12
Paragon, Bath
7 May 1801
My dear Eliza,
My mother and I are arrived in Bath—you no doubt want to congratulate us on that towering achievement—and as for our failure to stop off in Kintbury, there is no need to chide us, for we chide ourselves quite enough. Our excuse is that The Journey itself was our master; The Journey decreed that it should last but a day and we humble passengers had no strength left to argue. Pleasant though it would have been to be with the beloved Fowle family, we too were keen to get to our destination.
Thank you for your sympathies, but, having begun life as a shock to which I should never become accustomed, our departure from Steventon came almost as relief. And for that, as you so rightly predicted, I can thank your sister. Though her overt elation did not ease our moment of loss, Mary’s keen delight to get her feet through the door, propel ours out of it and rob us of all worldly possessions in the process, was such that the end could not come quick enough. We surrendered as soon as we could. I hope that they are all as happy there as she is expecting. There is no doubt my brother will prove a fine parson to the parish, and the house has already proved itself a good one for children. James-Edward will soon get his pony. And Anna does love the place so—the poor mite may there at last feel at home in her own family.
As for Bath—I cannot share my parents’ high expectations, but then they are so very exalted I am not sure who could. Mr. and Mrs. G. A. are determined on a glorious retirement, with as much fine company and good health as a person can cope with, while we young ladies are promised to be met with splendid suitors in an endless array. We shall see. But should that all happen, I give you fair warning: I shall ignore all evidence of character or appearance or the good of our families and instead plump at once for the richest. I intend then to become so horribly spoiled and affected that you, poor humble Eliza, cannot hope ever to hear from me again.
In the meantime, we have been here three days and I have yet to meet a gentleman below the age of one hundred. And so far, even the city itself is toying with my affections. Its stone is refusing to glow in warm sunlight; instead it glowers darkly through a horrible fog. But I must give it time—not least because I have no choice in the matter. My future is here now, and I must make of it what I can.
There is at least the great distraction of getting settled to consume me. We are on the hunt for more permanent lodgings, which we hope to find soon. Perhaps then this loud city will feel more like a natural setting for us. And after that comes the first of our Great Summer Schemes, and we will, with Cowper’s crowds “impatient of dry land, agree, With one consent to rush into the sea.” Can you believe that these gay footloose creatures are in fact your old friends the Austens of Hampshire? Well then, nor yet can I.
You are kind to inquire so solicitously about my dear Cassy. While the world has moved on from her loss to other stories, it seems that you and I alone are left guarding her grief. I can offer the comfort that leaving our home has not caused her particular distress, but then I can remove it at once with my own reading: my sister’s unhappiness is such that mere place no longer matters at all. My mother’s hope that she will come out of it here and take to society is, I fear, unfounded. Yes, she still dresses in mourning, makes no more than the required effort with her appearance … You will have her ear, when she comes to visit with my father. Please, see if you can convince her; she does admire you so. Her current position is almost intolerable, and painful to this loving beholder: all the conduct befitting a widow, without the past comforts of being a wife.
I am to tell you that she will be arriving on the 22nd and my father soon after. I trust that they find you both well and happy, and the nursery flourishing, and look forward to hearing all your news from them. As for us, please do try and get through to my sister, and give me your findings once they have left.
As ever,
J. Austen.
Cassandra was stupefied. This was not at all what she had expected. Perhaps the trauma of moving had loosened Jane’s pen. She sat back to digest it: The confiding tone, the indiscretion, even, were amazing to her. She had known of their friendship, but not of this depth of intimacy. And that Jane should write of herself in those terms? It was, she shifted uncomfortably, more than a little odd. She leafed through the next few. Each of these was peppered with references to Mary, and her treatment of Anna: “she has now over-reached herself…” “please, can you talk to her…” “how much better it would be if she could stay with you in Kintbury…” “James’s collusion causes us especial pain…” “The rare sight of a man taking the lead from his wife is ordinarily a matter for rejoicing, but in this instance…”
This sorry story did not reflect well upon the family. Cassandra shuddered. Her fear was always that the Austens should be made into some sort of spectacle—albeit, she was well aware, but a minor one—and her present labors were devoted to the avoidance thereof. There was but one fact that was allowed to walk with the novels into posterity: that Jane had lived her short life as a stranger to drama; that few changes, no events, no crises broke the smooth current of its course. Anything beyond could be none of posterity’s business.
She gathered them up—her valise was the only hiding place left to her—when her eye was distracted by the page that came after. What was this? No date, no place-name, and an uncharacteristically hurried scrawl.
My dear Eliza,
This comes to you with much thought and great urgency, so please forgive me if I move too swiftly to the Heart of the matter. You will know that I hope the Measles has passed now and all in Kintbury &c. &c. For I must share this with you, as I must share it with someone, though it is not my secret to tell. Even our parents do not as yet know the half of it and will not until we have some sign of an outcome. Oh, Eliza. My sister is deeply in love!
13
Sidmouth, 1801
“WHAT ARE WE DOING TODAY, Aunt Cass?” Anna stood still on the doorstep, gazing wide-eyed at the bright vista before her.
The year was 1801, and the Austens were in Sidmouth, on the first of their Great Summer Schemes. At Cassy’s suggestion, her little niece had accompanied them.
“Well, first of all, we are putting on our bonnets properly.” Cassy leaned down and tied the ribbon under that sweet, pointed, eight-year-old chin. “Today is going to be warm, and the sun is a fiercer creature here than in Hampshire. You do not want to get on the wrong side of it and end up in bed. There.” She straightened up again. “What would you like to do, Anna? What is the top of your list?
“I cannot say.” Anna bit her lip and adopted the worried expression that bothered her aunts so. “I have never been to the seaside before.” She had become so wary of giving a wrong answer to anything, she seemed these days too frightened to say much at all. “I am not sure—you decide for me, Aunt Cass.”
Cassy took her hand, and together they walked down to the Mall. “Let us start with the fish market; the earlier we get there, the better the choice, and your grandpapa’s heart is set on mackerel for dinner.” She nodded to and answered the good mornings from those out enjoying their promenade. “Aunt Jane is already out in the sea somewhere, bathing.”