The Mysterious Death of Miss Jane Austen (13 page)

***

The journey to Yorkshire took the best part of two days. The first part—from Godmersham to Ashford—was by far the most comfortable. After that, I was on my own, Edward’s splendid carriage replaced by a succession of mail coaches, all crowded, all stinking of sweat and stale breath. I slept at a coaching inn at Northampton, sharing a bed with a mother and daughter who made it quite clear that I was an unwelcome addition to the chamber they regarded as theirs, having arrived half an hour before me. They revenged themselves by snoring all night long. As I lay awake listening to this hogs’ chorus, I tried not to dwell on what I had left behind and the unknown life that awaited me. The only way to push these thoughts from my mind was to imagine Jane. I relived all the best moments from our time together in Worthing. I conjured her face all lit up with sparkling droplets of seawater; the scent of her hair as I undid the buttons of her dress; the warmth of her skin on mine as we jumped into the lapping waves.

I must have fallen asleep at some point. I woke up thinking I was back in Worthing, with Jane just the other side of the wall. The sight of those unfamiliar faces, mouths open like fishes, brought me back to grim reality.
At
least
I
will
have
my
own
room
tonight
, I thought. I told myself that I should not fear my new employer, that there was no reason to suppose she would be as cantankerous as these bedfellows.
Just
let
her
be
civil
, I murmured,
that
is
all
I
ask
.

I was put down from the mail coach at Doncaster, having traveled the last few miles through countryside unlike any I had seen in Kent or Sussex. It was nearly dark when I alighted, so I had only a vague impression of the town itself. A man had been sent to meet me. He stepped forward and grunted some kind of introduction. The only words I caught were “Mrs. Raike” and “the Bourne.” These were enough to reassure me and I climbed into the carriage, spreading myself out in blessed relief at having the whole thing to myself.

This last leg of the journey was not a long one. The Bourne was a large stone-built house on the outskirts of the town, hidden from the road by woodland. To reach it we had to cross a tumbling stream by a bridge that was only just wide enough for the carriage. It seemed a very lonely spot.
No
wonder
she
needs
a
companion
, I thought. My spirits dived just then, wondering what on earth I had come to.

The driver left me at the door. He did not trouble himself to wish me good night, merely unloaded my trunk and set it down on the doorstep before disappearing off into the darkness. I could see lanterns through the hall window. A young girl in cap and apron appeared at the door. As she pulled it open a wonderful smell of scones, still warm from the oven, wafted out to greet me.

The maid was as uncommunicative as the coachman. She took my things and showed me into the drawing room, where Mrs. Raike—a tiny, birdlike woman with a patchwork blanket over her knees—was waiting. A fire blazed and a table beside her was set with teapot, cups, and a mouth-watering variety of cakes.

“Welcome to the Bourne, my dear.” Clutching the blanket with a clawed hand, she raised herself with the aid of a walking stick. “I thought you might be hungry after that long journey. Please, make yourself at home.”

If someone had told me when I alighted at Doncaster that I would not get to bed until after eleven o’clock that evening I probably would have climbed back into the mail coach. As it was, the cakes and the conversation with Mrs. Raike so revived my spirits that when she asked me, two hours later, if I was tired I could honestly answer that I was not. Her voice belied the frail-looking body that contained it. And the opinions she expressed were surprisingly modern. If I had closed my eyes I could have fancied I was talking to someone my own age.

We dined at eight o’clock, served by the quiet little creature that had met me at the door. Mrs. Raike explained that she was mute and had been so from childhood. “Rebecca has lived here since she was a baby. She’s the daughter of the coachman who brought you from Doncaster. She took over as cook and housemaid when her mother died and she and her father manage things so well between them I find I need no other help in the house.” She lifted her glass in a toast. “To you, my dear: I hope you will be very happy here.”

After dinner, she read aloud to me from the newspaper, stopping now and then to ask my opinion of this and that. She asked me nothing about my background or the life I had left behind, for which I was grateful. I went to bed that night in better spirits than I would have thought possible. I lay awake for only a short time, thinking of all that I had left behind. I pictured Fanny fast asleep—tucked up in bed with one of the younger children, no doubt, for that was what she always did when in need of comfort. Did I miss anything about Godmersham other than its younger occupants? Certainly I would not miss Elizabeth, who, in the two years I had bided there, had not displayed one ounce of the warmth Mrs. Raike had shown me in a single evening. Neither would I miss Henry, whom I sincerely hoped I would never set eyes on again. But Jane was never far from my thoughts as I contemplated all this. I tried not to calculate the distance that now lay between us.

Will
I
ever
see
you
again?
My voice, though only a whisper, sounded very loud in that silent house.

***

Life at the Bourne soon settled into an uneventful but pleasant routine. Mrs. Raike was not an early riser and the mornings were mine to spend as I pleased. For breakfast Rebecca brought hot chocolate on a tray to my chamber. I had the luxury of drinking it in bed while reading. I had to conceal both book and spectacles until after she had left me, of course, for I had to keep up the pretense about my eyesight for a while yet. I had not yet worked out how Rebecca managed to communicate with Mrs. Raike, but the smooth-running of the household suggested that she had devised some way. Mute she may be, but her eyes spoke with great eloquence. I didn’t want to give her any clue to the fact that I was deceiving her mistress.

On my fifth morning at the house Rebecca brought something extra on the tray. I could see that it was a letter and as she laid the tray down my heart leaped. The handwriting was Jane’s. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing it and breaking the seal right away. But Rebecca was still in the room, pulling back the curtains and seeing to the fire. When she had gone, I plucked the letter from the tray and stared at the blob of blood red wax that kept its contents from me. If I broke the seal Rebecca would know that I had read it. But how could I wait the three long hours before Mrs. Raike presented herself downstairs? And how could I bear to hear Jane’s precious words at secondhand?

In a moment I had come up with a solution. I would tell Mrs. Raike that my excitement at receiving a letter had made me open it and try to read the contents—which had proved impossible. I would hand it over to her and react as if I was hearing the words for the first time. And so, clumsy with anticipation, I broke the seal:

Dearest Anne,

I hope that you are settling into your new home and that your eyesight is beginning to improve—but in case it is not, I expect there is someone who will be kind enough to read this on your behalf (my thanks to this person, whose name I will perhaps come to know). It is a little early to be inquiring about holidays, I know, so I beg forgiveness from your employer for asking, but ask I must if you are to visit me in Bath before I quit it for good. Mama, Cassandra, Martha, and me will be moving to Southampton in June. My brother Frank’s ship anchors there and he is looking for a house for us all to rent. I do hope you will be able to visit before we leave here—it would be
so good
to see you again. Cass has agreed to go to Martha’s lodgings for a few days if you are able to come, so there will be a bed for you. It will be rather a squash, as our room is very small, but if you don’t mind that, all will be well.

If you are still unable to write, please ask for help—I long for your answer!

Yours ever truly,

Jane Austen.

I hugged the letter to my chest. I could feel my heart thudding through my ribs. I read the sentence with the underlining a second time…
so
good
. Those two small words had me bursting with joy. But what was I to do? She was leaving Bath in just four months’ time. How could I ask for a holiday so soon? I counted myself far too fortunate to have found such an employer to make any such untimely request; and yet I longed with all my heart to see Jane.

It was Rebecca who brought a solution to this dilemma. When she came to collect my tray, she passed me a note, written in capital letters. It was from Mrs. Raike, who apparently marked the delivery of the post from her bedroom window: DO YOU NEED HELP TO READ YOUR LETTER? IF SO, DO NOT HESITATE TO ASK.

The boldness of this inquiry made me smile. Plainly she wanted to know who it was from but she had cloaked her curiosity with this seemingly innocent offer. In doing so she made it easy for me. I would simply revert to my original plan of handing the letter over and pretending I had been unable to decipher it. This would clear me of any offense Jane’s request might cause.

I took the letter down with me to the drawing room, where Mrs. Raike was already waiting. After reading it, she smiled and said: “Bath! What a wonderful idea! I’ve been meaning to go and take the waters ever since my poor husband passed away, you know, but the idea of traveling so far put me off. Now we shall go together! There will be no need to squash yourself into your friend’s house; I shall take rooms for both of us at one of the inns. Fetch me a pen, dear—I shall write back to her immediately!”

My first sensation of Bath was the noise. As we bowled across the River Avon a cacophony of sound invaded the carriage. Above the thunder of wagons, heavy laden with baggage or produce, were the raucous cries of tradesmen and milkmaids, chairmen and fishwives. And accompanying these, like the drumming of hail on a window pane, was the endless rhythm of pattens on the pavements.

Living in a remote country house with not even the sound of children to break the silence, my ears were unprepared for such an assault. I alighted from the carriage in a daze, blinking in the bright sunshine as I took in my new surroundings. Mrs. Raike had taken rooms for us at the White Hart Inn, chosen for its close proximity to the Pump Room. It stood opposite the Abbey churchyard, just a stone’s throw from the river and, judging by the throng of people coming and going, was at the very hub of life in the city of Bath.

Poor Mrs. Raike was almost knocked over when a stout gentleman in an ostentatiously caped coat shouted: “Chair! Chair!” and half a dozen wicked-looking fellows with thick wooden poles in their fists descended like crows on a carcass. “At your service, m’lud,” one shouted, only to be drowned out in his negotiations by another bawling: “No! I was first!” and shaking his pole menacingly while a third man shoved him from behind. I had sometimes spotted sedan chairs in London, but in Bath, I discovered, they were the favored mode of transport. As we made our way to our rooms, Mrs. Raike explained to me that they were narrow enough to pass through the doors of buildings, so that a person could travel to the baths in complete privacy, without the need to undress upon arrival. On the homeward journey they would be swathed in blankets to retain the heat and delivered to bed by the chairmen, who would then retire from the room to allow the occupant to sweat peacefully for an hour or two.

My room at the inn was small but comfortable, with a view of the river and the Pulteney Bridge. I would far rather have stayed with Jane, of course, but it would have been impossible to explain that to Mrs. Raike without offending her. To my eternal gratitude she had arranged our visit to coincide with that of a cousin of hers, Miss Gowerton, and she had encouraged me to make what arrangements I pleased for the evenings, when she would take her dinner with this lady. It was almost the end of the season, so the time for balls and public entertainment was drawing to a close. Nonetheless, Jane had promised me the spectacle of fireworks in Sydney Gardens on my first evening, with many more treats to follow.

She had written in her last letter that Fanny might be in Bath at the same time as me—a prospect that filled me with a mixture of joy and trepidation, for Jane had not said whether Fanny was coming alone or with her parents. I had sent word of my plans to the child, but her reply had not reached me before my departure from Yorkshire.

Jane, of course, had no notion of how awkward it would be for me to see Elizabeth again. I was not sure what I would do if Fanny and her mother were invited to any of the outings Jane had planned for me. I consoled myself with the thought that Elizabeth would find herself thrust into as awkward a situation as myself, for she would not be able to betray the animosity she felt for me, given that she had told the world that we had parted on amicable terms.

But it was not Elizabeth who made my visit to Bath uncomfortable. On that first day, as I sat beneath the gilded Corinthian columns in the Pump Room sipping cloudy, sulfurous water with Mrs. Raike and Miss Gowerton, I caught sight of someone whose familiar profile froze my blood.

I shrank back, thankful for the breadth of the brim on my new cambric muslin bonnet. Miss Gowerton, who was of the same small stature as my employer but twice her girth, was holding forth about the deliciousness of Bath buns, and promising to take her cousin to Molland’s of Milsom Street, which, she proclaimed, was the best pastry shop in town. As she described the heavenly confections to be found there, I stole another glance at the man in the pearl-gray morning coat and hussar boots. It was Henry. And he was deep in conversation with a woman. The lady in question was neither Eliza nor Elizabeth, but a dark-haired, large-boned woman who had none of their delicate prettiness. As she angled her face toward me I saw that it was scarred by smallpox. And yet Henry had that unmistakable look about him as he leaned forward, one hand resting on a silver-topped cane; he was flirting with this woman—of that there was no doubt. And the simpering smile on her face told me that she was enjoying every minute of it.

I felt a tingle of triumph. Perhaps my confrontation with Henry had not, after all, been in vain; perhaps he had heeded my words and cooled his relationship with Elizabeth. Was this woman a new diversion? It certainly appeared so, and while I could not condone his seeking yet another affair outside his marriage, surely this must be the lesser of two evils?

“And the lavender cake, my dear! It simply melts in the mouth!” Miss Gowerton’s high, piping voice cut across my thoughts. “You really must come too, Miss Sharp.” I tried to affect an interest in what she was saying, nodding earnestly and murmuring my approval of her invitation, but my mind was firmly fixed on Henry and his companion. If he was here with her, it followed that Elizabeth was not in Bath; perhaps Henry had escorted Fanny from Godmersham, using the trip as an excuse for a rendezvous with this new amour? I wondered where he was staying. Not at Jane’s home, I hoped, for I had been invited to dine there before the firework display that evening.

My eyes darted back to the couple. They were on the move, strolling back toward the entrance to the Pump Room. I saw Henry’s hand move up to the woman’s shoulder, touching her so briefly that he might have been brushing off a fly or a crumb of cake. She turned and batted her eyelashes at him, in what looked like a mixture of delight and embarrassment. I wondered who she was and where he had found her. Certainly she was not in the first flush of youth; I guessed that she was about my age—possibly a little older. I hoped that she was not married. But then, if she was single and had marriage on her mind, she stood to be sorely disappointed.
Poor
woman
, I thought,
if
only
she
knew
what
she
was
letting
herself
in
for.

The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough. I wheeled Mrs. Raike the short distance to Milsom Street in one of the invalid chairs that were available for hire. This was not only cheaper than a sedan, but also allowed the occupant an open view and a good deal more fresh air than the musty-smelling boxes on poles.

Milsom Street was all bustle and gaiety, the shops laid out as elegantly as any in London’s Bond Street. There were tailors, milliners, confectioners, and tobacconists; libraries, galleries, and music shops. It was a veritable feast for the eyes, designed to satisfy the most fastidious appetite. Miss Gowerton was waiting for us in Molland’s the pastry cook’s shop, which appeared to rival the Pump Room as a place of gathering for visitors to the town. For one so delicate, Mrs. Raike had a mighty appetite. She managed a Bath bun, a slice of rosewater cake, and a macaroon, despite the fact that it wanted only a couple of hours until dinner.

Having seen her safely back to her room, I made myself ready to walk across town to Jane’s house. I forced all thoughts of Henry from my mind, concentrating only on the pleasure of seeing my friend again. If he was there, I told myself, I would just have to bear it as best I could.

Washing the sticky traces of cake from my fingers, I put on the new white dimity gown made for me by Mrs. Raike’s own dressmaker. I pinned on the same silver brooch I had lent Jane for the ball in Canterbury and tied a band of green silk around my cambric bonnet. A shawl of emerald kerseymere completed my outfit. With a deep breath I reached for my reticule and made for the door.

Dodging the chairmen waiting to pounce on every person who emerged from the White Hart, I crossed the street and passed under the archway. Jane’s house was in Trim Street, and I had spotted the sign on the way back from the shops. It was but a short walk across Cheap Street and up Union Passage to reach it. Jane had warned me that her lodgings were far inferior to others they had occupied in Bath. Her letters said that Cassandra, in particular, detested Trim Street. But in the reduced circumstances in which they found themselves after her father’s death, Jane said, there was little choice left to them.

She had made no mention of how she felt about me staying at the White Hart rather than with her. It was difficult for either of us to express our true feelings through letters at that time, knowing that our words would be read or written by Mrs. Raike. Living in so remote a place, I had no hope of writing secretly to Jane: Rebecca’s father was my only means of reaching Doncaster, and as his brother was the postmaster, any correspondence written in my own hand would certainly have been noticed.

As I turned in to Trim Street I felt suddenly afraid. I had been living for this moment, aching for the sight of her face and the sound of her voice. I wondered if she had dreamed of me as I had dreamed of her. Did she truly miss my company or was she just being compassionate? Would she have invited me to stay if I had
not
lost my position at Godmersham? Was I someone she pitied rather than loved?

I had my answer the instant the door opened. She flung her arms around me and kissed my face. “Oh, it’s been such a long time! Come inside. I want you all to myself for a while!” I made no reply, for I was overcome with emotion. Fearing she would think me quite idiotic, I blinked back the tears that pricked my eyes and held out my hand, letting her lead me into the house like a tame animal.

“We have only one servant, I’m afraid,” she whispered as she took me down the narrow hallway. “She is very old and smells of mothballs, but she makes the best scotch collops I have ever tasted!” Then, as she ushered me into the parlor, she asked me how I liked Bath. I replied that what I had seen thus far had impressed me very favorably. “Ah,” she said, “it is vastly well to be here for a short visit, but I can assure you, you would not want to live here.” She told me how much she had come to hate the place, how she despised the dandified gentlemen and rouged ladies who paraded up and down Royal crescent and around the Orange Grove. “And most of them are so old,” she said. “Bath has become God’s waiting room: full of retired admirals and whiskery widows.” She stepped forward, seizing both my hands in hers. “How wonderful it is to see you! You look as fresh as a snowdrop.”

I gave her a wry smile for her compliment. “Is your mama well?” I asked. “And your sister?”

She nodded. “They will be here presently. Mama is sleeping off one of her headaches and Cass has gone to fetch Fanny.”

“Oh! She
has
come, then!”

“Yes. She arrived yesterday. Henry brought her.”

I tried to look surprised. “Where are they staying?”

“Fanny is with my Aunt and Uncle Leigh-Perrot at their house in the Paragon. My brother James is there too, with his wife and children. There was no room for Henry, so he lodges at the Sydney Hotel.”

I breathed a small sigh of relief that he had not chosen the White Hart.
How
convenient
for
him
, I thought,
to
be
out
of
sight
of
his
family
while
conducting
this
new
affair
.

“We have only half an hour before Fanny comes,” Jane said, “I want to hear all about your Mrs. Raike—is she really as saintly as your letters would have me believe? I suppose you
cannot
tell the whole truth when she writes them at your dictation. I beg to hope she has at least
one
odious habit. Does she keep a little dog that she feeds from her plate? Does she pick her teeth with her fingernails? Perhaps she does both at the same time…” She trailed off with a twisted grin.

“No!” I laughed, shaking my head at this horrible image. “I will not allow you to mock her! I would not be here now were it not for her goodness.”

“Hmmm. Very well, then—we must drink to her health. Will you take a glass of orange wine?”

We fell swiftly back into our old, easy manner of conversation and so absorbed did we become that we failed to hear the front door opening and the footsteps in the hall.

“Miss Sharp!” A human whirlwind hurled itself across the room. Fanny was now thirteen years old and seemed to have grown at least three inches in the few months we had been parted. Cassandra was not able to get in a word of greeting to me, nor was Mrs. Austen when she came downstairs, for Fanny was intent on telling me everything that had happened to her since I left Godmersham. She had made only passing references to her new governess in her letters—mindful of my feelings, I have no doubt—but now she told me the woman had packed up and gone.

“Mama sent her away last week,” she said. “She pretended she knew French, but she was hopeless at it, even worse than me. Someone else is coming when I get back. I wish I could go to school like the boys. Mama went to school; I don’t know why she won’t send me.”

“I expect she had as bad a time as we did.” Jane glanced at her sister. “Believe me, Fanny, you would not wish for school if you knew what it was like.”

“We went to two schools”—Cass nodded—“both run by women who were very proficient with a needle but knew next to nothing about the modern languages or Shakespeare. There was not enough to eat, and we slept five or six to a bed. Your Aunt Jane nearly died of a fever at one of them.”

“Were they really that bad?” I asked. I had never attended school, having had the good fortune to be educated by my father, who, for all his other faults, was an excellent teacher.

“They were terrible,” Mrs. Austen replied. “If we had known how bad they were, we would never have sent the girls away.”