The Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen

by Syrie James

  “Thank you for the kind offer, Alethea,” said Cassandra, “but we have only just arrived at Steventon, and I would not like to leave my mother again. Jane, you go.”

  Although I was delighted by the idea of a sight-seeing journey to the north, a place I had never visited, the mention of Derbyshire was all the provocation I needed to decline the invitation; it was impossible for me to hear the name of that county without thinking of Pembroke Hall, and its owner. I had no wish whatsoever to travel anywhere within proximity of that place.

  “Alethea, this is a trip your father has planned, to be enjoyed with you alone. I would not think of imposing on your company.”

  “Imposing?” cried Alethea. “On the contrary; you would be doing me a favour if you come!” In a lowered voice, she added, “Try as my father might to call this journey a holiday, he cannot disguise his true intent. I know what he is about. He means to parade me in front of his eligible cousin, Mr. Morton. Having married off one spinster daughter to a respectable, older clergyman, he hopes to have a similar success with the other.”

  “I am sorry,” said I with sympathy, well aware of the horrors of such a situation, recalling my parents’ hopes for Cassandra and myself during our years at Bath. “But perhaps this Mr. Morton is a worthy gentleman, and you will like him, in which instance, you would surely not require my company.”

  “There is little chance of that, for he is forty years of age, has a good living, and yet has never married. There must be something wrong with a man, to remain so long unattached.”

  “Many good and amiable men chuse to marry later in life,” said I, trying not to think of Mr. Ashford, who, until recently, I would have placed in that category, but now could only think of with disdain, “and you risk nothing by going, as you cannot be forced to marry him.”

  “No, but I shall be obliged to endure his company for several days at least. How much more pleasant it will be if you are there! The journey itself, just think of it, Jane!” Alethea clasped her hands rapturously, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “The places we shall see, the experiences we shall share! Oh, how I have dreaded this trip up until now—three weeks or more with my stodgy old father—but it need not be so. Please, Jane, save me from that fate, or I will surely go mad.”

  I could not say no to such a heartfelt plea. I was anxious to get away from Steventon, the idea of travelling with my dear friends was very appealing, and the stops along the way were of great interest to me. Although I would have preferred any final destination other than Derbyshire, I convinced myself that that county was large enough, that I would certainly be safe in making a brief visit to one of its smaller villages, without Mr. Ashford’s perceiving me.

  Our northward journey was perfectly free from accident or event. Our route lay through such charming places as Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth and Birmingham, all of which we enjoyed exceedingly, taking in the main sights and enjoying generally good weather. The squire, although seven-and-sixty, and not as fit as my father had been at that age (and possessed of a rather loquacious and serious disposition), did have an enthusiasm for architecture and nature, and was most generous and solicitous of our comforts all the way. He insisted that we chuse our own dinners at the inns; as we traveled, he sat snoring in the opposite seat of the coach, while Alethea and I maintained a steady barrage of happy chatter.

  Alethea was her energetic, amiable self, quick to find pleasure in every thing she saw and did, to praise that which she admired, and to poke fun at that which she found absurd. Our daily diversions worked wonders in improving my mental disposition; I soon banished all thoughts of my recent disappointment in a certain gentleman to the farthest corner of my mind, and enjoyed each new day with a purity of spirits and a willing laugh.

  One sunny afternoon towards the end of the second week of our travels, as I gazed out the window with delight at the beautiful wooded land through which we were passing, the driver announced that we had just entered the county of Derbyshire. Alethea turned to me with quiet dread, and murmured, “Here we are at last. Soon I am to be thrown to the wolves.”

  As promised, the squire’s cousin lived in a very pretty neighbourhood. We left the high road for the lane, and soon the parsonage came into view. The house itself was a modest edifice of brick, not overly large, surrounded by a green lawn and a laurel hedge. Our carriage stopped at the gate, and in a moment we were all out of the chaise and crossing the short gravel walk to the front door, where we were met by Mr. Morton.

  A tall, heavy looking man of forty, Mr. Morton had beady, pale eyes in a round face, and an affected smile which revealed a row of very crooked teeth. He had become most dreadfully bald, and in compensation, he had combed forward several long, thin, curling clumps of brown and grey hair over his pate.

  “Welcome, welcome, to my humble abode,” said Mr. Morton, ushering us inside with an air of the utmost formal civility, as he directed our luggage to be sent up to particular apartments. “It is a great honour to make your acquaintance at last, squire,” said he, shaking that man’s hand effusively, “for I think that family connexions are the most important thing in the world. I am only too aware, squire, of your prominent position in Hampshire, of the size of your fortune, and the splendour of your estate, which fills me with silent awe. I have always thought it a great misfortune that we should have gone so many years without meeting, but as we are separated, in geographical location, by such a very great distance, it can certainly be understood. I trust your journey was not too unpleasant?”

  All of this passed Mr. Morton’s lips as we stood in the front hall, before introductions had yet been made. Alethea and I exchanged a private look of horror at the appearance and ostentatious manner of the man; it was all we could do not to laugh.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The squire assured Mr. Morton that our journey had been most satisfactory, in a speech which would, I fear, have been as long-winded as that of his cousin, had not Mr. Morton interrupted him to introduce himself to Alethea and myself.

  “Miss Alethea,” said he, with an enthusiastic bow, “it is indeed a pleasure. I have heard much of your beauty from your father’s letters, and I see that, in this instance, fame has not fallen short of the truth.” Bowing to me next, he added, “And may I extend the same compliments to you, Miss Austen, for the squire was good enough to write and inform me of your coming, and I find his tributes to you were of equal merit. Be assured that any friend of my cousin’s is a friend of mine, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance; if there is any thing, however small, which I can do to make your stay here more comfortable, please do not hesitate to mention it.”

  I thanked Mr. Morton most sincerely for his kindness, after which he invited us to sit before the fire in his parlour and take some refreshment.

  As the serving-maid brought in the tea-set, Mr. Morton gave us a detailed account of every article of furniture in the room, calling our particular attention to a mahogany sideboard, a piece of rather alarming size and no great beauty. “I purchased it myself at an auction, at far less expense than one might imagine,” said he with great pride, “and believe it will be a very useful piece. Why, my neighbour, the Lady Cordelia Delacroix—a most affable and condescending woman of great means and property, who resides at Bretton Hall, not two miles from here, where I have been invited twice to tea—her ladyship, upon viewing the table, expressed her opinion of its fine workmanship and durability, and insisted that I had made a very good bargain.”

  I glanced at the squire, seeking to detect even the briefest smile on his countenance, to reflect his recognition of the absurdity of the man before us, but he seemed quite insensible of it; rather, he expressed his admiration for the good proportion of the room, its aspect and sturdiness of build, and asked several probing questions concerning the structure of the parsonage, a subject to which our host replied with the greatest enthusiasm. For the next three-quarters of an hour, Alethea and I sat in silent wonder as the two men avidly discussed the minute
architectural details of the rectory and church, as well as every other building, barn and cottage in the parish, with the possible exception of a shed or two, and several privies.

  Following this discourse, Mr. Morton led us on a very complete tour of the house, which, although an edifice of rather compact size, seemed very neat and comfortable, and held many delights for him.

  “You have every thing here that one could want in a house,” declared the squire, “although I believe it could be even further improved by the warmth that a woman’s touch would provide.”

  “Yes, indeed, squire,” said Mr. Morton, “I have given a great deal of thought to that very subject, and it is a matter of vital interest to me. I think it a right thing for every clergyman to set the example of matrimony in his parish, if he is in easy circumstances; which, until recently, was not the case in my instance, owing to the small living I had been afforded. But to my great good fortune, I have just been offered the living of the neighbouring parish of Oxcroth, as well, and with this additional income, I find I am now, at last, in a position to offer a wife a most desirable situation.”

  “That you are,” agreed the squire. “I have only just had the pleasure of seeing my daughter Catherine married to a good clergyman like yourself, and I cannot begin to tell you what happiness that union has brought the family.” Alethea turned to her father, secretly imploringly him, with the most desperate face, not to pursue the topic further; but the squire did not appear to notice. “Alethea quite runs the household now,” he went on, “and she is such an excellent manager, I declare any man would be fortunate to have her.”

  Alethea’s countenance flushed crimson, and she closed her eyes, as if willing herself to disappear on the spot.

  I said quickly, “After the confinement of the carriage, I would welcome an opportunity to stretch my legs in the open air, Mr. Morton. Might I entreat you to take us for a turn in your garden?”

  The idea was met with a most enthusiastic response. Alethea, with a glance that implored me to help her put as much space as possible between herself and Mr. Morton, firmly linked her arm through her father’s, so that I was obliged to walk with our host.

  “I tend to the cultivation of the garden myself,” said Mr. Morton, as we strolled the many well-tended paths and cross walks, “which, I believe, is one of life’s most respectable pleasures, and a most healthful occupation.” Without pausing to allow us to utter a syllable of the praise he seemed to be seeking, he pointed out each shrub and tree with great self-satisfaction. “I planted every one of these roses with my own hands, each selection made on the basis of its form, hardiness, colour and fragrance. I flatter myself to think that if you were to return in summer, you would, as my neighbours have remarked on several occasions, be quite overwhelmed by the magnificence of the sight; the orderliness of the presentation, the multiple array of hues, the extensive number of blooms, and the delightful, sweet aromas which they engender, are enough to inspire awe in a person of even the most jaundiced disposition.”

  At the edge of the garden, Mr. Morton pointed out several fields dotted with distant trees. “That is the Camperdown elm, also known as U. glabra camperdonii, a variety of Wych elm. There are six elms in that clump alone,” said he proudly (although I saw much to be pleased with, I could not be in such raptures as Mr. Morton expected the scene to inspire) “and there to the right, you will see three chestnuts and two oaks.” He was keen to lead us around his meadow, but Alethea and the squire admitted that they were tired, and expressed an interest in being shewn to their rooms, where they might rest before dinner.

  Mr. Morton instantly and profusely apologized. “I alone must take the blame for your fatigue. I never should have taken you on such an extensive tour, at the very moment of your arrival, and the ladies wearing such delicate shoes! Watch your step, Miss Austen! There is a rather large pebble in your path.”

  Mr. Morton bent down and whisked away the offending stone, inadvertently, in the process, striking a squirrel squarely in the back. The creature froze in momentary astonishment, then scampered off. All the way back to the house, Mr. Morton could talk of nothing but his relief that he had not caused the poor animal’s early demise.

  “I pray that I will not be obliged to sit beside him at dinner,” said Alethea, as we freshened up later, in the bed-chamber that we shared. “He is the most odious, tedious, ridiculous man that I have ever met.”

  “I think him quite amusing,” I replied.

  “Then you may sit beside him, and carry on the whole of the conversation. For my part, I intend to say nothing whatsoever, and appear as the most dull and uncaptivating female who ever lived.”

  “That may not work to your advantage,” I teased, as I splashed water from the basin on my face. “He may prefer a woman who is the quiet type.”

  “Oh! I had not thought of that. But I cannot be rude, that would only upset papa.”

  “My dear Alethea, do not look so distressed. We are by no means assured that Mr. Morton is considering you as his future wife. Should he in fact make you an offer of marriage, you may simply refuse.”

  “But my refusal, I fear, would anger papa more than the absence of an offer. Oh! What am I to do?”

  “You have only to be yourself, and leave the rest to providence.”

  “Providence can only take us so far. Sometimes we must help it along.” Alethea was silent for some moments, and then said, “I have decided. I will endeavour to appear as politely disagreeable as possible, by making some counterpoint to every thing he says.”

  “You must do as you think best.” Sitting down before the looking-glass, I settled my black velvet cap on my head, loosening a few short curls about my face. The effect was rather pleasing. I was no great beauty, I knew, but tonight, some might call me pretty. “As for me, I intend to study his every move and expression, and try to recall every word of his unique phraseology.”

  “Why ever would you wish to do that?”

  “Because I delight in his absurdity. It has occurred to me that, one day, I might use Mr. Morton as a model for a character, in one of my books.”

  Alethea laughed. “That is so like you, Jane. Where the rest of us perceive only awkwardness in a person or circumstance, you see humour and possibility.” She sat down on the chair beside me and clasped my hands in hers, regarding me with sincerity and affection. “Are you saying what I think—what I hope? After all these years of silence, have you taken up your pen again?”

  I admitted that I had. “Please do not tell any one—I am certain nothing will come of it—but I have just begun revising Sense and Sensibility. When I met Mr. Morton, however, I could not help but think of First Impressions.”

  “Oh! Yes! I remember the clergyman in that book. He was most amusing.”

  “But he was never half so idiotic or insufferable as Mr. Morton.”

  “No, indeed, he was not!” We laughed for a long and merry moment. “To see Mr. Morton on the page would be great fun,” agreed Alethea. “But, Jane, you have not been honest with me, all these years, on a rather important point.”

  “What point is that?”

  “You have always maintained that you did not copy the characters and places in your books from life, that they were all invented. I see, now, that the opposite is true.”

  “You could not be more wrong,” I insisted. “Of the places, I admit, I have taken inspiration from homes I have seen. I patterned Mr. Darcy’s estate at Eastham Park after a great house I saw at Kent, and I patterned Rosings and Hunsford after the manor house and parsonage at Chevening. But of the people in my books, my aim is to create, not to reproduce. Consider, if I did not, if the people I described should recognise themselves!”

  “I do not think people would take so much offense as you seem to believe, Jane. They might, in fact, be flattered to find themselves in one of your books.”

  “Perhaps so, but I dread such an invasion of privacy. And there is more. Naturally, I have drawn fragments of personality and manner of
speech from a variety of different people whom I have met, but I am far too proud of my creations to admit that they were only Mrs. A, or Colonel B.” With a wicked smile, I added, “However, in this instance, I may be forced to break my rule. For your Mr. Morton is simply too great a gem to use by halves.”

  “I must say, you keep a very fine carriage, squire,” remarked Mr. Morton at dinner that evening, where we supped on pease-soup and roast fowl, and a wine of such indifferent quality and colour that I suspected it had been watered down by the cook. “I do not keep a carriage of my own, of course; I see not the necessity of such expense, every place in the village being so readily accessible on foot. When the need has arisen to attend an event at a greater distance than I can manage, I have had the good fortune to receive an offer of transport from Lady Cordelia Delacroix, who has condescended to allow me to join her in her carriage three times; I should say, one of her ladyship’s carriages, rather, for she has several. Her equipages are among the most splendid of their kind in the county. Every Sunday, when I see her, I reaffirm my view, in perfect accordance with hers, that a chaise and four, elegantly liveried, is indeed the most comfortable and preferred mode of transport in the world.”

  “I myself have no affection for a chaise,” said Alethea disagreeably, the twitch of a smile conveying, to me alone, the true intent behind her argument. “For extended travel, of course, we have no choice, but in truth, sir, they are so stuffy and confining. For shorter distances, I much prefer an open carriage.”

  “Oh, yes!” I cried. “A low phaeton with a nice little pair of ponies is always quaint, but I particularly adore a gig or curricle.”

  “A curricle is an entirely impracticable equipage,” said Mr. Morton, “except for the very rich. Consider that, alone of the two-wheeled vehicles, it is built for two horses, instead of one, and its owner faces the difficulty and expense of finding a well-matched, high-quality pair of animals.”