Jane Austen’s First Love

by Syrie James

  Cassandra had recently become engaged to the Reverend Tom Fowle, and they both eagerly awaited the day when he would be settled with a living sufficient to support them.

  During those three years, I never stopped thinking, dreaming, and wondering about Edward Taylor. I lamented that I had never heard him play the violin. I kept replaying our many conversations in my mind, filled with longing and regret over the way we had parted. I heard about him now and again: Sophia mentioned in a letter that his family had returned from abroad and now resided at Bifrons, and Elizabeth later wrote that he had gone off to Oxford. But all that time, I had no way to obtain the information I yearned for—the inner workings of his mind and heart.

  At last, the silence was broken: for in the summer of 1794, Cassandra and I were so fortunate as to return to Kent to see my brother and Elizabeth at Rowling—the first time we had returned to that country since our initial visit. I was thrilled to discover that Edward Taylor was home from Oxford for the summer and residing at Bifrons.

  One warm summer evening, we were invited to dine at Bifrons along with a few other neighbours. The night before I barely slept, counting the minutes until our dinner engagement. I knew his father and sisters would be there as well, and greatly looked forward to meeting them.

  I approached our meeting with a fluttering heart. After so many years apart, I was filled with excitement at the idea of seeing him again at last. Would it feel strange, I wondered, to be in his company again? Was he looking forward to my visit? Had he ever thought of me?

  When I entered the drawing-room, my pulse was pounding. I was at first distracted by the spectacle of three lovely young ladies who were all elegantly dressed, and bore a resemblance to the young gentleman I knew: clearly they were the sisters about whom I had heard him speak. Then I saw Edward Taylor across the room. After all these years of thinking and dreaming about him, I could hardly believe I was once again standing in the same room as he!

  He was twenty years old. He had filled out a bit in form and face, and looked taller than I remembered, but he was every bit as handsome. His dark eyes lit up when he caught sight of me; immediately he came forward and bowed.

  “Hello, Miss Jane.”

  “Mr. Taylor.”

  His expression approved my looks and told me how glad he was to see me; at the same time, there was something about him which seemed changed, as if the intervening years had worn him down a little.

  He introduced me to his father, a serious, intelligent, well-spoken man, and his sisters Charlotte, Mary-Elizabeth, and Margaret, who ranged in age from sixteen to thirteen, and were just as charming as promised. The young ladies, not at all shy, immediately engrossed me in conversation; as they were all intelligent and accomplished, this discourse occupied me for some little time. All the while, I kept glancing at Edward Taylor, who was conversing with another group, as I waited for an opening to speak to him.

  At last I caught his eye; he excused himself from his party and crossed towards me; I broke away at the same time, and we met in the centre of the room. I felt a bit self-conscious, and sensed that he did, too.

  “How have you been?” said he.

  “I am well. And you?”

  “The same.” He smiled. “You have grown taller I think.”

  “So have you.”

  “I believe I grew three inches after the summer we met. That was quite a time we had, was it not—that month of endless festivities? I often think of it.”

  “Do you?” I could scarcely breathe.

  “Who could forget that momentous evening when you walked the wall in the Bridgeses’ garden? I knew, then, that you were a most uncommon young lady. And the ball where we debated the merits of powdered hair, and scandalously danced together more often than we ought? That lives on in my memory as one of the most pleasant nights of my life.”

  “Mine too.” To know that he remembered it all, as vividly, and with as much pleasure, as did I! It was too wonderful to believe.

  “Have you participated in any more home theatricals?”

  “Lamentably, I have not. Our production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream remains the pinnacle of my dramatic achievement.”

  “It was mine as well. I believe I shall never forget it.” He paused, as if trying to determine the best way to approach another subject, and then finally said, “There is something which I have long wished to tell you. I received the note you sent me on your last day at Goodnestone.”

  “You did? Oh!” I could not go on.

  “Unfortunately, it was lost for a crucial period. Sophia gave me the note in the midst of my birthday celebration, and explained to me the reason for your early departure. I had no opportunity to look at the note until after everyone had gone home, and by then it was nowhere to be found. I did not locate it until the next night. Imagine my chagrin when I read what you had written, and presumed you to be waiting for me all that time! I rose at dawn and rode like the wind, but I arrived too late—I saw your coach and four pulling away, and even if I could have overtaken it, I knew it was not the seemly thing to do.”

  “So it was you I saw from the coach window! I was never certain.”

  “I was very sorry to have missed you.”

  “I cried for days.” After all the years of wondering, it was somehow a relief, and very flattering, to know that he had tried.

  “I regretted that we could not correspond. Whoever decided that men and women of no relation may not write to each other ought to be shot.”

  We both laughed. Any trace of self-consciousness had evaporated. I could not help asking: “Speaking of relations: how does your cousin Charlotte?”

  “She is well.”

  “She was quite enamoured of you at the time.”

  He coloured slightly. “I think her parents intend her for me. She is a lovely young lady, but although my father insists it is a promising match, I have no thoughts of marriage at present, nor at any time in the near future.” The brief, conscious look he gave me seemed to indicate that he recalled the conversation we had shared on that topic the last time we spoke. He quickly changed the subject. “I wish my whole family could have been here to greet you to-night, but all of my brothers are elsewhere.”

  “All? Where are they?”

  “Bridges is still at sea. Brook and William now serve in the Foreign Office, and Herbert—he is the next eldest, after me—is a lieutenant in the 2nd Dragoon Guards.”

  I paused, suspecting what he must be feeling. “Your father changed his mind, then, with regard to his anxieties concerning Herbert’s military employment?”

  “It took a great deal of persuasion from Lord Grenville to bring it about, but at last, very reluctantly, my father relented—at least where Herbert is concerned. I am still consigned to Oxford.”

  The manner in which he uttered the university’s name suggested his antipathy for the place. Hoping I had misread him, I said: “How do you like it there?”

  “I feel stifled and restless.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. I was hoping that the university life would grow on you.”

  “Not at all. I have nothing in common with the other students. The masters are good enough in their way, but even if there were no war, I prefer to learn through private reading and study. Herbert saw action last spring in France and Belgium, while I am bound to a schoolroom.”

  “You still wish to join the army, then?”

  “More than ever—but my father will not discuss it. My only hope is that Herbert, in his new position, can convince someone of influence to offer me a post and help to champion my cause.”

  “What about Bifrons?”

  “What about it?” He shrugged. “It is my father’s house. I do not want it.”

  I glanced about me at the beauty and splendour of the mansion house in which we stood, saddened to think that his feelings for the place had not changed ove
r the years. I admired his wish to serve in the military, and had only the highest respect for those who did, for it was a very noble profession; but at the same time, I thought it most unfortunate that the heir to Bifrons, upon whom all his sisters might one day depend—the keeper of a property which had been in his family for generations and was the birthright of his descendants—despised the life it represented—the life I loved—and his only thought was to get away.

  “Well; since you wish it so dearly, Mr. Taylor, I hope that you are successful.”

  “Thank you. Which reminds me of a wish of your own. Have you done any more writing?”

  “I have. I continue to read like a madwoman, and over the past few years I have written several works of a greater length than any I attempted before.”

  “Wonderful! I hope you are happy with them?”

  “I doubt that any would merit a second look, but it is as you predicted: I am learning by doing, and I believe each effort is an improvement over the last.”

  “You can hope to do no better.”

  We shared a smile.

  Our conversation continued over dinner, and I basked in the glow of admiration which still existed in his beautiful dark eyes, still feeling all the same regard and affection which I had harboured for him over the years—but at the same time, something real and true began to dawn on me, which I had never before allowed myself to acknowledge:

  As much as Edward Taylor and I had in common, we were interested in different things. It seemed likely that he would, indeed, always be jumping over fires. He was a remarkable young man. I loved him—perhaps would always love him—but as Cassandra had said, we were not—never really had been—right for each other. This recognition gave rise to threatening tears, which I struggled with difficulty throughout the rest of that evening to contain. Any future connection between us had been no more than a lovely dream. I understood now that our romance was a sweet, first love that was never meant to be.

  I saw Edward Taylor a few times more during that visit to Kent. We engaged in several interesting conversations, indulged in fond memories, and enjoyed each other’s company. On the eve of my departure, we affectionately wished each other well and parted as friends.

  As I write these final lines, I am sitting at my desk by the front window at 4 Sydney Place, overlooking the gardens just beyond. I am more than a dozen years older than I was when the preponderance of this narrative took place, yet my memories remain as vibrant as if I were still fifteen, and my feelings as deep and poignant.

  Edward Taylor did achieve his dream, if only briefly: he left Oxford in 1795 to join the army and served with distinction for three years, employed in Ireland as aide-de-camp to Marquis Cornwallis in 1798. The Reverend Edward Taylor died at Bifrons on 8 December of that same year, and his son and heir, at age four-and-twenty, succeeded to the estate and was obliged to give up his military aspirations.

  I heard that Edward Taylor is married now. I hope he is happy. Sadly, we have fallen out of touch, as my visits to Kent of late have only taken me as far as Godmersham, where my brother Edward and his family have long since resided. I like to think that Edward Taylor has, or will in time, overcome his reservations with regard to his inheritance; I believe that a man of his intelligence and accomplishments must surely learn to appreciate all that he has been given, that he will embrace his responsibilities, and do his family proud.

  I have, as of yet, formed no other lasting romantic attachments; nor has Cassandra, who swore to never love again after Tom died. If one of my mother’s and father’s hopes in leaving Steventon and removing to Bath was that we should find husbands, they must be very disappointed. Nevertheless, I count myself fortunate, for I enjoy a loving connection with a sister who is the sun of my life, and the keeper of my every thought, hope, joy, and sorrow; I have a large and happy family, and enough nieces and nephews to occupy my time and fill my heart.

  After three years in the white glare of this vaporous city, I dearly miss the country, and am desirous of a change. We think to take another tour of the Devon and Dorset coast this summer, and I look forward to it. I dream that one day we will settle in a comfortable house of our own, in the peace and quiet of the country-side that I love.

  Cassandra once said of Edward Taylor, “I cannot help but feel that you behave very differently when in his company”—implying that I was not entirely myself when I was with him. I think now that this is true, but not in the negative way that she intended. I may not have been the self I was formerly, before I met him—but I think he encouraged a new side to my self that never existed before. He challenged me to try things which I might never otherwise have attempted, helped me to view the world a bit differently, and taught me the importance of thinking for and believing in myself.

  Whenever I think of Edward Taylor, my heart aches a little. I am deeply grateful for the time we shared. I believe I am a stronger, more confident person for having known him. I learned so much that summer, from him as well as all the others: about the human mind and heart—about what motivates people to marry—about what really matters when two people are falling in love.

  I learned one other valuable lesson as well.

  As I told Cassandra, shortly after our return from Kent that memorable summer:

  “I have done with match-making. Never again will I try to arrange the lives and romantic interests of real people; it is far too volatile and dangerous. From here on out, I shall restrict all such endeavours to the page.”

  “To the page?” repeated my sister.

  I nodded. “Yes. I shall devote myself—as I have been doing of late—to merely writing stories about love and courtship. It is a far safer occupation.”

  Finis

  July 1804

  Author’s Afterword

  “We went by Bifrons and I contemplated with a melancholy pleasure the abode of Him, on whom I once fondly doated.”

  So wrote Jane Austen in a letter to her sister Cassandra in 1796. That tantalizing sentence has long intrigued me. Every Austen scholar concludes that Jane, as a young woman, was enamored of Edward Taylor, the heir to Bifrons, a grand manor house and estate in Kent—but the details of their relationship were never known. Who was Edward Taylor? What did he mean to Jane Austen? Did he return her affections? How did they meet?

  Fascinated by the implications of this connection, I was determined to learn as much as I could about it. Unfortunately, Austen biographers presented very little information about Edward Taylor, simply repeating the same brief, generic reference: that Jane met him while visiting her brother Edward in Kent.

  I began extensively researching Edward Taylor’s life. Luckily, he was a member of the landed gentry, and later in life served as a Member of Parliament; as such, after much digging, I was able to uncover many facts about him, such as the details of his education, career, and marriage. I quickly discovered that many Austen biographers had gotten Edward Taylor’s age wrong, citing him as being a year younger than Jane, when in fact he was a year and a half older.

  From other sources, I found a great deal of information about the history of the Taylor’s ancestral house, Bifrons. Further probing led to the incredible discovery of an obscure memoir written by Herbert Taylor, Edward Taylor’s younger brother, which provided a wealth of knowledge about the family and their unusual and well-traveled childhood.

  The more I learned about Edward Taylor, the more extraordinary he seemed to me; he was truly the sort of young man with whom Jane Austen would have fallen in love! That he was a real person, and that I had in my possession so many little-known facts about his life, was very exciting. A picture began to form in my mind as to how and when Edward Taylor and Jane Austen might have met as teenagers, and what their relationship might have been.

  At the same time, I was intrigued by another Austen fact: in 1791, the year Jane’s brother Edward Austen became engaged to Elizabeth Bridges of Goodnestone, Jane w
rote a comedic short story, The Three Sisters, featuring characters named Fanny and Sophia. It seemed very likely to me that Jane visited Kent that summer, where she not only met the young ladies who inspired that story, but also met and became enamored of Edward Taylor—and that her experiences there greatly shaped her views forever after regarding love and marriage.

  That is the story I chose to write: the tale of Jane Austen’s first love, inspired by the facts of her life and his, presented as a memoir in Austen’s own words. I endeavored, to the best of my ability, to be true to Austen’s writing style. However, although I employed the British spellings of many words, I did not re-create Jane’s charming idiosyncrasies with regard to capitalization or spelling (rarely did she follow the “i before e” rule!), believing that might distract from the narrative itself.

  The locations in this narrative are all real, and their histories based on fact. Godmersham Park currently serves as an opticians college, and Goodnestone Park is prized for its beautiful gardens, which are open to visitors. Sadly, Bifrons was demolished in 1948.

  The characters in this narrative are almost all real people, and their personal histories have been thoroughly researched. The only figments of my imagination are the servants and the Fieldings. I was obliged to make up the names of some of the younger Payler children, although they did have seven sons in addition to their daughter, Charlotte.

  The story is inspired by actual events. Fanny and Elizabeth Bridges did indeed announce their engagements in March 1791, and the three weddings took place as described that December. Mr. William Deedes really did travel to Bath to propose. The Thomas Watkinson-Paylers really did have their portraits painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Mrs. Watkinson-Payler’s is available to view online.

  All the details of Edward Taylor’s childhood, his many accomplishments, and his unusual upbringing in Europe, are true and derived from his brother Herbert’s astonishingly candid memoir. Edward Taylor’s father was against his sons entering the military and fought it for a long while, worried that their spirits might “lead them into dangers.” Yet Herbert eventually distinguished himself in the military, rose to the rank of lieutenant general, and received a knighthood; and as Jane notes in this narrative, Edward Taylor did briefly achieve his dream of joining the army.