And then there is a clatter of horse hoofs. Two showy-looking grey horses, profusely covered in sweat, gallop in through the gates. The post boy jumps to the ground and holds the horses’ bridles, and then Sir Walter Montmorency, elegantly dressed in a pair of skin-tight pantaloons and a greatcoat with three capes layered on the shoulders, climbs down. Within the chaise I see a pale blue bonnet.
‘Change the horses – look sharp, my man, let’s have a good driver and decent pair of horses this time.’ The post boy glowers at this and exchanges a glance with the ostler from the Huntsman Inn.
‘Sir Walter –’ Harry taps him on the shoulder, ‘– a word with you, if you will be so good.’
I think for a moment Sir Walter does not recognize Harry. He frowns at him impatiently, but that seems to be his normal expression, and when Harry wheels round and leads the way towards the back of the yard he follows him.
‘Quick,’ says Jane, and in a moment we are both outside. A maidservant is passing with a jug of ale in her hand and Jane touches her on the arm.
‘Could you ask the young lady in the chaise to come and join us in the parlour,’ she says in a very grown-up way, and the girl bobs a curtsy. She instantly goes across, and a minute later Elinor’s pale face appears. She doesn’t lift her head, but follows the servant, the deep rim of her bonnet shielding her face.
‘You take her into the parlour,’ hisses Jane. ‘I’m going to see what’s happening.’
She slips away and I catch hold of Elinor’s cold hand at the same moment. She starts when she sees me, but she does not resist when I draw her into the parlour.
Despite the May weather there is a fire burning in the grate and I sit Elinor in front of it. Her eyes are swollen and her pale face blotched with tearstains.
‘Tea, ma’am,’ says the landlady, following me in. I can see her glance with curiosity towards Elinor.
‘Yes, please,’ I say, moving to stand in front of the girl.
Neither of us says anything until the tea is brought in – just two cups, I notice, and some finely cut buttered pieces of bread.
When the landlady goes out I follow her to the door and then quietly and cautiously turn the key. I don’t want to lose Elinor now that I have her safe. The lock makes a soft click, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She has started to cry noisily, sniffing into a drenched handkerchief. I go over, kneel on the floor beside her, and take her hand.
‘Did he force you to come away with him?’ I ask softly.
She nods her head and then shakes it.
‘You wanted him to love you – is that it?’ I’m beginning to understand her. She just sobs without replying so I go on.
‘He pretended to love you and no one has been so kind to you before... is that it?’ I ask the question softly and put my arm around her.
‘I thought he really loved me, but now I’m not sure.’ The words are choked with sobs, but I can understand her.
‘What made you change your mind?’
She looks at me with reddened eyes. I think that she might be quite pretty when she puts on some weight and is a bit happier. Perhaps Mrs Austen would have her to stay at Steventon and feed her up with cream from her Alderney cows.
‘It was my governess,’ she says after a moment. ‘Miss Taylor told me that the admiral said that Sir Walter had huge gambling debts. My uncle told me that I must not see him again. I asked Sir Walter was it true and he got very angry. He... He hit me.’
‘What?!’ I stop myself saying any more. There is some great puzzle here. The girl wasn’t abducted. She left the house of her own accord. I think she probably even met Sir Walter last night during the Leigh-Perrots’ party. But why did she go with a man who treated her like that?
‘But he was sorry afterwards. He kissed me. He was very nice to me then. I didn’t know what to think. Sometimes he is kinder to me than anyone else...’
‘Where is he taking you?’ I am too puzzled by her to ask any more about her feelings for Sir Walter. If a man hit me, I would have nothing more to do with him – not ever!
‘To Gretna Green.’ She whispers the words, although it is only the two of us here in the room.
‘Do you want to go? Do you want to marry him?’
Elinor shakes her head. ‘No, but I have to because if I don’t he will be ruined. He told me that when we were coming along in the chaise.’
‘But you left the house to go with him!’
‘I didn’t know what we were doing.’ Elinor’s voice is dull. ‘I thought we were just going to spend some time together. He forced me to go in the chaise. I kept asking him where we were going and eventually he told me. He said that I had to do it. I’m scared not to obey him.’
I get to my feet. I feel my cheeks burning with anger. This was abduction.
‘Elinor, stay here. Try to drink some tea. I’ll be back. Don’t worry – Jane and I will take you home. No one will know. Your governess has already told the admiral that you have gone for a walk with us.’
Carefully I turn the key in the lock, and once outside I lock it again. Whatever happens, I won’t allow Sir Walter to force her back into that chaise again.
‘My friend is sleeping,’ I say to the innkeeper’s wife when I meet her in the dark passageway. ‘You won’t allow anyone to disturb her, will you?’
‘No, ma’am, of course not.’ Her voice is full of curiosity and, what is worse, she sounds amused.
I hurry outside and Jane comes rushing up towards me.
‘Sir Walter has challenged Harry to a duel!’ she gasps. ‘But Harry just knocked the pistol out of his hand and punched him.’
The fight is still going on when we reach the backyard of the inn. There are several spectators, one of the stable boys even gives a slight cheer, but then the lad gets a severe glance from the innkeeper and turns it into a cough.
Sir Walter is getting the worst of it. Harry has a very red patch under one eye; otherwise he is unmarked, but the baronet’s nose is bleeding profusely over his fancy waistcoat and his expensive greatcoat. Even his white pantaloons are smeared with blood. As Jane and I join the crowd, Harry’s eyes go momentarily to us and then back to Sir Walter again. A slight smile comes over his lips, he draws his fist back and then it flies forward, lands on Sir Walter’s jaw and with a crash the man is on the ground. Harry stands over him, and says in his nice country voice to the innkeeper, ‘I think Sir Walter would wish to leave now. Could someone give me a hand to put him in his chaise?’
And with a stableman on one side, and Harry on the other, Sir Walter is dragged across the yard to the chaise. Jane races ahead and politely opens the door. Harry heaves the baronet in, dusts his hands and says to the post boy, ‘Drive him back to the Greyhound Inn in Bath.’
And Harry goes over to the pump, washes the blood from his hands and then splashes some water on his face.
‘Come and have some tea, Harry,’ I say.
‘In a moment,’ he says.
‘You go back inside,’ Jane says to me. ‘We’ll join you in a minute.’
I leave them and go back.
I can’t help glancing over my shoulder though. Jane is in Harry’s arms, her arms are around his neck and their lips are touching! I envy them, thinking of Thomas and myself.
Then I see one of the girls from the inn looking at me with a smile and I blush and move away. I wish they had somewhere to go so as to be private together, but neither seems to mind.
I’ve run out of conversation with Elinor by the time they come in. They are smiling and holding hands. They both refuse the tea and Harry offers his arm to Elinor and leads her out to the chaise.
Jane and I are alone in the dark cosy parlour of the inn. I look at her and she smiles at me.
‘Did he kiss you?’ I ask, pretending that I saw nothing, and she nods. The colour has rushed into her cheeks, and her hazel eyes are sparkling.
‘And?’ I put the question into my tone of voice.
‘And...’ she echoes teasingly. And then she su
ddenly hugs me.
‘I love him, I love him, I love him, I’ve always loved him!’ she says.
‘What?!’ I exclaim, but she just laughs.
‘Perhaps we’ll both get married at Christmas,’ I say.
‘Jenny,’ said Jane seriously, ‘don’t even think of it. We are going to keep this a deadly secret. I can’t imagine what my mother would say.’
Saturday, 14 May 1791
We are leaving Bath this morning so I haven’t really got enough time to write down everything that happened yesterday. It’s all a bit of blur: Sir Walter Montmorency eloping with (abducting, really) poor little Elinor. Harry being magnificent: hiring a chaise, overtaking them, then the great fight with Sir Walter, beating him to a pulp and sending him back to Bath like a whipped cur (that’s Jane’s expression). This morning when we met Harry he told us that Sir Walter Montmorency has left Bath, so Elinor is now safe from him.
We managed to get Elinor home before the admiral returned and the governess was so grateful. She whispered to me that the admiral took my letter and said he was delivering it to his friend whose ship is due to rendezvous with Thomas’s.
But this is the big news.
Jane is in love!
Really in love!
She wants to get married to Harry!!!!
Harry has a great plan, according to Jane. He hopes to rent a farm in Chawton, near Alton, where the land is good. He plans to brew beer. He says that the water in the river Wey is excellent for beer-making and he knows forty inns who will give him orders.
‘And, of course,’ added Jane, ‘a brewer is a man of consequence; a baker is no one, but a brewer is a gentleman. I read that in The Lady – I had a quick look at it when we were waiting for Eliza in the lending library.’
‘I hope your mother has read it also,’ I said, laughing. ‘Perhaps you could buy the magazine and put it under her nose. It’s only sixpence.’
‘But don’t say a word,’ warned Jane. ‘This is a deadly secret. Mama must not know or she will fall into a state of apoplexy and then blame me for it. We will break the news to her once Harry becomes a man of fortune.’
And then she gave a little secret smile, hugged herself and then hugged me. It’s lovely that we are both in love and both so happy. I’m sure that the Austens won’t insist on her marrying a man of fortune.
Tuesday, 17 May 1791
Jane is trying to cheer me up, telling me that I should be the happiest girl in the world. I know I should, but somehow I can’t believe it until I see Thomas.
There are another 14 days in May
30 days in June
31 days in July 31 days in August
30 days in September
31 days in October 30 days in November
That’s 197 days to go before the first of December arrives!
How can I bear it?
I try to turn my thoughts away from myself and to Jane. I still can’t believe how much in love she is with Harry Digweed, and I certainly can’t believe that I never guessed that Jane – the girl who flirted with so many men in Bath – is now so in love with one man. She tells me that Harry has been talking to his father about renting the farm in Chawton. It’s about seventeen miles from Steventon. That will be the first step towards setting up as a brewer. He has to grow a crop called hops. They grow up tall poles, joined together by wires. Jane says that Harry has told her that they grow so fast that you can almost see them grow. They have little flowers on them at the end of the summer – apparently you make beer with them. For the rest of the evening we talk about Harry and his prospects, and somehow I do feel better. I think that tomorrow I will ask Mrs Austen whether we can buy some cotton so that I can make a start on my trousseau and sew myself some nightgowns and some chemises.
Wednesday, 25 May 1791
Why don’t I hear from him?
I should have heard by now.
The ship carrying post should be back at Southampton by now.
Perhaps tomorrow.
Thursday, 26 May 1791
Last night I had a terrible thought! Did Phylly write to Thomas? One of those horrible anonymous letters, full of spite and lies.
Perhaps she exaggerated Eliza’s jokes about me and the French comte. Perhaps she even said that I was going to be married to that revolting slave merchant.
If Thomas heard that, perhaps he would be so disgusted that he would not want to have anything to do with me ever again.
I can’t bear the thought.
I can’t bear this unhappiness. Last night I did not sleep. I just tossed and turned all night.
It’s too late to write a letter now.
By now Thomas’s ship will have set out on the long journey to the West Indies.
And he won’t be back until December.
Frank
It’s bright outside, but I know it is still very early. The birds are singing in that special way they do at dawn, and the sun is still quite low in the sky, shining directly in through our window. There are no early-morning noises of cows being led into the milking parlour, or the clanking of the pump in the kitchen, or of Sukey slamming doors as she brings in wood for the stove.
But there is someone coming, someone on horseback, someone in a great hurry. There is a great scattering of gravel from the sweep, the sound of a horse’s neigh and then a quick, sharp knock on the door.
At the sound of that knock I lie back on my pillow again. Only Frank knocks like that. For a moment, half asleep as I was, I had thought that it might be Thomas. I had been dreaming of him all night. Sleepily I wondered why Frank had come home. He had been with his ship at Southampton as the officers were supervising the men in its cleaning and repairing before a long voyage to the East Indies.
His footsteps are coming up the stairs now, noisy, clattering footsteps of someone in heavy boots running at full speed up the uncarpeted staircase. I smile to myself. Typical Frank! It would never occur to him, since he is up and about, that the rest of the house might be asleep.
But then there is a knock on our door. Jane jumps up and pushes her nightcap off her forehead. She then lies down again and pulls the covers up over her ears.
I get out of bed and put on my wrapper. I go to the door and open it and there is Frank, all splashed with mud, his young face drawn and tired looking.
And only then do I think that Frank must have ridden through the night to get from Southampton and to arrive at Steventon at this early hour.
But why?
What is wrong?
And there is some expression on his face that makes me very afraid.
I say something... I don’t know... perhaps I don’t say anything... perhaps I just look at him.
A strange feeling comes over me... It seems as if some bizarre mist fills the air making me feel sick and weak.
I stare at him.
He takes me in his arms.
A half-sob breaks his breath for a moment.
I don’t want him to say anything.
But I know that I can’t stop it...
And I know what he is going to say...
‘Oh, Jenny,’ he says, ‘there is some very bad news about Thomas’s ship...’
I hear my voice – very strange, very far-off, and the voice is saying: ‘He’s dead.’
‘No, no.’ He holds me very tightly and he speaks into my ear, but still it takes a while to make sense of his words.
‘The ship has been missing for two weeks,’ he says. ‘It was lost in a great storm. Another ship nearby saw the mainsail torn down. But no trace of the ship has been found. Jenny, there’s still hope... Jenny, Jenny...
And then I go down – into a deep, dark, bottomless well, where there is no light and no warmth...
‘Mama! Jane!...’
... And now I am lying on my bed. Mrs Austen is sitting beside me, holding my hand; Mr Austen is standing at the bottom of the bed with an arm around Frank’s shoulders.
Jane is lying beside me on the bed with her arms around me. She is cryi
ng.
But I am not crying.
Not even trying to stop crying.
There is nothing left in me. I’m just frozen.
Monday, 30 May 1791
I shall never write in this journal again. I think I will burn it.
Bleak Midwinter
There was a storm overnight, and even now the wind keeps whistling and beating against the trees. The lawn is strewn with small pieces of twigs and strands of pale green lichen torn from the hawthorn bushes, and the sky is overcast, with black clouds scudding through the pale grey. Jane and I walk up the hill, side by side, towards Deane. We are going to fetch the letters from the inn. There was a time when this made my heart beat, when I hoped that there might be some news, though I knew that there could be none.
This terrible cruel hope that lingers when all hope should have ceased!
But even that has gone now, and nothing has taken its place.
Just a grey, sad loneliness.
But I make conversation. I talk. I try to laugh, to take an interest. I try to be there for Jane in her happiness as she was there for me during that brief spell of love and excitement, during that wonderful spring when all my dreams came true.
‘Look, there’s Harry by the church,’ I say to her.
She laughs. She is very happy these days.
‘He’s soaking wet,’ she says, making a face and pretending to shudder. ‘And his dog too. Look at her!’
‘You go and talk to him,’ I say. I’m not fooled by her words or her expression. No matter how wet Harry was, no matter how often the black pointer shook raindrops from her silky coat all over her, none of this mattered to Jane as long as she could be near him, could listen to his voice, could touch him, could feel his lips on hers.
I know all this because once I was like Jane.
Once I had someone who I loved more than the rest of the world. Someone that I thought I would marry.
‘Go on,’ I say. ‘I’ll fetch the letters. I’ll only be ten minutes, and then we can walk back to the parsonage together.’
Jane Austen Stole My Boyfriend Page 21
