thing which served to remind me of Mr. Ashford (and a visit to the very place where he resided, must be placed at the top of the list of such evils) could only heighten that sense of mortification and outrage which I felt as a result of our association, at the same time, I could not deny that I felt a great deal of curiosity to see the house which he had spoken of several times, and which was of such interest to every body else.

  Surely, I told myself, having travelled so far, it would be foolish not to see the place; for who knew when, or if, I would ever find myself in Derbyshire again? And surely, I insisted further, I was not so weak of spirit, that I should tremble at the idea of passing a few hours at the house and gardens of a family who would themselves be absent, no matter that I had been injured by a member of that family in the past.

  I made no further objection. And so it was, that within the hour, our foursome boarded the squire’s carriage and departed in the direction of Pembroke Hall.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Here we are!” cried Mr. Morton, as we turned into a winding road on the outskirts of a very large, forested park. “You see before you only the farthest reaches of Pembroke woods, which, as you will discover, are trees so perfectly formed, and so beautifully situated,
that human praise cannot do them justice.”

  I had told myself, en route, that Pembroke Hall and its woods could, in no way, be superior to my brother’s estate at Godmersham, or any of the other great houses and groves of trees that I had seen. But as we drove on, I found, for the first time since meeting Mr. Morton, that his assessment did not exceed the truth. The woods through which we passed, which extended for more than a mile, projected an extremely regal and harmonious beauty which delighted the eye, and I could not help but admire every picturesque landscape and remarkable point of view.

  After some time, the woods ended and we reached a hilltop, from which we gained our first sight of Pembroke Hall in the distance. I heard Alethea gasp, and found myself staring in amazement, my preconceived notions falling away. The scene before me was far grander than any thing I could have imagined. We gazed upon a wide, delightful valley, scattered with trees, through which wound a wide stream, which was crossed by a gracefully arching stone bridge. Far beyond stood an immense Palladian edifice of gleaming white stone, with an extensive wing branching out on one side. Behind the house and all along its length, rose a steeply wooded hillside.

  “Good God! That is the largest house I have ever seen!” cried Alethea.

  “Indeed. It is a most remarkable piece of architecture and landscape,” said the squire in amazement.

  “I have never, in all my life,” said I, “seen a place where natural beauty has so perfectly coincided with an exquisite taste.”

  Mr. Morton’s observations, which I shall not repeat, were somewhat more lengthy and redundant.

  Upon descending the hill, we crossed the bridge and drove to the front entrance, where we applied to see the house. We were admitted into the front hall and, after a short wait, the housekeeper appeared. She was a grey-haired, respectable-looking woman, neat in appearance, who greeted us with great civility and not an ounce of pretension.

  “Please be so good as to follow me,” said she.

  The very thought that I stood inside Mr. Ashford’s house, and that it was such a great house indeed, sent my spirits into a flutter, in which both pain and confusion bore an equal share. As we proceeded through the north corridor into a very large and ornate hall, I caught my breath in wonder. The floor was intricately laid in marble mosaic, and the high, upper walls and ceiling were painted with exquisite murals. A long marble staircase, carpeted in red and framed by gilded banisters, led up to the living quarters above.

  All at once an idea struck me, and I stood frozen to the spot, lost in thought, only hazily aware that the housekeeper had begun her discourse. This house, I thought with sudden excitement, this was the sort of residence Mr. Darcy should live in! I was thinking, of course, of First Impressions, in which I had alluded to Darcy’s estate at Eastham Park, Kent, several times; he had invited Elizabeth there while she was visiting her aunt and uncle Gardiner. I had described a pleasing edifice, worthy of its owner’s pride, or so I had thought at the time of its creation. Now I saw that I was wrong.

  Mr. Darcy should never live in the county of Kent at all, I thought, all at once extremely pleased that I had come. He must reside in Derbyshire. And his grand estate should never be called any thing so prosaic and pedestrian as Eastham Park. I should call it—I should call it—I glanced up at the Ashford coat of arms, which was emblazoned in gold and marble above an arched doorway, with the inscription: Pembroke Hall, 1626. I smiled.

  I should call it Pemberley.31

  “Sir Reginald Ashford built the great house in 1626.” The housekeeper’s voice broke into my thoughts. My heart still pounding with excitement at this new-found inspiration, I hurried to join my companions and our guide as she led us up the stairs, my eyes feasting on every sight, determined to memorize every detail, so that I might record it thereafter.

  “He found the project so delightful,” continued the housekeeper, “that he kept building for another five-and-thirty years until the day he died. Each succeeding generation made alterations and improvements, until it is the fine house you see today. When my mistress Georgiana Ashford was alive, the house was filled with friends and relations day and night, for she and my master loved to entertain, and were the best of hosts. By her wish, it has always been kept open for people to see, throughout the year.”

  We proceeded through a series of magnificent and stately rooms, whose lofty walls and ceilings were covered in frescoes or intricately carved wood. There was an enormous library filled with books from floor to ceiling, a beautiful marble chapel, a great dining-room, a lovely music-room and a succession of appealing bed-rooms. The furnishings in each apartment were suitable to the fortune of their proprietor, yet neither overly gaudy nor uselessly fine. They reflected, I thought, a highly refined taste.

  “My master, Sir Thomas Ashford,” explained the housekeeper, “engaged a very great architect to build the long North Wing, and he has dedicated his life to collecting objects of every kind to embellish the house. He purchased two complete libraries, many paintings and sculptures, and a great deal more besides.” She stopped before a row of high windows looking out on the expansive gardens below, adding: “The late Lady Ashford so loved the sound of rushing water, that my master also built the fountains, the cascade and the long canal which you see there, for her pleasure.”

  “Such beauty! Such grandeur! Such spectacle!” cried Mr. Morton. “I imagine that all these endeavours must have cost an enormous fortune.”

  “Sir Thomas spared no expense where the wants of his wife were concerned, for he loved her truly.” With a sad shake of her head, the housekeeper said, “indeed, her passing was a great blow to him. He has not been the same man since.”

  As amazed as I was by the splendour which I beheld, at the same I was seized by a new-found certainty of mind. Mr. Ashford would, one day, inherit all of this. I now understood that any conception of a future between that gentleman and myself had only existed in my imagination. No matter if he did, perhaps, admire me, for a time; it was clear why he had chosen Isabella as his intended bride. His family’s wealth and position would compel him to marry a woman within his class, certainly not a clergyman’s daughter with no money or connections to recommend her. This realisation did not, in any way, excuse Mr. Ashford’s behaviour towards me; he should have made his engagement known, I reflected crossly. However, I could no longer feel slighted by his choice.

  The housekeeper led us next into the gallery in the North Wing, where a succession of portrayals of wealthy persons in fine, old-fashioned clothing, dating well back into the seventeenth century, stared back at us from the walls. I walked on, seeking the only face which would be recognisable to me. At last I found it—a large canvas, prominently displayed, which bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Ashford. When I beheld the lively, intelligent eyes and sincere smile in that familiar countenance, I felt a pang of sadness and perturbation, mingled with (against my will) unbidden affection, for I remembered having sometimes seen a similar smile when I found him looking at me.

  “And here is my master, Sir Thomas Ashford, and his family,” said the housekeeper, proudly indicating the nearby portrait of a handsome, white-haired gentleman who resembled Mr. Ashford, but was no doubt some five-and-twenty years his senior. The painting beside it featured a raven-haired beauty of great sophistication; next to her was a pretty young lady in beautiful dress, with a modest expression. “That is his wife Georgiana, God rest her soul. Here is their daughter Sophia, such a delightful, amiable creature, she is! And here is the son and heir, a very fine man indeed, Mr. Frederick Ashford.”

  Alethea joined me in my earnest study of Mr. Ashford’s portrait. “What a handsome man,” said she.

  “And a good man, too,” added the housekeeper. “Not like all the other wild young men you see these days, who think only of themselves.”

  “There is nothing to be so highly valued as a good and devoted son,” said Squire Bigg-Wither, with a small sigh. I guessed that he was thinking of his own son, Harris, who was a good man in h
is own way, but with whom the squire had never had the easiest of relationships.

  “Mr. Ashford is the very picture of his father,” said the housekeeper, “in looks and temperament and understanding. And Sir Thomas, why, if I was to travel across the globe, I could not hope to meet with a better master. Ask any of his tenants, they would all give Sir Thomas a good name, for he is the best and kindest landlord, and very affable to the poor. The son will surely follow in his footsteps, for he was always a good-natured, intelligent boy, the delight of his family, and he has grown into a most thoughtful, generous-hearted man. Why, only last winter, he bought a new pianoforte for his sister, for she does so love to play and sing, and with his own money, he had the music-room entirely redone, all for her own pleasure.”

  This fine account of Mr. Ashford was consistent, I realised, with the man that I had met, the man I believed I knew. It must be accurate, for what praise could be more true and valuable than that of a devoted servant? But at the same time, I felt a renewed sense of indignation. How could a man so highly thought of, so beloved by his servants and family, have treated me with such cavalier disregard? In those few weeks in which Mr. Ashford deliberately sought my company, shared his opinions and enthusiasms, and made me grow to love him, while at the same time withholding a most crucial piece of information about himself, did he have no regard for my feelings? Did he not realise how much pain he was to cause me? Or did he not care?

  “Do the family spend much time here, in the country?” I heard Mr. Morton enquire.

  “Perhaps half the year,” answered the housekeeper. “The rest of the time they are in London. Although it is possible that Mr. Ashford will spend more time at Pembroke Hall in future, after he is married.”

  My heart began to pound with alarm at this discourse. I longed to enquire more about the marriage, but I did not have the nerve. Fortunately, Mr. Morton managed the task for me.