Jane Austen’s First Love

by Syrie James

  “Upon my honour, Mamma,” said I, “I have done nothing this evening that can contribute to the overthrow of the kingdom.”

  “You are mistaken, child, for the welfare of every nation depends upon the virtue of its individuals, and anyone who offends in so gross a manner against decorum and propriety as you have done is certainly hastening its ruin. You will not dance with Mr. Taylor again to-night; and I forbid you from being alone with him at any time during the remainder of our stay at Goodnestone. Is that clear?”

  Tears started in my eyes. “Yes, Mamma.”

  Prodding me with her fan, my mother angrily escorted me back to the ball-room, where upon entering she cried in a low voice: “Here comes Mr. Knight. He has been asking after you all night, and you must dance with him. And do not do anything else to shame me!”

  Across the way, I glimpsed Edward Taylor regarding me with a concerned expression, but I was immediately engaged by the kindly Mr. Knight, and returned to the dance floor. He made an attentive and congenial partner, as did Sir Brook, who asked me to dance directly afterwards. So distracted was I, however, by thoughts of my mother’s stern disapproval, and her promised punitive measures with regard to Edward Taylor, that I could hardly enjoy the activity, and no longer had any appetite for the ball itself.

  I was glad when at half-past two in the morning the ball-room began to clear out, as the weary but happy crowd said their good-byes. I moved with the assemblage, looking for my sister. I had not yet found her when Edward Taylor appeared at my side, and said,

  “Miss Jane. I saw your mother speaking with you earlier. Was she angry because of me?”

  “She was.”

  “I am very sorry.”

  “I am the sorrier, for she has forbade me from having any contact with you in future which is not strictly chaperoned.”

  “Well: that is not so very dire a punishment. There will be so many people at all the events Lady Bridges has planned over the coming fortnight, I believe we will be chaperoned everywhere we go, whether or not we like it.”

  His attitude so charmed me out of my mental anguish that I laughed. “You may be right.”

  He glanced at the dispersing crowd around us. “I wanted to tell you something, but I must speak quickly, lest we incur your mother’s further wrath by inadvertently ending up sans chaperon at this very moment.”

  I laughed again, all attention. “Yes?”

  Bracing one hand on the wall beside me, he leaned in closely, and said: “Do you remember after we met on Saturday, I gave you several reasons why I could not be sorry your carriage had met with an unhappy fate that day?”

  “I do. You said you were glad because it provided you with an opportunity to be useful, and concluded with an invitation to dinner at Goodnestone.”

  “All of which was true; but I was not entirely honest. I neglected to include the most important reason of all.”

  “Which was?”

  “It afforded me the opportunity,” said he softly, “to meet you some days earlier than might have occurred otherwise.”

  I could not reply; nay, I could hardly breathe.

  “I shall see you Friday,” added he with a smile in his eyes as he walked away.

  I believe I stood at the door a full five minutes after he left, my limbs trembling, unable to remember when Friday was, or what might be happening that day. Cassandra at length rescued me, insisting that it was time to go to bed. So filled with energy, awe, and wonder was I, however, that I doubted if I should be able to close my eyes.

  My sister, aware that my mother had already reproved me for my indiscretion at the ball, only mentioned it in passing with a heavy sigh. Although she professed herself to be too exhausted to take down her hair, I was determined to return mine to its natural state as soon as we reached our chamber. Immediately, I spread a cloth upon the floor, unpinned my hair, and vigorously brushed it until the last remnants of the starchy substance had been removed.

  As Cassandra slept, I lay in bed thinking about him for a long, long while—about all the new ideas and feelings which had been simmering within me ever since our discussion that evening, about the six dances we had shared, and most particularly about what he had said at the last.

  It all implied that he liked me! It did not discount the possibility that he also liked someone else; I sensed in my bones that he did have affection for Charlotte Payler; but it now seemed incontrovertible that he liked me as well—perhaps liked me as much as I liked him!

  But oh! If I was honest with myself, my feelings had long since gone past that particular emotion, to something deeper and far more potent.

  “Cassandra,” whispered I.

  “Mmmmmmm?” returned she drowsily, before drifting back to sleep.

  “I love him,” murmured I, hugging my pillow, aware that my words were audible to no one but myself. “I love Edward Taylor.”

  The household slept in late the next morning. My sister and I entered the dining-room at noon to find the furniture all back in its rightful place, the previous night’s ball nothing but a memory or a topic of languid conversation. The chamber was only half-full; the sleepy-eyed diners therein assembled still had their hair styled as it had been the night before, a little the worse for having been slept on; the younger boys and I were the only creatures present with natural hair.

  “I apologised to Lady Bridges and Sir Brook last night for your behaviour at the ball, Jane,” remarked my mother sternly when I sat down. “I expect you to apologise to them yourself this morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I was too happy to let her reprobation or her directive bother me. I would apologise; I did not care. I would not have traded that conversation with Edward Taylor, nor those six dances, for anything in the world.

  “What happened to your hair, Jane? You were so anxious to powder it, I expected that you should be begging me to keep it in that style for a week at least; yet here you are with your own brown curls again already.”

  “I have changed my mind about the style, Mamma,” replied I as I sipped my tea. “I do not find it to be quite so fashionable as I thought.”

  My mother shook her head and raised her eyes heavenward. “I declare, you are a very strange girl, Jane. I shall never understand you.”

  Fanny and Mr. Cage were seated at opposite ends of the table; both were silent and seemed to be in a foul mood. Mr. Cage, after consuming very little, left the house to go riding.

  “Thank goodness, I thought he should never leave,” said Fanny, throwing down her napkin.

  “Is there something wrong, Miss Bridges?” inquired Mr. Deedes.

  “There is, Mr. Deedes, but I do not wish to speak of it.”

  “You are only tired, I fear,” said Mr. Deedes soothingly, “after being up so late last night. You will feel differently when you are more rested.”

  Fanny met his friendly gaze, and was charmed; her features softened. “Perhaps you are right, sir. I shall go upstairs and take a nap. But if you see Mr. Cage, pray tell him that I am not speaking to him unless he apologises.”

  No sooner had Fanny exited, than Lady Bridges entered.

  Marianne said in some distress, “Have Fanny and Mr. Cage quarrelled?”

  “They have,” responded Lady Bridges with a shrug, “but over what Fanny will not tell me.”

  “I am so sorry,” said Cassandra. “I do hope they make up soon.”

  “Do not worry, they shall,” answered her ladyship, as she took a seat. “When people are young and in love, these little quarrels are always to be expected. It will sort itself out.”

  I was not as confident of that outcome as she, for I could not forget what Fanny had told me the night before with regard to her true feelings for Mr. Cage, and her purpose in marrying him. However, as the admission had been made in confidence, I could not share it; and so I remained silent.

  Chapter the Seve
nteenth

  A more animated group met for breakfast on Friday morning, than had inhabited the room the day before. Fanny’s quarrel with Mr. Cage seemed to be forgotten; but as I could still perceive no genuine warmth or affection from her towards her fiancé, I still found the situation troubling.

  “Thank goodness we have sunny skies,” cried Sophia, clasping her hands with delight as she glanced out the window. “It is a perfect day to go to the windmill.”

  It was the day of the sketching and painting contest, an activity which was to include only the young people, and as Frederic Fielding did not draw, the only guests other than those in residence at Goodnestone were Charlotte Payler, her eldest brothers, and Edward Taylor. My heart leapt when he entered the hall. He bid me a friendly good morning, and said,

  “Are you going to paint or draw today?”

  “Neither. I could not paint or sketch under any motivation other than to save my life. I will be happy to watch. And you?”

  “I am no proficient, either; my art-masters despaired of me, but I shall risk embarrassing myself by dabbling a bit in water-colours.”

  Our object was Chillenden Mill, only a mile and a half away by road, and less on foot across the fields, where an ancient windmill was said to be set in very picturesque environs. The wagons had been sent ahead earlier that morning carrying all the art supplies, chairs, easels, &c. which would be required by those who chose to paint or draw, as well as the refreshments and other necessities peculiar to a picnic. Lady Bridges, Mrs. Knight, and my mother were to be the only senior members of the party, and they chose to be driven thither; the artists were to walk.

  I fully anticipated that Edward Taylor would ask Charlotte to accompany him, but to my delight, he invited me to be his walking companion—an excursion which, he said smiling, was entirely within the approved confines of my mother’s directive, as there were so many other people going with us. I thought I detected quiet disappointment in Charlotte’s eyes as Mr. Taylor and I walked off together, and I felt a strange mix of emotions, encompassing both empathy and happiness; I chose to concentrate only on the latter.

  A very pretty walk it was, as we climbed over stiles and traversed meadows alive with the waving heads of brilliant yellow and white blooms, and dotted with cows and sheep. Edward Taylor and I talked en route upon a multitude of subjects, and we were soon engaged in a lively historical dispute. He had much to say in defense of Queen Elizabeth and her ministers, whom he saw as deserving, experienced, and able, but whom I truly hated.

  “How can you persist in such opinions?” cried I. “Elizabeth was truly wicked, and encouraged in her crimes by vile and abandoned men. They assisted her in confining a good, amiable woman, nay a queen, for nineteen years—and then brought her to an untimely, unmerited, and scandalous death!”

  “It is a sad blot on history, what they did to Mary Stuart,” agreed he. “There was a family who were always ill-used, betrayed, or neglected, and whose virtues are seldom allowed, while their errors are never forgotten.”

  We discussed Goldsmith’s popular four-volume History of England, which Edward Taylor proclaimed to be a heavily biased abridgment of David Hume’s far superior six-volume work. “As if that was not bad enough,” commented he, “Goldsmith went on to publish a one-volume abridgment of his own abridgment.”

  “It makes one wonder just how brief a History of England can be, before it loses any meaning entirely!”

  At length we made our way up an ascent to a wide, grassy area of high, exposed ground, where was situated the post-mill, which was just as old and charming as promised. The day was so fine, and the skies so remarkably clear and blue, that lovely pastoral prospects could be seen stretching in every direction, with Knowlton Court to the east, and beyond it Deal; Canterbury to the west; and Ramsgate to the north. The supplies were soon unloaded, and as the artists claimed their easels, chairs, boards, paints, and pencils, I heard Fanny say with disappointment to Mr. Cage:

  “Do you really mean not to join in the fun?”

  Mr. Cage replied: “Pray forgive me, but I have absolutely no artistic bent. I cannot even draw a stick figure.”

  Charles and I were the only other young people present who admitted to the same lack of talent; we were equally happy to admire the endeavours of the artists and take in the views, until the interval when the refreshments were served, and that moment when our services would be required to join in the voting.

  The army of artists scattered and established themselves either alone, in pairs, or in groups before particular prospects, and after setting up their materials, began. To my satisfaction, Thomas Payler deliberately sought out my sister and helped her situate herself; they were now painting alongside each other. I was less delighted to see Edward Taylor helping Charlotte to set up her easel, and then take the spot next to her. They were part of a larger conclave who had assembled in a position overlooking the windmill and an expanse of scenic woods and farmlands.

  I felt an unexpected twinge of regret that I had not chosen to paint or sketch as well, for then it might have been me seated at Edward Taylor’s side. I had acknowledged my own feelings for him to myself the night before, but although I sensed that he liked me, I had no proof that the depth of my affection was returned. And yet, at the ball, and during our many other stirring conversations, I had felt such a powerful connection to him! Who, I wondered with a pang, did he prefer—Charlotte or me? Or did he have no preference? Was he like a butterfly, happy to flit from one flower to another, with no strong attachment to any? But he had said how glad he was to meet me! He had called me remarkable! Perhaps he gave out such compliments easily. For all I knew, he might be saying something equally as endearing to Charlotte at that very moment. Oh! It was all such a muddle, so difficult and confusing! How was a girl ever to know what a young man was thinking or feeling?

  I turned away, determined to redirect my thoughts, and ventured towards a group of three artists comprised of Sophia, Fanny, and Mr. Deedes, who had all made very promising beginnings on their pictures. Sophia’s work in particular I thought excellent. Fanny commented on Mr. Deedes’s talent, and inquired as to how he had achieved his perspective; Sophia wondered how he had made up a particular colour. Mr. Deedes answered their questions and offered his humble suggestions, as to how they might improve their own paintings.

  For a while longer, I strolled amongst the artists. Cassandra’s painting was truly beautiful, and I told her so. At last, I allowed my wandering to take me back to the place and the person whom I most wished to see. As I approached, I observed the pictures which Mr. Taylor and Miss Payler were engaged in painting. His was of only moderate quality; as he had earlier admitted, he was no proficient; but Charlotte’s reflected a real talent. Oh! To observe that she, at fifteen, was so accomplished at an art in which I possessed no skills whatsoever! It was very disconcerting.

  Charlotte, upon noticing me, smiled, and said in a gentle voice,

  “What a shame that you do not paint, Miss Jane, for I wish you could join us. I find it a most enjoyable activity.”

  It was the first time that Miss Payler had ever addressed me—the first time I had ever heard her speak aloud. And oh, such a remark! Although her expression and tone were sweetness itself, her words made a very different impression: they seemed to imply what I already knew—that I was deficient in having never gained this particular accomplishment, which was expected of all young ladies. Self-doubt and jealousy rose within me, and a stinging response came to my mind; but I bit my tongue, not wishing to appear anything less than proper and demure before Mr. Taylor, and instead said with as much earnestness as I could muster:

  “I admire art and artists, Miss Payler, and wish most sincerely that I had your talent.”

  Charlotte blushed and lowered her eyes. “It is kind of you to say so.”

  “Miss Jane,” said Edward Taylor, indicating his work in progress with his brush, “I
would appreciate your opinion of my painting. Does this in any way resemble a windmill?”

  Tactfully I replied, “It is a commendable effort, Mr. Taylor.”

  “You lie through your teeth. It is horrible. I know my strengths, and this is not one of them.”

  “Well,” admitted I, “it is perhaps not the best I have seen.”

  He laughed.

  “You have made the full circuit, Miss Jane,” commented Christopher Payler, who was working at an easel nearby. “Who, in your opinion, is the best artist among us?”

  “I cannot answer that! Even if I had made my mind up, which I have not—it is to be a secret ballot.”

  “My sister is too smart for you.” My brother Edward glanced up at me with a wink from where he sat over his own drawing. “She never gives away her secrets.”

  We shared a conspiratorial smile. At that moment, Lady Bridges announced that the picnic was ready, and all should take a respite from their artistic endeavours, to enjoy some refreshment. In short order, everyone progressed to the blankets which had been laid across the ground, and sat down in an attitude of relaxed contentment, while helping themselves to the assorted cold foods and beverages which had been provided. The animated conversation soon turned to the cricket match which was to take place the following day, in which all the young men were eager to participate, and which all the ladies looked forward to watching.

  “Cousin Edward ought to be one of the team captains,” said Thomas Payler. “He is a capital player.”