Jane opened her mouth to say something and then gave a hasty glance at James and shut it again. Eliza was busy giving instructions about hatboxes and the two young men were quite busy. We were all loaded up by the time we followed the post-chaise down the hill to Deane, and I whispered to Jane not to say anything to Eliza for the moment. I didn’t really want my love affairs discussed in front of James. He was never as friendly to me as his brothers and sisters were.
Mr Austen was delighted to see Eliza; she was the daughter of his only sister and he was very fond of her. Mrs Austen too was in very good humour, though she looked rather dubiously at ‘Puggy’. She and Eliza enjoyed each other’s wit and jokes were soon flying.
Jane and I went upstairs to write our weekly letter to George, Jane’s handicapped brother, who was now boarded with a family some distance away. Since George could not read, the letter was mostly pictures, which I had to draw, as Jane was not good with the pencil. I drew a picture of Pug and then one of the stagecoach with Eliza and James getting out of it. George was always interested in stagecoaches, and he would like this.
‘Let’s go along and help Eliza to unpack,’ said Jane when we had finished and folded over the piece of paper and stuck it down with a blob of scarlet sealing wax.
Eliza welcomed us with open arms. ‘Come in, come in, mes petites,’ she said, as usual mixing up bits of French with bits of English. ‘And, Jenny, tell me all. What is happening with your amours?’
‘You tell it,’ I said to Jane.
‘In one word,’ interrupted Eliza, ‘did he propose, the gallant captain, hein?’
‘Well,’ said Jane dramatically, ‘first there was a lovers’ quarrel. Jenny wrote to him saying that she never wanted to see him again. And then Captain Williams revealed himself to be a hero. You just can’t imagine, Eliza.’
I walked over to the window while Jane told Eliza the whole story of the misunderstanding between Thomas and myself and about his heroism at the stagecoach robbery. He did sound so magnificent!
‘So . . .’ breathed Eliza. ‘Come and tell me, Jenny, chérie. Did he propose?’
I came back over and sat on the bed beside her and she kindly put her pug on my knee. I must say that it made things easier to be patting the comic little dog while I told the sad story about Edward-John’s refusal of the offer of marriage.
Eliza drew in a deep breath and nodded her head solemnly. ‘This needs thinking of,’ she said. ‘I will talk to mon cher oncle about this. There are legal steps which could be taken. If your legacy were to be taken out of Edward-John’s hands and placed in your uncle’s since you are now living with him, then the objections might disappear. I have a lawyer, who is very much in love with me, who may be able to help in this matter. I shall see him when I go to Bath.’
Jane looked at me and I looked at her. A little thrill of excitement passed through us. We could read each other’s thoughts in our eyes. Neither of us believed that this lawyer could do anything – after all, my brother was my guardian. It was the mention of Bath that was exciting. We had considered asking Mrs Austen to take us to Bath, but to go with Eliza would be such fun. Jane clasped her hands together.
‘Oh, Eliza, would you take us to Bath, Jenny and myself? Oh, please – we’d be no trouble to you.’
Eliza pursed her lips and looked a little concerned.
‘And we’d take care of Pug for you,’ persisted Jane.
Eliza laughed. ‘It’s not that you will be any trouble to me, Jane, ma chérie. It’s just that I fear your mother may not trust me with you two. But nous verrons. Let us concentrate on the play now. You help me to unpack and then we must go out into the barn. James is eager for the rehearsal.’
Thursday, 14 April 1791
Jane was awake before me and was leaning over my bed when I opened my eyes. Her face was very near to mine, her hazel eyes sparkling and her dark curly hair still neatly tied in two plaits. She gave me quite a start.
‘I know what you must do, you and your gallant captain.’ She sounded the way she always does when some elaborate story has got hold of her mind.
‘What?’ I asked sleepily.
‘You’ll have to go to Gretna Green!’
‘Where?’ I stared at her stupidly.
‘Wake up, Jenny,’ said Jane impatiently. ‘You must know where Gretna Green is. Haven’t you read about it in novels? Don’t you know that once you reach the border between England and Scotland you can get married without asking permission of any parent or guardian? A blacksmith at Gretna Green can marry you. I thought of trying it myself so that I will have the experience for my novels, but now if you do it, I shall go with you as a sort of chaperone and not have the bother of making up my mind whom to marry.’
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, sat up and told her that I didn’t think that Thomas would like that and that I couldn’t imagine him doing something like going to Gretna Green. ‘He’s more likely to fight it out with Edward-John,’ I added.
‘A duel!’ Jane’s eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘Pistols at dawn! Or swords! I definitely think swords. They would be much more romantic.’
I asked her whom she would go to Gretna Green with if she were going to make a runaway marriage (partly to distract her from the idea of a duel – I didn’t want to even think about that).
‘I think Newton Wallop would be the most fun,’ pronounced Jane. ‘Anyway, he is the son of an earl and I do want to make a splendid match.’ And then she added thoughtfully, ‘The elopement might even be gossiped about at court, and what more could a girl want?’
I got out of bed and shivering a little began to wash with the cold water in the basin on the washstand. Now that we were almost to Easter, Mrs Austen had declared that fires in the bedroom were an extravagance so instead of picking a can of nice hot water from the hob by the fire, we had to wash in cold.
While I was washing, Jane scribbled vigorously on a piece of paper, her quill dipping rapidly in and out of the ink pot, and she was shaking sand over the result by the time that I dried myself.
‘Listen to this,’ she said. ‘You can stick it in your journal afterwards. It’s another few words for my Augusta story. I think it will be my best novel by the time I have finished. Augusta will be a clergyman’s wife and my heroine will despise her. I think I will call my heroine “Emma”. I like that name. It seems cool and clever, somehow.’
I pulled on my stockings while she read it out. When she had finished she gave it to me to stick it into my journal. I must say that I think she is very clever. I don’t know how she gets these ideas.
It was short, but it did make me giggle. I don’t think I would ever have the courage to say something like that to the real Augusta.
‘A letter for you, Jenny,’ said Frank as Jane and I came into breakfast. He had already been up to Deane Gate Inn for the letters delivered there every morning by the mail coach and was busily distributing them. He put the sealed and folded sheet of paper by my plate and then moved on to give Henry his numerous letters.
I’m sure my face showed my thoughts when I saw the square firm handwriting on the outside of the sheet. I couldn’t believe that I had got a letter from Thomas already. He must have written almost as soon as he arrived back at Southampton.
‘Jenny, my dear,’ said Mr Austen quietly. ‘Please give your letter to your aunt.’
I stared at him. I could not believe it. He, so gentle, so slow to interfere, was actually asking me to give my beloved letter to Mrs Austen. I made no move to obey, just held my precious letter clenched within my hand. Mrs Austen stared stonily ahead with an air that said plainly: this is nothing to do with me.
‘My dear,’ Mr Austen got to his feet, ‘I think you and I should just have a quick word with Jenny. Go on with your meal, the rest of you. No, Jane, you stay there.’
His voice was unusually firm for him, and to my surprise Mrs Austen, usually the one in authority in the household, got to her feet as meekly as I did and followed him into his study at th
e back of the house.
‘Dearest Jenny,’ he said affectionately, taking me by the hand when I had closed the door to the study. ‘Try to understand. Although we love you as we love our own children, we have to remember that your mother left your brother as your guardian, not us. Now your brother has declared that he will not countenance an engagement between you and Captain Williams and that means that you must not correspond or meet with the captain – except as a friend of the family of course. Will you promise me that you will not do this while you are under my roof?’
I thought for a moment and then I told him that I would obey his orders. He looked a little surprised at that, almost as if he were half sorry that he was not able to use all of his prepared arguments.
‘And will you agree to your aunt opening this letter and judging whether it is a suitable letter for a young girl in your position to receive?’
Without a word I handed it to my aunt, who looked annoyed at her husband’s scruples. Nevertheless, she was probably curious, because she broke the seal and opened it quite quickly, spreading out the page.
A tiny forget-me-not slid out and I picked it up quickly before anyone else could touch it. Mr Austen was looking out of the window in a slightly embarrassed way and did not see the flower, but Mrs Austen gave a quick grin. She scanned the letter quickly and then handed it to me.
‘Perfectly correct in every way,’ she said. ‘Read it aloud to your uncle, Jenny.’
So I read aloud in a colourless voice, the letter in one hand and the forget-me-not clutched in the other:
I folded the letter and returned it meekly to my aunt, who briskly handed it back to me.
‘Well, well . . . well, that all seems satisfactory. My dear, perhaps I’ll leave you to speak with Jenny.’ Mr Austen shot off back to his breakfast.
‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Austen when he had gone. ‘That’s a clever young man of yours, my dear. He guessed that your uncle would have these scruples. That’s gentlemen for you, Jenny. Your uncle is the best of men, but when he puts his foot down about something, well, we might as well give in as waste our time trying to change his mind. I suppose the message is in the forget-me-not, is that it?’
When I looked back Mrs Austen was pursing her lips in a satisfied manner.
‘He’s a nice young man,’ she said. She seemed to think for a minute and then said, avoiding my gaze, ‘Jane liked him, didn’t she, Jenny? I suppose there is nothing wrong in Jane writing to him and giving him news of you?’
I nodded. I was about to say that I had thought of that idea also, but then I decided that was enough. There was a gleam in my aunt’s eyes which warned me to say no more.
She looked at me with satisfaction and pushed the curls away from my face, patting my cheek gently. ‘You’re so like your poor mother,’ she said with a burst of emotion. ‘She was such a pretty girl. I don’t know why she married Dr Cooper. Your brother is the image of him.’ And then she kissed me quickly and we went back to the breakfast parlour. As I slid into my seat beside Jane her eyes scrutinized me and I smiled blandly and helped myself to breakfast.
Friday, 15 April 1791
Today was such fun. At last the great day of the performance of the play had arrived. Mr Austen’s pupils will be going home for their Easter holiday tomorrow, so this is the final opportunity to have all the cast together. Even James, who is so fussy, just can’t have any more rehearsals.
But before I write about that I must write about the letter.
After I had finished writing in my journal yesterday evening, I said to Jane that I wished that I could write a long letter to Thomas, but I had promised Mr Austen not to – and Thomas could not really write to Jane or everyone would want to know where her letter came from. And then I suddenly got a good idea and thought of Harry Digweed, the boy who lives next door to the Austens.
The Digweeds lived in an ancient manor house next door to Steventon church. Harry was the second son, a quiet, friendly boy with a nice smile but not much to say for himself. He spent a lot of time at Steventon parsonage and he and Frank were always discussing shooting, hunting, horses and dogs. I had a feeling that he was rather fond of Jane. He seemed to watch her often when he thought he was unobserved and he laughed uproariously at any joke that she made.
I asked Jane whether she thought Harry could keep a secret.
‘I should think so,’ said Jane after a moment’s thought. ‘I always trusted him. I used to tell him all my secrets. You know what children are like with their little private affairs!’ And Jane sighed in an elderly fashion.
‘You see,’ I said to her, ‘I was thinking that if I could get Thomas to send a letter to Harry Digweed and to put a cross or some mark like that on the outside, then he could bring it over here to me.’
‘Better still, bring the letters secretly by dead of night to the hollow yew tree outside the church,’ said Jane dramatically. ‘Do you remember how Cassandra and Tom Fowle used to use that as a letter box? They’ve given it up now that they’ve become officially engaged; I’ve looked a few times and there never is anything there. We could use that now, and it’s so near to the Digweeds’ house it would be quite convenient for Harry.’
‘And if we could get Harry Digweed to send your letters to Thomas, then no one in this household need be involved.’ I was getting enthusiastic about this idea. It was so much better than my first idea, of asking Frank to post them and to collect the letters from Thomas and give them secretly to Jane and to post my replies. I would hate to get Frank involved in something of which his father disapproved.
‘You’ll have to play your part cleverly, Jane,’ I warned. ‘You must make Harry Digweed think that he is doing a great favour to you. He’s fond of you.’
‘Ye . . . es,’ said Jane thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have to think out a “girl in distress” storyline.’ She stared unseeingly out of the window for a few minutes and then said rapidly, ‘You have appealed to me to help you, and all I could think of was to go to this friend of my youth, my dear Harry Digweed. The thought of his manly profile, of his blond hair and his blue eyes made my knees feel weak. He was the one, the only one, that I knew I could trust. One who could be a friend to weak girls . . . a brave, handsome, gentle, perfect knight.’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ I advised, though I couldn’t help laughing.
‘No, just a touch of a quaver in the voice, just a hesitating gesture towards putting a hand on his sleeve – halted abruptly, of course . . . Leave it to me. I can manage Harry.’
‘Poor boy,’ I said laughing, but I didn’t care really. All I cared about was being in touch with my lovely Thomas and to have him able to write letters to me that could freely show what was in his heart.
‘Let’s write the first letter now. What do you want to say? Or do you want to write it yourself?’
I told her that I had given my word to her father not to write any letters while I was under his roof so I wanted to keep my promise. I think she was quite relieved at that because she got out the paper and trimmed a new quill very enthusiastically.
‘Just leave it to me,’ she advised. ‘I’ll tell him all about how you wander the house as a pale as a ghost; how you start and blush when anyone mentions something to do with the navy, like ships, or the sea, or even the colour blue.’
I begged her not to be so dramatic, that Thomas would think she was just laughing at us, but she assured me it would be a perfect letter.
I went to the window and waited while she was writing, and when she had finished she read it to me:
Jane was quite proud of her letter and I had to acknowledge that the idea of the anchor was a good one. I wished that I could write my own letter though. There were so many things that I wanted to say, and I definitely would not have mentioned the episode with the tea cosy.
After breakfast Jane and I walked up the lane towards the church, and when we were almost at the manor we met Harry and his dog, a lovely friendly black pointer, who wagged her tail enthusiastically at the sigh
t of Jane.
‘Oh, Harry,’ said Jane dramatically, clasping her hands, ‘we are in such trouble, and we come to you for help.’
‘What’s the matter, Jane?’ he gasped. He really is very sweet.
‘I hate to ask you to do this, Harry, but would you swear never to tell anyone about this matter?’
‘What matter?’ He looked so bewildered that I felt I should explain. However, I kept silent. He must be used to Jane’s manner; he has known her all his life.
‘We need your help, Harry. True love must find a way. Tell me that you will help us in this affair of the heart.’
‘Love?’ queried Harry. Now he flushed slightly, and this time I could not help intervening.
‘Jane’s talking about me, Mr Digweed,’ I said in a dignified way.
Jane shot me a look that said you’re spoiling everything, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want Harry to be confused. I explained to him what we wanted him to do and he nodded agreeably.
‘Yes, of course, yes, of course, no problem,’ he kept saying. ‘Yes, that’s no problem, Miss Jenny. No, no trouble at all. I’ll take this letter now and give it in at Deane Gate Inn before the mail coach comes. I’m going that way in any case. And if a letter comes back, I’ll stick it into the old hollow yew tree.’
Then he blushed a little as he said, ‘Do you remember, Jane, when we were young and you made Frank and myself play a game with you there? You were supposed to be a new bride – I remember you had a small tablecloth around your shoulders. Frank was your wicked husband who has only married you for your estates, and I was a passing woodman who hears your piteous cries and rescues you just before you expired.’ He laughed at the memory and Jane laughed also, though I had a feeling that she didn’t remember.
I was impressed at how well Harry recalled all the details. ‘Marrying for your estates’ and ‘your piteous cries’ and ‘. . . expired’ all sounded just like Jane. It was as if he had kept her words in his mind all through those years. I turned to go back, and Jane joined me instantly, saying over her shoulder, ‘We’ll see you later on at the play, Harry.’
Jane Austen Stole My Boyfriend Page 3
