by Ken Methold
‘Plenty. I’ll need a couple of days on it, no more.’ She put away her pencils and prepared to leave. ‘Where do we go to now?’
‘I need to discuss possibilities with you.’
While on their way back to Canterbury, Sarah summarised what she had learned from Fanny Austen. She concluded by saying, ‘As a result of today, we have two more people to see, both of whom should be very interesting. Harris Bigg-Wither at Manydown might have a few things to say about the way Jane jilted him. It would have been embarrassing for him if nothing else. As for Anne Sharp, she could turn out to be by far the most useful source of information. If she is prepared to tell us everything she knows about Jane—and we can be sure she knows a great deal—it would put everything else we’ve been told in perspective. Apparently, she became Jane’s closest friend. She will want Jane’s side of the story to be told.’
‘You said she lives somewhere in Yorkshire.’
‘As far as I know she works for a Lady Pilkington as governess for her four daughters. The address I have is Chevet Park, near Wakefield in Yorkshire. I don’t know how near Wakefield is to York. It could be miles away.’
She paused and took hold of Elizabeth’s arm with her free hand. ‘My dear, if we go north, it will be at least two days’ journey each way. We could need two days with Anne Sharp. And it might turn out to be for nothing of much value. I’m wondering if it might be a good idea to write to her first and then invite her to come to us in Basingstoke. The magazine will pay her expenses and a fee for her time and contribution to the article.’
‘We have nothing to lose by asking. She might even welcome a holiday if she’s working as a governess and is entitled to time off.’
‘Then that’s what I’ll do,’ Sarah said.
Elizabeth replied, ‘So that’s the two extra people we need to see.’
‘Are you sure you can spare more time?’
‘Of course I can. This whole business is a wonderful adventure for me. And you need a companion.’
‘I don’t know about a companion, but I need you, my dear,’ Sarah said lightly. She cracked the whip above the horse’s head and it promptly broke into a trot.
They remained silent for a while and sat comfortably in the gig enjoying the day and the countryside.
Eventually, Sarah said, ‘You know, my love, I feel that I’m going to get a lot more than just an article on Jane Austen out of it. Somewhere among all this information about her life, there is a play waiting to be extracted, not necessarily about her, but about the life of a woman writer at the turn of the century. It would need to be somewhat Shakespearean in style, I think. Lots of characters in short scenes with a subplot of some kind to provide comic relief.’
‘That sounds fascinating.’
Sarah continued pensively, ‘It would be a challenge, but if I could get a popular actress to play the lead, I’m sure Drury Lane would put it on. No one expects long runs these days. Audiences want variety and short seasons. Most new plays are given only a few performances. If the staging isn’t too expensive and the management can get the right actress for the lead, they will take a risk with it. And if my new play is a success, I’ll be in a stronger position when actors like Mr Kean throw a tantrum. Drury Lane seats over three thousand. A full house, even for a couple of nights, is worth a small fortune to a playwright. If the play ran for as many as three nights, I will receive the profits from the final performance.’
‘Then, dearest, we should do everything we can to help you write a wonderful play.’
‘Then I’ll write to Anne Sharp as soon as we get to Canterbury. I’ll give the circulating library in Basingstoke as our address and make that town our base. On our list to see, then, are Mary Austen, who “wants to put the record straight”, at Steventon; Cassandra, the sister, at Chawton, although she’s likely to be uncommunicative or very protective of Jane’s reputation, so I should leave her to last; and the sailor, Frank Austen at Portsmouth. Are you happy with that?’
‘Completely,’ Elizabeth replied.
‘Then it’s decided. We could go from Canterbury to Portsmouth, but if we try to go direct, it will be a miserable cross-country journey and will take for ever. I suppose we could go from here to Folkestone and get a sea passage to Portsmouth, but that might easier said than done. A better plan, I think is to return to London, pack everything we are likely to need for at least a week in Basingstoke, then take a fast service direct to Portsmouth—a morning’s journey. Then we’ll see Francis Austen if we can, and then go from there to Basingstoke, another short and easy journey. Within a day or two, perhaps longer, we should receive a reply from Anne Sharp. In any case, we’ll need several days in Basingstoke to visit Steventon, Chawton and Manydown. Are you happy with all that?’
‘Of course, dearest. There’ll be plenty for me to draw and paint.’
‘That’s what I hoped you would say. When we finally get back to London, you can decide which of your drawings to have engraved and used as illustrations for my article.’
Chapter-19
Post-Captain Francis Austen, RN had very little to say to Sarah when she visited him at his Portsmouth lodging. What he did say, however, confirmed her suspicion of the veracity of the statements in Henry Austen’s memorial to his sister.
He welcomed Sarah gruffly, but courteously, very much the no-nonsense naval officer. He expressed his pleasure that she was taking so much trouble to learn of the realities of his sister’s life before publishing anything about her.
‘She was a determined and ambitious woman,’ he said. ‘Very talented. She deserves the recognition she craved. Writing as much as she did was not easy for her. She had household duties and was often unwell. But she persisted, snatching a half hour here and a half hour there. She rarely had more than an hour a day to spend on her novels.’
When Sarah quoted what Henry Austen had written about her attitude to her work, the Captain scoffed loudly. ‘What rubbish!’ he exclaimed. ‘What the devil was the man thinking? He must have been ill when he wrote that nonsense about her.’
‘You are quite sure he was mistaken? He was very involved in assisting Jane to sell her books.’
‘My dear woman, I have letters from Jane totally contradicting him. Out of the horse’s mouth so to speak. She desperately wanted praise for her writing and to make as much money as she could from it. And as for not wanting her name to be associated with the books, she wrote to me before the publication of Emma saying she was tired of lying about her authorship—all the family and friends knew she was the author of the first three books anyway so what was the point? She intended putting her name to Emma.’
‘But she didn’t.’
‘Apparently not. I can’t explain it. You will have to ask Henry or Cassandra. My sisters were as thick as thieves.’
Sarah said, ‘If Mr Henry Austen can be so wrong about Jane’s attitude to her work or the income she enjoyed from it, I suppose it is possible that there are other statements in the memorial that are less than completely correct.’
‘I’ve never read it, so I cannot say.’ Frank Austen took out his pipe and began to fill it with tobacco, first asking for Sarah’s permission. Abrupt and outspoken though he was, his manners were impeccable.
Changing the subject, Sarah asked, ‘Have you any views, sir, on why Jane withdrew from the engagement to Mr Bigg-Wither?’
Frank Austen roared with laughter. ‘You’ll know if you meet him. Harmless fellow, but no girl’s knight in shining armour. Plenty of money though. Manydown is a splendid property.’ He puffed contentedly for a few moments, then queried, ‘Are you a single woman, Miss Kedron?’
‘Yes.’
‘And have no doubt been offered marriage by many handsome men of good family and adequate fortune.’
Sarah smiled. ‘A few.’
‘But you have declined them all. Why?’
‘I value my independence more than anything,’ she said. ‘I make my own living as a writer for the theatre. If I marry, as
the law stands, I lose control of everything I own, including the copyrights in my plays. My husband, if I had one, would be able to prevent me from publishing my work, and could insist on censoring everything I wrote that he did not like or with which he did not agree.’
‘There is the answer to your question. Jane also valued her independence. Her life until recently was a constant struggle to make ends meet. The temptation to marry and at least solve her financial problems must have been great. It is well that you, and not a man, are writing an account of my sister’s life. You will be able to get under her skin as no man possibly could.’
He stood. ‘Now, madam, I must ask you to excuse me. I have an appointment I must keep. And I am always on time. It has been a pleasure meeting you, and I wish you success with your critical and dramatic endeavours.’
Sarah stood and offered her hand. ‘And I, sir, am most obliged to you. You have given me a great deal to think about. Your sister’s reputation is in good hands; I promise you.’ However, she wished he had had more time to spare. She believed him to be a straight-forward man, who had been an affectionate and understanding brother to Jane, but the interview was over. Captain Francis Austen escorted Sarah to the door.
The meeting had been brief but enlightening, and well worth the journey, but the return to Basingstoke would have to wait until the morrow since it was now too late in the day to take a coach.
Overnight, Sarah had to decide whether the next meeting should be with Cassandra Austen or the Reverend James’ wife, Mary. She was very aware of how important it was at this stage of the investigation not to make a mistake. She suspected that the Austen close family network was as efficient as any governments’ spy network. Every question she asked and every answer given would be widely and promptly reported.
Chapter-20
They arrived in London from Portsmouth in the early evening. After spending the night at their respective homes, they departed for Basingstoke immediately after breakfast the next morning. As soon as they had settled in the coach, Sarah said, ‘I suggest we stay in Basingstoke for as long as it serves our needs. We may be able to get a larger room at that pleasant hotel we stayed at last time. I feel guilty that I have rushed your painting and sketching, my dear. Let’s make this a time for you, and I’ll fit in around what you want to do. We can go for picnics if the weather is fine. Take our time riding around the district, getting to know it, the feel of it.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ Elizabeth told her. ‘I’ve been very content following you around, and I’ve done some work.’
Sarah smiled. ‘I would like you to do more. The Basingstoke district is Jane Austen country. Steventon, where she spent the first twenty or so years of her life, is just an hour’s ride away and so is Chawton where she spent most of her last years. Manydown, where she almost became the mistress, is only about three miles away at Wootton St Lawrence. I would love to have a series of your drawings of all these houses and gardens to illustrate the article.’
‘Then I shall consider this a commission,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘I can think of nothing I would rather do.’
‘Then that’s agreed,’ Sarah replied. ‘You are now the official illustrator for my article! I will have my father put you on the payroll. We’ve been constantly on the move for almost a fortnight. And I’m still being selfish. I may need several days in one place so that I can sort all the notes and jottings I’ve made. And we have to include time for Anne Sharp in our plans; that is, if she comes.’
Elizabeth happily agreed. ‘Then I think it’s a lovely idea. Thank you, dearest. You’re very thoughtful.’
‘That’s settled then. As soon as we arrive in Basingstoke, I will write to Mary Austen at Steventon asking for a time to visit her. We know she wants to talk. She’s told us so. I will also write to Harris Bigg-Wither at Manydown. He may agree to see us out of curiosity. And we’ll try to see Cassandra Austen at Chawton, but it might be difficult to persuade her to talk to us. We know that Henry, who was closer to Jane than anyone in the family except Cassandra, has written a seriously misleading piece about her, for whatever reason we may never discover. But if he and Cassandra are in this piece of deception together, then she is unlikely to welcome us.’
Their journey to Basingstoke was fast and comfortable on turnpikes all the way. At the White Hart Inn, they secured a larger room, which was spacious enough to use as a bed-sitting room. Had it not been, Sarah had intended finding a suitable lodging elsewhere in the town.
While Sarah spent the rest of that day writing letters, Elizabeth shopped in the town for the things they would likely need. She also borrowed a few novels from the circulating library.
Harris Bigg-Wither replied promptly to Sarah’s letter with an invitation to afternoon tea at Manydown. Sarah’s problem would be how to approach the all-important subject of his proposal of marriage, Jane’s acceptance and then her withdrawal less than twenty-four hours later. At the very least, Sarah thought, the man would feel embarrassed, even humiliated, and possibly still very angry. His proposal had been made in 1802 while the Austen’s were living in Bath and were just visiting Manydown. Sarah decided that she would adjust her approach to the subject of the proposal according to the kind of man Bigg-Wither was.
Much to her relief, he turned out to be the kind of man she hoped he would be. Jovial, courteous, very much the Lord of the Manor which he had become a few years before, leading a country squire’s life full of hunting, shooting and fishing with all the usual rural pursuits and social occasions. He himself broached the subject of his proposal as soon as the maid had cleared away the tea things.
He had a bad stammer, but he managed to circumvent it by using different words and phrases. ‘The place where I live’ became ‘my home’ or ‘here.’
‘You will want to know about my pro … posal of m … marriage to Jane,’ he said, leaning forward confidentially. ‘As far as I know, mine was the only one she ever had, so I sup … pose it is im … portant.’
‘If it is not insensitive of me to ask,’ Sarah said.
‘Not really. I was annoyed at the time, and Jane, Cas … sandra and their mother, left in a hurry in some con … fusion after Jane told them what she’d done. Mrs Austen was furious with Jane. Mind you, that would have been nothing new. They did not get on. Cas … sandra was Mrs Austen’s favourite and Jane knew this. Not unnaturally, she resented it.’
Bigg-Wither now settled back in his high-backed armchair, prepared and perfectly willing to tell his story. Sarah thought it was one he often told, probably to anyone who would listen.
‘You have to understand,’ he said, continuing to stammer in places, ‘the Austen family’s situation at the time. The Reverend George Austen had retired, given up his living at Steventon to his son, James, and moved to lodgings in Bath. It was a foolish move and unnecessary. He could have stayed on at Steventon until he became too ill to attend to his duties. I heard, I think from Mary Austen, that when the Reverend Austen suddenly announced to the family that he had decided to retire and hand over the Steventon living to his son, James, Jane fainted with a cry and fell to the floor. Ha! She had to be brought round with Mrs Austen’s smel … ling salts. Those salts received a lot of use with her, believe me. Jane just adored Steventon. She’d known no other home. As it was, the family left for Ba … Bath with little income. They even had to sell the rector’s library. That would have hurt Jane. There’s no doubt that in a word, they were poor. Jane had been writing steadily for several years and had written several short stories and three novels. As far as I know, about three years before they left Steventon, her father offered one of Jane’s novels to Mr Cadell, the pub … lisher, but he rejected the work sight unseen. After the move to Bath, her brother Henry offered another of her novels to Benjamin Crosby. He bought the copyright but never published it. Jane was devastated. You see, she had believed that her work would be published without difficulty, and that it would be well-received and earn hundreds of pounds. The family’s difficultie
s would be over thanks to her ability and hard work. As it was, she had achieved nothing. Not only was the family still poor, but worse, she was dependent on them. And now, with her confidence shattered, she was finding it very difficult to write anything.’
‘And Jane told you all this?’ Sarah said.
‘I learned it through our mutual acquaintances. I was just twenty when I offered m … m … well, Jane was five years older, but we had known each other throughout my childhood. From her family’s point of view, Jane needed a husband like me whose inheritance would provide not only for her, but for them, and I was very fond of Jane. I believed she would have made an excellent wife for me.’
‘Did she want children?’
‘I never asked, but I do not think so. That did not matter. I have an abundance of nephews to carry on the family name.’
‘You are suggesting,’ Sarah said, ‘that you offered marriage out of friendship and kindness for her and charity for her family.’
‘To a large extent, yes. The Knights provided the living at Steventon, and Jane’s brothers, James and Edward, had benefitted. I thought I could do the same for Jane.’
‘And she realised that.’
Big-Wither replied, ‘Oh, yes. And at the time, she thought it was her duty to her family to accept my prop … osal. Her mother liked to talk about her aristocratic connections, and marriage into the Bigg-Wither family would be have been very satisfactory. The Bigg-Wither estate is over four hundred years old.’
‘But during the night, Jane changed her mind.’
‘Yes. I don’t think she slept at all, and she faced painful recriminations when she told her mother. Her explanation would not have been acceptable to Mrs Austen. Jane told me that she had promised herself from a very early age that if she married, it would be for love, not for money or social position. She soon realised that if she married me, she would be breaking that solemn promise to herself. I was hurt and somewhat dissap … pointed, but understood her situation. We would never have been happy. I was impetuous to prop … ose, and she meant well by accepting me but realised how unwise it would be. I am grateful to her for her courage and honesty. Two years later, I married, and now have an abund … ance of children to carry on the name.’
