A Jane Austen Encounter (11 page)

Back down a flight of stairs, Muriel threw the door open on a white-walled room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases between windows looking out over seemingly endless swathes of green. Tables in the center of the room were piled high with open volumes and half-scribbled notepaper. “This is the reading room. As you can see, very much a working room. You’ll do your reading in here.” She aimed her last comment at Gerri, but Richard felt sure the directive was for himself as well.

Rosemary Seaton rose from her desk in the corner. “Our library is devoted to female English writers from 1600 to 1830, so of course we have an extensive collection of material from Jane’s time.” She turned to Richard. “Dr. Greystone mentioned you’re interested in
The Watsons.
”

Richard wondered when she’d had time to do that, but agreed that indeed, he was.

“You’ll be pleased to know that we have
The Watsons
completed by Edith Brown.”

Richard smiled. This was exactly what he had been hoping for. It was hardly the breakthrough of discovering long-lost original documents, but it was an excellent start to a project he was becoming quite interested in. To tell the truth, he wouldn’t have been adverse to finding his desired volume on the shelves of leather-bound tomes and settling into one of the overstuffed sofas right now, but Elizabeth was looking decidedly restless.

“That’s excellent news,” he said to Rosemary. “I shall look forward to diving into it right away, but I think we’ll just take a stroll around the grounds first.”

Without waiting for Muriel’s permission, he took Elizabeth’s arm and led the way back down the wide, curving staircase and out into the late afternoon. “Where to?” he asked.

Elizabeth took a deep breath of the grass-scented air. “Oh, thank you, Richard. I know you’re anxious to start your research and it’s all absolutely wonderful, but my head is swimming. Let’s walk back to that charming church.”

The gravel crunched under their feet as they made their way up the lane. In the field beyond, two young women were leading horses into a field. On their right, a gardener dug in a bright flower bed. They took the path to their left which led past flanking yew trees to the lychgate and on to the church porch. A sign greeted them:
Welcome, I hope you will enjoy the beauty of our building and be able to take time to pray and be still in this place hallowed by centuries of prayer.
It was signed by the Rector of St. Nicholas’ Church Chawton and the Northanger Benefice.

“Richard! ‘The Northanger Benefice!’ Jane wasn’t making up the name. She gave the Tilney home a title she knew well.” She looked around her. “It makes Jane’s characters seem all the more real.”

Richard agreed. “And gives an insight into how she worked, really drawing all that she possibly could from life before letting her imagination soar.”

They went on into the pale stone interior with three bays of Gothic arches separating the north aisle, ornate memorial plaques on the walls and a sweeping Gothic arch leading to the chancel framed with the words, “Thou Art The King of Glory O Christ.”

“This is lovely,” Elizabeth said. “Gerri must see it. This will be a real contribution to her study of Jane’s spirituality. Jane must have worshiped here often.”

“Well, yes, but not really in this church.” Elizabeth and Richard both jumped at Geraldine’s voice.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Afraid I was following you. Muriel preempted Arthur for something she wanted him to look out for her, so I escaped.” She held out a leaflet. “Picked this up on the table at the back. There was a disastrous fire in 1871. They saved the memorial plaques, and most of the area around the altar is original. The rest of the building dates from 1872.”

Richard, looking over her shoulder, read, “‘The communion rail is eighteenth century. It must have survived the fire, and Jane Austen will have knelt at it many times.’ Ah, that’s something for your thesis.” He walked down the center aisle between the oak pews. That was very moving. He could picture Jane kneeling there in a fine muslin gown and her best bonnet, her cupped hands extended, the priest reciting in best Prayer Book fashion, “The Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Take and eat this in remembrance that Christ died for thee, and feed on him in thy heart by faith with thanksgiving.”

But Gerri had not entered into the moment with him. Instead, she was pointing to the memorial tablets on either side of the wall into the chancel. “How lucky these were saved from the fire.” On the right was a marble tablet inscribed:

In Memory of

Cassandra Austen

daughter of the late

Reverend Thomas Leigh

Rector of Harpsden Oxfordshire

and relict of the Late

Reverend George Austen

Rector of Steventon Hants

It went on to list her surviving children. On the other side of the Gothic arch was the memorial to Jane’s sister:

In Memory of

Cassandra Elizabeth

Austen

Being justified by faith we

Have peace with God

Through our Lord Jesus Christ

If not Jane’s spirituality, certainly an expression of her family’s. Richard turned to suggest his thought to Gerri, but she was leading the way down the aisle. “Both Cassandras are buried in the churchyard. Shall we go see if we can find them?” Richard noted that without Muriel to cow her, Geraldine was a perfectly competent young woman.

They found the graves standing together in a sheltered corner beside the south wall of the church under a leafy tree:

In

Memory of

Cassandra Austen

Who died the 18th Day

of January 1827

Aged 87 years

And beside it:

In

Memory of

Cassandra Elizabeth

Austen

Who died the 22nd Day

Of March 1845

Aged 72 Years

“It doesn’t seem fair, does it?” Elizabeth mused. “They were such a long-lived family. Why should Jane have been the one to die so young?”

It was unanswerable.

Chapter 10

THE NEXT MORNING, ELIZABETH was determined. Chawton Cottage was at the top of her agenda, no matter what Muriel Greystone might decree or anyone else might choose to do. She said as much when she and Richard sat down to breakfast in their tiny kitchen alcove. He looked up from his bowl of muesli and smiled. “I entirely agree. But I don’t think they open until 10:00. We have plenty of time for another cup of tea and toast with some of that excellent-looking marmalade I spotted in the cupboard.”

“Oh, good.” Elizabeth got up to put the bread in the toaster. “I was afraid you’d be anxious to get right into your research.”

“Surely seeing the home where Jane’s genius flowered counts as research. Besides,” he refilled her teacup and then his own, “I made a good start last night.” He stirred sugar in his tea with a meditative air. “I decided to go back and reread Jane’s fragment before I set about reading any completions, no matter how anxious I am to get into Edith’s version.”

“Yes, I haven’t read the fragment for years. I did a seminar once on the Juvenilia, but never got around to teaching the unfinished works. Did you enjoy it?”

“Hugely. I definitely don’t agree with the idea that Jane abandoned the manuscript because she found she had ‘set her characters too low.’ She does say they are poor, but they keep at least two servants and a ‘chair’ or cart, if not a fine carriage. Theirs isn’t some mean cottage, even if they do keep embarrassingly early hours for their dinner. One son is an attorney and one a surgeon, and Mr. Watson is close friends with the decidedly middle-class Mr. Edwards. This is hardly Fanny Price’s family.”

“And who do you fancy for hero? I vaguely remember there was an eligible lord.”

“Yes, Osborne. He’s a good candidate for hero. Emma has already declared ‘he would be handsome even though he were not a lord.’ And when he called the next day, he discovered ‘he wished to please her—a new sensation for him.’

“Good qualities for a hero,” Elizabeth agreed. “But didn’t he have a close friend who was something of a rogue?”

“Tom Musgrove definitely isn’t to be trusted.” Richard nodded.

Elizabeth thought, trying to recall the characters. “I remember liking Mr. Howard, the clergyman.”

“Ah, yes, an excellent fellow, but the problem is, Emma likes him. The story lacks conflict.”

“Perhaps her sensible older sister—Elizabeth, was it?—can have him. I think I recall that their father liked his preaching.”

“Yes.” Richard reached for his laptop and opened it. “I made some notes that I thought Gerri might find useful, since Mr. Watson’s thoughts are surely Jane’s sentiments.”

“That was nice of you. But it seems you’re doing most of Gerri’s research for her.”

Richard shrugged as he opened the file. “I’m happy to give her a hand. She does seem rather at a loss as how to approach her subject.

“Ah, here we are ‘He reads extremely well, with great propriety, and in a very impressive manner, and at the same time without any theatrical grimace or violence. I own I do not like much action in the pulpit; I do not like the studied air and artificial inflections of voice which your very popular and most admired preachers generally have. A simple delivery is much better calculated to inspire devotion, and shows a much better taste. Mr. Howard read like a scholar and a gentleman.’”

“I couldn’t agree more. I dislike flamboyance in the pulpit.” Elizabeth took a sip of tea. “Mmm, I quite like Mr. Howard myself. Oh, I do wish Jane had finished the book herself.”

“Yes, I’ll admit it whets my appetite to look for Edith’s papers.”

Elizabeth’s mind was still on Edith’s “find” as she and Richard walked up the gravel lane leading toward the Old Winchester road. She had read somewhere that at the time Jane lived here, Chawton had enough families to offer something of a social life for the Austen ladies. Had it been perhaps fifty families? By the time Edith was here—did she live here or was she just here for research? Anyway—a hundred years later, how much bigger would it have been? And which of the houses might she have stayed in? If any box of papers were to be found moldering in some garret, how could one possible set out to decide which garret even in so small a village as Chawton?

At least it appeared that a great number of the original houses were still here. As they drew into the center of the village, the road was lined with charming cottages, most of them thatched. As much as Elizabeth liked thatch, she hoped none of these had been Edith’s abode. Thatch was notorious for being damp. Anything stored under a thatched roof was unlikely to have survived a further hundred years since Edith’s time. But then—depressing thought—it wouldn’t still be there, would it? After all, Edith would have taken her papers off to study them. Could there still be anything to look for?

She was about to comment on this to Richard when she became aware of a careful footstep behind her. A footstep that she suddenly realized had been following for most of their walk. Had she heard it on the gravel way leaving Chawton House? Had it been with them as they walked along the narrow path beside the rail fence, or only since they reached the pavement by the low flint and brick wall? If Muriel was coming after them to drag Richard back to some project of hers, Elizabeth was determined to stand up to her.

She whirled, her mouth set in a firm line, sharp words forming in her mind. But no words came out. There was no one there. Hairs rose on the back of her neck.

“Richard, did you hear anything?”

“What? Cars? Cows? Children?” He swept his arm around a landscape full of gentle country sounds.

“No, I mean behind us. I was sure we were being followed. I thought it was Muriel, but there’s no one there.”

Richard smiled and pointed to a curious sheep in the wide green field just on the other side of the wall and looked at her quizzically. She shook her head. “Maybe him?” He indicated a young man walking in the opposite direction. The sun glinted off his auburn hair as he strode along.

Elizabeth considered. Could he have ducked behind a bush when she turned around, then reversed direction? “Possibly. Where did he come from? We didn’t meet him.”

“From across the field? From one of the cottages?” Richard nodded toward the redbrick cottage surrounded by a garden across the street from them. “Or from behind that hedge?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I get your point. I’m being silly again.” She looked toward Jane Austen’s House Museum just up the street from them where visitors were gathering. The wonder was that there weren’t more people behind them. “Besides, why would anybody want to follow us?” She forced a smile. It was just that the footsteps had such a stealthy sound, at least as she pulled them back in her memory. But why? This was a public path, leading to a museum that drew people from all over the world. Hardly any need for stealth.

Richard purchased their tickets and they began in the drawing room. Elizabeth admired the small spinet piano in the corner where Jane was said to practice almost every morning before she fixed her family’s breakfast. Elizabeth went on imagining Jane’s day as she turned to the small pedestal table by the window, now holding only a quill pen in a tiny ink well. She smiled at the tact of the museum curators who had placed a small posy of lavender tied with a satin ribbon on the cane-bottomed chair. Much nicer than a sign saying
Do not sit
. But who would? It was much to better to stand back and picture Jane sitting here after breakfast while her mother gardened and Cassandra and their friend Martha Lloyd saw to the housekeeping duties.

Elizabeth longed to run her hand over the table. With a sense of standing on holy ground, she imagined Jane revising the books the world now knew as
Pride and Prejudice
and
Sense and Sensibility
, and then, buoyed by their publication, going on to write
Mansfield Park
,
Emma
, and
Persuasion
all on the little squares of paper she could tuck under a blotter should she be taken unawares. Although Jane’s famous reference to her “little bit (two inches wide) of ivory on which I work with so fine a brush, as produces little effect after much labour” was a reference to her delicate subject matter, Elizabeth smiled as she thought of the author sitting there writing on small pieces of paper like etching tiny squares of ivory.