Jane Austen Stole My Boyfriend (3 page)

Once they had gone, the day was not unhappy. Thomas was very certain that they would change their minds. He said immediately that he would get his uncle, the admiral, to write to them. And Lady
Portsmouth . . . And Warren Hastings for good measure . . . He was so sure this would succeed that I began to cheer up a little and to forget all that I knew of Augusta’s stubborn character.
After church, Mrs Austen suggested that I take Captain Williams for a walk, and she gave Mr Austen a stern look when he tried to say something. I’m sure that my uncle felt that I should be
chaperoned since no engagement was going to be allowed, but Mrs Austen, like Thomas, was determined that my story was going to have a happy ending.

‘Hold my hand,’ said Thomas softly as we passed through the gate and into the field beside Steventon parsonage. The sun was out and it lit up the pale yellow of the cowslips among
the blades of new grass.

‘If only you didn’t have to go tomorrow,’ I said as I boldly gave him my hand. I shouldn’t have done really – we were not even properly engaged. Still, I
didn’t care. I turned a smiling face towards him. I would pretend that all was well and that my brother was pleased to hear of my engagement and that everything was being planned for our
marriage next year.

‘Tell me about your ship,’ I said, bending down and touching an early bluebell under the hazel bushes in the hedgerow.

‘Have you ever been in a ship?’ He asked the question with a smile and didn’t seem surprised when I shook my head.

‘One day you’ll come on a voyage with me,’ he promised. ‘I’ll make them fit up a snug little cabin for you just near the front mast and you can sit there and do
your sewing.’

‘I’d prefer to be out on deck with you,’ I said boldly. ‘I would love that. I’ve seen the sea at Bristol. That’s just a port, but I can just imagine how
wonderful it would be if there was nothing but sea and sky.’

Thomas looked at me and smiled. ‘Wouldn’t you be frightened of the sea?’ he asked tenderly. ‘Not even in a storm?’

I thought about that. But then I shook my head. ‘No, I wouldn’t, not if you were there.’

‘Jenny,’ he said, looking at me intently, ‘I’ll always be there, I’ll always look after you and I’ll never allow you to be scared again.’

‘Not even of Augusta?’ But I laughed as I said it. Somehow, standing there with him in the clear April sunshine with his arm around my waist and watching the young calves race up and
down the field, it seemed as if not even Augusta could be a threat to our happiness.

‘Certainly not of Augusta. She’s just a low-bred piece of nonsense. What possessed your brother to marry her? We will count ourselves as engaged, won’t we? Even if it has to be
in secret . . .’

‘A secret engagement,’ I murmured. It seemed very romantic. I remember thinking that if only I could keep the way I felt in that moment within me, then I wouldn’t care whether
the engagement was secret or whether the whole world knew of my happiness.

Now it is time for breakfast. Before I dress and go downstairs there is just enough time to write of what happened this morning. I had already put my journal away when I heard
a creak of the stairs and then a soft footstep outside the door. I put my wrapper around me and ran to the door. There was no one there, but lying on the ground was a lovely bunch of forget-me-nots
and a small box wrapped in gold paper. I picked up the little forget-me-nots and tucked the bunch into the lace of my nightgown so that they would lie against my heart.

And then, without my even knowing what I was going to do, I ran down the stairs. The front door had just closed cautiously. I flew down the hall, my bare feet making no noise, and opened the
door. He had started to walk across the gravel when he saw me. In a moment he was back. He snatched me up from the cold, hard stone.

I was in his arms. Held against his broad chest.

And he was saying things . . .

Incoherent statements of love and endearment . . .

‘My darling, my darling, my darling . . .’ He must have said that forty times.

And I was trying to reply as he kissed the tears from my cheek as they fell.

It seemed only a second but yet almost like hours before he finally put me down.

The forget-me-nots fell out from the lace on my nightgown and on to the step. He snatched them up, put them to his lips and then gave them back to me, opened the door and gently put me
inside.

And then he was gone and I was left holding the limp bunch of forget-me-nots that had been crushed between us when he kissed me.

And I have never been so happy or so miserable in my life, standing on the stone floor of the hall and remembering his last words, muttered in a hoarse whisper.

‘Keep these, my darling; they will be the symbol of our love.’

Wednesday afternoon, 13 April

Everyone was very nice to me at breakfast time. There was a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ when I came into the parlour wearing the beautiful little gold cross studded
with tiny seed pearls that Thomas had left for me in the little box. The delicate forget-me-nots had been pressed. I would keep them forever.

All the family gave me presents. Mr Austen gave me a book of poems from his library, Mrs Austen a lovely little box for keeping letters in, young Charles gave me a drawing of my donkey that he
had done himself, Jane gave me a purse she had netted and Cassandra a small needle holder made from neatly embroidered pieces of cloth. Frank had whittled a ring stand for me from a piece of cherry
wood (congratulating me on being the same age as him now) and his older brother Henry (who was back from university) a coloured transparency of Tin-tern Abbey to put on my window. There was going
to be a cake and perhaps even some whipped syllabub for supper tonight all to be a big surprise, Jane told me in a whisper. I think that everyone had prepared for a celebration of my engagement as
well as my birthday.

Jane is doing her level best to amuse me and to take my mind off my troubles. This morning, after we had each brushed the other’s hair for the usual one hundred strokes, she took out her
writing desk from the drawer, dipped her quill into the ink pot and immediately began writing. It’s amazing how fast she writes her stories. It’s very different writing down things that
have happened – I only have to remember and to write the interesting bits, but she has to invent, and yet she does it so quickly. And this is what she wrote:

‘Stick it into your journal,’ advised Jane. ‘And then draw a picture of Augusta beside it and that should cheer you up every time you look at it. That woman is so madly jealous
of you that she would do anything to spoil your happiness. Now let’s go up to Deane Gate Inn and meet Eliza. She’s coming on the stagecoach with James to escort her.’

James, of course, was coming for the grand performance of the play
The Rivals
(James had written a prologue) that we had all been rehearsing for ages. Eliza was his principal actress
bound to be the star of the play. Eliza de Feuillide was Jane’s cousin, Mr Austen’s niece. She had been born in India, spent her early years in England, then as a very young girl had
been taken to France and invited to dances in the court of Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette. She had met a French aristocrat, the Comte of Feuillide, and had married him. She lived in
London with her mother and her little boy now as France was so dangerous with talk of revolution, but her husband visited her from time to time.

Some people, Jane had told me, whispered that Eliza was actually the natural daughter of the great Warren Hastings, the Governor-General of India. Whatever her birth, Eliza is incredibly
sophisticated and worldly and Jane and I both love her. She gave us such good advice when we were both going to our first ball and got us ready, using her Indian shampoos something to wash our hair
with – and some gorgeous soaps and bath oils.

The two of us were walking up the steep hill between Steventon, where Jane’s home was, and Deane Gate Inn, where the stagecoach stopped, and I was just asking Jane what she thought Eliza
would say when she heard of Thomas’s proposal when we heard a shout from behind us and Henry came racing up the hill after us, his long legs covering the ground quickly.

Henry is Jane’s favourite brother – though I think that I like Frank the best. It seems strange to me now that when I met Henry first I fell in love with him and his bright
hazel-coloured eyes. I don’t think that he was in love with me though, just flirting. Still, we are good friends now and Thomas likes him.

‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, pretending to pant. ‘I’ll come with you; knowing Eliza, there will probably be a hatbox or parasol that she needs someone to carry for
her.’

‘James will be there,’ said Jane, but she was pleased to have Henry. I was a bit sorry because I was looking forward to talking to Eliza about Thomas and I didn’t think that I
could do that while Henry was there.

The Austens, however, are a very close family and Henry seems to have decided to treat me like a sister now that he knows it no good flirting with me.

‘Poor Jenny,’ he said. ‘What a shame! I would have thought that your brother would have found Captain Williams a good match. What’s the problem? I asked Father but he was
very tight-lipped with me and forbade me to discuss the matter.’

I wondered how he knew that Thomas had proposed, but Henry just laughed at me and told me that all the signs were pretty obvious.

‘You should have asked Mama; she would probably have told you,’ said Jane.

‘I was going to, but then I thought I would come and ask you instead.’ Henry turned an interested face from one to the other of us, his dark eyebrows slightly raised.

I told Jane to tell him, and she made a great story out of it. Even I had to laugh a little at her description of Augusta’s face when Mrs Austen asked Edward-John whether he was thinking
about my legacy.

‘And of course he will have the use of that until you are twenty-one. Sharp old Mama!’ Henry gave a long, low whistle.

I told him that I thought his father was a bit upset about it all.

‘He gaped like a fish when Mama said that about Edward-John wanting to hold on to you for the sake of your legacy,’ put in Jane with a grin. ‘Dear Papa, he can never bear to
think badly of anyone.’