by Ken Methold
He turned towards a desk and reached across for a pen, with which he dipped in the ink and copied the address onto a small slip of paper. After powdering the ink dry, he handed the note to Sarah and said, ‘Another brother, Revd James Austen, is now the Rector of Steventon. He lives with his wife at the rectory. He did not attend the funeral as he is seriously ill.’
‘I suppose the family are well known in the district,’ Sarah said.
‘Very much so,’ the precentor replied. ‘The Reverend George Austen and his wife had several children of their own, and for many years, the rectory hosted a small boarding school for boys, several of whom later attended Winchester College.’
‘Was it widely known locally, do you think, that Jane Austen had become a highly regarded novelist?’ Sarah asked.
‘By local people who read novels, perhaps. But I understand that until very recently, the late Miss Austen published much of her work anonymously. The first I knew about her being an authoress was when I read the small obituary in The Courier. It came as quite a shock to me. Mind you,’ the precentor added, ‘I suppose I should not have been surprised. The Reverend George Austen was a well-educated man and not just in ecclesiastical matters. He had a fine library which I believe included many works of fiction. No doubt his children were encouraged to make good use of it. Henry and James are both of a literary inclination. While they were still students at Oxford they wrote and published a periodical, The Loiterer.’
‘This is most interesting,’ Sarah said. ‘I look forward to meeting Mr Henry Austen and also Miss Cassandra Austen at Chawton. I also intended visiting Steventon with my friend, Miss Stockton. She is an illustrator interested in drawing and painting country scenes. I would like to see where Jane Austen spent her early years.’
‘That would be interesting for you. However, as I am sure you appreciate, Miss Cassandra and her mother are still in deep mourning. I doubt if they will receive visitors, other than the closest of family friends.’
‘Of course,’ Sarah said. ‘I would not dream of intruding.’
The clergyman smiled. ‘I did not want you to make the journey and be disappointed. Fortunately, both villages are not too far from Basingstoke. About seven or eight miles. They are pleasant enough, but Steventon may not be easy to access by carriage at this time of the year. As soon as you leave the turnpike, the road is little more than a muddy cart track and deeply rutted from the carriers’ wagons. Your best plan would be to hire a chaise to Basingstoke, or even one of the regular coaches—there are several every day. If you ride,’ he smiled knowingly, impressed by Sarah’s aristocratic appearance, ‘and I assume that you do, you can hire a horse to visit the villages. The weather is settled at present, and I am informed by my gardener, who is usually reliable about such things, that it is likely to be so for several days. A gentle ride along the country lanes should be very pleasant.’
‘Your suggestions are most sensible. I am greatly obliged to you. Miss Stockton and I would need to stay overnight at Basingstoke. Can you recommend suitable accommodation?’
‘The White Hart is a fine coaching inn and has a good reputation. I am confident you will find it acceptable accommodation for two ladies travelling alone.’
Sarah had one more question for the precentor. ‘If possible, I would like to speak to Jane’s doctor. Do you know where I can find him?’
‘He is Doctor Lyford, and you will usually find him at our new city hospital. I understand Miss Austen came to stay in Winchester to be in his care.’
Sarah thanked the Reverend Watkins for his kindness in answering her questions and left his residence to walk to the hospital. She thought it unlikely that Dr Lyford would be free to see her, and, in any case, he would be very circumspect regarding what he told her about Jane’s illness. However, having come so far, she reasoned that it would be a mistake to leave Winchester without following all possible avenues of inquiry.
As luck would have it, the doctor had just completed a surgical operation when she arrived at the hospital. He sat alone in his small office, writing up his notes on the procedure which had been sufficiently successful to put him in a relaxed state of mind. A tall, elegant man in his early fifties, he expressed no surprise when Sarah told him the purpose of her visit.
‘I was Miss Austen’s physician for some time,’ he said, ‘and when I moved here to take up the position in the new hospital, she continued to be my patient. I was aware of her novel writing. In fact, she insisted on writing until almost the end. She was truly dedicated to her work and was determined to leave behind as many books as she could.’
‘Do you know what she was working on towards her last days?’
‘Another novel. She told me it was inspired by a visit she had made some years before to Worthing.’
‘That’s a coastal town in Sussex, I believe.’
‘Yes, for a time it was quite fashionable, but when the Prince Regent became interested in building his pavilion in Brighton, Worthing rather lost its popularity.’
‘Thank you,’ Sarah replied. ‘That is interesting. Her executor may be able to arrange publication of her unfinished novel, depending how much progress she’d made before her illness finally prevented her from writing. Did she suffer much towards the end?’
Dr Lyford pondered the question for a moment before replying, ‘She experienced pain only during her last few days. Prior to the onset of that pain, her symptoms were mainly fatigue and listlessness. A generalised feeling of being very unwell. To be honest, I do not know exactly what caused her death. I can say only that she showed all the signs of an infection, and that there was nothing medicine or surgery could do to prevent her vital organs from shutting down. Quite simply, she had an infection that got out of control and responded to nothing I, nor I believe, any doctor could do. One day perhaps we shall discover ways to combat this kind of infection, but at present, we are at a loss even to understand exactly what is happening.’
Sarah appreciated that Dr Lyford had told her as much as there was to know about Jane’s final illness, so she offered Dr Lyford her hand. His remarks about the unfinished novel and Jane’s attitude to her writing had been unexpected and possibly significant.
Well-pleased with the morning’s meetings, Sarah walked back to the hotel, there to have a light lunch with Elizabeth and reserve inside seats on a coach to take them the twenty miles or so to Basingstoke, a journey of about three hours. According to the precentor, from Basingstoke to Steventon or Chawton on horseback would be just over an hour’s easy ride to either village. However, Sarah decided that on their arrival at Basingstoke, after resting for a while after the journey, it would be too late in the evening to visit either of the villages. A better plan, as the precentor had suggested, would be to stay overnight at the White Hart Inn and continue to Steventon on the following day.
After explaining the situation to Elizabeth, she said, ‘I don’t want you to think we have to work all the time. If we find the place to our liking, we can stay and explore the district. And we don’t even have to achieve anything. I would like our Jane Austen project to be as much a holiday as anything. We have never had one together.’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I would like to paint some landscapes if we come across something that really appeals.’
And so it was settled. Little more than an hour later, they were seated in the afternoon coach to Basingstoke.
Chapter-9
The coach was in excellent condition and made good time to Basingstoke where Sarah and Elizabeth found accommodation available at the White Hart Inn. After inspecting the room and finding it small but clean and comfortable with a large attractively canopied four-poster bed, Sarah asked for their bags to be sent up.
Before changing for dinner, they visited the stables next to the inn where they arranged to have two steady mounts for use throughout the next day. Sarah also arranged for the hotel to send a messenger to the nearby parish of Deane where Henry Austen had a lodging. Her sealed lett
er to him was short and to the point.
Sir,
I have been commissioned by the editor of the journal, The Inquirer. To write a series of articles on the lives and works of our women novelists. I intend my first article to be concerned with the late Miss Jane Austen. I understand that you assisted her in obtaining publication of her first novel. I would be greatly obliged if you would spare me a little of your time to answer a few questions I have about Miss Austen’s early life. I would be happy to meet you at your lodging or in Chawton. I am presently saying at the White Hart Inn in Basingstoke.
Yours Respectfully,
Sarah Kedron.
It had occurred to Sarah that a possible way of passing the evening would be to visit the local theatre. However, the landlord informed her that there was, as yet, no theatre in the town. The nearest resided in Andover, ten miles away, and in his opinion, the quality of the theatre premises there and the standard of the performances were so poor as to be not worth a journey of even two miles, let alone ten. Sarah had no difficulty in accepting the landlord’s advice. Accordingly, after their meal, the two women retired to their room and prepared for bed.
Sarah had brought with her both the novels, Persuasion and Northanger Abbey, and it was part of their plan to take it in turns to read a few chapters aloud each night before they went to sleep.
By the light of a bedside candle, Elizabeth read a few chapters from Northanger Abbey, then put down the book and said, ‘It seems to me that the opening chapters contain little of interest: Before Isabella appears on the scene in the fourth chapter, it consists mainly of inconsequential dialogue between the insipid heroine, Catherine, and her family. After arriving in Bath, she befriends the equally shallow, Isabella. Neither can be described as an interesting character. They are the epitome of the worst kind of heroine: timid, over-anxious to please, and totally lacking in confidence. Isabella seems obsessed with dress and frippery, together with all the silly social niceties while she is engaged in a desperate search for a suitable man to marry.’
‘I think we need to consider,’ Sarah suggested, ‘that Miss Austen was satirising the kind of heroine that we frequently find in romances. I think we’ll find that the whole book is a parody of the gothic novels that are so popular with members of the circulating libraries. The problem for Jane Austen, as I know from my experience as a playwright, is that it is difficult, even impossible, to satirise that which is boring without also being tedious.’
She knew only too well the way many plays that set out to satirise and parody situations or certain kinds of character often collapsed in the middle. The usual lack of plot and an excess of pointless dialogue amounted to little more than vocal noise to persuade the audience that the play was still being performed.
Elizabeth nodded. ‘I know I may be missing something significant, dearest,’ she said, ‘but I have to confess that I don’t think this is a good book. I’m not surprised that Lady Hertford finds it hard to accept that all the novels purportedly written by Jane Austen are in fact, all her own work. I really don’t know how the author of this could be the same person who wrote Pride and Prejudice.’
‘It certainly makes one think,’ Sarah agreed. ‘Though, perhaps, we should take account of the advertisement by the authoress.’ Sarah took the book and tapped the text on the page. ‘Here, the writer admits that Northanger Abbey is an earlier work.’
‘Oh, I missed that,’ Elizabeth confessed. ‘I went straight to chapter one and read from there.’
‘It does mean that we cannot assume her books have been published in the order they were written,’ Sarah said. ‘I have plays written years ago that I could not get performed. I put them away intending to revise them later. Some of them are so poor I shall not waste time on them. I think we need to try to obtain the dates when Jane Austen wrote each of her novels and the dates she made fair copies of them with corrections and revisions.’
‘I suppose,’ Elizabeth said, ‘many novelists have to make the final copies themselves because no one else can read their handwriting.’
‘True. Or they cannot afford to pay a copyist.’
‘It would be very interesting to compare an early version with the final printed version,’ Elizabeth mused. ‘Apart from an author’s changes, there could be editorial changes to consider.’
Sarah laughed. ‘Believe me, the final rehearsed version of my plays bears little relation to my first drafts, even to the version I have copied for the actors. I have to accept not only the changes demanded by the censor but also those inserted by actors who think they can write my lines better than I can. It’s infuriating. I take immense trouble to write my lines carefully so that the stresses, places to pause, and rhythms and so on are where they should be, and then an actor who can’t be bothered to learn what I’ve written just gets the gist of my meaning and paraphrases it. Do clients interfere with your paintings?’
‘Frequently. If they don’t like some aspect of what I’ve done, and they can afford it, they engage another artist to paint over it. One of my clients engaged me to paint his mistress of the time. When he tired of her or she of him, I never discovered which, he had her face over-painted with the face of her successor.’
‘There we are then. Anything can be changed by other hands,’ Sarah said. ‘Literature, Art or even Music. Oh dear!’ She yawned. ‘It’s time to sleep, I think. We may have a busy day tomorrow, beginning with a ride to Deane or Chawton.’
‘If the weather is fine, that will be lovely. It’s months since I was last on a horse, and I do so enjoy a good, long ride.’
Elizabeth closed the book, put it on the small bedside table, and extinguished the candle. ‘What will you do if Henry Austen refuses to meet with you?’ she asked, half whispering, as she settled comfortably.
‘I was thinking about that during the journey this afternoon. I’m afraid we must expect to be made unwelcome by the family. They are obviously determined to avoid publicity. For whatever reason, they do not want Jane to be remembered for her novels. The absence of a funeral notice and an adequate obituary in the local press is further confirmation.’
‘Perhaps Jane Austen’s sister will be more helpful.’
‘That’s possible, but I think it may be inappropriate to approach her at this time. According to the precentor, she and Mrs Austen are still in deep mourning. The brother, Henry, is in a different situation. He has been his sister’s agent, has written and had published the extraordinary memoir about her, and he is presumably responsible for the wording on the grave stone. I think it is reasonable for me to approach him for information about his sister’s life and works. He is obviously the spokesman for the family.’ She yawned and slid further down the bed. ‘Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well.’
The two friends kissed, turned on their sides and were soon asleep.
Chapter-10
The next morning, as Sarah entered the dining room for breakfast, the landlord approached her.
‘The messenger returned with an answer to your letter, madam,’ he said, handing it to her.
Thanking him, Sarah took it but waited until she was seated at a vacant table by the window before opening it. The message was a single line.
Madam,
I can meet you at 10 a.m. at Minerva’s Rooms in Basingstoke.
Henry Austen.
Minerva was the largest chain of circulating libraries in the country. In the smaller towns the branches or franchises were usually more than just libraries. They had to be to be profitable so were often small department stores. Although books were becoming increasingly popular, sales and even loans were still largely dependent on the middle class. An annual subscription cost a minimum of two pounds, and even the penny or tuppence per week fee could be an extravagance for people who could not or did not want to subscribe, especially as fines were levied on late returns. A week was not usually long enough for many readers to finish a complete book.
When Elizabeth arrived at the breakfast table a few minutes later, Sara
h passed her the note, explaining as she did so, ‘That’s rather more and less than I expected. More in that he’s saving us a journey. Less in that he gives no indication that he is prepared to discuss his sister.’
‘I expect he thinks Minerva’s is neutral ground,’ Elizabeth commented. ‘We are lucky there is one here.’
After a leisurely breakfast, the two friends set off for Minerva’s. They soon found the department store—for this is what it turned out to be—located in the High Street, and its façade gave the impression of being three smaller shops knocked together to form a much larger one. Inside, at the rear of the store, and by far the smallest part, was the lending library. It seemed to have only a few hundred books available, though doubtless, Sarah thought, a hundred or so more would be out on loan. The rest of the premises had counters serving groceries, a range of teas, perfumery, cutlery and crockery, various other domestic items, newspapers and periodicals, and most importantly from Elizabeth’s point of view, stationery and basic artists’ supplies. At least a quarter of the store, however, existed as a coffee house.
In spite of the early hour, the establishment was already busy. Clearly the social centre of the town, it was a convenient place for business men to conduct negotiations and for women to exchange gossip. Sarah thought that most of the smartly dressed sales assistants would have had at least an education in the classics and numeracy at a local grammar school for boys.
They entered the store, found a table vacant and hurried towards it. Once seated, they relaxed and amused themselves by commenting on the surrounding activity. When a servant approached, Sarah ordered coffee and said, ‘We are expecting a reverend gentleman at ten o’clock. He may ask for me. My name is Miss Sarah Kedron. He is the Reverend Henry Austen.’
‘I know the gentleman,’ the servant said. ‘He’s a member of the library. I will bring him to you.’
Sarah thought this was interesting information. A Minerva library in a country town would contain mostly novels for women readers with little of interest to an Oxford graduate. She thought, therefore, that Henry Austen probably borrowed books for Jane Austen’s sister and mother at Chawton.
