The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen Page 21

  I recalled, from our first meeting, that Mrs. Jenkins had promised to continue her excursions to London with her niece, even after she was married. Had the wedding yet taken place? I wondered. Isabella’s long, white gloves made it impossible to tell if she wore a ring. “It is wonderful to see you,” I said, smiling, although my heart pounded so loudly I could scarcely think. “You are both looking well.”

  “Oh! Thank you,” replied the older woman. “I cannot complain. So long as I can rise each morning with a smile on my face, and manage to keep up with my niece all day long, that is all that matters to me.” She enquired after our mother, and asked how we were enjoying our new home. When satisfied with our replies, she added, “What brings you to London?”

  “We are visiting my brother Henry,” said I diffidently.

  “How long have you ladies been in town?” enquired Cassandra.

  “Since just after the season began,” replied Mrs. Jenkins.

  “It has all been heavenly,” said Isabella. “First it was the annual exhibition at the Royal Academy, then a round of the most wonderful balls and parties, the Derby, and of course the Ascot; why, my head spins just to think of it. But now,” she added, frowning petulantly, “it is nearly over. All the ladies think about is which country houses they are going to, and whom they are to meet. And all the men talk about is grouse, grouse, grouse.”39

  “Surely you will look forward to returning to the country after all this time, Miss Churchill,” said I, my stomach clenched tighter than any sailor’s knot. “Or should I say—is it Mrs. Ashford now?”

  Isabella frowned. “You cannot think me married yet, Miss Jane, or I would surely never have been allowed to remain here so long and so delightfully with my aunt.”

  “But she will be married, soon,” said Mrs. Jenkins happily. “The wedding is to be the last week in December. She is to be a Christmas bride.”

  “How lovely,” said I, and quickly added, “How is your writing coming, Miss Churchill?”

  Isabella stared at me blankly. “My what?”

  “Your writing.” Turning to Mrs. Jenkins, I explained, “Miss Churchill and I had the pleasure of meeting in Derbyshire last year, where I had the opportunity to peruse a tale of her own composition.”

  The young lady’s eyes brightened, and she let out a small laugh. “Oh that! Why, that was ever so long ago, I had forgotten all about it! I meant to send you a note, Miss Jane, to thank you for the kind words you wrote, but I never could finish that story. Writing is such a tiresome enterprise, and it takes up so much time. It gives me a headache just to think of it.”

  “You should see the needlepoint pillow she is working on,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “A thistle, all her own design.”

  “I am sure it is exquisite,” I replied.

  Hoping to end this conversation, I was about to make some excuse to return to my seat, when a handsome young gentleman in a dark navy full-dress coat appeared, of a sudden, at Isabella’s side. “Good evening Mrs. Jenkins, ladies,” said he with a formal bow. “Miss Churchill, what an unexpected pleasure to find you here. I hope I am not interrupting?”

  Isabella turned to him with a curtsy and a demure smile. “Indeed you are not, sir.”

  Mrs. Jenkins’s countenance grew tight and pinched. I wondered who the gentleman could be, but before any one else could speak, he said, “It is a stifling evening, is it not?”

  “It is quite warm,” replied Isabella.

  “If you feel the need for some air, Miss Churchill,” said he, “we have a few minutes yet before curtain. I would be pleased to escort you to the front of the foyer, where I found a trace of a breeze by an open doorway.”

  “How very thoughtful of you to offer,” answered Isabella.

  “I am sorry, sir,” snapped Mrs. Jenkins, “but she cannot accept.”

  “Auntie dear, pray, do not be so old-fashioned. There is no harm in my taking the air with a friend, and as you see, we have a room full of chaperones.” Isabella turned to the gentleman and, taking his arm, added, “I would be most grateful, sir, if you would lead the way.”

  Mrs. Jenkins batted her fan in ferocious disapproval, casting her eyes nervously about the room as the two young people moved off together. “Oh dear! I shall never live this down. Our Isabella is much too bold.”

  “Who is the gentleman?” I enquired.

  “His name is Wellington. He is apparently from a very good family in Shropshire, and will one day inherit an estate from his uncle. He has been at nearly every event this season, and seems quite smitten with Isabella, although I have made him fully aware that she is betrothed to another, and for all that she insists they are just good friends. I have warned her that it is not at all seemly for a woman in her position to be seen so often in the company of another man, but she maintains that I am worrying over nothing.”

  “Their interchange does appear rather innocent,” said Cassandra, glancing across the lobby to the front doorway, where Isabella was now engaged in smiling conversation with Mr. Wellington.

  “Perhaps you are right,” replied Mrs. Jenkins, “but I cannot be too careful. Dear me, it is hot in here. Miss Austen, would you be so kind as to accompany me closer to the door, where I might have a better view of my niece and that young rake?”

  “I should be glad to, Mrs. Jenkins,” said Cassandra. To me, she added apologetically, “I shall return in but a moment, Jane.”

  As I watched Mrs. Jenkins and Cassandra cross the room towards Isabella and her friend, I heard a man’s voice with a deep Scottish lilt behind me:

  “There is nothing like a good-looking man in a navy blue dress coat for captivating the ladies.”

  I turned to find a well-dressed gentleman with an agreeable face, who appeared to be about nine-and-thirty; he was gazing at Isabella with an animated, intelligent eye and an amused smile.

  “A well-tailored coat and a handsome face may turn a girl’s head, sir,” I replied, “but it is the mind behind that face that captivates a lady.”

  The gentleman’s eyebrows lifted and he turned his stare to me. “Spoken like a true poet of modern romance, Miss—?”

  “Austen. Miss Jane Austen.” I held out my gloved hand, and he took it, bowing.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Austen. I am Mr. Walter Scott.”

  I nearly gasped aloud, and could not hide my stunned surprise and awe. I had never imagined that I would meet a writer of such notoriety and acclaim, whose poetry I had read many times over—yet there he was, standing before me in a London theatre. “Mr. Scott!” I cried, when I found my voice, “It is an honour and a pleasure to meet you, sir. Indeed, you are the poet, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said he modestly, his small smile and muted tone implying a sense of dissatisfaction, “but you would be better off, I fear, reading Wordsworth.”

  “I beg to differ. I enjoy his work as well, of course, but I greatly admire the lively description and honest pathos of your ballads. May I enquire as to what you are working on at present?”

  “Another little metrical romance.”

  “What is this one about?”

  “An Englishman called Waverly, who travels to the Scottish Highlands during the second Jacobite Rebellion.” Mr. Scott waved his hand with a bored air. “In truth I am growing weary of ballads, particularly my own. I am well aware that I shall never be more than a minor poet.”

  “Perhaps it is time,” said I boldly (without thinking), “to leave poetry behind and move in a new direction.” No sooner had the words left my mouth than I felt myself blush. Whatever had possessed me? Who was I to give advice to this celebrated writer?

  Mr. Scott met my embarrassed gaze with a wide smile. “What new direction would you suggest, Miss Austen?”

  The call was sounded for the second act; the crowd began to remove towards the theatre; but Mr. Scott stood waiting for my reply. “Prose,” said I.

  “Prose?” repeated he, in surprise.

  “Indeed, sir. It has become quite the thing of late.
Perhaps you should write your Waverly as a novel.”

  “A novel?” Mr. Scott laughed out loud. “Now there is a novel idea. Do you truly think the public would find interest and enjoyment in a novel about imaginary historical figures?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why, because it has never been done.”

  “There is a first time for every thing, Mr. Scott. And if any one could write a powerful novel of history and romance, it is you, sir.”

  He laughed again. “I daresay, if I attempted such a work, I would never put my name on it.”

  “Nor would I, sir,” I agreed, with a laugh of my own. “But I do believe it would be popular.”

  Mr. Scott nodded, an introspective look crossing his countenance as he thanked me again for my kind words, and moved off with a distracted bow, muttering to himself, “Now there is an idea. A novel.”40

  My own literary aspirations, unlike my hopes for Mr. Scott, seemed destined for a disastrous end. Despite Henry’s earnest attempts over the course of several weeks, he had been unable to interest a publisher in my book.

  “It is a first novel, by an unknown author,” explained Henry in some frustration, glancing at my title page which read, Sense and Sensibility. A Novel in Three Volumes. By a Lady. “Not only unknown, but unnamed! With the limitations you have placed upon me, Jane, I find it difficult to persuade any one even to read it. If you would at least permit me to admit that the work was written by my sister, I might be able to gain a sympathetic ear.”

  “No,” I replied emphatically. “It is enough to say that you represent the author. I am convinced that a publisher will think more highly of the work if they do not suspect it was the effort of one of your relations.”

  “I believe she is right in that, Henry dear,” said Eliza. “It may speak better for the novel if it appears that you hold a more disinterested view.”

  “Perhaps,” said Henry with a shrug. “Is this your only concern, Jane? Should I be so fortunate as to secure a publisher, will you then put your name to it?”

  “No. I wish to remain anonymous.”

  “Why?” cried Henry, exasperated.

  “I do not know precisely. It is difficult to explain.” I had dearly wished to be published, it is true; yet at the same time, the idea of fame or notoriety mortified me. “It is one thing to write for one’s family and most intimate friends. But if this book were to have a more wide-spread audience, it would be a most uncomfortable sensation to think that strangers knew my name and were making uninformed judgments about me.”

  “I understand how Jane feels,” said Cassandra, squeezing my hand sympathetically.

  “I think you are both being quite ridiculous,” admonished Henry.

  “Have you not read how the world treats lady novelists?” I replied heatedly. “They are pointed at, noticed and commented on, suspected of literary airs, and shunned by the more unpretending of my sex. I could not bear the scrutiny. I would sooner exhibit as a rope-dancer.”

  “A rope-dancer might have more success in becoming published,” said Henry.

  “Jane, dear,” said Eliza gently. “You are a wonderful writer. I am certain your readers will only look up to you. You should be proud of what you have accomplished. There is no need to hide behind anonymity.”

  “She will be mired in anonymity for ever if I cannot succeed in selling her book,” observed Henry glumly.

  “There must be other places you can take it, Henry,” said Cassandra.

  “I have tried everyone I know.”

  “Then you must try the people you do not know, darling,” said Eliza.

  “What are you suggesting, my dear?”

  “I think,” replied Eliza, “it is time that we gave a little party.”

  Eliza’s notion of a little party was a soirée of some five-and-twenty couples, to take place before the end of the week. There was some urgency in planning the affair, since she felt it must be accomplished before the twelfth of August, the end of the season, when all the best families in London would remove to the country for the sport.

  At Eliza’s urging, Henry invited his wealthiest clients and friends, and acquaintances who he believed might have a connection to some one in the publishing world, hoping to secure an introduction of some import. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the efforts they undertook on my behalf, and though I protested that I could never repay them, Eliza insisted that she enjoyed throwing parties, had been meaning to host one all summer, and this had seemed an excellent excuse.

  I worried about what to wear, as my best gown, a pretty white muslin with short-capped sleeves, was looking a bit tired. Cassandra’s gown was a lovely shade of pale lemon, but not much newer. Eliza helped us dress them up with new sashes and frills of delicate lace, and engaged her hairdresser to do our hair.

  As is the way with such events, there were many solicitudes, alarms, and vexations in the week beforehand, but at last, when the guests began to arrive at eight on the evening of the party, everything was quite right. The house was beautifully dressed up with flowers, the sideboard was laden with an attractive and delicious array of consumables, and the guests, all elegantly attired and gathered in the front drawing-room, seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  Cassandra and I were engaged in pleasant conversation in a far corner with our friends the Cookes, when Eliza (dressed in haute couture, of course—a simply divine white silk gown, the bodice and hem embellished with lace, pearls, and pink satin rosettes), took me by the arm and propelled me across the room, where she said in a lowered tone, behind her fan, “Do you see that stout gentleman, by the punch bowl? He is the solicitor for a publishing house. And that bearded gentleman in the purple coat, Henry said he has a friend who is acquainted with the brother of a publisher. Apparently, there are at least half a dozen men here who might have useful connections. Henry is determined to speak to all of them before the night is through.”

  “I am indebted to you both,” I said.

  My face must have shewn my trepidation, because Eliza smiled and added, “Have no fear, Jane, he is merely working as your representative, as you have so firmly insisted. Your secret is perfectly safe.”

  “Thank you,” I replied in relief.

  As Eliza excused herself and glided off to greet a guest, Henry appeared, of a sudden, at my elbow. “There you are, sister dear! You will never guess who appeared in my office this morning, out of the blue, looking for you.”

  I turned. To my complete astonishment, I encountered Mr. Ashford.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  A surge of anger and dismay flooded through me as I stared at Mr. Ashford. I felt my cheeks grow warm and my heart begin to pound. What on earth, I wondered, was he doing here? And why, I thought helplessly, could I never encounter this man without a response of such overwhelming and obvious physical emotion?

  “You may not remember Mr. Ashford,” said Henry, smiling gaily and oblivious to my distress, “but we met several years past, on our little excursion to Lyme.”

  Mr. Ashford’s countenance, although as handsome as ever, was white with agitation; his eyes, as they met mine, looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. “Of course I remember Mr. Ashford,” I replied, infuriated by the tremor in my voice. I lowered my gaze, focusing on his bright blue coat and exquisitely embroidered vest.

  “I was delighted to see him again, as you can well imagine,” said Henry, “and the timing could not have been more perfect. I told him about our party tonight, and nothing would do but he must come and have a word with you, Jane.” Bowing to Mr. Ashford, he added; “It was wonderful chatting with you, my good man. Now, if you will both excuse me, I must go play the host.”

  “I am much obliged,” replied Mr. Ashford, bowing in return, as Henry disappeared. An awkward silence ensued as Mr. Ashford turned to me. “I only just learned that you were in town, from—” He stopped himself, his face colouring. He gathered his composure, and said, “You are looking well, Miss Aust
en.”

  “As are you, Mr. Ashford,” I answered tersely, praying that my own agitation was not as visible as his, and that the wild beating of my heart could not be detected through the thin muslin of my gown.

  He winced at the coldness of my reply, but went on: “Your brother tells me that you finished your book. I am so pleased for you. I wish you much success with it.”

  “Thank you.”

  For a brief interval, neither of us spoke. I tried desperately to gather my thoughts. Should I take advantage of this rare opportunity to tell him, in no uncertain terms, what I thought of him and his behaviour towards me in the past? Or should I take the high road, smile graciously, and congratulate him on his impending nuptials? I had tentatively decided on the latter, when at last he said,

  “Miss Austen. It has been many long months that I have wanted, needed to speak with you—”

  “I see no reason for us to speak, Mr. Ashford,” I snapped, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

  “I do not blame you for being angry with me. Nor do I blame you for returning my letters. But please believe me when I say that I never wished to cause you pain. And I—”

  “Do not presume to know of my pain, Mr. Ashford.” To my mortification, unexpected tears stung my eyes. Unable to bear this tortuous conversation a moment longer, I said, “Forgive me. It was good of you to come. But should you not be spending the evening with your fiancée?”

  I moved away abruptly through the crowd, relieved to have made my escape. I had no sooner reached the sanctuary of the back drawing-room, which was yet devoid of guests, when, to my dismay, I heard footsteps quick upon my heels and Mr. Ashford’s cry:

  “Miss Austen! Wait, please!”

  I fled across the empty room, towards the card-tables at the back. “I would greatly appreciate it, sir, if you would leave at once.”

  “I cannot go. Please, Miss Austen! Listen to me.”

  “There is nothing you can say, sir, that I wish to hear.”