I Was Jane Austen's Best Friend

by Cora Harrison

  ‘Sir.’ Then I stopped. I didn’t know what to say. I just wanted to cry, but I knew I shouldn’t allow myself to start again. Soon it would be time for the bread-and-cheese lunch that the Austens always took at eleven o’clock, and I didn’t want all the boys to see my blotchy face and red eyes. I went to the window and opened it, leaning out to cool my cheeks before turning back to Jane.

  ‘I never want to see you again,’ I said as steadily as I could.

  Jane made a face. She stirred the ink with her quill, but did not write. I could see that she didn’t think much of this, but I couldn’t think of anything better to say so I bit my lip and tried not to think about Thomas and how splendid he had looked at the ball.

  ‘What about this?!’ exclaimed Jane. She opened her writing desk, took out her notebook, turned over the pages and then gave a satisfied nod.

  ‘This will do,’ she said. ‘It is from Jack and Alice.’

  She read it aloud as her quill scratched out the letters on the page.

  ‘ “Sir, I may perhaps be expected to appear pleased at and grateful for the attention that you have paid me, but let me tell you, sir, that I consider it an affront.” … What do you think of that, Jenny?’

  I didn’t reply; I couldn’t. I was trying too hard not to sob aloud.

  ‘I’ll put in “considering your vile and deceitful behaviour”,’ said Jane, writing rapidly. She needed to mend her pen; I could hear the point spluttering as it moved across the page, but once Jane was composing she never allowed anything to slow her down.

  I nodded, but I didn’t really care what she said. Thomas had hurt me so badly by telling my terrible secret that I could never forgive him. Even if he really did love me — and now I doubted that he ever had — and even if I could have brought myself to forgive him, my brother would never have allowed me to marry a man who had walked with me in the streets of Southampton at midnight. I was ruined for life. If he had told my secret to Augusta and Edward-John, he would tell it to everyone.

  ‘ “I look upon myself, sir, to be a perfect beauty — where would you see, sir, a finer figure or a more charming face?” ’

  I stopped her. ‘That’s silly. Just say that after his behaviour I never want to see him again …’

  ‘Don’t cry,’ said Jane sympathetically. ‘Don’t worry about the letter. I’ll just finish it off and sign it “Jenny”, and then I’ll give it to Frank and he’ll ride to the post with it straight away. I won’t read out any more. You can rely on me to make a good letter out of it. You just read a book or something.’

  ‘I’ll go and walk in the fresh air,’ I said, wrapping my cloak around me and then taking down my bonnet. I tried to shut my ears to the words she was muttering as I was tying my bonnet strings, but I could hear them as I went out of the door: ‘my accomplishments … my sweet temper … your dastardly behaviour …’

  That was the thing with Jane, I thought as I escaped down the stairs. She was very fond of me; I knew that. I was her best friend, just as she was my best friend, but writing always came first with her. Although very sorry for me, she was really enjoying composing this letter. I wondered whether she would change when she fell in love. I hoped for her sake that she never did. It all hurt too much. It was never worth it.

  And then I thought about Thomas and I knew that I couldn’t send him a letter like that. I raced back upstairs and burst into the bedroom.

  ‘Jane,’ I said, ‘I am very, very grateful to you, but I just think that I’d better write the letter myself.’ I could see she looked disappointed so I said that I thought her letter was too good for Thomas and would be best kept for a novel.

  And then very quickly I wrote to Thomas and said that after what had happened I would prefer not to see him again and that I hoped that he would respect my wishes. I ended it: ‘Yours, etc., J. Cooper.’

  I thought that sounded the right note and then very quickly, before I could change my mind, I ran downstairs and asked Frank if he would take it to the post for me. He told me that it wouldn’t get to Southampton before Friday as the mail coach had already gone, but I told him it didn’t matter as long as it arrived before the weekend. I could see him looking at my red eyes and tear-stained face, but I was past caring. I had a terrible pain in my heart and I just wanted to get into bed, draw the blankets over my head and moan.

  ‘Are you all right, Jenny?’ Frank’s young, slightly hoarse voice sounded so concerned that a lump came into my throat and I found it hard to answer him.

  The whole Austen family are being so nice to me. Henry allowed me to win some pennies from him in a game of pontoon, Frank offered to lend me his pony whenever I wanted it and, just because I ate so little at breakfast, Cassandra made a special dish of syllabub for me, whipping up the cream and white of eggs and flavouring it with orange juice and lots of sugar. Even that wasn’t enough to make me hungry though, and I shared it between Jane and little Charles when she had gone back to the kitchen.

  Friday, 8 April 1791

  I don’t think I’ll ever write in this journal again.

  Saturday, 9 April 1791

  The mail coach is due at ten o’clock this morning. I wish I didn’t have to go to meet Augusta and Edward-John, but Mrs Austen is insistent with me. She says that Cassandra and Charles must go too, as well as Jane, of course. Mr Austen and Henry have taken an earlier coach to visit James at Oxford; Frank has gone over to join a shooting party at the Portals’ place.

  ‘We’ll show them that you have a family here, and that family values you,’ she says to me, pinching my cheeks to give me some colour. Then she sends me upstairs to change my calico gown for my best blue muslin. ‘Go up with her to do her hair, Cassandra,’ she says. ‘Do it the way she had it at the ball, just pinned on top of her head with a few stray curls around her neck. I thought she looked very grown-up with that hairstyle. Boarding school indeed … we’ll see about that!’

  I feel my feet dragging as we set out and for once Mrs Austen isn’t shooing everyone along to hurry them up. ‘Ten o’clock,’ she says with a glance at her timepiece as we pass through the village. ‘We’re going to be quite late.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Cassandra in a worried way, but Mrs Austen just smirks.

  ‘They invited themselves; let them wait on our convenience.’ She sounds quite pleased with herself.

  When we reach Deane Gate Inn though, there is no sign of the coach, no bustling around, no changing horses, no piles of luggage on the ground – just the innkeeper’s wife peering anxiously down the road.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Austen, ma’am, I’m that worried; I don’t know what to do,’ she says. She looks at Mrs Austen. Everyone in the neighbourhood relies on Mrs Austen to tell them what to do, so now the innkeeper’s wife comes back to the gate and joins us. ‘The coach is overdue, ma’am. I’m feared that there might have been an accident. Do you think that I should send the man out to look for them? The trouble is that my husband isn’t back from Basingstoke.’

  ‘We’ll walk down the road to see whether it is coming.’ As always, Mrs Austen makes up her mind immediately. ‘They can give us a lift back if we meet them.’ She’s in a good mood, relishing the prospect of the battle ahead, but I’m worried. I know what Augusta is like. I always have a feeling that she hates me. I know that she resents that my mother left me fifty pounds in order to give me a dowry when I marry or when I reach the age of twenty-one – whichever happens first.

  Mrs Austen glances at me a few times but says nothing. Cassandra is silent because Tom Fowle has gone home for the weekend, Charles is looking into the little stream that runs along the side of the road to see if there are any sticklebacks in it, and Jane, I reckon, judging by her glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, is making up a story where Augusta would be defeated by some splendidly funny device – last night she was suggesting things like steel traps set all around Steventon!

  So we are silent when we come around the corner. There are poplar trees belonging to the Ashe family’s woodlands on eith
er side of the road, making it almost a tunnel of green, but the sun shines down through the tunnel and we can see plainly the scene ahead of us.

  The coach is there in front of us. It has not overturned or anything like that. The four horses are still harnessed to it. However, the doors are widely ajar and the six passengers, including Edward-John and Augusta, are out on the road. Their luggage has been taken off the coach. One masked highwayman is ransacking the bags and trunks, while the other keeps two pistols aimed at the huddled group, the coachman and guard included.

  The highwaymen haven’t seen us. The early-morning sun will be shining directly in their eyes if they look at us, but their whole attention is on their prisoners. Mrs Austen puts a finger to her lips and edges over to touch Charles on the shoulder. She makes urgent beckoning signs, and we all step cautiously across the ditch and into the woodland. None of us makes a sound, and in another moment we might creep away through the trees and make our way back.

  But then everything changes.

  Further up the road, on the left-hand side, there is a large juniper bush. As I give one glance backwards it seems to move. I stop. Jane bumps into me and she stops also. Mrs Austen looks around impatiently.

  And then a loud, hoarse sound … A word … But a word only to someone who knows the speaker …

  ‘Bang!’

  And George, with his unsteady gait, lurches out from behind the bush, pointing his finger at the gun and repeating proudly, ‘Bang!’

  ‘Get over there!’ The armed highwayman points one gun at George while keeping the other pointed at the group by the coach. His head swivels nervously between the two.

  ‘Bang!’ says George, advancing with what passes for a smile on his poor face. He stretches out his hand, saying, ‘Bang!’ again. It’s obvious to me that he expects the highwayman to give him the gun as a reward for saying the word.

  ‘Halt, or I fire,’ says the highwayman in shrill, nervous tones. He doesn’t know what to do about George.

  I hold my breath. I hear Jane give a nervous gasp beside me, but Mrs Austen doesn’t hesitate; she steps out on to the road. The highwayman’s gun swivels.

  ‘You fellow! Don’t point that gun at the boy – you’ll frighten him into a fit.’ Mrs Austen is marching resolutely over to George.

  ‘What’s it to you, lady?’ The highwayman has a gruff, hoarse voice, the voice of someone who has a perpetual sore throat. ‘Get back, or you’ll have a bullet in the stomach.’

  ‘He’s my son, and I’m not going to allow you to terrify him,’ says Mrs Austen calmly. ‘Come along, George, let’s take you back to Nanny Littleworth.’

  And then she puts her arm around George’s shoulders and turns him around gently, almost tenderly, until he is facing back towards Deane Gate and Steventon beyond. Slowly, steadily, the two figures come back down the road, while the highwayman continues to point his pistol at their backs, his whole attention now on the two moving figures. His partner takes his head out of a trunk and also stares incredulously at George and Mrs Austen.

  It might have worked. In the bright, clear early-morning sunshine, I can see the faces of the highwaymen. They are puzzled, hesitant. It’s obvious that George is retarded, and Mrs Austen looks just like any old countrywoman. They want money and jewels, not unnecessary bloodshed.

  But then the guard of the coach, who is watching them as closely as I, makes a move. He slowly passes his arm behind Augusta, reaches for the blunderbuss in its place by the roof, grabs it by its short barrel and tries to reverse it.

  And the highwayman whirls around and fires straight at the guard.

  Then everything happens at once.

  A roar of pain from the guard, a high-pitched neigh from the rearing horses, a hysterical screech from Augusta, shouts from the other passengers and blood everywhere.

  And then a voice from the trees beyond the coach, a voice filled with authority but as velvet-smooth as chocolate: ‘Drop those pistols and put your hands up, my men. I’ve got you both covered.’

  They look at each other and hesitate, but less than a second later a warning shot explodes – fired over their heads, but near enough to be convincing. A second scream from Augusta, more neighing from the horses, and then the two pistols are flung hastily in the direction of the hedge.

  ‘Very wise.’ Thomas, the gold braid on his coat glowing, strolls down the road, an ornate silver-mounted pistol in each hand. Without taking his eyes from the highwaymen, he addresses Edward-John, the only male passenger.

  ‘Could I trouble you, sir, to pick up the blackguards’ pistols and keep them trained on both men? Coachman, could you bind up your guard’s arm? He’s losing blood rapidly. Ladies, you follow behind us. Charles, would you untie my horse from the tree back there? Good lad! He shouldn’t give you any trouble. He’s had a long, hard gallop this morning.

  ‘We’ll lock these highwaymen in the stables at the inn,’ he says decisively to Edward-John, and then rather sharply, ‘Careful with that gun, sir, it’s loaded.’

  ‘Here’s the innkeeper,’ calls back Mrs Austen. She still has an arm around George, who is trembling violently, but he has not had a fit.

  Even after the innkeeper arrives Thomas is still in charge, giving directions for the summoning of a magistrate and the safe custody of the prisoners, brushing aside the thanks of the passengers, praising and thanking Charles, reassuring the women passengers – but never once does he speak to me, or even glance at me.

  And now the men are gone to the stables to see to the prisoners. Cassandra is fetching a glass of wine for Augusta, while Edward-John dithers between following Thomas and hanging anxiously over his wife …

  Mrs Austen is in great good humour. ‘What do you think of this boy of mine, Mrs Deane?’ she says to the innkeeper’s wife. ‘You wouldn’t believe it, but he was telling the highwayman to hand over his gun.’ She squeezes George’s shoulder and he looks up at her in a wondering sort of way.

  ‘You want something to eat now, don’t you, George? And something to drink?’ Mrs Austen chats to George in a perfectly natural manner, making motions with her hands to indicate eating and drinking, even rubbing her stomach to indicate food. A big smile lights up George’s face.

  ‘You go with Mrs Deane – she’ll find some nice hot sausages for you and a glass of ale, won’t you, Mrs Deane? Off you go with her now, George.’ And all the time that she is saying the words, she is making signs in quite a natural manner – rather like how you would to a baby, I think. Much easier, I realize now, than trying to teach him his alphabet.

  And George understands her perfectly. He rubs his own stomach and grins from ear to ear. He follows Mrs Deane and then he turns back, making a great effort until a word comes out. It’s easy to understand the word. It’s ‘Mama’.

  And when he’s gone, Mrs Austen – tough, unsentimental Mrs Austen – has tears in her eyes.

  This is almost like a play, I think.

  First everyone is onstage in the coach yard in front of Deane Gate Inn. Then the men go off to the stables, followed by Charles, while Augusta retires to faint on a sofa in the comfort of the inn parlour, attended by Cassandra.

  Then it’s the scene between Mrs Austen and George, where she seems able to chat to him in an easy, natural way before he trundles happily off with Mrs Deane.

  Now just Jane and I are left with Mrs Austen.

  And Jane throws herself into her mother’s arms and starts to cry.

  It is so unlike Jane that I feel completely bewildered.

  But Mrs Austen just pats her on the back and says, ‘Come, come, Jane. Were you so very frightened of those highwaymen? That’s not like my brave girl!’ Her tone is light and amused, but loving.

  I hold my breath. It just needs a few words from Jane now and perhaps they will be friends evermore.

  But Jane says nothing and, after a moment’s silence, I hear my own voice.

  ‘Jane wasn’t frightened for herself, Aunt,’ I find myself saying. ‘She was frightened fo
r you.’

  Mrs Austen draws back, bends down, looks into Jane’s face and presses a quick kiss on one round cheek. I notice how their bonnets meet with a slight click.

  ‘Come on, my pet,’ she says. ‘Let’s go and thank Captain Williams properly. What a hero he’s been! You could get a good novel out of this, Jane. I declare I feel like commemorating it in verse myself.’ And, laughing cheerfully, she sweeps out with her arm around Jane.

  And very carefully, I dust the top of the mounting block and sit on it. I feel very tired.

  And very lonely.

  ‘We’ll send the post boy down to Steventon with you, ma’am,’ says the innkeeper’s wife. ‘This lady’ – she means Augusta – ‘is not strong enough to walk, and Miss Jenny looks very white too. The captain has got his horse, and the other passengers will wait for the stagecoach to go on when we get another man to act as guard.’

  ‘You should have fainted on the sofa too,’ whispers Jane as we walk towards the post-chaise. ‘I’d have made Augusta give you a turn. You could have fainted alternately.’ Jane sounds like her old self again, grinning as her mother issues orders to everyone.

  ‘Cassandra, you sit over there with Edward-John and his wife; Charles, you get up on the seat beside the post boy; Jenny, you sit beside me; and, Jane, you go on the other side of her. We’ll follow you down to the parsonage, Captain Williams. You’ll come in and have breakfast with us, won’t you? Then we can all thank you properly.’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed.’ Augusta has given up fainting, though she still speaks in a small, slightly squeaky voice, like a six-year-old. ‘Do come and ride on my side of the chaise, Captain Williams. How lucky for us all that you were passing by.’

  ‘I’ll ride behind you all, ma’am, so that my horse does not kick up the dirt on to you,’ says Thomas with a bow, and then to Mrs Austen, ‘I was taking the liberty of paying a call to you, ma’am. My ship is stocked and ready to go; I’ve a few days’ leave and you were kind enough to invite me to stay for a night or so on my next visit.’