They followed the path on to another walled garden with a cross in the center inscribed, “Sacred to the memory of the sons and daughters of Kent who died in the Great War 1919.” By mutual consent, they walked to the far side and sat on a bench against the wall.
Was it then Elizabeth first had the sense of being followed? Even now she shivered at the memory. Or was it earlier, walking around the ruined walls? Surely it had been her imagination. The setting couldn’t have been more peaceful. They had the grounds entirely to themselves. And yet the feeling persisted.
She hadn’t mentioned it to Richard, not wanting to disturb him. They sat on in the quiet; the evening turning to night around them. When they moved on, they emerged from the garden in the dark just as the cathedral lights came on. It was a moment she would never forget as before Elizabeth’s very eyes, the entire cathedral came alive, blazing a glorious gold, every architectural detail highlighted by dozens of floodlights. The radiance held her in its grip. Until a shadow to her left moved.
From her memories of the velvety black night filled with its incandescent image and lurking shadows, Elizabeth returned to the present. The rural beauty of the narrow country road thickly bordered with green sped by outside her window. Arthur turned onto a private gravel drive, green fields dotted with trees on both sides, just as it must have been when the chaise brought Aunt Jane for one of her visits, and they arrived at Godmersham.
Ahead, on their right, horses and sheep grazed beneath a magnificent oak tree in a pasture that swept to a rolling hill on the horizon. To the left, the stately redbrick Georgian mansion built by the Knight family and inherited by Edward Austen Knight. They crossed a bridge spanning a small, placid river which Arthur identified as the Stour. Willows dripped their delicate branches into the smooth surface and a swan glided by. A short distance on, Arthur stopped in front of a dovecote standing beside a tidy redbrick house with roses climbing over its front. “I think this is the estate manager’s cottage. He said he’d meet us here. I rang him yesterday and explained about Muriel.”
The words were no more than finished when a man clad in khaki trousers and a blue shirt drove up in a Land Rover. “Hello, I’m Walter James.” He extended his hand. Arthur introduced his passengers and Walter suggested they follow him in their car, as he liked to start his tours with a surprise.
They drove behind the manager along a narrow track across a field and up a wooded hillside to a tiny folly temple nestled in the trees. Walter stood at the top of the steps on the colonnaded porch to welcome them. “I like to think of Jane coming here. She enjoyed strolling all over the park and she wrote to Cassandra about coming here. In one letter she said, ‘yesterday passed quite a la Godmersham: after dinner we visited the Temple Plantation, which to be sure is a Chevalier Bayard of a plantation.’ Which meant she thought it was the bees’ knees.”
He led on into the summerhouse where the visitors were greeted with a whimsical mural of Jane sitting by the window looking out over the sheep-dotted downs holding her quill pen in her hand. “Of course, Jane didn’t actually write up here—she used the large, comfortable library in the house.”
“Will we get to see it?” Elizabeth asked.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” Walter’s voice sounded apologetic. “The house is a college for opticians. I’m afraid it isn’t open to the public.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. What a disappointment after coming so far. “Oh, I had hoped . . .”
“That can’t be right!” Gerri’s voice held the commanding ring Elizabeth had grown used to hearing from Muriel, but not from her assistant. “Dr. Greystone specifically requested a tour of the house. I’m certain of that.”
Walter seemed rather taken aback by Gerri’s demand. “I apologize if there’s been a mistake.”
Gerri stood her ground. “Surely there’s no reason we can’t see it. The college isn’t even in term.”
“No, but we do have another group staying here.” He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do. Perhaps tomorrow?” He sounded uncertain.
“That will do very well.” Gerri obviously took the matter as settled.
Their guide turned to the back wall of the folly and opened the floor-to-ceiling paneled doors. Elizabeth gave a cry of delight. “Oh, what fun!” The doors opened onto a trompe l’oeil painting that gave the illusion that one could simply walk out into the woods, complete with a fat pheasant waiting beside the path.
As they turned to leave the temple through the real door, Walter pointed to the low ridge across the gently rolling, tree-bordered field. “That’s the North Downs Way. It was part of the way pilgrims followed in Chaucer’s time. Pilgrims walking to Canterbury would have had their first sight of the cathedral from there.”
They returned to their vehicles and their guide took them back down the hill, but before they reached the house, he turned and drove along a narrow road with a brick wall obscuring the park beside them. Walter stopped in front of a stone church with lancet windows and a square Norman tower. They walked under the lychgate and Elizabeth paused to survey the churchyard, dotted with graves, running down to the Stour. She couldn’t imagine a more peaceful setting for one’s final resting place.
Elizabeth took a deep breath of the fresh country air and entered the church porch with its simple wooden sign, “Jane Austen worshipped here.” Inside, the visitors were greeted with a profusion of pink roses and ivy decorating the font, looped in the branches of the colorful candelabra lining the aisle and winding the posts of the screen between the nave and chancel. “You’ve had a wedding,” Elizabeth said to Walter.
“Yes. Saturday. The bride grew up at Court Lodge Farm next door. Her family has lived here for generations. She teaches in a boys’ school in Oxfordshire now, but quite naturally wanted to be married in the church she grew up in.”
“So this is a living church?”
“Very much so. Our congregation is small, but we have regular services and activities for the local youth. There’s been a church here from at least the eleventh century. Of course, it was ‘improved’ in mid-Victorian times, so there’s little Jane would recognize here.”
They wandered down the blue-and-gold carpeted aisle, pausing to admire the memorial to Thomas and Catherine Knight who adopted Edward Austen, and then the large memorial to Edward and his wife, Elizabeth. Elizabeth died at the tragically young age of thirty-five after giving birth to their eleventh child.
Elizabeth swallowed. Strange, how events of so long ago could be so evocative of nearer losses: Richard’s first wife and child, their own unborn children . . . With a small shake of her head, she turned to admire the beautiful window behind the altar, likewise a memorial to Edward and the wife he grieved for the rest of his life.
When they emerged from the church, Elizabeth was surprised by the delightful ring of children’s voices floating across the wall from the park beyond. Walter smiled. “Choir from the school our bride teaches in. Their choirmaster was the groom, so they sang for the wedding. They’re staying in the house for a bit of a holiday.”
Elizabeth put the pieces together. “Oh, The Headington Independent School for Boys? They sang Evensong at the cathedral last night. They were wonderful.”
“Yes, they were grand at the wedding.” Their guide led across the gravel yard to a small brick building next to the church. “This is the old granary. It’s been turned into a Heritage Centre. Lots of local history, which, of course, means Austen history. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
A shout from beyond the wall across the road caught their attention. “My goodness, I hope they don’t tear the place up.” Gerri’s voice was sharp.
“Ah, no. A bit of high spirits, that’s all. They’re good lads,” Walter reassured her.
As they moved on into the small museum, the strained tone of Gerri’s voice rang in Elizabeth’s ears. Of course, Gerri was grieving the death of her good friend and mentor. Elizabeth hoped their continuing the tour didn’t seem callous. Elizabeth stepped aside and
let the others enter, then slipped an arm around Gerri’s shoulders when she came in behind the others. “Gerri, you must be missing Muriel. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Gerri looked startled at her quiet words, then shook her head.
“No. Silly question, I suppose. I just wanted you to know that if there is anything . . .”
“There isn’t.” Gerri stepped beyond her reach.
Feeling the bite of Gerri’s rebuff, Elizabeth stood for some time examining the wall with pictures and documents of The Austens at Godmersham, including several letters in Jane’s own hand. Elizabeth was especially interested in the history of the elegant house of which she so far had had only tantalizing glimpses. The printed history told that when Edward’s oldest son, also Edward, inherited the estate, he was firmly established in Chawton House and had no wish to move to Kent, so he sold Godmersham Park. A succession of owners had allowed the house to deteriorate, but it had been brought back to glowing life by new owners in the 1930s. Elizabeth was fascinated by an album showing photographs of the house as it had been in its heyday.
She was particularly interested in the picture of the library. Of course, the decor was nothing like Jane would have known it. Still, surely the fireplace, the walls lined with bookcases, the windows overlooking the park—the structure of the room must be the same. Elizabeth wished she could read the titles on the spines of the books. A note about the history of the house said that the library had contained more than 3000 volumes, including a vast collection on the life of Jane Austen. Where were they now? she wondered. Surely not still in the house. Would dispensing opticians study Jane Austen? She thought not.
She turned the pages back to the entrance hall with its black-and-white marble floor, porticoed doors and magnificent frieze above the fireplace—surely another room as Jane would have known it.
It was said that Godmersham served as Jane’s model for Mansfield Park. Elizabeth smiled, recalling Fanny’s longing for Mansfield when she was returned to her noisy, overcrowded home in Portsmouth. Elizabeth could almost quote the passage: At Mansfield, no sounds of contention, no raised voice, no abrupt bursts, no tread of violence, was ever heard; all proceeded in a regular course of cheerful orderliness. Yes, Elizabeth could just imagine so genteel an existence in the rooms pictured before her.
She turned the pages and mentally toured the elegant reception room, lounge, dining room, numerous bedrooms. She could only hope the budding dispensing opticians who lived and studied there during term time and the choristers of Headington Boys’ School currently holidaying there appreciated the rich heritage their walls had sheltered.
“Are you ready to move on to the park?” Their host interrupted her reverie.
“Yes, I think so. If the others are.” Elizabeth noticed that Arthur had already moved on outside, but Richard and Gerri had their heads bent over something from the book stall at the back.
She started to join them when Gerri jerked away from Richard. “If you’re so keen on it, why don’t you write the bloody paper? It was all Muriel’s idea anyway, and now there’s no point.” She charged out of the museum.
“Goodness, what did you say?” Elizabeth approached Richard.
He looked completely baffled. “Nothing. I just showed her this book. I thought it would be helpful for her thesis.”
Elizabeth took the slim red volume. Three Prayers and a Poem by Jane Austen. She flipped through the pages, admiring the charming line drawings. On the first page, a small bird before a garden door accompanied a line from one of the prayers Jane composed for her family’s use: “Bring us in safety to the beginning of another day . . .” And on the back, a figure that could easily be Jane kneeling at an open window. “May we now, and on each return of night, consider how the past day has been spent by us . . .”
“It’s lovely. You should buy it.” She handed it back to Richard.
“Yes, I will.” He was still staring at the door Gerri had stormed through. “You know, if she really isn’t going to carry on with the project . . .”
“I thought you were going to write about the completions of The Watsons.”
“Failing the ill-chosen ‘How I Found the Lost Austen Manuscript’?” His smile was sardonic. “Seriously, though, so few scholars today appreciate the importance of Jane’s Christian world view to her writing. Without her faith, she wouldn’t have had the clear-eyed understanding of human nature that is at the center of her genius.”
“Well, you’ve got your thesis statement. It’s a pity the library here isn’t still furnished. They had an extensive collection on Jane.” She started to tell him more about the library she saw pictured in the album, but their guide was holding the door open for them. Richard put the money for his book in the box provided and they moved on.
Walter locked the museum and handed them each a map of the grounds. “I’m afraid I need to leave you here.” He looked at his watch. “I have another group walking over from Chilham. I need to meet them at the end of the lane. Take all the time you want. You’ll want to walk up the Lime Tree Avenue to the temple.” He pointed to the line on the map leading from the lawn behind the house to a spot marked “temple.” “Edward Knight planted it. Well, actually, the lime trees he planted blew down in the great storm of 1987, but they replanted them.” His finger moved to an area closer to the house. “And then the gardens are all open.”
Elizabeth looked at the various arrows pointing to the rose garden, topiary, Italian garden, vegetable garden . . . “Just along the road here, you’ll see a blue door in the wall that will take you into the park. The family used it when walking to church. We call it Mr. Collins’ door.” Their guide smiled and gave a good-bye wave as he got into his vehicle.
Arthur appeared from around the side of the museum, beaming. “Just spoke to Claire. I was hoping she’d be able to join us. She’ll be coming along with Paul and Beth.” He returned his mobile phone to his pocket. “They should be here soon.”
“Oh, that must be the group Walter went off to meet.” Elizabeth indicated the Land Rover heading toward the entrance to the estate.
She turned toward the park, but Arthur held back. “Ah, would you mind going on your own? I told Claire . . .”
Elizabeth grinned. “Of course. You should have gone with Walter.” Their Arthur was a sly one, she thought. There seemed to be more to his relationship with Claire than appeared on the surface. “Are you coming with us, Gerri?” she asked.
But Gerri had already started off in the opposite direction.
“Just us, then.” Richard smiled and held out his arm.
Elizabeth sighed. “Couldn’t have planned it better myself.”
When they slipped through the little blue door into the park, the sounds from the holidaying choir boys grew louder, but not in the least raucous. The sound of a bat striking a ball was followed with a round of applause and light voices on the summer air from the direction of the house. Here, at the back of the park the dense green of the trees overhead and the soft grass underfoot gave a lovely fresh coolness to everything.
It was only a few steps from the wall to the Lime Tree Avenue. Here the grass had been mown short for easy walking and the wide avenue bordered solidly on each side by stately trees invited strolling. “It’s no wonder Jane loved coming here,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, she reveled in the beauty and thoroughly enjoyed the luxuries,” Richard said. “I reread some of the references in her letters last night. Life at Chawton required a certain amount of economic care, but here she was free from such restraints. She wrote to Cassandra that she had ‘no occasion to think of the price of bread or of meat where I am now; let me shake off vulgar cares and conform to the happy indifference of East Kent wealth.’ And another time she said, ‘In another week I shall be at home, and there, my having been at Godmersham will seem like a dream. But in the meantime, for elegance and ease and luxury, I shall eat ice and drink French wine, and be above vulgar economy.’”
Elizabeth laughe
d. “‘Vulgar economy.’ How delightful it would be to live above that.” She walked on a bit, musing on Richard’s words and listening to the birds chirping in the trees over her head and the polite thwack of a ball and clapping beyond the park. “See, I always knew you were the better scholar. While you reread the letters, I just browsed Wikipedia on your laptop. It was interesting, though—it quoted a writer who said that the Hampshire Austens, quoted in Austen-Leigh’s Memoir, saw Jane as nature-loving, religious, domestic, and middle class while the Godmersharm Austens viewed her as more inward, passionate and gentrified—in other words, improved by contact with her fine relations.”
“That’s interesting.” Richard thought for a moment. “Yes, I think we all tend to see Jane through our own eyes. She was so universal a writer and focuses so much on human emotions that any reader can find what’s important to them in her writings.”
Their gentle downhill stroll soon brought them to a side path leading to a temple. This one was a small redbrick building with four Ionic columns across the porch. And here, the window at the back was not faux, but a portal looking out on dense verdure. At the front, the view from the porch swept down through the park, across the wide lawn dotted with cricketers, to the stately redbrick house.
A wood dove cooed and the breeze soughed in the pine trees surrounding the temple. Elizabeth felt she could stay there for hours, drinking it all in. She wanted to keep the moment forever. She pulled her camera from her pocket. That was the best she could do to preserve it.
Arm in arm, they strolled on through the park, following its intersecting paths at random, feeling sheltered in the more thickly wooded areas, then surprised and delighted when they came to a clearing and were presented with a distant vista. They had been wandering for perhaps an hour when Elizabeth realized it had been some time since she had heard sounds from the cricket match. She was just starting to comment on that when she stepped around a hedge and all but tripped over a small form lying on his stomach wriggling under a bush. “Oh! Hello. What a surprise.”
A Jane Austen Encounter Page 18
