Jane Austen’s First Love

by Syrie James

  “Mamma,” said Fanny with a calculated sweetness, “I have told you before: my wedding day must be all my own. And I still do not understand why I must wait until December. I am not so very young, and neither is Mr. Cage. Surely our nuptials should not be governed by the cautious thinking of Mr. Knight!”

  “You and Mr. Cage have not been very long acquainted, my dear,” said Lady Bridges. “Your father and I were engaged for more than two years, and I believe that an engagement of some length is a healthy thing. Besides, when I think of all the linen and wedding clothes which I must have made up for your trousseaus—and on top of that, all the festivities I am obliged to arrange this month—it is enough to make one’s head spin.”

  “I still say it is not fair,” protested Fanny with a frown. “I am the eldest; I should be able to marry whenever I choose. Mr. Cage lives so far away; a lengthy engagement is really not convenient, Mamma.”

  “It is not such a hardship for Mr. Cage to come hither to see you, Fanny,” replied Lady Bridges. “Remember, he can always stay with his friend Mr. Deedes in Canterbury.”

  “Where does Mr. Cage live?” inquired I.

  “He is the owner of the manor of West Langdon in Milgate, Bearsted, devised to him many years past,” answered Fanny proudly. “He has told me all about it, and I so long to live there! It is by all accounts a large and magnificent estate, with ever so many grand parlours and chambers and extensive pleasure-grounds.”

  “Where is Bearsted?” asked Cassandra.

  “It is some thirty-eight miles to the west,” answered Elizabeth, “near Maidstone.”

  “Fanny will be very happy with Mr. Cage,” noted Louisa with an envious sigh, from where she sat on the carpet, “for he has a fine house and three thousand a year.”

  “I hope Mr. Cage possesses other fine qualities, apart from his house and income,” said I, laughing.

  “Oh that he does, my dear,” replied Lady Bridges. “He is a most amiable man of unexceptionable good character.”

  “I will have a new carriage and four, and ever so many gowns, and family jewels which are worth a fortune,” said Fanny. “We will have ever so much more to live on than Elizabeth and Edward. As it does not suit Mr. Knight to give up much at present, their income will be small.”

  Elizabeth blushed at this declaration and cried defensively,

  “Edward is heir to numerous properties at Godmersham and Chawton, and will one day be far richer than Mr. Cage could ever hope to be!”

  “Perhaps so, but in the meantime, you must be content to live at Rowling.”

  “Rowling is an excellent house. Papa is fitting it up very nicely for us.”

  “I am sure you will be happy there, even if it is small and dark. Sadly, the parlour does not have a good exposure, the windows face full west, and I hope you will not find the fireplace too drafty; the last tenants made complaints of that nature.”

  “I am sure the house will be charming and suit all our needs,” insisted Elizabeth, her eyes flashing. “At least it is within walking distance of Goodnestone, so I may see Mamma and Papa whenever I wish! Whereas you will be a full thirty-eight miles away, and may only see them at Christmas!”

  “Girls! Girls!” cried Lady Bridges. “I will hear no more of this! We have much to celebrate to-night. If you cannot be civil to each other, you had better not speak at all.”

  I, too, was weary of this discourse, and troubled to see that such contention existed between the sisters; Cassandra’s countenance reflected her equal disenchantment. At that moment the door opened, and the tea and coffee were brought in.

  As the beverage service was set up, to my surprise, I noticed Edward Taylor and Thomas Payler standing in the open doorway, beckoning to my sister and me. From their silent gestures, they made known to us that they wished to go without—and wanted us to join them. The other ladies in the room appeared too engrossed to perceive their presence.

  Cassandra shook her head slightly at me. I was dismayed; Edward Taylor wished for me to join him for a walk! How could I refuse? It was not at all inappropriate if we both went, for we would have two escorts. To my sister, I whispered:

  “You cannot deny me this.” Standing, I said to Lady Bridges: “Forgive me, madam. I have a slight headache; I am sorry to miss tea, but I think I require some fresh air. Might my sister and I be allowed to take a walk in your gardens?”

  “You may,” replied she, adding, “I wonder where the gentlemen are? They should have arrived by now.” Her attention was then diverted to the business of serving the tea and coffee.

  I gave Cassandra a meaningful, imploring glance; she hesitated with slight confusion, but at last, sighing, rose and accompanied me as I crossed the room and slipped out the doorway.

  Holding a finger to his lips, Edward Taylor led us through the oval ante-room into the central hall, where he quietly closed the connecting door. I could not help but smile.

  “What is the meaning of this intriguing removal, Mr. Taylor?” stated I softly. “Were you not enjoying a glass of port with the other gentlemen?”

  “We were,” replied he, keeping his voice equally low so as not to be overheard, “and I enjoy a good port as much as the next man; but Sir Brook and your brother have spent the past twenty-five minutes discussing the difficulties of rent collection from recalcitrant farmers, and have now embarked on the price of hay. It seemed the ideal time to make our exit.”

  “I should think these subjects to be of interest to you,” said Thomas Payler, “as you and I shall one day be in charge of tenant farmers ourselves, and will have regular dealings with the sale of hay.”

  “That day, thank God, is very far off. It is hard enough that I was sent home to learn about such things from my father’s steward, while my brothers and sisters enjoy the delights of southern Italy for another year; I prefer to talk of something else of an evening—and a very fine evening it is, ladies. Would you fancy a walk out of doors? It would be our pleasure to escort you.”

  My sister and I answered in the affirmative; and after running upstairs to fetch our shawls, in short order we were all bounding out the back door of the house.

  Chapter the Eighth

  It was still very light out, with only a slight chill in the evening air.

  “We have made good our escape!” Edward Taylor spun in a circle with delight as we headed down the path in the direction of the walled gardens. “I like nothing better than a long stroll on a summer evening.”

  “My sister and I are also partial to long walks,” remarked Cassandra, to which I added,

  “Although we are equally as fond of morning as evening.”

  “Of what else are you fond, Miss Jane?” said Mr. Taylor, smiling.

  “Oh, so many things: music, dancing, reading.”

  “Music is one of my greatest passions as well. Do you play an instrument?”

  “The pianoforte—I have only been studying a few years, but I am determined to improve. And you?”

  “I play the violin a bit.”

  “A bit?” cried Thomas Payler. “You are too modest, cousin. Edward’s musical skills—those of his whole family, in fact—put everyone in my family to shame. He is quite the virtuoso.”

  Edward Taylor coloured slightly, and as if determined to change the subject, inquired of me,

  “You said you enjoy reading?”

  “I do.”

  “That is something else we have in common. Give me a good history book, particularly military history or memoir, or a work about mythology or travel, and I will happily disappear within its pages for hours. Have you read Quintus Tertius or Plutarch’s Lives?”

  “I have not. Your catalogue is somewhat different from my own,” admitted I. “I have read many of the classics, and studied history and geography and some mythology; but I have read very little travel literature, and I have never read a military histo
ry in my life.” When I told him, after some hesitation, that I preferred novels, he smiled deeply and said:

  “My father never allowed us to read novels—but as I understand it, there is a growing taste for such works.”

  “I cannot understand why,” commented Mr. Payler. “You will get more practical information out of an hour with a newspaper or a journal, than from a hundred hours with a novel.”

  “We come from a family of great novel readers,” said Cassandra. “Reading aloud often makes up our evening entertainment.”

  Mr. Payler blushed and appeared disconcerted. “Oh! Do forgive me, Miss Austen. I meant no disrespect. But—what do you see in novels? From what I hear, they embody only the poorest form of writing.”

  “From what you hear?” repeated I. “I take it, Mr. Payler, that you have never read a novel?”

  “Never. It is said that they are designed to entertain the weak of mind.”

  “Sir,” said I with animation, “that could not be further from the truth. Some novels might be poorly written, but in the main, I believe the opposite to be the case. A good novel—a well-written novel—not only entertains the reader with effusions of wit and humour, it touches the emotions and conveys a comprehensive understanding of human nature—all via the simple and remarkable act of transmitting words on a page—while at the same time displaying, in the best-chosen language, the greatest powers of the human mind.”

  Edward Taylor’s eyebrows lifted; my remark seemed to have made a favourable impression. “What do you say to that, Thomas?”

  “I say: Miss Jane is such a persuasive young lady, that should I spend much more time in her company, I shall be in danger of becoming a novel reader myself.” Mr. Payler uttered the reply with such good humour, that we all could not help but laugh.

  We had traversed the first walled garden by now, and reached the tall brick pillars which marked the opening into the middle enclosed garden, which I had not yet visited. We entered; and I smiled in wonder.

  It was immense; and it was truly lovely. Bordering a central lawn, gravel pathways wound past well-clipped hedges and beneath pergolas entwined with flowering vines. The flower-beds held Lady Bridges’s promised (imported?) roses, as well as dahlias, petunias, and numerous other varieties of flowers, many of which were in glorious bloom, and the air was redolent with their perfume. Like the first garden, the entire enclosure was surrounded by very high brick walls covered in ivy and creeping vines. As the paths were only wide enough for two, Mr. Payler moved ahead with Cassandra. Suddenly, a perfect pink rose was held before my nose, as Edward Taylor said with a slight bow:

  “Fuer Sie, junge Fräulein: eine Rose so schoen wie Sie.”

  Accepting the bloom, I replied with a laugh, “Thank you, sir; but you have me at a disadvantage. If that was German you spoke, I know not a single word of it; only a bit of French.”

  “Forgive me. I spent so many years in Germany, the language is as natural to me as breathing; but I will speak it no more. I said: for you, miss: a rose as beautiful as yourself.”

  I blushed, my heart fluttering both from his comment and from his approving smile as he regarded me. “You seem to know a great many languages besides German,” said I, as we walked side by side, our footsteps lightly resounding against the pleasant crush of gravel.

  He shrugged. “I speak French and Italian fluently as well.”

  “Fluently!” I was astonished.

  “I can also read and speak Spanish, but my knowledge is rudimentary in comparison with the others, so I do not count it. Of Latin and Greek, I have acquired only so much as served the purposes of my studies; I can make translations when a gun is put to my head, but I do not consider myself a proficient, so I do not count them, either.”

  I shook my head in wonder. “I have studied a bit of Latin and Greek myself, but am not so proficient yet as to make translations. You speak of these accomplishments as if they are routine; but they are not, for a young man only sixteen years of age.”

  “I will be seventeen in three weeks, on Midsummer’s Day. Speaking of which, my aunt Payler has decided to throw me a birthday party at Ileden. The Bridges family are all invited. I hope you and your family will come as well?”

  “I am sure we should be delighted to attend, and appreciate the invitation. But do not try to change the subject, Mr. Taylor! To be fluent in four languages, and able to read or converse in three others, at almost seventeen—it is quite extraordinary.”

  “All my brothers and sisters are equally adept. When you live in the country where a language is native, and see it written and hear it spoken every day, it is not so difficult to pick up.”

  His modesty was charming.

  “Perhaps not. It must have been thrilling to reside on the Continent as you did, where language is a living and breathing thing. I have never had that pleasure. What little French I have learned came from a book, or from one of my brief intervals at school.”

  “When and where did you attend school?”

  “The first time, I was seven. My sister, a cousin, and I were sent to a Mrs. Cawley’s in Oxford, but she soon moved us to Southampton, where—I still recall the stink of fish—we nearly died from typhus fever. Tragically, my aunt Cooper, who fetched us home, did catch the fever and died.”

  “Oh no. I am so sorry.”

  “We were all very sad. It was two years before my father dared to try a school again; but when I was nine, we went to The Abbey House School in Reading—a quaint academy for young ladies, run by a stout woman of middle age who had a cork leg, and who went by the name Mrs. La Tournelle.”

  “Went by the name?”

  “Her real name was Sarah Hackitt. She could not speak a word of French. Apparently she thought a foreign name made her sound ever so much more exotic, accomplished, and important.”

  Edward Taylor laughed.

  “Mrs. La Tournelle loved to speak of plays, acting, and the private life of actors—but unfortunately her talents were limited to making tea and ordering dinner. The teaching duties were relegated to her partner, Miss Pitts, and three schoolmistresses, from whom we learned several accomplishments expected of young ladies, the basic subjects, and a few words of French.”

  “Did you like it there?”

  “I did, very much. I could have happily stayed much longer, but my father could not afford it, and after a year he brought us home. He runs a boarding-school, and my sister and I have studied under his guidance ever since, along with my brothers and the boys who came and went.” Ahead of us, I observed Mr. Payler quietly say something to Cassandra which made her laugh. “What about you, Mr. Taylor? Tell me about your schooldays.”

  “I have never had any.”

  “None?” I stared at him, confounded.

  “An attempt was made by my father to send me and my brother Herbert to a day-school in Brussels when I was six years old, and he was five, but our pockets were picked by our schoolfellows on the first day, and the visit was not repeated. Instead, we were taught at home, like you, by my father, who is a scholarly man himself—and we have had masters in particular subjects. That, in fact, was one of my father’s two purposes in emigrating.”

  “Two purposes?”

  “My father rebuilt Bifrons in the modern style around the time I was born, and in the process overextended himself and was obliged to retrench. He let out Bifrons for a great deal of money, whilst it was relatively inexpensive to live abroad. Excellent masters in languages and the arts could also be procured abroad very cheaply, which satisfied his desire to promote the education of his children.”

  “How large is your family?”

  “My mother had seven children in as many years, including a set of twins. Sadly, she died soon after we arrived in Brussels, after the last one—my sister Margaret—was born.”

  “Oh! I did not know your mother had passed away—and so long ago. I am so
very, very sorry.”

  “Thank you.” He frowned, his eyes flashing with perturbation. “My father insists that it was just her time; but I remember how weary she looked, even before we left England. I believe that the strain of carrying so many children, and giving birth in such rapid succession, simply wore her out.” The pain and resentment in his voice were unmistakable.

  My heart went out to him. “I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to lose your mother—and at such a young age! Your brothers and sisters must not remember her at all.”

  “Most of them do not. I am fortunate to have a few memories. I recall that she had soft, pale skin, and a sweet voice.” He paused, gazing at the blooming garden around us. “I remember sitting beside her on a bench in one of the gardens at Bifrons—there was always a baby in her lap—she used to read to me and my brothers. She loved Bifrons. She often told me how lucky I was, to be the eldest; that the entire estate would be mine one day.” He sighed deeply and shook his head. “I would give up Bifrons and every penny my family possesses to have her back.”

  “I imagine you would,” said I quietly; and glancing up at his distressed countenance, I felt tears of sympathy threaten behind my eyes.

  He looked at me, paused, and then said, “That all happened long ago, Miss Jane. As my father says, there is no use looking back, only forward. We managed, somehow, to go on without her. I am home now, all these years later, with a view to learning all I can about Bifrons and its administration, and I must make the best of it.”

  I nodded. I had many more questions I wished to ask him, concerning his life and education abroad and his return hither; but the information regarding his mother’s death had so changed the mood of our conversation, that somehow further inquiry did not seem appropriate. We walked in silence for a little while, catching up to Cassandra and Thomas Payler, who had made the full circuit of the middle garden now, and were waiting not far from the portal where we had entered. As we approached, Edward Taylor found his smile again and looking round, said,