“It is not my favourite place, I confess.” James’s approach to differences of opinion between his mother and sisters was always diplomatic. “But it has some advantages, not least the number of balls held there. And do not deny you like balls, Jenny.”
“There you are, miss!” cried Mama. “And even if you do not go to Bath or Kent, we have plenty of balls nearer home for you to attend. The Biggs will hold a Christmas ball at Manydown this year, as they always do.”
“Christmas! Mama, it is only September.”
“Christmas will come soon enough,” said Mama. “Which reminds me, I must pick those last raspberries tomorrow, before the birds have them all, and Travers and I can make jam. You can help us, Jenny, while Cass is away.”
Anne brought the glass of water; Mama’s weak stomach was placated; James read from a book of sermons; they played with Anna before she went to bed. Walking home in the calm, cooling air, with the scents of berry bushes, grass and horse-manure all around, Jenny sensed her sister’s pensive mood and took her arm.
“What shall I do for five weeks without you, Cass?” she asked softly.
“Survive perfectly well, you little goose.”
Jenny was quite prepared to spill her feelings in letters, but letters were no substitute for the security of her sister’s presence and her good advice. The puzzle of William Heathcote had not seemed so complicated to Cass. She had concluded something entirely reasonable and communicated it to Jenny in well-chosen words, soothing her sister’s fevered emotions.
My sensibility, thought Jenny, and Cassandra’s sense.
While Cass was making ready for bed, Jenny sat at the writing desk. Under the blotter lay the manuscript she had been so secretive about. “A reflection of ourselves,” she had told Cassandra. In her mind she had the story of two sisters, whose different dispositions led them into interesting situations. She even had their names, the prettiest she knew. But not until this moment had it been clear which of them was which, and why they were so different. Now, she knew.
Taking the pen, she dipped it into the ink and wrote upon a fresh sheet: Elinor – sense. Marianne – sensibility. Satisfied, she laid down the pen. Tomorrow she would start Elinor and Marianne in earnest.
Henry
As Mama had forecast, Christmas came soon enough. Jenny’s nineteenth birthday was followed by a yuletide season so cold that Steventon Rectory became Cassandra and Jenny’s prison. The sisters were overjoyed that both Henry and Frank, their naval officer brother, had obtained leave for Christmas. But the snow was too deep for the carriage to get to Manydown House for the Biggs’ traditional Christmas ball, and neither the sisters nor their brothers could go.
It was partly this disappointment which prompted Mama and Papa to procure a spring invitation from Edward and Elizabeth in Kent. But Jenny was not to stay there alone; she was to be accompanied by Cassandra and Henry. Patience, Jenny, she told herself. Only two more years until you are of age.
Much as she had looked forward to the Biggs’ ball, Jenny’s enthusiasm had been dampened by the possibility that William Heathcote would be there. Elizabeth Bigg had kept the neighbourhood on tenterhooks for the past few months by maintaining a ladylike silence on the subject of the handsome clergyman. To Jenny, Cass, Martha and Mary she had confided, with tears, that now he had taken orders and had obtained a living even further away than Winchester. Moreover, her father was not sure that he was a wealthy enough suitor for her.
“But he is the son of a baronet!” Mary had protested.
“That is true, my dear Mary, but he is the younger son. He will inherit neither the title nor the land. And he may have forgotten all about me by now,” Elizabeth had added pathetically, beginning to weep again. “I have not seen him for so long, I sometimes wonder if I should even hope that he will ever declare his intentions, whether to me or to my father.”
“Meanwhile,” Martha had suggested, “you have other suitors, do you not?”
“Oh, yes. There is always the devoted John Harwood. I suppose I had better not absolutely spurn his attentions, because he definitely will inherit. Though less, of course, than Mr Heathcote’s elder brother.”
Jenny had had to rein in her indignation at this guileless cruelty. Kind and pleasant as her friend was, and however much in love with William Heathcote she declared herself to be, Jenny understood that any girl endowed with beauty such as Elizabeth’s liked to count her suitors in units of more than one, and would never marry a penniless man.
But the thought of meeting Mr Heathcote again worried Jenny nevertheless. No note of apology had ever come. Would he regret his conduct and be embarrassed when he saw her? Or worse, would he simply have forgotten he had ever danced with Miss Austen of Steventon?
When the snow put paid to the ball Jenny’s nerves settled. But then Edward and Elizabeth invited the sisters for a visit which was to include a week spent with Eliza in London. If Mr Heathcote was indeed acquainted with their cousin he might very well visit her while Henry, whom he also knew, was in London too. After so many months without a word, Jenny might have to meet him again under the scrutiny of Eliza, Cass, Henry and half of London society. Meanwhile, Elizabeth Bigg and her scrupulous father would be many miles away in Hampshire.
Cassandra knew her sister well. “You must not think they are sending me as chaperone, you know,” she said gently, watching Jenny put the manuscript of Elinor and Marianne, which Cassandra still had not been permitted to read, into the bottom of the heaviest trunk. “Our sister-in-law Elizabeth will chaperone both of us.”
“Elizabeth will do no such thing,” replied Jenny. “She will not accompany us to Orchard Street, that is for certain. Henry has been recruited for that duty.” She began to rearrange the trunk’s contents, the better to hide the string-bound pile of papers.
“Henry will not object to it,” observed Cass. “You know how much he enjoys going into London society. And Eliza’s house is always full of people ready to admire a young man in uniform.”
“Exactly,” said Jenny, with feeling, “yet Mama will not allow me to go there, or even to Godmersham, with Henry alone. Someday you shall be free of me, Cass. Though I shall expect a warm welcome in the household of the Reverend and Mrs Tom Fowle whenever I decide to visit.”
Cassandra was quiet for a few moments. When she spoke there was strain in her voice. “Do you think I wish to be free of you?”
“Why, Cass!” cried Jenny in dismay, sitting back on her heels. “I only meant that someday you shall be married, and no longer living here. You know no one loves you as well as I do! We shall be the very best of friends for ever!”
Cass, unable to suppress sudden tears, went into the bedroom and closed the door. Jenny did not follow her; she knew her sister wanted to unravel her thoughts by herself. But it was rare to see Cassandra in distress. Could the length of her engagement, now almost three years, be less bearable than she advertised to the world?
Jenny wished she had not spoken. Why had she not seen that this visit to Kent would be for Cass a poignant reminder of last September’s visit with Tom? She decided she must make it up to her sister. She had meant it from her heart when she said that no one loved Cass as well as she did; Tom’s was surely a different kind of love. She went to the bedroom door. No sound came from within.
“May I bring you anything?” she called softly, without opening the door.
Cass’s voice sounded the same as usual. “No, thank you, dear. But you might tell Mama that I shall not be taking dinner today. I have no appetite.”
Jenny nibbled her thumbnail. It seemed she had been summarily dismissed. But, fired with a new determination to consider her sister’s feelings, she went to deliver the message.
“Oh, Lord!” were Mama’s words. “She is not going to be ill, is she, when everything is planned for tomorrow? Does she look feverish?”
“Not in the least,” Jenny replied. “She merely has no appetite, and wishes to spend a quiet evening before a long journey.”
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Mama, though she would never wish any of her family to be ill, dearly loved to have an invalid on her hands. “We shall see how she is in the morning,” she declared. “She shall not travel if I consider her unfit to do so.”
Henry, lolling in an armchair, exchanged a secret smile with Jenny. “If Cass has to stay at home, may I still take my other sister on the visit she has looked forward to for so long?”
“Certainly not,” returned Mama. “I would not trust you to take care of the strapping of a trunk, let alone the chaperoning of a nineteen-year-old girl.”
“Unfair!” protested Henry.
“Perfectly fair,” retorted Mama.
When her mother had gone to see about the dinner, Jenny took the rare chance of a private conversation with Henry. There were things, important to her if not to him, that she had long wished to ask him about.
“Henry, do you remember William Heathcote?” she began. “He has been hunting, he says, with you and Edward. I believe he lives at a place called Hursley Park, which is … I do not know where it is.”
The words came out so hard upon each other that Jenny was not sure her brother had understood. But after a moment’s thought he turned to her. His countenance, normally so open, was inscrutable. “Yes, I know Heathcote.”
“He is a suitor of Elizabeth Bigg.”
“Ah. Along with half the county, I would wager.”
He shifted in his seat, adjusting his waistcoat. Then he fell to a careful inspection of his boots.
“Cass and I met him at the Assembly Rooms last September,” Jenny told him. “He said he knew Eliza. I wondered if you had met him at Orchard Street.”
“As proof that he truly does know Eliza?” asked Henry.
Jenny was startled at the sharpness of his tone. “No, I do not think so. I suppose I want to know your impression of him, that is all.”
“And of his suitability for you, Jenny Wren?”
Childhood resentment flooded back, exacerbated by her intense affection for Henry. “Do not call me Jenny Wren,” she told him frostily. “My name is Jane. I merely want to know what you think Mr Heathcote is like.”
“Has he committed some offence, that he requires a character witness in order to please you?”
“Not at all. I shall tell you what happened, since it is no secret. He was very attentive to me. He asked me for two dances. But then he saw Elizabeth Bigg.” She watched while Henry dusted the knees of his breeches. “However, I dare say I am asking the wrong person. Men do not concern themselves with such things.”
“I assure you, men do.”
“Then what do you know of him?”
“He is rich, though not the inheritor of the estate. He is to take orders, I understand.”
“He already has.”
Henry shrugged. “I have met him at Eliza’s, and from my own observation, he is attentive to the ladies.”
“So are you, but let that pass.”
“His understanding is good,” he declared, “and his manners are gentlemanly.”
“I agree. And his person?”
He shrugged again. “He rides well, and is a handsome devil, as I am sure you are well aware. Are you in love with him?”
“No!” said Jenny, knowing she was flushing, but not caring because Henry was treating the matter seriously. She asked him her most important question. “Do you think he will be invited to Orchard Street while we are there?”
He rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and leaned his chin on his hand, half hiding his face. When he spoke again, his voice was weary. “Do not quiz me any more, Jenny. I am sick of the man.”
“So if I were inclined to fall in love with him, you would counsel me against it?”
“No more quizzing!” he pleaded. “And since counsel will never defeat love – have you ever known anyone be persuaded out of their affection? – I will say nothing.”
Godmersham’s beauty was quite different from that of Steventon, but the smoothness of the lawns, the grandeur of the chestnut trees holding up their white candles, the pleasant situation of the house and the glorious aspect from every window impressed Jenny profoundly. For the hundredth time, she marvelled at Edward’s luck.
Of course, his luck was partly due to his own charm. He had not James’s authority nor Henry’s good looks; Frank was a formidably able officer, and Charles was the most light-hearted of all the Austen brothers. But Edward possessed qualities which had brought him wealth beyond anything his brothers could hope for. Generous and loving, as a child he had taken the fancy of Mr and Mrs Knight, distant relatives of his father. Having a large fortune but no children of their own, when Edward was still a young boy they had asked to adopt him legally, as their own son and heir. His parents, knowing that his alternative prospects were narrower than those the Knights were offering him, had readily agreed to this proposal. Upon Mr Thomas Knight’s death, Mrs Knight had moved into a smaller house and left Edward and his wife Elizabeth installed at Godmersham Park.
“I am not sure I like our sister-in-law’s practice of calling me ‘Aunt Jenny’ in front of little Fanny,” said Jenny in a low voice. “The child is bound to do the same.”
They had been at Godmersham for three weeks. It was the first truly warm day of the year, and Jenny and Cass were walking in the park, preceded by Elizabeth, who was hand in hand with two-year-old Fanny. Behind them, talking animatedly, strolled Henry and Edward.
“I am resigned to ‘Jenny’ from my elders,” continued Jenny, twirling her parasol, “but from small children it is an impertinence of the first order.”
“Tell Elizabeth she must refer to you as ‘Aunt Jane’, then,” suggested Cassandra.
“You tell her.”
Cassandra laughed. “Whatever little Fanny, or little Anna for that matter, chooses to call you, you will accept,” said Cass. “You are as indulgent towards our nieces as I am.”
“Then shall I tell them to call you ‘Aunt Cassikins’?”
“Jenny, these stays are too tight to laugh in!”
“In that case you had better not wear them tomorrow. Eliza’s parties are always full of jokers, and I do not mean on the card tables.”
Cassandra’s face straightened. “Oh, cards, and the kind of dinner that takes half an hour to spread out, while the food gets cold. And elegant young ladies playing the piano. No, the harp.”
“And singing, but since Eliza is still in mourning, no dancing,” added Jenny. “However, if Eliza wants to invite us to those grown-up sort of parties, you know we must go, Cass.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Dear me, such a lot to complain about when one has a social whirl like ours! But it will be good to see Eliza again.”
“Whenever I feel nervous and stupid, which I often do before Eliza, you are always there to make me smile again,” said Cass warmly. “Who will perform this office when Tom and I are married, and you are far away?”
“No one will need to, because married women do not feel nervous and stupid, of course,” replied Jenny without hesitation.
A raised voice behind them made both sisters stop and turn. Edward and Henry were walking towards them. “Ladies, what do you say to a carriage ride?” asked Edward. “Henry has prevailed upon me to transport him to Canterbury this afternoon, from where he intends to take the public coach to Dover. ”
“Dover?” Cassandra addressed Henry in surprise. “Why are you going there?”
“I have someone to meet.”
“Off a ship?” asked Jenny eagerly. “From France? Who is it?”
“Suffice it to say that Henry is going to Dover,” said Edward with finality. “Now, would you like to go with him as far as Canterbury, or shall our nonsensical brother complete his entire journey alone?”
“I would like to go,” said Jenny, “if we may travel in an open carriage. Is it a warm enough day for the barouche, do you think?”
“I believe so,” Edward told her, smiling. “It will be a pleasant outing for us all.”
“And I shal
l travel back from Dover tomorrow,” said Henry.
“Tomorrow!” echoed Jenny in dismay. “Have you forgotten that we are going to Eliza’s tomorrow?”
“I shall try to join you at Orchard Street later in the evening.”
“But…” Cassandra was bewildered. “Mama said you were to escort us there.”
“My man Craven shall accompany you on the journey,” put in Edward, with a glance at Henry. “He is a good man; he has served at Godmersham for fifteen years.”
Much as Jenny loved Henry, she could not help but feel dissatisfied with this turn of events. “Are you not disappointed,” she asked, watching his face, “to be missing Eliza’s party?”
Henry set off across the grass, walking more quickly than before. “No, I am not disappointed. I attend our cousin’s parties whenever she invites me.”
“From Petersfield?”
“Petersfield is no distance from London. And Trident knows a good gallop when he sniffs it.”
“And he gallops back?”
“The next day, yes.”
Jenny wanted to ask more questions, but the familiar suspicion that some questions were unacceptable had descended upon her, and she remained silent. She wished she knew what was in Henry’s head. But why should he tell her? Younger sisters were there to be taken for carriage rides, and be satisfied.
She was quiet at luncheon. But once they had left Fanny in the arms of her nurse and, with much waving and blowing of kisses, had climbed into the barouche, her spirits lifted. Four young horses, eager for the exercise, were driven by Edward’s coachman at a fast pace towards the Canterbury road. Blossom-scented April air rushed past Jenny’s cheeks, tearing her curls from beneath her bonnet and whisking them into her eyes. She blinked and gasped with exhilaration. Cassandra was laughing, full of the same excitement, and Henry laughed too, at the sight of his sisters enjoying themselves.
“You two will be the centre of attention tomorrow night,” he predicted.
“What excuse shall we make to Eliza for your absence?” Jenny asked him. “If you wish, I could say your regiment has been called to action at short notice, and that you sailed on the first packet out of Dover to join your men.”
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