by Syrie James
“You always jest, Jane. This is a serious matter. Plenty of women past the age of thirty have found happiness with a nice, eligible widower. What about Mr. Lutterell? He has a fine house, a good income, and he is very kind.”
“He is an imbecile, and fat, and twice my age.”
“Poor women do not have the luxury of choice, my dear.”
“Choice is all we do have, mamma,” said I emphatically. “If I ever marry, it will be for love. Deep, true, passionate love, built on respect, esteem, friendship, and a meeting of the minds. Never, never for economic security.” I then made my way from my mother’s chambers, my emotions battling between righteous indignation and despondency.
The next morning, I was walking out in the garden, delighting in the fresh air and the warmth of the sun which dared to peek at intervals from behind the clouds, when I caught sight of Henry hurrying down the gravel walk to join me.
“Good morning!” cried Henry. “Is not it a beautiful day?”
“It is indeed. Look at our roses blooming so nicely. And do you see what we have planted there, under the terrace wall?”
“Some sort of shrubs?”
“Currants! And gooseberry bushes and raspberries. And what do you think of our new syringas?” I pointed out the two small, newly planted trees. “I had our man put these in by special request. I could not do without a syringa, you know, for the sake of Cowper’s line.”
“Ah! Yes. The Winter Walk at Noon. Laburnum rich—” he began, and I finished with him:
“—in streaming gold; syringa, iv’ry pure.”
“You are such a romantic, Jane.”
“And you are not? You, who married for deepest love, and are always gallivanting about the countryside, looking for adventure?”
Henry had married Eliza de Feuillide, our beautiful, stylish, widowed cousin, whose first husband, a French count, had been guillotined during the French Revolution. Although ten years his senior, Eliza was Henry’s match in lively temperament and disposition.
Henry stopped and turned to me. “Do I detect a melancholy note in that remark?”
“Do not be silly. Who can be melancholy, on a morning as glorious as this?”
“You can, I think.” Henry frowned and studied me a long moment with his bright hazel eyes, eyes that reminded me of our father, and matched my own. “Jane, you have been cooped up in this house too long. You require a change. What do you say? Would you like to come away with me tomorrow?”
“Thank you, Henry. But I am in no mood for the noise and confusion of London at present.”
“I was not thinking of London,” said Henry. “I was thinking of Lyme.”
Chapter Three
I had visited many seaside towns of the southern and westerly coasts with my mother and father during our years at Bath; Lyme, with its mild climate, delightful walks and beautiful scenery, had remained my favourite. We had returned there, with great pleasure, several times—but it had been a refuge then, from a city which I despised.
“Henry, I have no need to travel all the way to Lyme,” said I as I admired the gracefully waving branches of the trees in our back garden. “I have all the seaside walks and breezes I could want here.”
“Yes, but they are Southampton breezes. The sea-bathing here is nowhere near as good as at Lyme—I would not put my foot in Southampton water—and this is a town of some 8,000 people. Lyme is but a village.”
“You are forgetting the summer crowds.”
“Even so. I would suggest Brighton, but it is not within my budget at present, and I know how you love Lyme, Jane. It has been three years since our last visit; I have never seen you so happy any where else. I want to take you there and help you find your smile again, for it has been a great while since it has gone missing.”
I did love Lyme; all at once I could envision myself strolling beside its pretty little bay and out onto the Cobb, marvelling at the view of its bright, pebbly beaches, sparkling waves and majestic surrounding cliffs. Still, I shook my head. “Mary needs us now. Frank sets sail in a se’en night. We cannot leave her.”
“She will have mother and Cassandra and Martha.”
She would indeed, I thought. It was a highly tempting offer, and I realised, of a sudden, that I would dearly love to get away. “But how can I leave them all behind, for a holiday at Lyme? And what of Eliza? And your business? Can you be gone so long?”
“I was not thinking of a lengthy stay; a week perhaps, a fortnight at most. Eliza will applaud my mission. Just think of it! We shall take long walks. We shall bathe every other day. We shall make new acquaintances, and provide fascinating company for others at the Assembly Room balls. Here, you are forced to keep the same society, day in and day out. You have no time for yourself, no respite from a wailing baby.”
“Mary Jane is a delightful infant. I believe there was an entire hour Tuesday last when she did not cry at all.”
Henry laughed. From my expression, he knew that I required no more convincing.
Some days later, after an uneventful journey, I gazed out the window of Henry’s carriage with happy anticipation as we passed through the cheerful village of Uplyme, and then descended the long, craggy, precipitous downward slope towards Lyme, finally entering upon the still steeper street of the town itself.
I have written of Lyme in earlier journals, and may feature it again in the book on which I am now working, 11 but I shall risk repetition for the sake of the pleasure that the town has afforded me, on each and every visit.
Lyme may not be as fashionable as Brighton or Weymouth, but for those who seek to replenish their exhausted or wounded spirits in lodgings not calculated to ruin their fortunes, the sea-air, the pleasant society and delightful scenery of this humble town will surely mend many a constitution. The little town’s charm is not attributable in any way to the buildings themselves, but to its remarkable situation along the sea. Lyme’s charming harbour is formed by a kind of rude pier, called the Cobb, behind which ships may lie in safety, and upon which it is pleasant to walk in fine weather.
On previous visits of a month or more, my mother and father had always rented a cottage; since there were only the two of us this time, and our stay would be of much shorter duration, we secured lodgings in a quaint little boarding-house in the upper part of town with a large, red-faced, cheerful woman who was rather appropriately named Mrs. Stout.
“I trust you’ll find everything to yer liking,” said Mrs. Stout, as she threw open the window in my room, letting in a cool, fresh breeze. I stood transfixed for a long moment, gazing out with pleasure over the fine view before me, of the town’s rooftops, and lines of waving linen, in a gradual descent towards the harbour and the sea, which danced and sparkled in the summer sunshine of late afternoon.
“You can take yer meals here, as you like, or you can find a decent dinner at the Royal Lion, although they do get a bit crowded this time of year.”
We happily accepted Mrs. Stout’s offer to dine in, as we had arrived so late in the day, and retired for an early night.
Next morning, we awoke to find the July sun shining in a bright blue sky filled with puffy clouds. I felt such a surge of excitement in expectation of the day’s excursions, that I fear I took very little time to consider my appearance. Women of greater fortune might have shuddered to be seen in any thing less than the new, short-hemmed seaside bathing dresses which revealed the ankle, and had become fashionable of late; but I thought them quite ugly, and would not have been caught dead in one, had they been distributed at the beach free of charge.
My interest in fashion had always been curtailed by a frugal allowance, and my choices were limited. I had with me three gowns, all still respectable, but none of them very new. I pulled on one of my favourites, a simple, white sprigged muslin with three-quarter-length sleeves, a small tail at the back, and a front that was drawn in and sloped round to the bosom. My belt was of dark blue satin, which, I may reflect without embarrassment, matched the trimmings and flowers of m
y straw bonnet, to a very good effect. I styled my long brown tresses as quickly as I could (in actuality, plaiting and shoving them up under my hat) and pulled a few loose curls free about my face. Grabbing my reticule12 and parasol, I pronounced myself ready, and dashed off to breakfast with Henry.
Following our morning repast, Henry and I strode downhill along the busy principal street which seemed to hurry towards the water, just as the River Lyme flowed on a bed of rocks and emptied itself into the sea. When we reached the Walk, which skirts the pleasant little bay of Lyme from the town to the harbour along the foot of a green hill, we paused to admire the scene before us.
Several ships were anchored in the harbour, and a very beautiful line of high cliffs stretched to the east. The seaside path bustled with fashionably attired men and women taking their morning stroll. The bay itself was animated with company and bathing machines, the rows of little horse-drawn wooden chambers on wheels backed up into the sea. The horses stood patiently by, waves lapping at their flanks, as bathers in their flannel gowns eagerly or timidly plunged into the water from the rear of their machines1 with the help of their stalwart guides. The sun shone brightly, although a few threatening grey clouds had gathered.
“I do not think Lyme belongs on the Dorset coast at all,” said I, delighting in the fresh-feeling breeze which cooled my cheeks.
“Where, pray tell, does it belong?” asked Henry.
“It seems to me a very outpost of heaven.”
Henry agreed.
Deciding to leave the shore for later, we proceeded directly to the Cobb, the long, semicircular stone jetty on the far side of the harbour which projects out into the sea, and upon which stretch two broad causeways on different levels. We had walked part of the way along the Lower Cobb when we reached a flight of stairs leading to the Upper causeway. The Upper Cobb is very breezy and has a sloping surface, which makes it difficult to walk upon for some; but I had always found it a stroll of delight, affording a magnificent view of the coast, the sea and the surrounding cliffs.
“Let us go up,” said I eagerly.
“Are you certain?” said Henry, with a glance at the rough blocks of stone which projected, like the teeth of a rake, from the wall behind, and offered no handholds or railings. “The stairs are very steep.”
“I can manage the stairs, I assure you.”
“I should go behind, in case you need a supporting hand.”
“Please go ahead,” I insisted. “With my skirts, I am too slow; I shall only frustrate you.”
With a doubtful look, Henry proceeded up the stairs first, and I followed carefully, keeping hold of my gown and parasol with one hand, and the stone wall to the side with the other. There were a great many other people about; I was aware of a small party approaching behind us, but although my climbing efforts prevented me from looking back, I was concerned that my halting progress would impede them. I increased my pace, and had nearly attained the topmost step, when a gust of wind caught me by surprise; I inadvertently trod upon my skirt and lost my footing and, with sudden terror, felt myself wavering backwards above a treacherous drop. 13
I would have surely fallen to the hard pavement below, resulting in my death, or at the very least, considerable physical harm, had not two strong arms, of a sudden, caught hold of me.
“Steady,” said a deep voice into my ear, as I felt those strong arms gently and firmly propel me up the final step to the safety of the Upper causeway, where Henry waited and watched in great alarm. Once there, the man released me from his grasp and stepped back. My mind still reeling from my misadventure, I turned to face my rescuer and found myself looking up into the liveliest, most intelligent pair of deep blue eyes I had ever seen.
“Forgive me. Are you hurt?” enquired the gentleman, doffing his hat. He was a tall, dark-haired, vital-looking man of perhaps three-and-thirty years of age, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark blue coat and cream-coloured breeches, which did nothing to disguise his fine figure.
“No, no. I am perfectly fine.” My heart beat rapidly and I struggled to catch my breath, a result, I convinced myself, of the danger of my interrupted fall, and not by the proximity of the very handsome man before me.
“Jane! Thank God, for a moment I thought you would surely fall,” cried Henry in concern while hurrying to my side. “Pray tell me, sir, to whom we are so much obliged?”
The man bowed graciously. “Frederick Ashford, sir, at your service.”
“A pleasure to meet you, sir. I am Henry Austen. And may I—”
Before Henry could complete his introductions, a well-dressed couple appeared at the top of the steps, and the newly arrived gentleman cried: “Good work, Ashford. I always say there is no quicker way to win a lady’s admiration than to save her in distress.”
I felt myself blush deeply at this remark. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice; they were occupied by a far more startling circumstance. Henry, it seems, was acquainted with the newcomer in question.
“Charles Churchill?” said Henry, gazing at the gentleman in some astonishment. “Is it really you?”
The man, who was of middling height, good-looking, and sported a head of curly light brown hair, stared back at him. “Henry Austen? What an unexpected delight! It has been an age!”
The two men embraced heartily. “Churchill and I were at Oxford together,” said Henry, beaming. “We got into all manner of scrapes.”
“All his fault, of course,” rejoined Mr. Churchill with a laugh.
Mr. Ashford’s gaze turned to mine, and he smiled. “Do introduce me to your lovely companion, Mr. Austen.”
“With pleasure. Mr. Ashford, Mr. Churchill, may I present my sister Miss Jane Austen.”
“Miss Austen: a pleasure,” said Mr. Ashford with a bow.
“May I introduce my wife, Maria,” said Mr. Churchill, bringing forward his female companion.
“How do you do,” said Maria, as bows and courtesies were exchanged. A slight, fair-haired woman of my approximate age, I thought her face might have been pretty had she not looked as though she had just bitten into something very sour. “It is too windy up here. And I do not like the look of those clouds, Charles. It is going to rain. We should go back.”
“We cannot go back now,” declared Mr. Churchill. “I have only just met up with my old friend.”
“It will rain, I shall catch my death, and it will ruin my shoes.”
“If you die, my dear, it will not matter if your shoes are ruined,” said Mr. Churchill unsympathetically. “And if you survive, I shall gladly buy you another pair.”
“Oh! You are insufferable,” replied Maria with an irritated snort. Henry and Mr. Ashford laughed out loud.
As I struggled, out of respect to the lady, to hold back my own mirth, Henry clapped his friend on the back. “Be nice to Churchill, Jane. He has a great big estate up in Derbyshire and is worth a fortune.”
“I am nothing to my good friend and neighbor Ashford, here,” replied Mr. Churchill. “He is heir to Pembroke Hall and a baronetcy, and worth three of me.”
“Three of you? And a future baronet?” Henry bowed to Mr. Ashford with a respectful flourish. “I am duly impressed and honoured, sir.”
“Please, think nothing of it,” said Mr. Ashford with a good-natured smile. “It is barely a title, and an honour hardly worth coveting, I assure you.”14
“Ask his father how he feels about that,” observed Mr. Churchill, laughing. “He, no doubt, would convince you otherwise.”
“What brings you good people to Lyme?” asked Henry. “I would have thought you to be more the Brighton type.”
“I have never liked Brighton. It is too large and overgrown,” said Mr. Ashford. “I had some business in Bath, after London, when my companions and I felt the sudden need for a few days of fresh sea-air, before returning home. Lyme seemed the logical conclusion.”
“A highly pleasing conclusion, as well,” declared Henry, “for I believe you may have saved my sister’s life, and allowed me t
o run into an old friend at the same time.” Turning to Mr. Churchill, he said with a smile: “So what have you been up to, you old goat?”
“No good, if I could help it.”
The two men walked on, chatting amiably, with Maria on her husband’s arm, leaving Mr. Ashford and myself alone behind. We fell in step together. It was some moments before either of us spoke; when we did, our first attempts overlapped in a confusing manner.
“I am sorry,” I began again, to which he replied,
“Pray, continue.”
“I have not properly thanked you, Mr. Ashford, for preventing my fall.”
“No thanks are necessary.”
“Indeed they are. Reaching out as you did, you might have lost your footing and come to harm yourself.”
“Had that been the case, I would have given my life—or limb—in a worthy cause.”
“Do you mean to imply that it was worth risking your own life, to save mine?”
“I do.”
“A bold statement, on such a short acquaintance.”
“In what way bold?”
“You are a gentleman and the heir to a title and, apparently, a vast estate. Whereas I am a woman with no fortune, and of very little consequence.”
“If first impressions are to be believed, Miss Austen—” he began.
“Never trust your first impressions, Mr. Ashford. They are invariably wrong.”
“Mine are invariably right. And they lead me to this conclusion: that you, Miss Austen, are a woman of greater fortune and consequence than I.”
“On what grounds do you base this claim?”
“On these grounds: if you were to have perished just now, how many people would have missed you?”
“How many people?”
“Yes.”
“I would like to think my mother, my sister, my friend Martha, and my six brothers would miss me. My brothers’ wives, my nieces and nephews, who number more than a dozen, and perhaps several dear old friends.”
“Whereas I have only my father and one younger sister to regret my passing.”
