by Syrie James
Charles, I believe, will particularly enjoy a visit to Goodnestone, as the Bridgeses have three sons still living at home, one of whom is exactly his age; and my sisters will also be in good company with their six amiable daughters. I should mention that Lady Bridges is a woman who, while strictly adhering to the rules of society in general, has somewhat lenient views where her daughters are concerned; as such, and particularly since these festivities are to include only family and close friends, all her children older than ten are to be included in everything (the ball as well); therefore, Jane and Charles are free to do the same.
I could not prevent a little shriek of delight at this last remark; but my mother and father both waved their hands impatiently at me to continue.
Father, I suppose it may be difficult for you to get away in June; indeed, on your account, I would have preferred the festivities to be held in July or August. However the Bridges family leaves for Bath at the end of June, for a stay of many weeks; and I have long been scheduled to take a Scottish tour with Mr. and Mrs. Knight and a few friends, departing 4 July. The timing, however, may prove to be a benefit to you with regard to travel arrangements: for at the end of May, Mr. Knight is obliged to oversee certain matters at his properties at Chawton, and he offers to bring you home with him to Godmersham, where I trust you will be very comfortable for some days until we remove to Goodnestone. This means that you will only incur travel expenses on your return trip. Should it prove possible for you to come, I will put you in touch with both Mr. Knight and Lady Bridges. Please know that all here would be very pleased to have you join us here in Kent in June for what promises to be a very pleasant and memorable summer.
I look forward to hearing from you. Please give my love to my mother, sisters, and Charles. With every good wish, and the greatest affection, I remain your son,
Edward Austen
My spirits, while reading my brother’s letter, can scarcely be described. Two weeks of parties, and an engagement ball—to which I was invited! I would get to see Godmersham Park at last!
“It is a thoughtful invitation,” said my father, leaning back in his chair. “What a shame we cannot go.”
With those words, it seemed as if all the light and energy had drained from the room.
“What do you mean, Papa?” cried I. “Of course we must go. This is an important occasion. Edward is the first person in our family to be engaged.”
“And I have six other children to follow. Let us hope that they will choose partners who live closer to our neighbourhood.”
“Papa,” said Cassandra, “if it is the expense of travel which worries you, it cannot be very great, as we shall only be obliged to travel post on our return.”
“It is not the cost, child. As Edward so astutely points out, I cannot get away in June. School is in session until the first of July. I could never think of leaving a month before my pupils’ studies are finished.”
My mother looked up from her work and sighed. “If they truly wished for us to come, they would be holding all these parties during our holiday from school, instead of gadding off to Bath and Scotland for their own amusement. It is too bad, for I would have truly liked to go. We have not seen Thomas and Catherine Knight these many years, and we had only those few, short days with Edward when he came back from the Continent. It would be gratifying to be in his company for several weeks on end. If only Kent were not so far away.”
“What matters how far away it is?” exclaimed I. “Kent is Edward’s home now! Are not you keen to see where he has been living all this time? Do not you wish to see the great house and lands that he is to inherit?”
“I do,” answered Cassandra quietly.
“I have always longed to see them,” said Charles.
“As do I,” admitted my mother, “but may I remind you: duty comes before pleasure.”
“My first duty is to the school,” insisted Papa, “for those boys’ fathers do not pay me to go off on a pleasure trip whenever it suits my fancy.”
“But Mamma, Papa!” cried I. “Edward is engaged to be married! How can you give your approval of the match unless you meet Elizabeth Bridges for yourself?”
“That is a dilemma, Jane,” replied my mother. “But whether or not we approve is of little importance, I fear. Her parents have approved him, and the Knights have approved her. They have all the consequence in this matter; our feelings will not make any difference.”
“Edward is three-and-twenty now. We must trust his judgement and his choice. And you cannot afford to miss a month of school, my boy.” Papa patted Charles’s knee. “Think of the consequences of so many weeks of idleness; you would fall behind in Latin grammar and all your other studies.”
A forlorn look descended on Charles’s countenance. “I suppose I shall never see Godmersham now.” Asking if he might be permitted to join the other boys outside, and receiving permission, he quit the room.
My heart went out to Charles, and when he had gone, I said, “Papa, after all these years under your tutelage, Charles must be far ahead of the boys at the Naval Academy where Latin grammar and his other studies are concerned. To miss these last few weeks of school would surely do him no harm.” I directed a silent, pleading glance at my sister, who took up my cause and added:
“Think how much it would mean to Charles to go.”
“We would be back before he departs for Portsmouth,” added I warmly. “It would be a last hurrah for him before he leaves us for so many years. You saw how dearly he wishes to go to Kent! And oh! So do I! Papa, Mamma, we never go anywhere. Am I doomed to waste all my days of youth in this humble spot? The Knights live in grand style at Godmersham (or so we are told)! I can only imagine the grace and refinement we should find at Goodnestone Park! It would be thrilling to see their houses and to meet the Bridges family and to live amongst them, as one of them, even if only for a short time. I am certain if I were so fortunate as to experience a month in such company and in such surroundings, I should never forget it!”
As I spoke, my mother and father exchanged a discomfited glance. I suddenly felt all the impertinence of my remark; for although it was true that we had rarely travelled, and did not have a great deal of money, we lived comfortably enough. Before I could voice my remorse, however, my mother said solemnly:
“It would be lovely to indulge in that way of life for a little while. We may have given up Edward all those years ago, but he is still our son, and I am still his mother. He has invited us, after all; if I could, I should like to see where he lives, and meet the woman he is to marry.”
My heart leapt with hope and possibility. My father, reaching out and taking my mother’s hand, said:
“Would you, Cassy?”
“I would. But how can I?”
“Just because I am obliged to stay behind, do not let that stop you. If you wish to go, then go; and take the children with you.”
“And be gone for a month entire? Mr. Austen, this Mansion of Learning cannot run without me here to manage it! You do not realise all the work which is required to run a household of this size. There are the meals to plan, the bread to bake, the beer to brew, the cows to milk, and the butter to churn—the work in the poultry-yard is never done—and my vegetable garden is at its most productive in June. Were I to leave, who should supervise all that? Who would make sure all those hungry boys are fed, and that they and their linen stay reasonably clean?”
“You are indeed the indisputable leader of this establishment,” concurred my father, kissing my mother’s hand, “but you would only be gone a month. I feel confident that, for so brief a period, I can find a way to cope. I could perhaps hire a woman from the village to help.”
Martha, who (like her sister) had sat in respectful silence throughout this entire conversation, now spoke. “There is no need for you to go to that expense, Mr. Austen. If you wish, I should be happy to take on Mrs. Austen’s duties in he
r absence.”
My heart quickened and I sat up on my chair. “Would you truly, Martha?”
“It would be my pleasure—” (adding to my father) “if you and Mrs. Austen are amenable to the notion, sir. I am sure my mother and sister can manage at home without me. I am experienced at supervising a kitchen and poultry-yard. I could stop in every day and do what is needed, and I could look after the boys as well—I do love children, sir—and my sister and I could take care of the vegetable garden—would not you be willing, Mary?”
“I should be glad to oblige,” returned Mary with a nod. “Your garden is always ever so much more bountiful than ours, Mrs. Austen.”
“Oh!” cried my mother, tears dancing in her eyes. “What a generous offer!”
“You are very good and dear friends,” said Cassandra gratefully; and I concurred.
“Martha, Mary, thank you,” said my father with affection and appreciation; and turning to my mother, added, “It seems our friends have made it possible for you to go away after all, Mrs. Austen. What say you? Have you any more reservations?”
“Well—I do not like the idea of being parted from you for so many weeks, Mr. Austen, or travelling all that way without you.”
“You will be so occupied every day in Kent, you will not even miss me,” replied Papa dismissively, “and as you will be conveyed there in the Knights’ own coach, you will be perfectly safe and comfortable.”
“How can you vouch for our comfort and safety?” cried she. “We are to have the benefit of a private carriage in one direction only; and they are as prone to accident and overturns as any other vehicle. The roads in this country are very bad; the turnpikes—as they have the assurance to call them—are such a disgrace, it is a crime to make one pay for them! Some are full of stones as big as one’s horses, and abominable ruts and holes that threaten to swallow one up, particularly at the end of spring, after a hard rain, when they are floating with mud. And there are constant other dangers: highwaymen are everywhere on the long stretches of country-side. Have you forgotten? Did not we read just the other day about a post-chaise which was stopped by a vile criminal, and its passengers robbed of their watches and rings and all their money? Not to mention how prone I am to sickness while travelling—it is such a long journey, I do not know if I should survive it—and the inconvenience of stopping the night at inns which will no doubt be drafty, dirty, have hard beds, and serve bad food.”
During this speech, my sister and friends sat with lowered gazes over their work, but the look on their countenances echoed my own silent amusement and impatience.
My father, whose eyes conveyed similar feelings, adopted a grave expression, and said, “My dear, everything you say is true. It sounds to me as if you have talked yourself out of going.”
“Oh! But I want to go! My heart is set upon it!”
“Well then, if that is so—I cannot guarantee that your journey will be free of incident or mishap—but these are the risks you must be willing to take.”
My mother frowned, then let out a sigh. “All right, then.”
Thrilled, I cried, “Do you mean it? We can go? Oh, Mamma! Papa!”
“Jane,” interrupted my mother, “do not get too excited. Just because I have agreed to go to Kent, do not imagine that I will allow you or your brother to attend every party they mean to hold, particularly that ball.”
A crushing disappointment washed over me. “Not attend the ball? But Mamma—”
“Lady Bridges, it seems to me, has some very strange notions,” continued my mother. “To include children at such events—to allow one’s daughters such liberties before they are out—I know that some people do it, but I cannot approve. Girls should not mix with general company until they are of age.”
“Oh! Mamma!” Tears started in my eyes.
Cassandra, glancing at me, and seeming to gather her courage, said:
“You held me back in just such a way, Mamma, and I cannot think that it did me good.”
“Whatever can you mean?”
“I mean that—for a young lady to be immediately required on the day of coming out to be accomplished at everything, and to converse openly with strangers, when all the years before she was either kept at home or told never to speak—I found it very difficult, and would not wish the same for Jane.”
Silently, I cheered my sister’s remarks, and gave her a grateful look.
My mother looked very surprised. “Well, this is an opinion I have not heard from you before, Cassandra.”
“I never really questioned it before, Mamma; it is just the way things were. But looking back, I think it was too much to expect.”
My mother went quiet for a moment, as she seemed to turn over the matter in her mind. “What do you think, Mr. Austen?”
“Our daughter makes an excellent point,” responded he. “Although I still believe that seventeen is a better age to be introduced to society in general, I see no reason why someone of Jane’s or Charles’s age should not attend the events which Edward described. As for the ball, it is to be held at their house, not an assembly room, and is apparently to include only family and friends; therefore, how is it any different from the dances and parties we hold here at home, with our own family and neighbours?”
After some consideration, my mother nodded. “There is sense in what you say. I suppose we could make an exception, for this one visit to Kent.”
“Oh! Thank you!” I was delighted beyond expression.
“Now pick up your needle and thread, Jane,” continued my mother with resolution. “Some one ought to tell Charles that he is going on holiday with us in June; and if we are to finish all these clothes, we had best stop talking, and apply ourselves to our work.”
Chapter the Third
Since the arrival of Edward’s letter, hardly anything else was talked of or thought of other than our visit to Kent. Charles spoke so often and with such great excitement of every extraordinary thing which he expected to see and do there (conjuring Kent as a golden land of perfect beauty—a veritable Utopia), that the other schoolboys were soon fed up with him, and threatened to box his ears should he mention another word about it.
The next ten weeks were devoted to a fury of sewing and cleaning such as I had never before experienced in my life, for my mother insisted that if she was to turn over her house to Martha Lloyd to run, it should be nothing less than spotless.
An exchange of letters ensued between my brother Edward, Mr. Knight, Lady Bridges, and my mother and father, confirming all the offers made in Edward’s first letter, as well as the travel arrangements. My mother, sister, and I, with kind assistance on numerous occasions from Martha and Mary, completed Charles’s new clothes for the Naval Academy with such remarkable speed that when May arrived, we had time to pause and reflect upon our own wardrobes.
“Mamma,” said I over breakfast one morning, “what do you imagine the ladies will be wearing at Godmersham and Goodnestone? Will they be splendidly dressed?”
“I suppose they will,” replied my mother, as she thickly spread a piece of toast with butter and jam. “I shall never forget the elegance of Mrs. Knight’s gown when first I saw her all those years ago, nor her hat, which was the very height of fashion. I have no doubt the Bridges ladies will all be similarly attired.”
“What should we wear?” asked Cassandra, visibly concerned.
“Our gowns are all so old and worn.” I frowned into my dish of cocoa. “My green one in particular is so washed out as to appear almost gray.”
“I have always admired a gray gown,” commented my father from behind his newspaper.
“I owned a gray gown myself at your age,” said my mother, “a lovely dove gray it was, and very becoming.”
“Mamma!” I set down my cup in its saucer with a violent clink. “Papa! How can we attend all those parties and a ball, wearing our old gowns? We will be looke
d down on as the poor relations! At least my slippers are in good order, but I have mended my gloves so many times that the fingertips are merely strings.”
“Do not fret, Jane,” returned my mother. “I have given thought to the matter, and although we cannot afford new clothes, if we add some new ornaments to our present apparel, it will freshen them up. Your blue satin gown is still very pretty, and if we add a gold sash, it will do very well for this occasion. I have a piece of white lace from an old gown that will smarten it up even further—and there is a bit of satin ribbon in my work-bag which will be just the thing for your pink gown, Cassandra. We can trim up our best hats and bonnets as well.”
“That sounds lovely, Mamma,” responded my sister.
I nodded, for her ideas pleased me. “What about our hair?”
“Edward wrote that the Bridges ladies will powder theirs for the ball, so we must remember to bring pomatum and powder, Cassandra—we do not want to offend our hosts by appearing less than genteel.”
“Might I powder my hair for the ball as well?” said I hopefully.
“Jane!” My mother frowned at me. “You know better than to ask such a question. Hair powdering is a practice in which you may indulge only after you come out, and not one day before.”
I sighed. For nearly a month entire I should be in a circle of very fashionable people, many of whom were only a few years older than myself, but at the most formal event, I should appear like the merest child. Oh well, thought I with resignation, at least we were going to Kent, and that would be an adventure!
We followed my mother’s suggestions, adding such embellishments to our gowns as we could devise, so that in due order we all felt some semblance of pride in our wardrobe. A week before our departure, my father returned from Basingstoke with a surprise: he had purchased for each of us a new pair of gloves.
