by Ken Methold
‘Now he is just a curate in a small parish,’ James observed. ‘When all else fails, there is always the church as a refuge.’
‘This is all very interesting,’ Sarah said. ‘Do thank Godwin for me. As you say, he is a treasure.’
‘We are meeting Mr Tilson at the Chapter Coffee House tomorrow morning at ten,’ James said.
‘How did you know that’s what I would have asked you to do?’ Sarah smiled, but her voice carried a slight edge.
James ignored it. He was used to her, taking her sensitivity for granted. ‘Oh, it wasn’t necessary to be a mind reader. He’s the most obvious person to meet in London if you want to find out more about Henry Austen’s life here. They were partners for more than ten years. We already know Henry acted as his sister’s agent. It’s likely that he was involved in her life in other ways. James Tilson would probably know if he was.’
‘I have already decided,’ Sarah said, ‘that if I am to understand Jane Austen and her life, I need to find out as much as I can about her family and her relationships with them all. Not only does Henry’s behaviour make one curious and want to know more, but her sister-in-law, Mary Austen, married to the eldest brother James, made a significant remark. She told me that she would be pleased to talk to me about Jane, and in her words, “if only to put the record straight.”’
‘Well! Well! The plot does thicken. That suggests there is a record that needs attention,’ James said, and then added, ‘I have arranged that you and I meet Mr Tilson together as I think that more appropriate than for you to meet him alone. There will be nothing unusual in me, a magazine editor, wanting his story. And if he is now short of money, I can offer payment. He would find it difficult to accept an offer of payment from a woman.’ He laughed. ‘Military pride and all that.’
‘Sounds very good, James, thank you.’ Sarah yawned and stood up. ‘But now I must ask you both to excuse me. I have had a long and busy day. I need my bed.’ She bent to kiss her father on the forehead, patted James’s shoulder as if to say, ‘I’m pleased’ and then retired to her room.
Chapter-13
When Sarah and James entered the coffee house, James asked a servant if there was a Mr Tilson waiting to see them. The servant nodded, and they followed him to a table in the far corner of the establishment. There, a strikingly handsome middle-aged, military-looking man, smartly dressed in a quality frock coat that now showed its age, watched their approach. As soon as he was sure they were coming to meet him, he stood up.
‘James Tilson at your service. This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Kedron,’ he said, bowing low. As a keen theatre-goer, he recognised her from her days on the stage. ‘I have followed your career with interest.’ He held out his hand to James. ‘And you must be Mr Brewster. Good day to you, sir.’
After taking their seats, James explained why Sarah had accompanied him to the meeting. ‘Miss Kedron, who is the daughter of the proprietor of The Inquirer, is the publication’s theatre critic and contributes occasional fiction reviews. She is planning an important series on women novelists of the Regency. Jane Austen is her choice for the first article.’
‘An excellent choice, if I may say so. Jane Austen was a most unusual woman. She will be remembered and read long after her contemporaries are forgotten.’
‘I’m glad you approve,’ Sarah said, smiling. ‘I hope you can tell me something about her as a person.’
Sarah launched into her opening remarks. In her mind she had carefully prepared what she wanted to say. She hoped to be able to steer the conversation where she wanted it to go as though she were scripting a play. She was soon relieved to discover that she had no problems with Mr Tilson. He wanted to impress her, and the information she needed flowed from him in a torrent.
‘I recently had the pleasure, Mr Tilson,’ she said, ‘of meeting your former business partner, Mr Henry Austen.’
Tilson’s face clouded. ‘At one time much more than that. He was my closest friend.’
‘But no longer?’
‘Few partnerships—or friendships, come to that—can survive what we have been through. We had so much and then suddenly we had nothing.’
‘Had you known one another long?’ James asked.
‘About fifteen years. We both joined the Oxford Militia at the same time and rose to the rank of captain. He was still a single man. Then in 1797, I think it was, he married his cousin, the widow of the Compte de Feuillide who was tragically guillotined in Paris three years before with his estates in France being confiscated. But Eliza, who expected to be referred to and addressed as the Countess, had money of her own, and some of her husband’s assets were transferred to England before the revolution took hold and madness ruled France. Henry had little money of his own. His officer’s pay went nowhere, but his wife’s income remedied his situation. As young officers about town with beautiful wives, we lived a very full social life and Eliza’s title—though perhaps of somewhat doubtful provenance—as well as her great charm and intelligence, ensured that we were able to mix with appropriate people.’
It occurred to James that Tilson and Henry Austen had probably persuaded some of these ‘appropriate people’ to invest in their bank. Since its collapse, they would no longer be welcome at their investors’ dinners and soirees.
‘I was not aware that Henry Austen was married,’ Sarah said.
‘Widowed. Eliza died in 1813. Her only son, Hastings, whom she had with the Compte, died young. He was not a normal child. Some inherited condition.’
‘Hastings is an unusual Christian name,’ James said.
Tilson leant forward. ‘Thereby hangs a tale.’
And, James thought, wild horses and all the king’s men won’t prevent you from telling it. He felt Tilson was trying hard not to reveal how badly let down he felt by the bankruptcy and Henry Austen’s role in it. In self-defence he needed to blame the situation largely on his ex-partner. If there were scandal to be had about Henry, he would not hesitate to pass it on.
‘Eliza was Henry’s first cousin,’ Tilson continued, ‘the only child of his aunt Philadelphia, his father’s sister. In 1753 or thereabouts, Philadelphia Austen sailed to India hoping to snare a husband.’
‘The fishing fleet,’ Sarah said, smiling. ‘Shiploads of rather plain young women from good but financially straightened families. Their only hope of making anything like a good marriage, or in some cases a marriage of any kind, was to go to India where there were scores of young men of good fortune faced with a serious shortage of white women.’
‘Precisely,’ Tilson said, smiling.
‘What happened to the girls who didn’t find a husband?’ James asked.
Sarah grinned wickedly. ‘They were returned empty.’
A little embarrassed by Sarah’s remark, James said to Tilson, ‘But Philadelphia was fortunate?’
‘Yes. Within a few weeks she married Mr Tysoe Hancock. He had a good position with prospects with the East India Company. The couple moved in the right social circles, but their marriage went without issue, until that is, they met and became friendly with Mr Warren Hastings.’
‘Ah!’ James said, ‘that’s a name to conjure with. He became Governor of Bengal and only a few years ago was acquitted of corruption after one of the longest trials in British history.’
‘A mischief monger by the name of Jenny Strachey started a rumour,’ Tilson continued, keeping his voice so low that James and Sarah had to lean forward to hear him above the noise in the coffee house, ‘that Eliza was not Hancock’s child but was fathered by Warren Hastings. Whether there is any foundation in this rumour, we will never know, but Tysoe Hancock heard the rumour himself and wrote to his wife warning her about Mrs Strachey’s attempts to estrange her from society. Thus, he accepted paternity, but to stop the tongues wagging, Tysoe and Philadelphia appointed Warren Hastings as Eliza’s official godfather. This enabled Warren Hastings to settle a considerable sum on her as well as send her further sums throughout her life. When Eliza gave birth t
o a child of her own, she christened him Hastings in honour of his … of his godfather grandparent, I suppose.’
‘That’s an amazing story,’ Sarah said. ‘Do you think Henry Austen knew of this rumour?’
‘If he did, it did not worry him, nor apparently, was it any great concern to Tysoe Hancock.’
James said, ‘If the only evidence in support of the rumour is that Warren Hastings settled substantial sums of money on Eliza, then in legal terms, the case would fail. Warren Hastings has a reputation for extravagance and generosity. He gives large sums of money to many people. As far as is known, he didn’t sire them all, if any of them.’
‘Tell me about Eliza,’ Sarah said, wanting to steer the conversation to Jane Austen. ‘Presumably she knew Jane, Henry’s sister.’
‘More than just knew her. She became young Jane Austen’s mentor. She was at least ten years older than her cousin, well educated—she had been to a girls’ seminary in France and was, of course, bi-lingual—she adored the theatre and detected in Jane a budding writer.’
‘How?’
‘Eliza frequently visited Steventon when the family lived there. They were mad about amateur theatricals. The rector even allowed Henry and his brother James to turn one of the barns into a small theatre. The whole family, with some local friends, put on plays. James often wrote prologues or epilogues for them. Apparently, Jane, even as a child—she would have been about fourteen—wrote little plays, parodies of the kinds of plays she had seen, or they put on. Burlesques, I suppose. She also wrote what she called novels, but they were really just absurd plot outlines. Short satires. She was very precocious and grown-up for her age, but critical of the way adults behaved, especially the socially ambitious and pretentious middle class. Eliza encouraged her to write, and when Jane visited them in London, Eliza took her to the theatre and generally became her mentor.’
‘And taught her the necessary social skills, no doubt,’ Sarah said.
‘Not at all. Jane had no idea how to behave in a socially acceptable way.’ Tilson gave the impression of being adamant on this topic. ‘She either remained aloof and silent or spoke out when it would have been better if she had kept her opinions to herself. She had an acid tongue, and her wit, though clever enough, was usually scathing and hurtful. She seemed to take pride and pleasure in putting people down. When she had selected her target, she was merciless. Not a pleasant characteristic in a young woman.’
‘Did Eliza encourage this?’ Sarah asked, a little incredulously.
‘In my presence, she did not encourage it, but she certainly made no attempt to put a stop to it.’
‘I assume you did not like Jane?’ James said.
‘My wife, Frances, detested her. If it were not for our pleasure in Eliza’s company, we would have absented ourselves when Jane came to visit.’
‘Was that often?’
‘Several times a year, usually. I was amazed at the amount of time, not to say money, that the family spent in travelling. Jane’s excuse for her visits to London was that she had to read the proofs of her novels. She would shut herself away in Henry’s lodgings for days at a time. She was very dedicated to her writing and was always complaining about her publisher.’
‘Because?’ James said.
‘Oh, she thought they did not pay her well, or they were too slow bringing her books out. Henry sold the copyright in her first book for ten pounds and the publisher never got around to publishing it.’
Sarah said, ‘She had good cause to complain. That’s disgraceful.’
‘Henry felt awfully bad about it. He thought he’d let her down. He made up for his mistake by accepting responsibility for the costs of publication of Sense and Sensibility which Egerton published on commission. Fortunately, the book made a profit. Jane now had evidence that it would not be impossible for her to become financially independent of her family. From then, books seemed to pour from her.’
‘Was work on her proofs all she did when she came to London?’ Sarah asked.
‘No, no. While Eliza was alive, they went everywhere together, especially to the theatre. Henry, of course, was keen on the theatre. He should have been an actor not a banker. Had Eliza not had a substantial income from Warren Hastings’ various gifts, she would probably have gone on the stage.’
‘And soon found a protector, no doubt,’ James observed.
Tilson nodded. ‘Quite possibly. She had all the skills of a courtesan, I’m sure. But nothing about Eliza is straight-forward. Henry confided in me that he was not her first choice as a husband. She had turned him down twice. She was after his brother, James, but he wasn’t interested.’
‘Do you think,’ Sarah said, wanting to bring the conversation back to Jane again, ‘that Eliza helped Jane with her writing?’
‘She certainly encouraged it, but more than that, I have no knowledge. I rather doubt if Jane needed any encouragement. She gave the impression of being wholly dedicated to it. Nothing else was of any importance.’
‘No interest in marriage?’
‘None whatsoever. I think she might have been something of a flirt when she was younger, but by the time I came to know her, she showed no interest in men. Quite simply, she lived for her work. She considered it to be her profession.’
‘That’s all very interesting,’ Sarah said. ‘Certainly, towards the end of her life she must have spent hours every day on her writing. Her six novels were published within six years.’
‘You mentioned that she travelled a great deal to visit relatives. Do you know to which relative she visited most often?’ James asked.
‘I can’t be sure, but I think it was to another brother, Edward. Jane had six brothers, you know, not five as some members of the family insist. Her father’s second son, George, was born with an impediment. He was fostered out as a baby and is never spoken of. Edward lives at Godmersham Hall in Kent. But he has ceased to be an ordinary Austen. He now calls himself Austen Knight.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘As a child, he was favoured by his father’s relatives, Thomas Knight and his wife, Elizabeth. I know little about them except that they were very wealthy but childless, so they took a fancy to the boy when he was twelve. Thomas Knight made Edward his beneficiary, and when Elizabeth Knight died in 1812, she requested in her will that Edward adopt the surname Knight.’
‘Did Jane travel alone to Godmersham Hall?’
‘I think occasionally with her mother, but usually with her sister, Cassandra. They made a strange pair. They were obviously devoted to one another, but Cassandra was totally different in character and personality. She never said anything to anyone that could give offence. It was almost as if she were trying to make up for her sister’s inappropriate behaviour by being especially pleasant to everyone. She was very much the clergyman’s daughter and, I am sure, very devout. Pious even and probably a little narrow-minded, even bigoted. I know she disapproved strongly of Eliza and of her influence on Jane.’
‘But Eliza was the star in the Austen firmament,’ James said.
‘Very much so. But many in the family did not approve of her. She was an extraordinary woman. A bit rackety and a terrible flirt, but, I think, harmless. Though she had very unorthodox views about marriage—she didn’t believe in it.’
‘But she married twice nevertheless,’ Sarah said.
‘That’s true. You asked just now if Eliza had any role in Jane’s writing. Perhaps she did. There’s a long passage in one of her books that my wife read to me. I can’t remember which one. It was a diatribe against marriage. It could be Eliza talking. I always thought, though, that she and Henry were happy together. They enjoyed the same things, the same kind of life. I have to admit, though, that Henry is a little strange. He’s also a bit of a cold fish. You only realise it when you get to know him well. He is always charming and good company, but he is one of those people who does not have a fixed personality. They take on the colouring, so to speak, of the environment in which they happen to be.�
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‘Like so many actors I know.’ Sarah laughed. ‘I sometimes wonder who they really are when they are not playing a part. Perhaps they are no one. Sans character. Sans personality.’
‘I am sure Henry will perform the role of a country parson very effectively,’ James Tilson said. His change in tone revealed a deep-rooted bitterness. ‘He convinced so many investors that he was a competent and reliable banker. No doubt he will be able to convince his parishioners that he is a devout man of God.’
‘Did Jane have friends in London who could be willing to talk about her?’ Sarah asked.
‘None that I know of. Acquaintances, no more. She was a complex and, I believe, far from happy woman. She expected instant success as an author, but she died before she really achieved it. She remained dependent on her family for money and resented this. She became an author, I believe, because authorship is one of the few ways that an educated woman can earn a living. The choice of occupation for a middle-class woman who does not wish to marry or cannot attract a suitable husband is really limited to becoming a governess or a teacher of some kind. It is not a happy state in which to be.’
‘In the brief biography that Henry published together with Northanger Abbey and Persuasion,’ Sarah said, ‘Henry wrote that Jane had no interest in fame or fortune, and that she even insisted on being an anonymous author of the four titles published in her lifetime.’
‘That statement amazes me. I cannot explain it. I can assume only that Henry has his reason for making it.’ Mr Tilson took his watch out of his pocket, glanced at the time and returned the watch to his pocket. ‘It has been a great pleasure meeting you. I must now leave you as I have an appointment.’ He stood.
