The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen Read online

  Harris appeared more annoyed than embarrassed by this chastisement, but before he could reply, the butler appeared with a tureen.

  “Here is the p-p-p-p-punch I ordered, in y-y-y-y-your honour, fa-fa-fa-fa-father.” Harris stood up with a sardonic smile, as the butler dished out and served a red wine punch to the entire party. “D-d-d-d-drink up, father.”

  We all tried the brew, with wry faces; it had a dreadful taste, as if made from a combination of ill-assorted wines. The squire spit his out into his glass in revulsion. “What in God’s name is this, son?”

  “L-l-l-l-ladies—and gentleman,” said Harris, with a particular nod to his father, “my p-p-p-p-punch is like you. In your individual ca-ca-ca-ca-capacity, you are all very g-g-g-g-good sorts, but in your co-co-co-co-corporate capacity, you are very d-d-d-d-disagreeable.”

  A stultifying silence followed this pronouncement, as Harris sat down. Catherine, Elizabeth and Alethea looked mortified. The squire’s brows bristled with fury. Although the remark was insufferably rude, when I considered the trouble Harris must have taken in designing the retaliatory scheme, I could not help but see the comedy in it; my lips began to twitch with amusement. I caught my sister’s eye, and found an answering look there; we could no longer hold back our mirth, and we burst out laughing.

  The Bigg sisters, sensing the absurdity of the event, were soon infected by our hilarity, and joined in the laughter; even the squire at last let out a loud guffaw. Harris sat back in his chair, looking very pleased with himself.

  A week passed most agreeably, giving me no preparation for the debacle which was shortly to occur. Harris ordered no more wine punches, and for the most part, kept to himself, although on several occasions, I noticed him engaged in whispered conversations with one sister or another, exchanges which abruptly ended whenever Cassandra and I entered the room.

  On Thursday, the 2nd of December, 1802, we were passing a quiet morning in the parlour with the Bigg sisters, when Harris strode, of a sudden, into the room, in an aspect of nervous anticipation. In perfect unison the sisters rose, each proclaiming that they had something to do which they had nearly forgotten; and, with the pretext of needing Cassandra’s particular advice, they spirited her away (to her great surprise) ensemble. Before I knew what had happened, I found myself alone with Harris.

  Neither of us spoke. Harris stood before the fire, resting one big hand uncomfortably upon the mantel, the other hanging limply at his side, staring down at the hearth with such a fixed and serious expression that I wondered if he had found some defect there. He wore pale yellow breeches and, as his father had noted, a pair of the new, black, tasselled Hessian boots which came up to just below the knee, an attempt at style which was entirely defeated by his overgrown, ungainly stature, the sheen of perspiration on his brow, and the flat look of his countenance.

  I sat upon the sofa in quiet surprise and the dawning realisation that this meeting might have been orchestrated. Perhaps Harris had something he wished to tell me, although I could not begin to guess what it could be.

  “Good morning, Harris,” said I politely, after a lengthy silence, knowing that he often required assistance to begin a conversation.

  Harris nodded in my general direction, and then returned his gaze to the fire.

  “It is a fine morning, is it not? Your sisters thought it might rain, but I proved them wrong.”

  Still he said nothing, but stood in discomfited silence. I cast about for a new topic, and had just decided to ask how he had enjoyed school, when he turned with sudden resolve and approached me, stopping several feet away, and said in a determined voice, “Mi-mi-mi-miss Jane.”

  “Yes?” I was relieved to find that he actually did intend to speak, and I would not be required to converse for two.

  “Y-y-y-y-you know that I am the heir to Ma-ma-ma-manydown Park.”

  “Yes.”

  “As su-su-su-su-such, I have a great de-de-de-deal to offer the w-w-w-woman who consents to be my w-w-w-wife.”

  “Indeed you do, Harris.”

  “W-w-w-would you do me that honour, Mi-mi-mi-miss Ja-ja-ja-ja-jane?”

  Chapter Six

  He asked you to marry him?” cried Cassandra in astonishment.

  Her stunned expression was a perfect reflection of my own; I had been in a state of the utmost shock and confusion ever since Harris made his startling declaration, at which time I had immediately quit the room. I had found Cassandra up stairs in the company of the Bigg sisters, whose averted eyes, hidden smiles, and eager, anticipatory air communicated their secret knowledge of Harris’s intended proposal.

  My sister and I were now locked behind closed doors in the guest bed-room we shared, and I had only just related the events which had transpired.

  “He made an actual proposal of marriage?” repeated Cassandra. “Harris?”

  “He did.” I paced the room, my stomach clenched, my mind all in a whirl, uncertain what to think or feel.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said—I hardly know what I said. I said I needed time to think.”

  “This is most unexpected. I confess, I am all astonishment.”

  “As am I.”

  “I had no idea he thought of you that way. As, as—”

  “As a wife?”

  “More than that,” replied Cassandra. “As a lover.”

  “Neither did I. Truth be told, I am not certain he does.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He made no exclamation of love. Nor did he make a pretence at any sentiment of affection.”

  “None?”

  “None whatsoever. The great emphasis was on the honour, as heir to Manydown Park, that he was bestowing.” I sighed. “Let us be frank. Harris is one-and-twenty years of age, with few social skills, and very little to occupy his time. I think he may just want a wife—any wife. His sisters, I am certain, had a hand in it. He had their urging and approval; I am well-known to him and the family; and I was here, and convenient.”

  “Surely you are more than that. To ask you to marry him, he must admire you.”

  “If he does, he has never said so.”

  “He is not a man of many words.”

  “No. He is not.” Wickedly, I added, “When he proposed, I think it took him a full three minutes to utter the simple proclamation.” We burst out laughing; then, feeling remorseful, we struggled to compose ourselves. “Forgive me. We should not laugh. His affliction has caused him and his family a great deal of distress. It is not funny.”

  “No. It is not. And his proposal, it is a very serious matter, Jane.”

  “I understand. To receive an offer at my advanced age, of nearly seven-and-twenty! A woman with no home, no money, no property; it is flattering, and rather reassuring.”

  Cassandra did not smile, apparently seeing no humour in the remark. “It is a most desirable match, Jane.”

  “Is it? Is it?”

  “You know it is. Harris is the heir to Manydown Park and all its holdings.”

  “I am fully aware of how rich he is—or will be. But he is five years younger than I.”

  “What of it? Five years is nothing. Henry is a full ten years younger than his wife, and they are very happy. And women often do outlive their husbands.”

  “But he is so plain, so awkward and so uncouth in manner. There is no connection or feeling between us. Our minds are so dissimilar. Harris rarely speaks. And when he does speak, he is often rude, or he says nothing of interest.”

  “Silence, in a case like this, might be considered a blessing.”

  I saw, to my dismay, that Cassandra was completely serious. “How can you say that? You cannot believe it. Good, healthy communication is the foundation, the very touchstone of any close relationship.”

  “He is still young, Jane. Remember, he was schooled at home as a boy, and he never really knew his mother. Marriage is a great improver. With you at his side to instruct and guide him, his conversational skills may increase.”

 
“They may. But what if they do not? You know I do not love him. In truth, I do not even like him very much. And he cannot possibly love me.”

  “There are many tracts of feeling between esteem, fondness, amiability and love.”

  “But I have none of those feelings where Harris is concerned. Oh, I suppose I might have a sort of fondness for him, or for the boy that he once was. But do I esteem him? No.”

  “Not now, but you will learn to care for him, perhaps, in time, just as he will come to care for you.”

  “Perhaps? In time? That seems a rather great risk to take, do not you think? To spend a lifetime tied to some one you do not love—how trapped we should both feel. I cannot imagine it!”

  “I have come to believe,” said Cassandra, “that romantic love among the gentry is preached far more often than it is practised.”

  I stared at her composed face a long moment, then shook my head. “You would not say that, had your Tom lived.”

  “But he did not live. Not every one has a chance at true love, Jane.”

  “But every body has the right to seek it, to believe that she can and should marry for love, at least once in her life, does she not? Must I sacrifice all my hopes?”

  “You must be practical, Jane. At your age, you may never receive another offer of marriage, and certainly not one so advantageous. Consider your future. As mistress of Manydown Park, you will oversee a grand estate and much property. You will enjoy every comfort and advantage in life. Your children will grow up in wealth and splendour, and attend the finest schools.”

  I nodded, troubled, and spoke the thought that had been weighing heavily on my mind, “And you and mother and father can live here, if you wish.”

  “Do not think of us.”

  “But I must.” I sighed. “As long as father lives, we have security of a sort, however rootless we have become. But if father should die, our income will be so reduced that you and mother and I might face penury, and we shall surely become a burden to our brothers.” I thought of my friend Martha, ten years my senior, who lived at the time with her old, infirm, widowed mother and her mother’s friend, poor Mrs. Stent. “One day, we might become Mrs. Stents ourselves, unequal to any thing, and unwelcome to every body. Marrying Harris would prevent that.”

  “Yes,” admitted Cassandra quietly. “But apart from the money. No family could be more beloved to us than the Bigg-Withers. Catherine, Alethea and Elizabeth are like our own dear sisters. Harris may be young and yet unformed, but you could be the making of him. The match could be advantageous on both sides. And—” She paused, as if carefully selecting her next words. “Since Tom died, I have often thought that perhaps you and I were meant to spend our lives together. I cannot help but think, if you married Harris—”

  “We could remain together.”

  Cassandra nodded, her eyes alight with excitement. “And escape from dreaded Bath.”

  “To a real home, at last.”

  “A home in the country!”

  “In our beloved Hampshire!”

  Our eyes met. We clasped hands, enthralled.

  On entering the parlour that evening, I found Harris conspicuously alone, busily cleaning his gun, while the family was gathered in the adjoining drawing-room. My heart pounded as I crossed to where he sat, and declared, “I have considered your proposal. I wish to accept.”

  Harris quickly stood and faced me in awkward silence. Our gazes met in mute acknowledgment of my consent, and he briefly smiled.

  I wondered, did he intend to speak? Did he mean to kiss me? I felt some apprehension at this last prospect, and realised I did not welcome it. To my relief, he only took my right hand in his, and squeezed it gently. I realised it was the first time we had touched in any way since I had danced with him at a ball in that very house, when he was a boy of twelve.

  He seemed to be devising some kind of verbal response when Alethea appeared at the open door, and on seeing us standing so together, cried, “Did you say yes? Did you, Jane?”

  Harris dropped my hand, his face flushing as he quickly stepped aside.

  I nodded, glancing at Alethea.

  She squealed with delight, then turned back into the drawing-room, and cried, “Jane said yes! She is to be our sister!”

  A noisy burst of activity followed. The Bigg sisters and Cassandra all made their entrances, exclaiming with happy laughter and excitement as they embraced me and Harris in turn.

  “My dearest wish has come true,” said Catherine, taking my hands into her own with an affectionate smile. “You are truly my own sister now.”

  The squire, alone, seemed taken aback by the proceedings, but soon recovering from his surprise, his booming voice added to the air of celebration in the room. “I had no idea this was brewing right under my own nose,” said he, shaking Harris’s hand and smiling heartily. “Son, you shew a greater understanding than I gave you credit for. I hope you will be very happy.”

  “Th-th-th-thank you, sir,” said Harris.

  Giving me a warm hug, the squire said, “My heartiest congratulations, my dear Jane. Welcome to the family.”

  I smiled, carried away by the sense of joy that pervaded the room. I was to marry Harris Bigg-Wither. I would have a home. I would have the children I dreamt of. I would be part of a family I loved. My parents and sister and I would never want for any thing.

  As Cassandra said, it was a most desirable match.

  I did not sleep that night. I lay awake in the darkness, hour after hour, reflecting on the new life which lay before me. I sat up. I stood. I lit a candle and paced the room, filled with increasing horror and revulsion at what I had done.

  The first rays of dawn were peeking from beneath the curtains when Cassandra stirred and looked up at me in drowsy puzzlement. “Jane? What is the matter? Why are you not in bed?”

  “For six days,” said I in profound anguish, “I have been surrounded by our dearest friends. I have enjoyed the delights of Manydown’s lovely grounds and beautiful, spacious, wainscoted chambers, and Harris’s proposal bewitched me. But my acceptance was based too much on pecuniary reasons. I do not love him! I do not even have the potential to love him! I feel as if I have just made a bargain with the devil; a life of ease and comfort in exchange for one of misery and loneliness!”

  “Jane. Be calm. Come to bed, and sleep. All will be well in the morning.”

  “It is morning!” I cried. “I cannot rest until I have undone what I did so rashly. Oh, Cassandra! When I think of the pain that I shall cause, the rash of bad feelings that will ensue, I am vexed and mortified and full of grief. But I cannot marry Harris. I cannot.”

  I believe that nothing I have ever said or done, before or since, has upset so many people as my retraction of my word that day.

  I found Harris in the breakfast parlour. Through a blur of tears, I spoke the words that needed to be spoken: I was sorry, I had been too hasty, I had made a mistake and I was to blame. His response was entirely within his nature. His face darkened, he stared at me in consternation, then he turned and fled the room without a word.

  The outpouring of grief expressed by his sisters was more than I could bear. I insisted that I could not stay in that house, nay in that neighbourhood, another minute longer. A carriage was called, servants rushed to and fro with our belongings, and amidst much. sobbing and many tremulous embraces, Cassandra and I left Manydown and were expeditiously returned to Steventon, from whence I pressed my brother James into giving up the writing of his weekly sermon to deliver us straight away to Bath.

  Once returned to the safety of our parents’ shelter, I broke the news as gently as I could. My mother and father were aghast.

  “You accepted him and then denied him?” cried my mother.

  “I was wrong to say yes. It was a momentary fit of self-delusion.”

  “What delusion? It was an offer of marriage, and a most desirable one. What can you be thinking?”

  “I am thinking of his welfare, mamma, as well as my own. I am convi
nced I could never make him happy, and he would be not be happy with me. We are not suited to one another.”

  “I always thought him a decent young man,” said my father. “He is not an acquaintance of to-day; you practically grew up together. He is like your own brother.”

  “That is the point, papa. I do not love him as a wife should love a husband, and he does not love me.”

  “Take him and trust to love after marriage,” insisted my mother.

  “No, mamma.”

  “But to live at Manydown!” cried she. “Such a renowned family!”

  My father sighed, and said, “Jane, I know that you have always said, since you were a girl, that you would never marry for any thing less than love. But do you realise what you do? You may live another eighteen years in the world, without being addressed by a man of half of Harris’s estate. You are throwing away from you an opportunity of being settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, as will probably never occur to you again.”18

  “Perhaps not, papa. But I have done the right thing. I am only sorry that the way I did it has caused so much grief.”

  Chapter Seven

  As my mother agitatedly paced the room beside us on that hot August morning of 1808 in Southampton, she bemoaned my single state as grievously as if the news of my aborted acceptance of Harris’s proposal had only just occurred, instead of six years before.

  “I think you must have lost your senses that day, Jane,” said she. “I do not understand it, and I declare I never shall.”

  “Mamma,” scolded Cassandra, “it is high time that you stopped grieving over that affair. It happened so long ago.”

  “I have long since regarded my refusal of Harris’s proposal as a lucky escape,” said I. Privately, I added, particularly now, when I could reflect how differently I would have responded had a man like Mr. Ashford offered me his hand. Even if Mr. Ashford had not had a penny to his name, I believe I would have accepted him on the spot and been happy to be his wife, for we had shared, in only a matter of hours, a connection which I knew I could never have achieved in a lifetime with Harris Bigg-Wither.