The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen Read online

  His eyebrows lifted as he nodded in silent comprehension. “Very good, Miss. I will see it done. Good day to you, Miss.”

  “Who was that?” called my mother from the next room, after I had thanked the postman and shut the door. “Is it the post, Jane?”

  “It is, mamma,” I replied. “But do not excite yourself. It is only bills.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Unlike the years at Steventon, our social life at Chawton was small. There were no balls and few dinner invitations. We found and hired the requisite help; my pianoforte arrived, along with a few other pieces of needed furniture; and we fell into a new routine.

  My mother gladly gave herself over to the garden, where she spent most of her days putting in potatoes, planting and weeding the flower borders and vegetable beds, and appearing each afternoon in happy spirits, wearing a green round frock like any day-labourer’s, her boots and garments muddied from her toils.

  Cassandra and Martha took charge of the arrangements for most of the day’s meals and helped in the kitchen as needed. Our new cook was a dear, capable woman, who earned every penny of her £8 a year; but as she also handled our washing every fortnight, there was often more to do than two hands could manage. Cassandra also took up her hobby of water-colour sketching. She cornered me one afternoon and absolutely forced me to sit for an informal portrait, the likeness of which (every one agreed, to my sister’s mortification) was rather unflattering. No one has ever attempted to draw my portrait since. 35

  My only designated responsibilities were the keeping of the key to the wine cupboard, and the preparation of a simple breakfast—undemanding duties, for the women in my household were determined that I should devote my time to that pursuit which was so dear to me—the writing of my book.

  I had been eager to return to work. In every quiet moment in months past, whether on a long walk, a carriage ride, or lying in my bed at night attempting sleep, my thoughts had often turned to Sense and Sensibility and First Impressions, books which slumbered in imperfect states. New ideas had struck me at odd moments, but I had rarely had a chance even to jot them down. At last, I thought, the time has come.

  My recent trip to Derbyshire—the image of Pembroke Hall still so vivid in my mind—made me impatient to work on First Impressions again, which needed to be altered, lopped, and cropped; but at the same time, my thoughts were full of Elinor and Marianne, and of Edward and Willoughby. The flood of creativity which had been unleashed during those few weeks at Southampton still simmered deep within me, clamouring for attention. The revisions were barely begun, but it was a start, and I knew it would require my undivided attention for quite some time if it were ever to reach completion. With what joy I looked forward to picking up my pen, that I might make those worthy characters come alive again!

  The quiet of the countryside (notwithstanding the intermittent parade of traffic beyond our door), the solitude and my new-found contentment in the establishment of a daily schedule, made the ideal setting for the writer’s life. I took to it with energy and relish.

  I rose early, donned my white cap and went downstairs before any one else was about. On cold mornings, the maid laid the fire in the dining-room hearth, and sometimes I began writing immediately, my mind filled with new ideas in the early light of dawn. Other mornings, I played my pianoforte first. Situated as it was in the drawing-room at the end of the house, my practise did not disturb the others’ sleep. At nine o’clock I made tea and toast for my family, and after a good chat, I removed myself again to the drawing-room fire (or at times, to my bed-chamber), where I wrote in happy seclusion for the rest of the morning.

  The work did not always come easily. I must have been possessed, I decided, during that flurry of productivity at Southampton. Some mornings I laboured over a single paragraph for three hours, slashing out nearly every line and devising it afresh in a vain attempt at perfection. On other days I might compose half a chapter in a heated flourish, only to decide, upon later review, that it was gibberish and toss the whole, in frustration, into the fire.

  There were good days as well, brilliant days in which the words flowed as quickly as rain slides down an eave, my pen barely able to maintain pace with my thoughts, days in which my characters seemed to act and speak through my very fingers—a simple transference from mind to pen, and pen to page, with little apparent thought or effort.

  My characters continued to converse with each other in my mind, even when I was not at work. It seemed to matter not where I was—at the dinner-table or sitting in the drawing-room, darning a pair of socks or sewing a garment for the poor—a piece of dialogue or witty turn of phrase might jump into my mind, and with a laugh, I would throw down my fork or needle and run to my desk to record my newest gem before the fleeting thought could vanish.

  Whenever one of our servants entered the room where I was working, or on those rare occasions when some one outside the immediate family party came to call, I quickly put away my pages, or covered them with a piece of blotting paper, and picked up my needlework, careful that my occupation should not be discovered. There was a swing door, located between the front door and the offices, 36 which creaked when it was opened; I welcomed this little inconvenience and refused to allow it to be remedied, because it gave me notice when any one was entering.

  The seasons passed. Summer disappeared, Michaelmas came and went, and autumn arrived, with its driving rains, chill winds and flurries of crisp, brown leaves. Soon, a gentle snow fell outside our windows. I am told that our first Christmas at Chawton was merry and bright, and that the winter of 1810 was very cold and dry, but I cannot say for certain, so distracted was I by my writing.

  Henry stopped by in his carriage from time to time when bank business called him to Alton, and once or twice he took me or Cassandra on an outing. Edward visited that autumn, bringing his eldest daughter, Fanny, with him. Now sixteen, Fanny was an affectionate, charming girl, and had become one of the delights of my life. Since the death of her mother, she had been a devoted, highly valued companion to her father, and we always enjoyed their company.

  In the afternoons, I often walked to Alton with Martha or Cassandra to shop, or ambled to one of our many ponds or through the meadow across the road to the running stream. I have a vague memory of calling several times on Edward’s tenants at the Great House, the Middletons, who were excellent people, and whose name I borrowed for characters in my book. 37 But for the most part, we were four women living in seclusion, our family party seldom enlarged by friends or neighbours, and I was happily engrossed in my work.

  That work, by virtue of its very subject matter, often brought with it memories of a certain gentleman: memories which I endeavoured, time and again, to brush from my mind.

  When I turned the calendar from February to March, I realised that ten months had passed since I had last seen Mr. Ashford. He might be married now, I thought, my stomach churning at the very thought. The housekeeper at Pembroke Hall had said the wedding was to be next year, but when next year? In what month? The image of his being attached for life to the childish, simpering Isabella, brought a fresh stab of pain and anger to my breast. I hope she plagues his heart out, I thought, rather ungenerously. And then, What becomes of them is of no consequence to me. I will not think about it.

  I had my work, my home, my family. I had never been happier in my life. It was all I could ever need.

  As I completed the final revisions on my novel, I began reading it aloud to the women in the house.

  “It is a wonderful book,” cried Martha enthusiastically one evening, when we had read through the first half. “The women in this story seem to live and breathe. Elinor is the very best sort of person, and I adore Marianne. But I cannot help but think that the men are very bad.”

  “They are very bad, indeed,” agreed my mother, shaking her head as she continued with her embroidery. “Colonel Brandon seems a good sort. But Edward and Willoughby, the two men who have captured your ladies’ hearts, they are both e
ngaged to other women! They are cads, the lot of them!”

  “You have not heard all, mother,” said Cassandra, with a quick, sympathetic look at me. “Perhaps there is a reason behind their actions, an explanation which will resolve every thing, and a good outcome.”

  “I cannot see how,” replied my mother. “Particularly in Willoughby’s case. And I did so like him at first.”

  “So did I,” admitted Martha with a sigh.

  “He was quite wonderful,” agreed Cassandra.

  “It was my design that you should like him. I did all I could to make him charming, literate, intelligent, handsome, devoted—every thing that Marianne, with her romantic sensibilities, could ever want in a man—so that you might understand and respect her for being smitten by him.”

  “And then he leaves her without a word!” snapped my mother, “and goes off to marry another. Horrible, horrible man! Whatever possessed you to write such a thing?”

  Cassandra glanced at me again with concern, and said, “Jane has a vivid imagination, mamma.”

  I quickly looked away, hoping the others would not notice even the barest trace of anguish in my eyes, should it exist. My mother and Martha knew nothing of Mr. Ashford, and I was determined that they never should.

  “Well, she has used it to write a very somber story, if you ask me,” cried my mother. “Very somber. As if Willoughby’s other faults were not bad enough, now you give him past transgressions that can never be excused or redeemed! And that letter he wrote to Marianne, casting her aside as if she were nothing. Why, it was the most cruel, unfeeling thing I have ever heard. My heart quite went out to her, Jane. When she cried, I was moved to tears, real tears, I tell you.”

  “I am pleased to hear it, mamma,” said I with feeling. “That is, indeed, the highest praise you could give my work.”

  “How can you call it praise,” cried my mother, “when I am telling you I hate the man?”

  “He is a rascal, Jane,” said Cassandra.

  “The blackest villain!” agreed Martha. “Cannot you soften him, even just a little?”

  “I cannot, and I will not,” I insisted. “Willoughby is what he is. The world is full of rascals and villains. Better that Marianne should be apprised of it at seventeen, and learn from her mistakes.”

  “I think you are very heartless to poor Marianne,” said my mother.

  I did not agree. But as we made our way through the rest of the book, I wondered if my anger at my own situation had clouded my judgment. Even I found Willoughby so contemptible, that I decided I must attempt to redeem him after all, if only in a small way. At the eleventh hour, much to the gratification of the women of my household, I inserted a scene in which Willoughby returns to apologize.

  “Thank you, Jane,” said Cassandra, relieved, when I read the newly written scene aloud. “I feel much better now.”

  “As do I,” declared Martha, wiping away a tear. “For although Willoughby behaved very badly, it helps to know that he truly did love Marianne and deeply regretted his actions.”

  “I still say, it would be a better book all around if he never married the other woman in the first place!” cried my mother passionately. “I declare, I do not understand where you are going with this, Jane. We all want a happy ending, you know. What happy ending can there be for poor Marianne now, even if she does not die of a broken heart?”

  “Have you forgotten Colonel Brandon?” interjected Cassandra calmly. “He has loved her from the start.”

  “Oh! That he has,” replied my mother. She sat in contemplation for a moment. “I see. I see. Well, there’s a good thought. Colonel Brandon is indeed a treasure.”

  “I would marry him myself, if he walked through that door,” agreed Martha, laughing.

  “Jane has always promised that her books would end with at least one wedding,” said Cassandra, “or two, if possible.”

  “But what of Elinor?” cried my mother in sudden distress, her hand flying to her throat.

  “Yes, what of dear, dear Elinor?” asked Martha.

  “How do you plan to solve that one, Jane?” My mother sighed, waving her hands hopelessly. “Her Edward is as good as married to Lucy Steele by now.”

  A pang of sadness took hold of my heart, but I forced a smile. “Do not fret. You will have your happy ending, I promise.”

  I finished the book in early spring, happy endings intact. My family of critics seemed very pleased with it, and encouraged me to take it to Henry in London, to see if he could secure its publication.

  My heart pounded with trepidation at the thought. I had devoted my entire heart, soul and mind to this work, and two or three years of my life to its inception. What if it did not sell? What if all my efforts had, as in the past, been in vain?

  “I am not sure it is ready,” I protested. “It requires more attention.”

  “Jane,” said Cassandra sternly, “you cannot work on the same book for ever. You must make a copy and take it to London.”

  I sighed. “Then you must come with me.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It was a delight to visit Henry and his wife Eliza at their house on Sloane Street, a long, smart avenue on the outskirts of London. In addition to their sparkling company, and the advantages of all the attractions of town being near at hand, they also employed two French maids and a superb French chef.

  My dear cousin Eliza (the daughter of my father’s sister), had been raised in France and had led a life which seemed to me both exotic and thrilling, yet tinged with tragedy; her first husband, Count Jean Capotte de Feullide, had died by guillotine in 1794, and her only son had died young. Henry, although ten years younger than Eliza, had fallen in love with her at sixteen, and finally convinced her to marry him a decade later. I adored Eliza, and always had. She was sophisticated, musical and very pretty, with an energetic manner, large, bright eyes and an elfin face surrounded by curls. Her capacity for extravagant shopping was notorious, and her dress always the richest in the room.

  Henry’s financial situation had often been precarious (even long before marrying his extravagant wife), but his banking concern at the time was flourishing, and he maintained well-situated offices in town as well as a grand style of life. 38

  “I believe it is your best work yet, Jane,” pronounced Henry with enthusiasm, as we dined on a delectable Cordon Bleu one late-July evening. It had taken me several months to make a new copy of Sense and Sensibility, which I had carried in a satchel on my lap in Henry’s carriage all the way to London, afraid to allow the precious manuscript out of my sight for more than an instant. Henry had read all three volumes with avid attention in the first week after Cassandra and I arrived, and Eliza was now perusing them.

  “I love this novel,” cried Eliza. “I am so engrossed, I cannot wait to return to it.”

  “You are being kind,” I replied. “The book has many flaws, I am not at all satisfied with it.”

  “She will never be satisfied, I fear”—Cassandra sighed—“even though she began writing it at two-and-twenty, and has spent nearly every day of the past year perfecting it.”

  “Perhaps this is not the best book to submit to a publisher,” said I anxiously. “I could not bear to have it purchased and ignored, like Susan. Perhaps I ought to go back and revise First Impressions first.”

  “I do not understand you,” said Henry. “This book is excellent, and already finished. How long have you dreamt of being an author? After all your efforts, surely you wish to see the work published, do you not?”

  “Of course I do,” I admitted, “but—”

  “There are no buts,” said Henry. “We must act quickly, Jane. We must release it to the world while the debate between head and heart is still of interest to society. One day, I fear, that subject, which is at the very centre of your story, may be forgotten.”

  As Henry began his quest to find a publisher, Cassandra and I busied ourselves walking into town and calling on several old acquaintances, including the Smiths and the Cooke
s, and a Miss Beckford and Miss Middleton, very pleasant little parties where we enjoyed good conversation with intelligent people and drank a great deal of tea. The weather was invariably fine and hot. Eliza joined us on several shopping expeditions where we marvelled at her stamina, her ability to spend, and her judicious eye for colour and style (she purchased more hats in one afternoon than any one I have ever witnessed, before or since.) Cassandra and I made do with more mundane purchases of darning cotton, silk stockings and gloves, although I did find ten yards of a pretty-coloured checked muslin at the Linen draper’s shop, for which I was obliged to pay seven shillings a yard.

  One particularly memorable night, Henry took us to a play at the Lyceum. Eliza, who had a cold, chose to stay home. I cannot recall the name of the play that night, or who were the principal actors in it. The memory remains vivid for me owing to the people whom I chanced to meet at the interval that night.

  It was a warm summer evening, and the theatre had become hotter than we liked. As Henry chatted with a friend after the first act curtain, Cassandra and I adjourned to the lobby, which, although filled with people, with the doors thrown open, was comparatively cool. We had not been in the outer room half a minute when a familiar voice called out shrilly, “Yoo hoo! Miss Austen! Miss Jane Austen!” and we spied Mrs. Jenkins bustling through the crowd, a formidable spectacle in satin and pearls, with her niece Isabella in tow.

  My heart leapt with surprise and alarm, particularly at the sight of Isabella, who looked young and ravishing in a gown of pale pink silk, with a matching band in her dark hair embellished by a spray of flowers.

  “Ladies! Ladies!” cried Mrs. Jenkins, as the two women reached our side in a rustle of skirts. “How delightful! It has been ages, simply ages! Isabella, do you remember Jane and Cassandra Austen? They are my dear friends from Southampton, who have sadly moved away.”

  “How nice to see you again,” said Isabella, holding out her hand and smiling coolly in our direction.