Jane Austen Stole My Boyfriend (32 page)

Wednesday, 25 May 1791

Why don’t I hear from him?

I should have heard by now.

The ship carrying post should be back at Southampton by now.

Perhaps tomorrow.

Thursday, 26 May 1791

Last night I had a terrible thought! Did Phylly write to Thomas? One of those horrible anonymous letters, full of spite and lies.

Perhaps she exaggerated Eliza’s jokes about me and the French
comte
. Perhaps she even said that I was going to be married to that revolting slave merchant.

If Thomas heard that, perhaps he would be so disgusted that he would not want to have anything to do with me ever again.

I can’t bear the thought.

I can’t bear this unhappiness. Last night I did not sleep. I just tossed and turned all night.

It’s too late to write a letter now.

By now Thomas’s ship will have set out on the long journey to the West Indies.

And he won’t be back until December.

It’s bright outside, but I know it is still very early. The birds are singing in that special way they do at dawn, and the sun is still quite low in the sky, shining
directly in through our window. There are no early-morning noises of cows being led into the milking parlour, or the clanking of the pump in the kitchen, or of Sukey slamming doors as she brings in
wood for the stove.

But there is someone coming, someone on horseback, someone in a great hurry. There is a great scattering of gravel from the sweep, the sound of a horse’s neigh and then a quick, sharp
knock on the door.

At the sound of that knock I lie back on my pillow again. Only Frank knocks like that. For a moment, half asleep as I was, I had thought that it might be Thomas. I had been dreaming of him all
night. Sleepily I wondered why Frank had come home. He had been with his ship at Southampton as the officers were supervising the men in its cleaning and repairing before a long voyage to the East
Indies.

His footsteps are coming up the stairs now, noisy, clattering footsteps of someone in heavy boots running at full speed up the uncarpeted staircase. I smile to myself. Typical Frank! It would
never occur to him, since he is up and about, that the rest of the house might be asleep.

But then there is a knock on our door. Jane jumps up and pushes her nightcap off her forehead. She then lies down again and pulls the covers up over her ears.

I get out of bed and put on my wrapper. I go to the door and open it and there is Frank, all splashed with mud, his young face drawn and tired looking.

And only then do I think that Frank must have ridden through the night to get from Southampton and to arrive at Steventon at this early hour.

But why?

What is wrong?

And there is some expression on his face that makes me very afraid.

I say something... I don’t know... perhaps I don’t say anything... perhaps I just look at him.

A strange feeling comes over me... It seems as if some bizarre mist fills the air making me feel sick and weak.

I stare at him.

He takes me in his arms.

A half-sob breaks his breath for a moment.

I don’t want him to say anything.

But I know that I can’t stop it...

And I know what he is going to say...

‘Oh, Jenny,’ he says, ‘there is some very bad news about Thomas’s ship...’

I hear my voice – very strange, very far-off, and the voice is saying: ‘He’s dead.’

‘No, no.’ He holds me very tightly and he speaks into my ear, but still it takes a while to make sense of his words.

‘The ship has been missing for two weeks,’ he says. ‘It was lost in a great storm. Another ship nearby saw the mainsail torn down. But no trace of the ship has been found.
Jenny, there’s still hope... Jenny, Jenny...

And then I go down – into a deep, dark, bottomless well, where there is no light and no warmth...

‘Mama! Jane!...’

... And now I am lying on my bed. Mrs Austen is sitting beside me, holding my hand; Mr Austen is standing at the bottom of the bed with an arm around Frank’s shoulders.

Jane is lying beside me on the bed with her arms around me. She is crying.

But I am not crying.

Not even trying to stop crying.

There is nothing left in me. I’m just frozen.

Monday, 30 May 1791

I shall never write in this journal again. I think I will burn it.

There was a storm overnight, and even now the wind keeps whistling and beating against the trees. The lawn is strewn with small pieces of twigs and strands of pale green lichen
torn from the hawthorn bushes, and the sky is overcast, with black clouds scudding through the pale grey. Jane and I walk up the hill, side by side, towards Deane. We are going to fetch the letters
from the inn. There was a time when this made my heart beat, when I hoped that there might be some news, though I knew that there could be none.

This terrible cruel hope that lingers when all hope should have ceased!

But even that has gone now, and nothing has taken its place.

Just a grey, sad loneliness.

But I make conversation. I talk. I try to laugh, to take an interest. I try to be there for Jane in her happiness as she was there for me during that brief spell of love and excitement, during
that wonderful spring when all my dreams came true.

‘Look, there’s Harry by the church,’ I say to her.

She laughs. She is very happy these days.

‘He’s soaking wet,’ she says, making a face and pretending to shudder. ‘And his dog too. Look at her!’

‘You go and talk to him,’ I say. I’m not fooled by her words or her expression. No matter how wet Harry was, no matter how often the black pointer shook raindrops from her
silky coat all over her, none of this mattered to Jane as long as she could be near him, could listen to his voice, could touch him, could feel his lips on hers.

I know all this because once I was like Jane.

Once I had someone who I loved more than the rest of the world. Someone that I thought I would marry.

‘Go on,’ I say. ‘I’ll fetch the letters. I’ll only be ten minutes, and then we can walk back to the parsonage together.’

And so I turn away and leave her to run up the church path towards the man that she loves while I continue, drearily, walking up the steep and muddy road, pulling my cloak around me as the heavy
mist begins to blow across the valley, dragging my hood over my curls, as the drips from the trees turn into rain.

The storm is increasing. I feel as though I am out at sea. The strength of the wind snatches the breath from between my lips. The roadside stream has turned into a raging torrent, its foaming
waters are thundering down the hill and the branches overhead bend and creak.

I can see something on the top of the hill. Someone. A figure.

I push back the hood of my cloak and allow my blonde curls to whip around my face.

And at that moment the figure begins to run.

And the wind in my face feels like icy hands, one on each side, freezing my flesh and dulling my brain. Still I do not know; I cannot let myself hope.

‘It’s Frank,’ I make myself say aloud, but I know it is not Frank. Frank is not tall; not broad-shouldered and long-legged like this man.

It’s his ghost, I think then. A gentle loving ghost who has come back to earth to visit his wife-to-be.

And now he is beside me. His hands are on the sides of my face. Burning heat replacing icy cold. His mouth is on mine...

Thursday, 1 December 1791

I have just taken this poor journal from the trunk. Someday I will write the whole story of how Thomas’s ship was caught in a terrible storm, how the sails broke, how
they were driven on to a barren rocky island, how he and his sailors lived there for months repairing the ship, getting food . . .

But now I just want to write about my wedding.

It will take place in two weeks’ time.

Thomas has gone to London. He has to give an account of the shipwreck to the Admiralty. There is talk that he might be decorated for bravery, Frank says, but Thomas says that’s nonsense .
. .

Mr Austen has written, this very night, to Edward-John and Augusta, inviting them both to Steventon to celebrate my wedding.

Mrs Austen has written to the Leigh-Perrots.

Jane and I have discussed my wedding dress.

Monday, 5 December 1791

We are in Bath! This is how it happened.

Mr and Mrs Leigh-Perrot arrived three days ago.

They brought a letter from the admiral. He hopes to see us in the Isle of Wight in the New Year. He spent a long time explaining why he can’t come to Steventon at this time of the year
(Thomas says that his uncle doesn’t want to stir from Bath) and he sent a present of a beautiful cloak lined with swansdown.

But the big event was that Mr and Mrs Leigh-Perrot invited Jane and me to go to Bath for a week to choose my wedding dress, so here we are! We arrived last night and are now all ready for the
great shopping trip.

The shop was as beautiful as I remembered it.

I rushed past all the colours though, past the rainbow shades of delicate flimsy muslins.

And there was the white satin!

It hung from a pillar in the darkest part of the shop.

There was just one lamp near to it, but that was enough. The material itself seemed to be full of light. It gleamed with a high gloss.

‘That should drape beautifully,’ said Mrs Leigh-Perrot with satisfaction.

Reverentially Eliza took it down and held it up against me.

‘
Parfait!
‘ she said with a nod of approval.

‘It’s a bit plain though, isn’t it? What about something over it? What would you think, madame?’ Mrs Leigh-Perrot was determined that I should have the best possible
dress in town, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted anything other than that glorious white satin with its wonderful sheen.

‘Not too much,’ said Eliza. ‘Let the material stand by itself.
C’est très beau
.’ As always when discussing clothes, Eliza was decisive and confident.
She trotted away – we could hear her high heels clicking as she moved from shelf to shelf. Jane followed her, but I just stood very still gazing at the wonderful white satin and thinking of
the moment when Thomas would first see it.

‘I have an idea.’ Eliza was back, followed closely by the shopkeeper, a brown paper parcel in her hands. She waited patiently while Eliza explained how she thought the dress should
be made. ‘And then,’ she concluded, ‘the V-shaped centre of the bodice will be covered with this . . .’

And like a conjur0r she whipped off the brown paper and showed the most heavenly gauze, heavily embroidered with a gold thread.

‘And the sleeves – long like this – they will be ending in a point so we must find something to draw attention to the hands,
n
‘
est-ce pas
?’

‘Eliza with clothes always reminds me of a little terrier on the scent of something tasty!’ Jane whispered in my ear as Eliza went scurrying off, closely followed by the shopkeeper.
Mrs Leigh-Perrot, I was glad to see, still wore an indulgent smile. I was hoping that Eliza would not involve the Leigh-Perrots in too much expense, but I knew that she would not be satisfied with
anything less than perfection.

But when she came back with some lace, white embroidered on white, Mrs Leigh-Perrot gave a genuine cry of delight.

‘Perfect! We’ll take enough for a veil as well as wrist trimmings,’ she enthused. ‘And an ear-of-corn motif – most suitable for a wedding!’

‘Fertility, she means,’ murmured Jane in my ear, and I blushed and said hurriedly that we should now look for the material for Jane’s gown.

‘A nice pink satin,’ suggested Mrs Leigh-Perrot, but Jane had already gone, striding confidently down the aisles, through the draped pillars.

‘I’ve found it,’ she called back.

It
was a length of poppy-red satin that flamed in an explosion of colour. It was the brightest, most exuberant colour that I have ever seen. Eliza took it down and held it against Jane.
With her dark eyes and dark hair, it looked wonderful!

‘Red for a wedding, for a church – is that a little old-fashioned? They tell me that white is the latest fashion.’ Mrs Leigh-Perrot sounded a little dubious, though I could see
that she was unable to prevent a smile of pleasure at the beautiful picture Jane made.

‘Dearest Aunt,’ said Jane solemnly, ‘I think red is so suitable for a church. In fact, I got the idea from the book of sermons written by Jenny’s brother. As soon as I
read the phrase: “
Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow
,” I suddenly thought that I would love a scarlet gown. Jenny will be in white satin, white as
snow, and I will be in red,’ explained Jane, her eyes wide and innocent.

‘I see,’ was all that her aunt could manage after that, while Eliza gazed at her young cousin with admiration. I hugged Jane and told her that the dresses would be beautiful
together.

Today a letter came from Edward-John and Augusta. They fear they will be unable to attend my wedding. It is a very cold letter . . . no present . . . no wishes for my happiness
. . .

Mrs Austen, Cassandra and Jane are all helping to dress me. I can see my reflection in the cheval looking glass: a small, slight figure in the most beautiful gown in the world.
The dressmaker has done a wonderful job; the bodice fits like a glove, with the lovely V-shaped panel of gold-embroidered gauze in the front. The sleeves are bell-shaped, ending in a froth of white
lace, and the skirt billows out from the narrow waist.

‘Stand still,’ says Cassandra as I twist to see the back. She is mounted on a small stool and is pinning a short veil of exquisite lace to the back of my head beneath the knot of
curls.

‘It’s snowing,’ screams Charles, bursting in through the door, and everyone except me – and Cassandra – moves to see.

‘Stand still,’ says Cassandra again, and now she arranges the swansdown cloak around my shoulders, leaving it open so that the gown can be clearly seen.