I Was Jane Austen's Best Friend

by Cora Harrison

  Thursday, 17 March 1791

  One of Augusta’s many letters arrived this morning. Mrs Austen passed it to Eliza with a grin, and Eliza read out bits of it with great spirit and soon she had the whole table rocking with laughter, as she skimmed down and picked out the choicest snippets in her wonderful French accent.

  ‘My dearest husband — He really is engaged from morning to night — There is no end of peoples coming to him, on some pretence or other — The magistrates, and overseers, and churchwardens, are always wanting his opinion. They seem not able to do any thing without him. “Upon my word, Mr C.,” I often say, “rather you than I — I do not know what would become of my drawings and my piano, if I had half so many people calling on me” — Bad enough as it is, for I absolutely neglect them both to an unpardonable degree — I believe I have not played a bar this fortnight — But I have so many calls on my time — Mrs John Colwell, herself, called on me yesterday. “Mrs Cooper,” she said, “you are such a good charitable person — I declare to goodness that I actually saw you speak to one of those poor creatures that came to hear your husband preach”— pray tell Mr Austen that Mr Cooper means to pay him the compliment of posting the book of his sermons to him …’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind …’ Mr Austen sounded a little taken aback.

  I told him that I thought his sermons were better than my Edward-John’s — I wanted to reassure him because he is always so nice to me.

  ‘Still, to have a published volume of his sermons! And such a young man too! There’s writing ability in your family, my dear.’ He gave a nod at his wife, who preened herself; she is good at writing funny poems, I must say.

  ‘Jane will be the writer of this family,’ said Henry, and Jane looked very pleased.

  After dinner Jane asked Susan if she could have a tiny slice of cake. She had been making herself useful in the kitchen and complimenting the cook on the dinner so I wasn’t surprised when the cake tin was opened and a slice given to her. I had already prepared my drawings so we went straight down to the village.

  There was no sign of George anywhere around. He wasn’t near the pump, nor hanging around outside the inn. We went to Nanny Littleworth’s house, but she hadn’t seen him for a while.

  And then we found him on the lane to the church. He was lying on the ground, on his side, and he was twitching. There was still enough light to see how his eyes rolled in his head and how his lips were covered with froth. He was having a fit. But it wasn’t the sort of fit that Augusta would have; this was a real fit. I had never seen anyone have a fit before and it seemed terrible.

  I think I will always remember how Jane dropped to her knees beside him and cried over him as if it were the end of the world. I couldn’t stop crying myself. And then Mrs Littleworth came along and told us both to go home immediately. Bet was with her, and it was Bet who lifted up Jane and walked us to the gate of the parsonage.

  ‘He’ll be fine tomorrow, he’ll be fine,’ she kept saying in her country voice. ‘He doesn’t mind. He’s used to it and we’re used to it. Now, go home the pair of you, and for God’s sake don’t say a word to your mother about this. Promise me, Miss Jane, and you, Miss Jenny, nothing must be said, or it will be trouble for my mother.’

  Jane and I cried the whole way up to the house, and now I am crying again.

  I must stop crying or else I will just start thinking about my mother’s death and Jane will notice. I’ve told her that I don’t like talking about it and she doesn’t ask me any questions, but I think it upsets her when she thinks I am unhappy. Even though she and her mother fight from time to time, I think that she finds it a terrible thing to imagine being someone like me with no family — I can’t count Edward-John, as I don’t believe that he cares anything for me. We hardly knew each other before he married and came back to Bristol, as he lived in Berkshire.

  And now I’m going to try to stop worrying about this by thinking about the ball at Basingstoke Assembly Rooms.

  The gowns are progressing very well. They’ve been cut out and the side seams have been sewn so that now we have an idea of how beautiful they will look. Mrs Tuckley pinned them around us today, and tomorrow she will sew the seams in the bodices so that they will fit us snugly. I just can’t wait. Every time that I think about dancing in the Assembly Rooms in less than a fortnight I feel little thrills running up and down me. I think it will be the most wonderful night of my life. Even Cassandra is excited. She goes around singing to herself and exchanging small, secret smiles with Tom Fowle. Jane and I think that being in love must be very good for the complexion; Cassandra looks very nice these days, with lovely pink lips and pink cheeks — even her hair seems to curl more beautifully.

  Friday, 18 March 1791

  This morning at breakfast Henry had a little parcel beside him.

  ‘What’s that, Henry?’ asked Jane as soon as she saw it.

  ‘Curiosity,’ teased Henry. ‘Just something that I bought at the mercer’s shop yesterday when I was escorting Cousin Eliza to Overton.’ I saw him give a quick, joking look at Eliza who was at the breakfast table for once, pouring out the coffee she insists on having for breakfast. She blew him a kiss, and Mrs Austen scowled, though Mr Austen just laughed.

  ‘A pair of gloves,’ guessed Jane, but Henry shook his head.

  ‘He’s got six pairs of gloves already,’ said Gilbert East.

  ‘A cravat then,’ persisted Jane.

  ‘And he’s got a drawer full of them,’ said Tom Fowle’s brother William.

  ‘In any case, I am hoping that Jane will make me a cravat if there is a square of muslin left over from her gown,’ said Henry. He didn’t really need another cravat, I guessed. He was always beautifully dressed, and this morning he was wearing a snowy white one knotted under his chin in the latest style.

  ‘I will if you show me what you’ve got there.’ Jane kept on pestering him until he undid the twine and took out two beautiful bandeau-style ribbons.

  ‘Something for you girls to wear in your hair on Saturday night,’ he said. ‘There’s a pink one for you, Cassandra, that should match your gown.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Henry.’ Cassandra rushed over and admired herself in the looking glass.

  ‘And the red one for Jane — matches her rosy cheeks.’ Henry pinched Jane’s cheek. She wriggled away, but she was pleased with the bandeau. It was made from silk, like Cassandra’s.

  Cassandra was still admiring herself. She had a quick look at Tom Fowle and a smile passed between them. I think Tom really loves her. There is a look of adoration in his eyes. I made a promise to myself not to laugh at them any more, no matter what jokes Jane makes. I feel very sorry for the two of them and hope that Mrs Austen will allow them to get engaged. I’m sure Mr Austen won’t mind. He seems to like Tom Fowle very much.

  ‘And this is for Jenny, to match her beautiful blue eyes.’ I was so busy looking from Mr Austen to Tom Fowle that I got a shock when Henry opened the parcel a little more and slid out a gorgeous bandeau made from the deepest and softest blue velvet. I couldn’t say anything; I loved it so much.

  ‘Let me put it on.’ In a moment Henry had it around my head and had pulled one of my curls forward. He placed one hand on my shoulder while he was arranging my hair and I could feel myself tremble. I wished that we were alone and that the whole of the breakfast table wasn’t staring at us. He was so close to me that I could feel a warmth coming from him and could see that his dark eyes had little flecks of light in them. I felt myself moving closer to him and then jerked back.

  ‘Come on, look at yourself.’ He was smiling down at me, smiling just the way that he smiles at Cousin Eliza. I didn’t dare look at her. I didn’t dare look at anyone. I was too embarrassed to move and I knew that I had started to blush when he touched my hair.

  So Henry unhooked the looking glass and brought it over to me, putting one finger under my chin and turning my head slightly so that I could see myself perfectly in the glass.

  ‘Very nice,
’ said Mrs Austen drily. ‘Now, girls, thank Henry and put these upstairs until Saturday night. Jane, your satin slippers definitely need cleaning before the ball, and, Jenny, you had better check yours also.’

  ‘You do mine, will you, Jenny?’ said Jane in an offhand manner. ‘I must do my practising.’

  She went off without saying anything else and I was a bit puzzled. I wondered if I had offended her — or perhaps she thought the velvet bandeau was a better present than her silk ribbon.

  I didn’t think about it too much, though. All the way up the stairs I could feel the tingle of a beating pulse in the place where Henry had put his finger, just on the soft place under my chin.

  Something very embarrassing happened later on. I was dusting the breakfast parlour after lunch while Jane was practising the piano. The boys hadn’t gone back into the schoolroom yet. They were all shouting and laughing and making a great noise on the stairs.

  And I overheard a conversation.

  And it was about me.

  And I didn’t move away as I should have done.

  I just stayed there with the duster in my hand, listening.

  It was my aunt and my uncle in the study next to the breakfast room. They had been talking for quite some time — about vegetables and about Mr Austen’s farm, I think — and I had been taking no notice.

  And then I heard my name.

  ‘Mr Austen,’ my aunt had said. Her voice, as usual, was the voice of someone who is in a rush and has something of importance to say. It is a very high-pitched voice — like a corncrake, Jane says. It’s the sort of voice that easily goes through walls.

  ‘Mr Austen,’ she said. ‘I wish you would have a word with Henry and tell him to stop flirting with Jenny. He’ll turn that girl’s head.’

  Mr Austen must have said something. I just heard a murmur.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said my aunt. ‘She’s no child. She’s sixteen years old. That’s just the age when girls get all sorts of silly notions about love into their heads.’

  One of the boys shouted something and then they all went running out of the hall door. I could hear the noise of their boots on the steps, and through the window I saw them running across the grass towards the field. Sometimes they played ball for a while before lessons began.

  Now that they had gone, everything was quiet so I could hear Mr Austen’s voice quite well.

  ‘They would make a lovely couple, Jenny and Henry, he so tall, dark and handsome and she so small, blonde and pretty — lovely girl, lovely hair, lovely eyes, sweet-natured, too; she would make a perfect wife.’ From the sound of his voice I could guess that he had a smile on his face.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Mrs Austen’s voice was even more high-pitched than ever. ‘Don’t talk such nonsense, Mr Austen. Both of them will be as poor as church mice. How could they get married? They won’t have two pennies to rub together.’

  Mr Austen was saying something about how they had married without many prospects, but I didn’t wait to hear any more. I slipped out of the breakfast room, replaced the duster on the shelf of the cupboard under the stairs and tiptoed up to my bedroom. I was glad that Jane was still playing the piano; if she had been in the bedroom I know she would have asked me why I was so flustered. When I got to the bedroom I leaned first one cheek and then the other against the icy coldness of the window glass.

  Me marry Henry! I had never imagined that anyone would even have thought of that. I wondered whether to talk to Jane about it, but then I decided against it. I thought she was a bit short with me, a bit abrupt — perhaps she is a little jealous because Henry, her adored brother, gave me such a beautiful present and made such a fuss of me. I resolved that I wouldn’t mention Henry to Jane. I didn’t want her to think that I was a flirt like Eliza.

  I wasn’t sure whether Jane would want to go down to the village today, but she did.

  George was pleased to see us. He ran up straight away, and now that I wasn’t so scared of him I could hear that he was saying, ‘Jane.’ I tried not to look away, but to look at him. He was occupied with Jane so I could really look at him without feeling embarrassed. I began to think that he really did look like one of the Austen family. His hair is brown and curly, just like Jane’s hair, and although his face was dirty and one side of it is a bit twisted, his eyes are the same green-brown colour as Jane’s, and as Mr Austen’s eyes also. There was an expression in them that made me very sad. They looked as if he were trying to say something, but couldn’t: almost as if he were inside a cage and trying to get out. I wondered why he couldn’t talk. He seemed to be able to make noises and I suddenly thought it must be terrible if he thought he was saying words, but yet no one could understand them.

  Funnily enough, he seemed to be brighter and better today. Perhaps Bet is right — perhaps having a fit is like a very severe sneeze and then feeling your head clear. Now that he has got over the fit, George feels better.

  Jane had another slice of cake and we taught him the sign for the letter C with very little trouble.

  On the way back I suggested to Jane that the next time we see him we should go over the three letters again and make sure that he knows them. I couldn’t think of any food beginning with D so I thought we might skip that and go on to E for egg. The Austens keep their own hens so it is always easy to get hold of an egg.

  Sunday, 20 March 1791

  James arrived so early this morning that he was in the house before any of the family was up. He had taken the overnight coach from Oxford. Mrs Austen wanted him to go to bed after breakfast, but he wouldn’t. He said that he had come on purpose to practise the play and that he wanted to have a really good practise because this was Cousin Eliza’s last day.

  ‘I want everyone there — no one going off to shoot crows,’ he said, glaring at Frank.

  Actually Frank was quite good at the practise today. Cassandra was being wardrobe mistress and she dressed him up as Fag, the servant, in an old, slightly ragged coat of Mr Austen’s. He was very funny as the servant.

  ‘Rich!’ he declaimed, sounding, except for his half-broken voice, just like his father in the pulpit. ‘Why, I believe she owns half the stocks! Zounds, Thomas! She could pay the national debt as easily as I could my washerwoman! She has a lapdog that eats out of gold — she feeds her parrot with small pearls — and all her curl-papers are made of banknotes!’

  James and Eliza were funny too. I thought they acted very well together. Jane couldn’t stop laughing when James said, in very prim tones, after Mrs Malaprop was complaining about Lydia (Cassandra), ‘It is not to be wondered at, ma’am — all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by heaven! I’d as soon have them taught the black art as their alphabet!’

  ‘Time for church, everyone,’ said Mrs Austen, putting her head round the door and grinning at the way that Mrs Malaprop was mixing up words with other words that sounded like them, like calling particulars ‘perpendiculars’.

  ‘Oh, Aunt dear, I have such a headache. I vow it is a true migraine.’ Eliza clasped her hand to her forehead dramatically, as if she were still in the middle of the play. ‘Oh dear, I so hate to miss church, but I fear I cannot go.’ And then she staggered off with a quick look over her shoulder at Henry. Jane grinned and nudged me.

  Henry came with us all along the lane to the church, but I didn’t see him in church, though I turned around a few times to see whether he was standing at the back.

  When we came back from church though, there was no sign of Eliza, and Henry said he wanted to practise the scene with me, and that was good. I lost my shyness as I was determined to be as like Eliza as I could (but without the French accent) and it was so lovely afterwards, while Jane was playing on the piano, when Henry whispered in my ear some words from the play: ‘Let music be the food of love.’

  * * *

  After dinner, Cassandra, Jane and I went up to the guest bedroom to help Eliza to pack her clothes as she was returning to London that evening.

&nbs
p; I said very politely to Cousin Eliza that it was a shame that she had to go back especially as she was returning a few days later, and her answer gave me a shock.

  ‘Ah, but, chérie, I must go back to my poor little boy.’ She pronounced the word little as ‘leetle’.

  I said that I didn’t know she had a little boy — I wondered why no one had mentioned him. And then, since she had called him ‘poor’, I asked her politely whether her little boy was unwell.

  ‘Poor angel! He is never well! But I have found a physician that will give a new treatment.’ She was mopping her eyes with her handkerchief and Cassandra was shaking her head and frowning at me so I said no more. A minute later Eliza had gone to the window, laughing gaily and calling down to Henry. She accepted his invitation to come and see the new horse that he had bought and went clattering down the stairs on her high-heeled French shoes.

  When she had gone out, Cassandra told me the story of Hastings, Eliza’s son. Apparently he was now aged about four or five, but he had not been normal from the age of ten months. He suffered from fits from an early age and could not stand or walk unaided, though Eliza and her mother had managed to teach him his alphabet, according to what Eliza told her uncle.

  ‘The trouble with Eliza is that she is so stubborn. She will not admit to herself that the child will never progress. She insists on keeping him with her and trying every cure that comes up. Last year it was sea bathing — goodness knows what it will be next year. She should find some responsible person to care for him and then just put him out of her life.’ And Cassandra sighed in an elderly fashion over her cousin’s obstinacy.

  I said nothing, but I did not agree with Cassandra. I found myself admiring and liking Eliza more than I had done before.

  I vowed to myself that if I had a child who had problems, like George or little Hastings, I would not abandon it, but would love and care for it tenderly and to me it would be the most precious child in the world.