The Mysterious Death of Miss Jane Austen (18 page)

Anguish.
With that one word she had acknowledged Henry’s special place in Elizabeth’s heart. What would become of him now, I wondered. If any of those children were his, he would certainly wish to keep up his frequent visits to Godmersham—but how painful for him, with her gone! In spite of everything that had passed between us, I could not help but feel for him.

But it was Fanny, of course, whose feelings were uppermost in my mind. I could hardly bear to think what it must be like for her, grieving for her mother while having to put on a show of fortitude for her younger brothers and sisters. It was a mercy Cass was there, I thought; between them, she and Sackree would get Fanny through this awfulness.

It never occurred to Jane or to me to question what had happened to Elizabeth. There was nothing unusual about a woman dying in childbirth, even if she had come through many previous confinements without mishap. With hindsight I can see that to murder a woman in the days following her lying-in would be shockingly easy—both in the execution of the crime and its concealment. If someone had asked me at the time if Elizabeth had any enemies, anyone who hated her enough to wish her dead, only one name, I think, would have sprung to mind. And it would have been the wrong one. I have to repeat that to myself in the darkness that descends on me so often now; I have to tell myself that even if I had suspected something was not right, I could not have prevented what followed.

With much regret I left Jane the next day, for she was to take charge of Edward and Elizabeth’s older boys, who were away at school in Winchester when their mother died. Her next letter told me of her very inventive ways of attempting to keep their spirits up at such a dreadful time. One afternoon, she reported, she had taken them up the river Itchen in a boat. “Both boys rowed a great part of the way,” she wrote, “and their questions and remarks were very amusing: George’s inquiries were endless and his eagerness in everything reminds me often
of his Uncle Henry
.” She had underlined the last four words.

What was I to think of this? After two years of total silence on the subject, she clearly wished to resurrect it. There was no more about Henry in that letter, though, for she launched straight into a piece of news that was to bestow boundless benefits. It seemed that Edward had suddenly decided to give his mother and sisters a permanent home on his estate in Hampshire. They were to move into the old bailiff’s cottage in the village of Chawton the following summer. This intelligence gave me even greater cause for wonder than her comment about young George. For Jane and her female relatives had been moved from pillar to post for the better part of a decade, forced to accept smaller and poorer lodgings with each advancing year. Why had Edward waited until now to give them a home of their own? I had a feeling that Elizabeth had stopped him, that her dislike of Jane had led her to talk Edward out of doing what he could so easily have done when their father died. It seemed both petty and mean, but I could think of no other explanation for this act of generosity coming so swiftly after her death.

To say that Jane was happy is an understatement. The pretty house with its view of all the comings and goings at the coaching inn across the street was the perfect place for her: the place in which she truly blossomed as a writer. Nothing had been said of the novels Henry had hinted at, and I had begun to wonder if he had lied to me that day at the White Hart, but within two years of the move, a signed copy of her first published book,
Sense
and
Sensibility
, arrived at the Bourne, much to the excitement of Mrs. Raike and Rebecca.

I remember unwrapping it and running my fingers over the smooth skin of its spine, breathing in the aroma of new leather and printer’s ink. It triggered a strange mix of emotions. There was the elation at Jane’s achievement and a thrilling sense of anticipation of what the pages held. But there was also a pang of envy, for this book was a stark reminder of my own buried dreams.

Determined to banish such an unworthy sentiment, I plunged into the world of the Dashwoods. How I smiled when I encountered the character called Fanny, for she behaved in a way that reminded me very much of Martha Lloyd’s description of her sister: Fanny Dashwood’s meanness over the china at Norland mirrored what had happened when Jane and Cass had to quit the rectory at Steventon. This, I thought, is Jane’s revenge on Mary.

We celebrated in great style when I visited Chawton that year, with several bottles of Martha’s elderberry wine. I did not have the bittersweet pleasure of sharing Jane’s bed, as she and Cassandra occupied the same room. I was put in Martha’s room, as she was away from home, and we spent the better part of each night in there. During the early part of the evening we would read Jane’s book aloud to each other or discuss the next one to be published. She confirmed what Henry had already let out: that she had written three novels before she turned thirty. The third one had been accepted for publication with a small advance paid, but four years on had still not appeared in print. Weary of waiting, she had revised her first novel and sent it to another publisher. This, I assumed, was the client Henry had told me about.

Jane was just beginning to write
Mansfield
Park
when tragedy struck her family again. This time it was her cousin Eliza. The death was painful and lingering. She was thought to be suffering from the same condition that killed her mother, but the doctors could not be certain. Jane was with her when she died. She sent me a long letter from Henry’s London home.

“Eliza has died after a long and terrible illness,” she wrote. “Henry long knew she must die, and it was indeed a release at last.” She described the great sorrow of Madame Bigeon and her daughter, who had become like family to Eliza. But of Henry she said: “His mind is not a mind for affliction. He is too busy, too active, too sanguine. Sincerely as he was attached to poor Eliza, he was always so used to being away from her that her loss is not felt as that of many a beloved wife might be.”

What a sad epitaph for the vivacious dark-eyed beauty who had dazzled the salons of Paris and London. What would Henry do now? He was forty-two years old and free to marry again—unless, of course, he chose to pursue another married woman. It occurred to me that for Henry, forbidden fruit was very likely the sweetest. Those long years of intrigue with Elizabeth must have left their mark. Such a man would no doubt be partial to the thrill of subterfuge.

When Jane sent me
Mansfield
Park
, I was quite amazed by her boldness. Henry and Mary Crawford were the very essence of Henry Austen and his late wife. The character of Henry Crawford, with his good looks and charming, devious ways, was unmistakable, as was the lively, dark-eyed Mary, who was so like Eliza that she even played the harp. Was this how Jane had perceived the Henry Austens’ marriage, I wondered. Something more akin to a brother and sister, both free to pursue others while residing under the same roof?

I could not help spotting another familiar character on the pages of the new book: Maria Bertram put me very much in mind of Elizabeth Austen. She was the beautiful, self-regarding daughter of a baronet and Jane had even gone as far as to give her a surname that began with the same initial as Elizabeth’s maiden name. I thought I perceived some further, more subtle trickery in the use of two names so very similar—Maria and Mary—which echoed Henry Austen’s involvement with two women who bore the same Christian name.

I have mentioned before that I believe
Mansfield
Park
was a channel for Jane’s suppressed rage at her brother’s behavior. Watching her cousin die could only have inflamed her anger, and yet she could not hate Henry; on the contrary, she found it impossible not to go on loving him as she had always loved him. And so she meted out imaginary justice on the pages of her novel. Let Henry Crawford be exposed as the wicked seducer of a married woman; let Maria Bertram be cast out from respectable society for betraying her husband. For in fiction the righteous must triumph and sinners always get their just deserts.

Jane’s letters reported that the real Henry continued to live a gilded life, although there were some who proved impervious to his charm. A few weeks into his widowhood he went to see Warren Hastings. It seemed that the extravagant lifestyle led by Henry and his wife had left him in a precarious state. Jane wrote that he had already tried—and failed—to claim back the lands that had once belonged to Eliza’s late husband, the Comte de Feullide. Now his only hope was to discover whether Mr. Hastings had made a will in Eliza’s favor and, that being the case, whether the money would revert to him on the old man’s death.

It seemed that Henry had used Jane’s books as a pretext for the visit, for she reported her delight at the comments she received about
Pride
and
Prejudice
.

“Henry has told Mr. Hastings who wrote it, even though it was supposed to be a secret,” she wrote, “but I am quite delighted with what such a man writes about it. His admiring my Elizabeth so much is particularly welcome to me.” The next paragraph made it clear that Henry’s thinly disguised strategy had failed: “Mr. Hastings never
hinted
at Eliza in the smallest degree.” The underlining spoke volumes. Apparently, Warren Hastings was not going to acknowledge Eliza as his natural daughter, which meant there was unlikely to be any will in her favor. Henry’s hopes of the golden goose were come to naught.

Remembering the questions the old gentleman had asked as we danced in Bath, I wondered if he had since gleaned some intelligence that had fixed his opinion of Henry. Had Warren Hastings read
Mansfield
Park
? No one acquainted with Henry and Eliza could fail to recognize them in the personages of Henry and Mary Crawford. Had Jane’s book revealed more of Henry Austen than Mr. Hastings had been able to stomach? If Eliza really was his daughter, it was not difficult to imagine how such a revelation would make him feel—especially if his money had made Henry the gentleman-about-town he could never otherwise have been.

As Jane’s star climbed ever higher, Henry’s was about to fall from the firmament. The autumn of 1815 was Henry’s final season as a man of wealth and distinction. It was also the last time I saw my dearest Jane alive.

I made the journey to Jane’s village in the last week of September, having left Mrs. Raike in London at the home of her cousin in Cheyne Walk. There was not much to see as the mail coach crossed the border into Hampshire, for a veil of low clouds hung over the trees and hedgerows, blurring the autumn colors. The horses slowed to walking pace as we drew near to Chawton. The Winchester road was a mess of mud and fallen leaves and a mizzle of rain had turned the roofs of the houses a darker shade of gold. Jane was at her usual post in the front parlor, where she was making some alterations to
Emma
. She spied me through the window and came running out of the cottage as I stepped down.

“You look so well!” She held me at arm’s length, her eyes fixed on mine. I caught my breath, for I could not return the compliment. She looked different in a way I couldn’t quite define: thinner in the face, perhaps; a little paler than usual. I put it down to the poor summer we had had and the strain of completing yet another novel.

Her writing slope was on a little table with the manuscript piled on top and I begged for a glimpse of the new book. “Later,” she chided, steering me to a chair beside the fire. “You must get warm first; your fingers feel like dead eels.” I frowned at my big, ugly hands, which were indeed white with cold. I wondered if they disgusted her. She saw my face and drew me to her, kissing me on my nose and forehead. “I have missed you,” she whispered. “And Cass is going to Scarlets tomorrow so you shall have her bed.”

I murmured a silent prayer of thanks to the Leigh-Perrots for inviting Cassandra to stay this week of all weeks. I was sorry that I would see her only briefly, for she was good company and never jealous of my friendship with her sister, but the prospect of waking up with Jane each morning was as wonderful as it was unexpected.

The creaking hinges of the parlor door made us jump apart. A girl appeared with a tray of tea. She was a new maid called Jenny Butter, who blushed to the roots of her fair hair when Jane introduced us. “Miss Cassandra sent a note by William Parry,” she said, backing out of the room with the tray. “She and Miss Martha are held up at Wyards with Mrs. Lefroy. Nothing to worry about, she says, and she’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“I still can’t get used to Anna’s new name,” Jane said when the maid had gone. “It makes me feel very ancient, having a married niece. I shall be Great Aunt Jane in a few weeks, you know.”

I did know, for Anna had written to tell me of her pregnancy. She had been married a little less than a year. When the engagement was announced, I couldn’t help wondering what Jane must feel, knowing that her niece was about to become what she had once hoped to be. Ben Lefroy was a young cousin of the Tom who Jane had told me about, the handsome Irishman she had fallen in love with at twenty.

“It’s such a pleasure to have her living so near,” Jane went on. “She gets books from the circulating library and brings them here to read aloud. We have such fun, making the characters as ridiculous as possible: Cass laughs so much she has to beg us to stop, for she cries all over her sewing.”

I felt a momentary pang of envy. Anna had taken the very part I would have liked to play in Jane’s life. Rather spitefully, I said: “I suppose she will not be able to do that when the baby is born.”

“No, poor animal! I fear she’ll be worn out before she’s thirty. But it’s all still too new for her to fear what the future may bring.” She paused, pursing her lips. “I wasn’t sure about Ben at first; I never thought of Anna as a curate’s wife. He is as serious as she is saucy—but they don’t seem any more miserable than most married people.”

I returned her wry smile with a click of my tongue. “I was quite concerned when she told me she was getting married. I thought perhaps she was being a little hasty.” I kept back what else had crossed my mind: that Anna was marrying the first eligible man who came along to get away from the stepmother she hated.

“She was rather young.” Jane nodded. “Ben doesn’t have much money, and she spends it on the silliest things—but that will all have to change when the baby comes. Anyway”—she leaned forward to top up my teacup—“we are all dining at the Great House tonight. Edward and his harem are staying there at the moment.” I raised my eyebrows at this and she gave a little snort and a shrug. “He never travels without at least three female relatives for company,” she said. “There is Fanny, of course, who has been like a mother to the little ones since Elizabeth died. Then there is Louisa Bridges, Elizabeth’s sister—do you remember her? Well, she lives at Godmersham now. And there is another addition to the Kent clan—her name is Charlotte and she is the widow of one of the Bridges brothers. The whole party arrived here last month, bringing the four youngest children, the governess, and nineteen servants.”

I shook my head, although I was not surprised by the size of the entourage. “Has Edward never talked of marrying again?”

“Why settle for one wife when you can have three?” She gave me the kind of look I had seen at the ball in Bath when she spotted Mrs. Hastings in her turkey hat. “He says that Fanny wouldn’t like it if he brought another woman in as stepmother to the children. But as it stands, he has her in that role and one of the aunts on his arm for everything else. Perhaps he will think about marrying when Fanny takes a husband—as she surely will before long—but he seems quite content with life for now.”

And
what
of
Henry
, I wanted to ask. She would have written to tell me, of course, if he had taken a new wife. It was more than two years since Eliza’s death and he was not the sort of man to be without a woman for any length of time. But I bit my lip as the question formed. A decade had passed since that summer of intrigue at Godmersham, but Henry’s heart, I sensed, was still a slippery subject.

I heard the distant sound of bells from the village church and Jane’s hand went to the pocket of her gown. She pulled out a slim gold fob watch on a delicate chain and flipped it open to check the hour.

“What a pretty thing!” I leaned forward to take a closer look. The back showed a tracery of twisting roses with her name engraved in the center. “Where did you get it?”

She hesitated a moment. “It was a gift to mark the publication of
Mansfield
Park
,” she said.

“A generous gift indeed!” I replied. “Did the publishers send it?”

“No.” She snapped the case shut and put it back in her pocket. “It was Henry. He bought it.” She looked at me and blinked, as if she was bracing herself for an interrogation.

“Well,” I said, rather taken aback, “that was very kind of him, I’m sure.” I wondered if this gesture had been made in memory of Eliza, who would certainly have been thrilled to the core by her cousin’s success. I was about to ask when Jane’s face warned me against it. There was an odd look in her eyes, like a dog guarding a bone. I turned my face to the window and made some stupid remark about the weather. When I turned back, she was on her feet, halfway to the door.

“I’m just going to rouse Mama,” she said. “She’ll be so cross that she was asleep when you arrived—she’s been longing to see you.”

***

I had only seen the Great House from a distance. It lay at the western boundary of the village, surrounded by acres of pasture and woodland. To reach it we crossed the meadow that lay between the cottage and the barns flanking the estate. The light was beginning to fade, but I could see the pattern of flints in the brickwork of the ancient building, with a cluster of late blooming roses hanging over the north door.

“You’ll find it very different from Godmersham, won’t she, Mama?” Jane turned to help her mother as we climbed a narrow path that skirted the largest dovecote I had ever seen. “It’s all dark wooden paneling and Jacobean hanging staircases.”

“Some of the chambers
are
rather dark”—Mrs. Austen nodded, panting a little—“but the dining room is splendid with a fire.” A chorus of cooing broke out behind us, as if the pigeons were all in agreement about this.

“It’s such a shame about the weather.” Cassandra linked her arms through mine and Martha’s as Jane and her mother fell behind. “The parkland is so beautiful at this time of the year when the sun shines on the changing leaves; we must take you for a walk tomorrow, if the rain keeps off.” She led us through a cluster of laurel bushes, which showered us with raindrops as we brushed past. “It’s rather dirty, this way, I know,” she said, clicking her tongue at the rising tide of damp on the hem of my gown, “but it’s so much quicker than walking along the drive.”

I told her that it didn’t matter, that I would soon dry out by a good fire. But I was worried about Jane. She was shivering by the time we reached the steps that led through the stone arch to the front door. Cass had noticed it too. With a glance at Martha and a murmured apology to me she withdrew her arms and removed her shawl. Martha went over to Mrs. Austen and engaged her in talk of Edward’s children while Cass took Jane aside and wrapped her up. Jane might have been her child, standing there still and uncomplaining, as this was done. I saw it more clearly than ever then: that these were the roles they had slipped into, that Cass’s fulfillment in life came from nurturing her sister, whether it was Jane’s health or her writing that required it.

As we stood in the draughty vaulted porch waiting for admittance there was a clatter of hooves and a crunch of gravel. A carriage and four bowled up to the steps and as the driver reined in the horses I saw Anna’s face pressed against the window. I quite expected her to leap out, as she would certainly have done in years past, but I had forgotten her condition. When the footman came to open the door, I was shocked at the change pregnancy had wrought on her body. I suppose I still thought of her as a child, so to see her like that, barely able to walk for the weight of her belly, made me catch my breath.

She had to stand sideways on to kiss me. Then she introduced me to her husband, who was dark-haired, stick-thin, and very earnest. Someone was getting out of the carriage behind him. It was little Caroline, the half sister who had been born the year Jane and I met. At ten years old she was not as pretty as Anna had been; I saw that she had the same strong jaw and large frame as her mother, who was following her up the steps.

At that moment Edward’s voice boomed out from behind the door. The years had not been kind to him. Close to fifty now, his face was grown ruddier than ever and he looked almost as broad as Anna around the waist. I recognized the woman at his side as Louisa Bridges. Her eyes were very blue, like Elizabeth’s, but she had a very different air now, quite prim in a plain gray gown with a white lace tucker covering her neck and shoulders.

Waiting in the Great Hall was another member of what Jane had so wickedly described as Edward’s harem. This woman I did not recognize, but Martha introduced her to me as Mrs. Charlotte Bridges, wife of the late Reverend John Brook Bridges. She had red hair and a sprinkling of freckles and I was struck by how young she looked: not very much older than Anna, I thought. She seemed rather unsure of herself as she greeted me. I saw her smile at Edward as he handed Jane a glass of mulled wine and ushered her toward the roaring fire. Louisa was at the other end of the room, instructing one of the servants. I wondered how they got on, these two single women with their wealthy male protector.

“She was married only two years when he died,” Martha whispered as we moved away. “No children, sadly. But she dotes on Edward’s.” I wondered then if Edward was grooming Charlotte to fill the role Fanny would have to forsake when she married and started a family of her own.

“Where is your father?” Mrs. Austen’s voice startled me. She was standing behind me, and like many elderly people who are a little deaf, tended to speak very loudly in a crowd. Her question was addressed to Caroline, who was perched on a little stool so close to the fireplace she was almost in it.

“In bed,” the child replied. “Mama says he has one of his stomachs.”

I had to suppress a smile at this, for she had made James Austen sound like a cow, with several digestive organs at his disposal.

“What have you been feeding him, Mary?” Mrs. Austen fixed a beady eye on her daughter-in-law, who was tugging at the shoulders of Anna’s gown in a bid to cover up her swelling bosom.

“Feeding him?” She frowned as she plucked a hatpin from her reticule. “Why, nothing at all! He won’t eat a thing: says the very thought of food makes him feel bilious.” With a sudden stabbing movement she stuck the pin through the back of Anna’s bodice. “Don’t move!” she hissed, as the girl flinched. “There! Now you look decent at last.” Turning to her mother-in-law she said: “I told him, you know: ‘Your daughter is the one who is supposed to be bilious, not you,’ I said. Such a sensitive soul, poor Austen: always was and always will be. He thinks it’s him having the baby, not her.”

Mrs. Austen looked askance at this description of her eldest son. She opened her mouth but was prevented from delivering any kind of reply by the arrival of Fanny, who was a few minutes behind her father in coming to greet us. She looked very fine in a white sarcenet gown trimmed with silver and a silver ribbon braided through her hair. Seeing her beside Anna it was harder than ever to believe that they were of an age. Apart from gaining a few inches in height, Fanny looked much the same as she had at thirteen. She was not a beauty like her mother, but her skin had all the fresh bloom of youth and when she caught sight of me her face lit up with a dazzling smile.

“Miss Sharp! Is it really you?” She put her arms around my neck and hugged me in just the same way as when she was a child.

“Oh dear,” I said. “Have I changed so much?”

“Not a bit!” she said kindly. “But I hope I have! And what do you think of Anna? A wife already and soon to be a mother!” If she was envious of her cousin’s new status she hid it very well. We became so engrossed in catching up on the years that I failed to notice when the door of the Great Hall opened again.

“Good Lord, Henry! What are you doing here?” Edward gave a throaty chuckle as he clapped his brother on the back. I saw Fanny’s brow tense into a row of fine lines I hadn’t noticed before. She was looking at the new arrival, as was everybody else in the room. The only one who did not look surprised was Mary.