by Ken Methold
In the previous century, it had been commonplace for successful merchants, industrialists and bankers—and even those at the top of the social tree—to invest in the slave ships carrying their human cargo from Africa to plantations in the West Indies and elsewhere. Although British slave-carrying ships no longer existed, the ownership of slaves was still legal in the colonies. Plantations were highly profitable as slaves costing a one-off payment of less than an English domestic servant’s annual wage worked them.
It occurred to Sarah that Godmersham Hall might have been the inspiration for Jane Austen’s novel Mansfield Park, in which she hinted that the Bertram family owed their wealth to slave labour on their estate in Antigua. She could not help wondering what other dark matters a careful reading of Austen’s novels might reveal. If there were such, then this was a possible explanation for Jane—or her family—not wanting their name to be associated with her books in case they were interpreted as a vehicle for expressing radical opinions. It had to be borne in mind that the family had close connections with the Anglican Church, a bastion of conservatism and middle-class morality. Jane’s father had been a rector, two of her brothers had taken holy orders, and she was buried in Winchester Cathedral.
‘I must draw this wonderful place,’ Elizabeth exclaimed.
‘Perhaps we could make a meeting with Edward Austen more likely by concentrating on the illustrations you will be providing for my article,’ Sarah said. ‘It might make him less suspicious of what I might write about Jane.’
‘I’m happy with that, dearest,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Let’s go in. I can’t wait to start.’
As Sarah turned the horse to face the house, a lodge-keeper, who had been awaiting developments, emerged from the lodge and swung open the huge gates. He touched his forelock in acknowledgment of Sarah’s smile, then closed the gates behind the gig as it proceeded up the drive to the house. By the time they reached the steps, their approach had been noticed inside the house and a footman waited to attend to them.
Both women, being fashionably dressed, were clearly of an acceptable class. They thought it would be assumed they were making a social call and would leave cards if no one of importance was at home to receive them. They were in luck, however. While a stable lad held the horse’s reins to keep the gig steady, a footman took their cards and immediately escorted them into a drawing room. Within a minute, the butler advised them that Mr Edward Austen Knight would receive them shortly.
‘It’s a good thing we know how to behave, Lizzy,’ Sarah whispered, ‘and that I have access to the Drury Lane wardrobe. If we’d been wearing our usual clothes, we would have been sent round the back.’
While waiting, they walked to the floor-to ceiling French windows and stared out at the park.
‘One family has all this,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It can’t be right. I mean, what have they done to deserve it?’
‘Perhaps we’ll find out,’ Sarah said, ‘though I doubt whether Mr Edward Austen Knight has contributed much. He’s a Johnny-come-lately to the Knight family wealth.’
A few moments later, Edward entered the room. He wore riding clothes and had presumably been inspecting his estate. He held their cards in his hand.
‘Which of you is the playwright and critic and which the artist?’ he asked with a smile. ‘I need to know to whom I need to ask the appropriate questions.’
‘I am the playwright and critic, Mr Austen. My father is the proprietor of The Monthly Inquirer.’
‘An interesting journal. I rarely agree with most of it, but no one can deny the quality of the writing.’ He indicated for the women to be seated. ‘How may I be of assistance to you? Or is this a social call to inform me that you have moved into the district?’
Sarah explained the purpose of their visit, stressing, as she and Elizabeth had agreed, the importance of the illustrations. Edward listened with genuine interest. He seemed an amiable man with a pleasant, open face and a warm smile. He lacked the good-looks of his brother, Henry, though he appeared to be a great deal healthier and considerably stouter. His manner and appearance spoke a lot of the county squire.
When Sarah had finished her explanation for their visit, he turned to Elizabeth and said, ‘Miss Stockton, you will be most welcome to make any drawings you wish of the house and park. As for details of my late sister’s life, Miss Kedron, I will ask my eldest daughter, Fanny, to do her best to answer your questions. She was her Aunt Jane’s favourite niece, and they wrote to each other frequently. Jane also visited from time to time, and we regularly visit Chawton where I have an estate. I will send Fanny to you. And now if you will excuse me, I must return to the task in which I was engaged before your arrival.’ He smiled, bowed and left the room.
‘I’ll start sketching,’ Elizabeth said, ‘and leave you to talk to Fanny.’
‘That’ll be perfect, Lizzy. And would you ask that servant if he would take the gig to the stable? We may be here some time, and the horse could do with a drink and might even get a rub down.’
Elizabeth nodded and left the room to fetch her pad and sketching pencil from the gig. Sarah adjusted her thoughts. Her approach to Fanny would depend on the girl’s age.
Chapter-17
Sarah did not have to wait long before Fanny arrived. However, Fanny Austen Knight was not a girl but a tall, slim woman in her mid-twenties with a rather hard and haughty expression. Sarah formed the impression that Fanny was self-confident and would be determined to take charge of the conversation. She did not offer Sarah her hand but invited her to resume her seat, clearly prepared to grant a few minutes of her time but not yet decided how to treat the visitor.
‘Papa tells me you wish to question me about my Aunt Jane,’ she said.
‘You were her favourite niece, apparently, Miss Knight,’ Sarah replied.
‘Austen Knight,’ Fanny said abruptly, then explained, ‘My father changed the family name at the request of his late benefactress, Mrs Elizabeth Knight, in her will.’ She smiled sweetly, but Sarah saw no warmth in it. ‘As for Aunt Jane, in one of her last letters, she described me as inimitable, irresistible and the delight of her life. Yes,’ she continued. ‘She gave me advice concerning my writing and often wrote to me.’
Sarah nodded. ‘And you to her, no doubt.’
‘Not as often. We led very different lives.’
‘In what way?’
‘I lead a very busy social life,’ Fanny replied. ‘Our position in Kent society is very different from the Austen’s in Hampshire. Since our mother died, I have been my father’s hostess.’ Having established her position, Fanny began to relax. ‘Aunt Jane was really like an elder sister to me. I was able to talk to her about many things.’ She managed another slight smile. ‘Among other subjects, she liked to give me advice about love and marriage.’
‘Was it good advice?’
‘It was always worth hearing. I found her conversation amusing and often thought-provoking. She was strongly opposed to marrying without love.’
‘Do you think that is why she never married?’
‘Possibly. You must understand, Miss Kedron, that her writing was the most important thing in her life. Something in her made her want to write about the lives of the kinds of people about whom she knew so much. She understood their fears and worries. So much of what she wrote is concerned with money, of course, and social position. The men wanted to marry women with money. The women wanted to marry men with money, preferably from a good family. Marriages for love may be the ideal, but they are not what most marriages are, and she was very aware of this.’
Sarah smiled. ‘And she waited for love. Money was not important.’
‘It was very important, but she would not allow it to influence her attitude to marriage. She had no money of her own and no wealthy father to provide a dowry to take to a marriage. She was accustomed to having very little. Once she told me that when her father, the Reverend Austen, was alive and they lived at Steventon, her dress allowance was twenty pounds each year. Ju
st twenty pounds. How could she have managed? Writing paper is also expensive, you know, and that is where she spent her money. That, with a few books and travel. She was an inveterate traveller and frequently visited relatives and family friends. She needed to meet people, I suppose, to get ideas for her books.’
‘That’s very understandable,’ Sarah said. ‘And I suppose some of the people she met she put in her books.’
‘She liked to deny that she did, but I believe she did it quite often. Some of her characters could be our mutual acquaintances.’
‘Did she have many friends?’
‘No, on the contrary,’ Fanny replied. ‘Aunt Jane had very few friends. I would describe the people she mostly associated with as mere acquaintances or family. Certainly, no close men friends. Although I do not think she disliked men as such, but from a man’s point of view, she was not an especially attractive woman. She dressed very drably in clothes more suited for an older woman, and she had a wicked tongue. I have witnessed her reducing a man to a speechless, blushing fool with a retort to something he said that annoyed her. She would not have been easy to live with.’
‘Did she ever have a proposal of marriage?’
‘I know of one from Mr Harris Bigg-Wither, but this was many years ago. He and his sisters were neighbours. They have a charming house, Manydown Hall, which is not far from Steventon. They often visited the Austens, and the Austens visited them. Apparently, when Aunt Jane was about twenty-six or twenty-seven, a somewhat younger Mr Bigg-Wither proposed during one of these visits. Anyway, she accepted him, then in the morning told him she’d changed her mind.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Oh, I was just a child, but I can guess. Harris Bigg-Wither had a bad stutter and was not very clever. He came down from Oxford without a degree.’
‘Did you ever meet him?’ Sarah asked.
‘Oh yes, during one of our visits to Steventon. I think Aunt Jane was rather selfish in turning him down. As his wife—he inherited the Manydown estate—she would have been able to ensure that her sister and mother had no financial worries. And Manydown Hall is a lovely little place. Quite idyllic.’
‘But she realised that she did not love him enough.’
‘One has to think of one’s family, Miss Kedron. Aunt Jane was kind to me, but she was very self-centred. There is another family rumour that she may have been attracted to a man she met when they were on holiday in the West Country. But nothing came of it.’
‘Do you know who it was?’
‘He is forever nameless. It was probably nothing. Just somebody she danced with more than once.’ Then, laughing rather scornfully, Fanny said, ‘She left me a lock of her hair and a bodkin in her will. I have no idea why she thought I would ever need a bodkin, so I gave it to my maid. I would have preferred nicely bound copies of her books.’
This wholly unnecessary and spiteful revelation made Sarah suspect that Fanny’s intention in being so frank about Jane and her family’s situation had an ulterior motive. It appeared a deliberate decision to distance herself, a Knight, from the Austens, the poor relations.
‘Did she often visit here?’ Sarah asked.
‘Not so often. I think she felt out of place here. Her closest friend was our governess, Miss Anne Sharp. Whenever Aunt Jane visited, she spent most of her time with Miss Sharp. They had a lot in common and went on long walks together. Jane felt at ease with her, I suppose.’
‘In what way?’
‘If she couldn’t make a living from her writing, I think Aunt Jane expected that she would probably end up as a governess like Miss Sharp. She felt sorry for her and sympathised with her situation.’ A memory flashed into Fanny’s mind. ‘We had a hairdresser who came to do our hair. He was told to charge Aunt Jane less. Instead of being grateful that we understood her situation, she felt … oh, I don’t know … insulted, perhaps. She was … What is the word? Touchy. Quick to take offence. Very different from her sister, Aunt Cassandra.’
Sarah wondered why the Knights risked hurting Jane’s feelings by persuading the hairdresser to charge less for attending to her. The extra expenditure for them would have been as nothing.
‘Did your Aunt Cassandra often visit?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yes. When Mama died after giving birth to her last baby, there were eleven of us to look after. Aunt Cassandra came to live here for almost a year to help Papa with the family. There were nurses and governesses, of course, but they were not family.’
‘Your Aunt Jane didn’t come?’
Fanny replied, ‘She wasn’t really very interested in young children. And my mother had not liked her very much. It was Aunt Cassandra and Uncle Henry whom she always made welcome. Uncle Henry was always very charming and amusing. Aunt Cassandra went out of the way to be helpful. She is a saint. My mother was very fond of them both. And so was Papa, of course. He liked to shoot with Uncle Henry. He had been a captain in the militia.’
‘And your Uncle Henry’s wife, the Countess?’
‘My mother did not want her in the house. She thought she would be a bad influence on me and on my sisters. She expected us to call her Countess, but never behaved like one. Her behaviour was outrageous, and the things she said are unrepeatable. At any social event she made a beeline for the most handsome or wealthiest man in the room. She was an unashamed flirt. I appreciate she has been dead at least five years, but she was a great embarrassment to Mama and Papa, and she wasn’t even a real countess. It was a worthless title awarded to her former husband.’
‘Your Aunt Jane liked her, though, didn’t she?’
‘I think she was probably responsible for Aunt Jane’s lack of good manners and many of her opinions,’ Fanny replied. ‘She was mad about the theatre, of course, and loved to act. She would have been at home among the theatricals. Whenever Aunt Jane visited London, she always took her to Drury Lane and the Lyceum. And she encouraged her to write. Aunt Jane told me that her first novel was largely inspired by Eliza. She was rather common, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh? Sense and Sensibility?’ This made no sense to Sarah. None of the characters in the novel was anything like what she had heard about the Countess Eliza de Feuillide.
‘No. It was never published. I think Aunt Cassandra forbad her even to offer it to a publisher.’ She laughed. ‘Perhaps Aunt Eliza and Aunt Jane wrote it together. Just for fun, you know.’
‘Do you know the title?’
‘I don’t think it has one. Anyway, Aunt Cassandra probably destroyed it when she inherited all of Aunt Jane’s papers and the drafts of her unfinished books.’
It occurred to Sarah that if another hand had been involved in writing Pride and Prejudice, the countess was the likely culprit.
‘Aunt Jane would never have done anything to which Aunt Cassandra objected. Those two adored one another, but Aunt Cassandra was three years older, of course, and she had a small independence bequeathed to her from her fiancé.’
‘Her fiancé,’ Sarah queried. ‘But Cassandra never married.’
‘Her fiancé died of fever in Antigua. She dedicated herself to his memory and decided to remain a spinster.’
‘Another reason, perhaps, why your Aunt Jane never married,’ Sarah said. ‘Being so close to her sister, she probably thought that if she did marry, her sister would be hurt. Her marriage might come between them. That says something positive about your Aunt Jane’s sensibility and concern for another person’s feelings.’
‘I never thought of that. You could be right.’ As though suddenly realising that she had said more than she intended, Fanny stood and said, ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I hope your article will do justice to my aunt. Despite her faults, I think she meant well, especially to me.’
Sarah rose from her seat and, while proffering her hand, said, ‘I am greatly obliged to you Miss Knight. You have been exceedingly generous with your time. I am a great admirer of your Aunt Jane’s works. I believe her reputation will increase as time passes. Be assured, I shall do her
justice in my article. I have one more favour to ask. Do you have an address for Miss Anne Sharp?’
‘I don’t but I expect Papa has. I’ll send someone down with it if he has.’
She touched Sarah’s hand and then glided gracefully out of the room. Sarah felt glad the interview was over. She had not liked Fanny, whom she thought arrogant and cold-hearted, even malicious. She thought she probably took after her father, a man who, it seemed, had made his wife risk death every year for eleven years with her eleven—or even more—pregnancies. The high mortality risk was well known and great, even for the wealthy and educated. If this was married love, Sarah thought, not for the first time, she wanted none of it.
A footman entered and escorted her to the front door where the gig would be brought to without delay. She spotted Elizabeth with her sketchbook in hand, seated on a little stool in the shade of a tree about a hundred yards away. As she strolled towards her, a maid caught up with her and handed her a slip of paper with Anne Sharp’s address on it. She could be reached at Chevet Park, near Wakefield, Yorkshire.
Chapter-18
As Sarah approached, Elizabeth looked up from her work. ‘Useful?’ she asked.
‘Very. Strange and surprisingly revealing.’
Sarah put a hand lightly on her friend’s shoulder and, looking over it, studied her drawing. The rough sketch of the house showed its outline and proportions, and Elizabeth had made thumbnail drawings of some details as though the work was more of an aide-mémoire than a finished drawing.
‘Do you have enough information for an illustration?’
