The Mysterious Death of Miss Jane Austen (4 page)

I fell asleep that night thinking about
The
Watsons
. I wondered what sort of family Jane had chosen to write about and why she found what she had created so disheartening. I started thinking of the vain, silly people she so loved to mimic and the figures in my head transformed themselves into dancers at the Canterbury ball. Jane came floating by in her white dress, frowning at rows of men with fat, pink faces.

I don’t know what time it was when Fanny woke me. She came knocking on my door, her teeth chattering, saying she felt sick again and had been unable to rouse Caky. I said that I would fetch something to warm her up and bade her climb into my bed while she waited.

I remember seeing a glimmer of light in the sky through the small window in the passageway outside my room, so I suppose it must have been getting toward dawn. The flame of my candle guttered and I paused to shield it with my hand. As I did so I heard the creak of the main staircase and a whispered “Good night!” It was Jane’s voice. I heard the sound of her footsteps on the landing then the faint thud of her bedroom door closing. I longed to go and knock, to hear all about the goings-on in Canterbury. But there was Fanny to think of. I tiptoed past her room and on toward the staircase.

As I put out my hand for the banister I saw the shape of a man on the landing below. Henry. His face was in silhouette, the aquiline nose unmistakably his. His head was turned to one side and he had his back to me. He had taken off his coat and his waistcoat shone blood red in the light from a lamp set down on the floor. As I watched, his head moved slowly from side to side, like a horse nuzzling a fence post. There was something gliding around his waist, pale and slender as a birch bough. It was a long, gloved arm. I saw the fingers separate, ripple, and tense, pressing the small of his back, pulling him closer. Then he took a step back and I heard him say something, very low. It sounded like: “Will you come?”

A second later he had disappeared into the shadows, where a door led away to the east wing and half a dozen empty guest rooms beyond. I didn’t hear the door open or close, because I was suddenly aware of footsteps behind me. I turned to see Fanny coming along the landing and Jane stepping from the doorway of her bedroom. I darted toward the child and held her fast. “Now, Fanny,” I said, trying to control my voice, “what are you doing out of bed? I told you to wait in the warm!”

Jane put her hand on my shoulder and said: “Are you quite well? You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

I shook my head and tried to smile, telling her that I was just a little chilled, that it was Fanny who needed attention. Jane gathered Fanny up and put her in her own bed, saying she was not in the least tired and would be happy to attend to her. As she bid me good night she gave me the same intense, curious look I had received that first afternoon beneath the willow. It was as if she could see her own fears reflected in my eyes.

I lay sleepless in the early morning light, the red of Henry’s waistcoat burning the back of my eyelids every time I tried to close them. I felt a familiar aching of the head and a slight nausea. It usually came after reading for too long or sewing in poor light. Now I wondered if my eyes had failed me in perceiving that white, gloved hand. Was it actually a glove or just a pale arm? Could it have been a servant that I had seen caressing Henry? I wanted to believe that, but I could not. I was convinced that the owner of the hand was none other than Elizabeth.

I told myself that even if it was Elizabeth, I had no real proof of any wrongdoing. Perhaps she had been overly affectionate in bidding him good night; perhaps he had been trying to tempt her into something more. But I had not heard her say yes and neither had I heard them open the door to the east wing. Had she gone with him to one of those empty bedrooms? Or had they heard our voices and crouched in the shadows, shamed by the thought of being discovered? Was Elizabeth lying awake now, beside her slumbering husband, fearful of what the morning would bring?

A faint knocking on my door made me stiffen. Was that Fanny again? Or had Elizabeth come to seek me out, to silence me?

“Are you awake?” It was Jane’s voice. I jumped out of bed and opened the door. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Were you asleep?”

“Not yet,” I replied. “What’s wrong? Is it Fanny? Has she been sick?”

“No. She’s sleeping now. But I was worried about you.” Her eyes searched mine. “You looked so… anxious.” The word was a perfect description of
her
countenance. I hesitated for a moment, afraid of opening my mouth. Then she said: “Is something troubling you?”

I didn’t want to tell her a lie, but neither could I tell her the truth. I had no brother or sister, but I could well imagine what it would do to her, seeing what I had seen. Bad enough, I thought, to discover that your brother is being cuckolded by his wife; how much worse, though, if her lover is another brother? It was the kind of secret that would tear any family apart.

“There’s nothing you want to tell me?” There was something about the way she said it, the way she emphasized the words with a slow horizontal movement of her head. It suggested to me that she had seen something herself: not the thing that I had witnessed, of course, for she was inside her chamber then, but something very like it. If I was right in my guess, she must be in agony, an agony intensified by the fear of my knowing it too. Perhaps, like me, she doubted the evidence of her own eyes, would not
allow
it to be true. Seeing the concern in her face, I formed the belief that she was really begging me
not
to tell her.

“I was just a little frightened, that’s all,” I said softly. “I heard voices on the stairs—I had quite forgotten that you were all coming back from the ball.”

“Voices?”

“Just the mistress bidding good night to your brother,” I said. I held her gaze, determined to make her believe me. I felt myself trembling. Whether it was with cold or with emotion I don’t know. In an instant she took her own shawl and wrapped it around my shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “It wasn’t fair of me to come knocking on your door.” I felt the warmth of her hand on my arm as she rubbed it through the shawl. “I must get back to Fanny. I shouldn’t have left her.” And then she was gone, leaving an invisible trail of lavender mixed with the faint, musky sweetness of a night’s dancing.

When I woke the next morning after a few fitful hours of sleep, I had a pain behind my eyes. When I tried to get out of bed, the room began to spin and candle flames appeared and disappeared, as if some fiendish spirit lit them, pinched them out, and hexed them back to life.

Fanny, who was quite recovered from her own illness, came to find me when I failed to appear in the schoolroom. Her reaction to seeing me so indisposed was to appoint herself my nurse, solemnly rearranging my bedclothes and laying a damp flannel on my brow, which set me smiling in spite of the pain. When she could find no other means of increasing my comfort, she went off in search of her aunt.

On hearing of what ailed me, Jane did a strange, lovely thing. She went out into the meadows that bordered the river, spending the whole of the morning collecting wild flowers, which she brought to my room. Spreading them out on the counterpane, she told me of a remedy she had gotten from a woman called Martha Lloyd, the sister of Anna’s stepmother, who had made a careful study of the use of herbs for medicine.

“I copied this from her,” she said, pulling a folded sheet of paper from her pocket. “My eyes sometimes give me pain and I have learned how to treat them myself.” She read the remedy aloud: “‘Take of eye-bright tops two handfuls, of celandine, vervain, betony, dill, clary, pimpernel, and rosemary flowers, of each a handful; infuse twenty-four hours in two quarts of white wine, then draw it off in a glass still; drop the water with a feather into the eye often.’”

“Two
quarts
of white wine!”

She nodded. “Don’t worry—my brother will never miss it. He has enough wine in his cellars to float a battleship.”

“It seems a strange thing, though,” I said, “to put wine in the eyes. Does it really work?”

“Oh yes.” She smiled, turning the paper over. “It’s Martha’s best remedy for sore eyes. She has this other one, which you can try if you want to: ‘Take the white of hen’s dung, dry it very well, and beat it to a powder. Take as much of it as will sit on a sixpence and blow it into the eyes when the party goes to bed.’”

She looked at me so straight-faced that I burst out laughing, my breath gusting over the flowers and scattering some on the floor. “Hen’s dung!” I grimaced as she bent to gather up the pale blue heads of eye-bright and the fragrant stems of rosemary. “Please don’t tell me you
tried
it!”

“Well, I did collect some,” she replied solemnly. “But my mother mistook it for pepper and put it in an oyster pie.”

I almost believed her, so quick was she at mixing fact and fiction and so convincing her mask. She was such a different person from the one who had come to my room in the gray light of dawn. I think that she had set out that morning determined to dispatch whatever had robbed her of sleep the night before. I could picture her lacing up her boots and striding into the dew-soaked meadow, plucking flowers from their roots in a slow, deliberate act of extirpation.

I was glad that she asked no more questions. I shuddered to think of the consequences of telling her what I thought I had seen, of the utter devastation it would wreak. How could she keep such a thing to herself? And how would the family survive the recriminations that would surely follow?

I thought of Fanny, already so knowing, hovering on the brink of discovery. It was one thing to suspect a favorite uncle of holding a special place in your mother’s heart; quite another to find out that he had fathered your baby sister. I thought of Fanny’s brothers, young Edward, George, and Henry, due to return to school in a few weeks’ time. A scandal of such proportions, if it got out, would put paid to any hopes for their future. And then there were the little ones, William, Lizzy, Marianne, and Charles—still in the nursery and incapable of understanding why Uncle Henry would not be coming to play with them anymore. And there was baby Louisa, who would never again gaze into Henry’s eyes the way she had done that day of the Canterbury races. I knew what it felt like to lose the closeness and security of family. If I told Jane what I suspected, hers would never be the same again.

“This time tomorrow, when we’ve steeped the flowers and drawn off the liquid, your eyes will be quite better.” Jane’s voice brought me up short. “Then we shall write another play and everything will be as it was.”

“Yes,” I murmured, settling back against the pillow, “I do hope so. And perhaps you will let me read your manuscript? I would love to know more about this family you have dreamed up.”

She plucked a sprig of celandine from the bunch in her lap and pulled off the flowers, crushing them between her finger and thumb. “It’s very kind of you, but I’d rather wait till I had something better to show you.” She opened her fingers, revealing a smear of bright yellow. If she had pressed her thumb upon a sheet of paper, the swirls and creases in the flesh would have left the kind of mark an infant makes on discovering a paint box. She seemed determined to view
The
Watsons
as a waste of effort, a stillborn child that would never see the light of day. I wondered how long it would be before she trusted me enough to reveal any future creations.

***

Martha Lloyd’s herbal remedy had a wonderfully soothing effect, but we did not write another play. Elizabeth, on hearing that I had been suffering with my eyes, decreed that I should return to London with Henry to see an optometrist. I was surprised and rather taken aback by this offer. I was only the governess, not a member of the family. Why should I be singled out for such exalted treatment, I wondered.

The appointment was made for the day after Henry’s planned departure. I was to stay overnight at his home in Brompton and he would escort me to and from the consultation. Mrs. Austen shook her head when she heard where I was off to.

“I cannot abide London,” she said, her tongue peeping through the gap in her teeth like a mouse venturing out of a hole. “It is a sad place. I cannot comprehend why Eliza loves it so. I would not live in it on any account: one has not time to do one’s duty either to God or man.”

I was not sure what she meant by it, but her words reminded me very much of something my father had uttered as he lay dying. “I have failed you, my love,” he said. “I have not done my duty to God or to man, but you must promise me that you will always do yours.” I could not ask him to explain, for he lapsed into unconsciousness with the next breath. The following day, when his body was laid out in the parlor, the bailiffs came to take every mortal thing that he had owned. They would have taken the coffin itself if I had not thrown myself across it.

“Pay no heed to Mama,” Jane said, shooing me upstairs to help me pack my things. “She loves London as much as anyone. It affords her such opportunity for her study of
noses
. There is one in particular that she always must see when she goes there. It belongs to the gentleman who guides visitors around Westminster Abbey. She says he must be the cleverest man in Christendom.” I could not help but smile at the thought of Mrs. Austen stalking about the Abbey in pursuit of such an unfortunate soul. “And you should have heard her as we passed by Kensington Palace one time,” Jane went on. “The King had employed a painter to improve the outside and my mother said: ‘I suppose whenever the walls want no touching up he is employed about the Queen’s face!’”

How could I be gloomy with such a companion? Before I departed she asked if I would take two letters: one for her cousin and another for Madame Bigeon, Henry’s housekeeper. “You will like Madame B,” she said. “She is the very essence of kindness. She has been with Eliza for a long time—before she married Henry. She and her daughter are from Calais—they fled France during the Terror.”

I took the letters and tucked them in my valise. “I hope that your cousin will not think it an imposition,” I said, “having a stranger under her roof.” I couldn’t spell it out to Jane, but I was worried about how I would be received. I was the employee of Elizabeth, sent without notice to stay in the home of Eliza. If Eliza had any inkling of what I suspected her husband was up to, I guessed that she would not be best pleased to see me.

“Nonsense!” Jane laughed. “I have written three letters already, telling her all about you. But I doubt that you will see her: she is rarely at home.” This did not sit easily with the picture I had formed of Eliza, of a poor faded beauty who hid herself away while her handsome young husband did what he pleased. “She is in great demand,” Jane went on. “She keeps her title of comtesse in spite of having had all her land in France stolen from her; she’s always at some party or another, or going to the theater. The only time she stays in is if she’s holding a
soirée
of her own. She has the most amazing salon for entertaining: Henry says that if you sit still too long up there, you get your legs painted gold.”

She was smiling, but there was agitation in her voice; it had all come out in a rush, as if she was trying to bolster Eliza, to dismiss any impression that Henry had lost interest in his wife. Then she said: “You mustn’t mind him. He’s a terrible flirt. He can’t help it.” I tried to read her eyes. Was this a warning? Did she think
I
was about to become the object of her brother’s attention?

Before either of us could say another word we were interrupted by one of the housemaids coming to tell me that the carriage was ready and Henry waiting downstairs. She stood in the doorway as I bid Jane good-bye, probably under instructions from Elizabeth to hurry me up. Jane hugged me, saying she wished she was coming too. I wondered why she could not. Surely it would have been no trouble for Henry to take his sister to London for the night? I soon discovered why Jane had not been asked; indeed, the whole purpose of my trip seemed to unfold within half an hour of our departure from Godmersham.

Henry’s familiar scent filled the carriage as we climbed in, roiling my thoughts like a stick in a wine cask. All the self-doubt came floating up again. I felt an overwhelming desire to think only the best of him, to submerge the memory of a few nights before. I had to remind myself that though he smiled, he was someone to be wary of.

I sat there in some trepidation, wondering what topics of conversation I might summon up to while away the hours that lay ahead. But Henry made things very smooth, talking of the games he had played with the children and repeating all the funny little things that they had said and done. It wasn’t long, however, before he began to talk about Fanny. It started innocently enough, with some remark about the cow she kept as a pet, along with a collection of birds and kittens that made almost as much work as the children. “I heard she was unwell again the night I returned from Canterbury,” he said. “And you looked after her.” He beamed at me. “You were very kind to her, Miss Sharp. I heard you talking to her on the landing as I came up to bed.”

“I… er… I was worried about her, yes.” He was looking right into my eyes, as if he could see the images that lingered inside my head.

“I hope that everything was all right? That you were not too much…
disturbed
?” To my mind the slight pause and the emphasis conveyed his meaning exactly. I was sure that he wanted to know if I had seen him on the stairs, if I had heard what he said to Elizabeth. I felt the tips of my ears burning and was glad that they were hidden beneath my bonnet. I didn’t want him to know how much those frank hazel eyes discomfited me, how trapped I felt inside that carriage with him as my escort-cum-jailer.

I could hear the bump of the wheels on ruts in the road, but behind the glass, a thick silence cocooned us. He never shifted his gaze from my face. He was waiting for an answer. I hesitated, still trying to weigh him up. If I let on that I had seen him, what would he do? Would he have some story ready to account for what I had witnessed? Or would he write to Elizabeth the minute we got to London, warning her of the danger I posed and advising my prompt dismissal? The thought of this made my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.

“Did Jane come to help? I thought I heard her voice too.”

I swallowed hard. I mustn’t allow Jane to be dragged into this. “She was… in bed,” I began, my voice made gruff by the dryness of my mouth. “She heard me talking to Fanny and popped her head around the door to see what was going on. Then she took Fanny into her bed.”

He held my gaze a moment longer before replying. “So everything was all right?”

“Everything was quite all right, thank you,” I said, nodding to lend my words conviction. I had to make him believe me. It was pure self-preservation that motivated me. I was not thinking then of the effect this tacit agreement to turn a blind eye could have on Fanny or the other children.

“Did Jane tell you of Cassandra’s little drama?” He stretched out his long legs and settled back against the padded velvet. “Had her ankle not been sprained it would have been the most amusing thing!” I was taken aback by the sudden change of tone and subject. Henry launched into a spirited account of the ball at Canterbury, describing the man in military uniform who had been so taken with Cassandra until his foot became entangled in her gown during a cotillion and they had fallen to the floor, her foot beneath his leg and the back seam of his breeches rent asunder.

Finishing the story, he smiled at me again. It was Jane’s smile. They were so much alike in their looks and their humor and yet so very different in their dealings with the opposite sex. Jane talked about men but in a sharp, funny way that shielded her from the inescapable truth that she was, just like me, a woman close to thirty years old with no husband. Henry, on the other hand, had a confident charm that made him dangerous; he had the air of a man who could have any woman that he chose. Why, I wondered, had he chosen Eliza? I hoped that she would be at home when we arrived; I wanted to see this wife of his for myself.

The rest of the journey was easier. Having apparently satisfied himself that he was in the clear, Henry kept me entertained with news of London. He talked about some of the plays he had been to see and told me of a scientist called Humphry Davy, who was attracting the fashionable set to his demonstrations of a thing called laughing gas.