Jane Austen's First Love

by Syrie James

Genres: Historical Fiction; Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

INSPIRED BY ACTUAL EVENTS 
Fifteen-year-old Jane Austen dreams of three things: doing something useful, writing something worthy, and falling madly in love. When she visits her brother in Kent to celebrate his engagement, she meets wealthy, devilishly handsome Edward Taylor—a fascinating young man who is truly worthy of her affections. Jane knows a match between her and Edward is unlikely, but every moment she spends with him makes her heart race—and he seems to return her interest. Much to her displeasure, however, there is another seeking his attention
 
Unsure of her budding relationship, Jane seeks distraction by attempting to correct the pairings of three other prospective couples. But when her matchmaking aspirations do not all turn out as anticipated, Jane discovers the danger of relying on first impressions. The human heart cannot be easily deciphered, nor can it be directed or managed. And if others must be left to their own devices in matters of love and matrimony, can Jane even hope to satisfy her own heart?

Release date: August 5, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter the First

The summer of 1791 is so firmly fixed in my memory that I believe I can never forget it; every detail is as fresh and vivid as if it occurred only yesterday, and looking back, there are times when it seems as if my life never really began until that moment—the moment when I first met him.

It was a letter which instigated this fond remembrance—a letter I wrote to my sister Cassandra many years past, which she came upon the other day by happenstance. It was a cold morning in late November, and we had recently returned to our Bath apartment following a lovely, all too brief holiday at Lyme. I was setting the table for breakfast, when I observed my sister seated by the window in the drawing-room, deeply engrossed in reading. An open box of old correspondence lay at her feet.

“What are you reading, Cassandra?” inquired I.

“One of your old letters,” replied she, smiling. “I came upon this box while I was tidying the wardrobe, and could not prevent myself from taking a look inside.”

“My letters? Why do you keep those old things? Re-reading them can hardly prove to make lively entertainment of a morning.”

“Oh, but it does. You wrote this one in September 1796 when you were in Kent. Here you speak of a Miss Fletcher: She wore her purple muslin, which is pretty enough, though it does not become her complexion. There are two traits in her character which are pleasing; namely, she admires Camilla, and drinks no cream in her tea.” Cassandra laughed softly. “You are a most candid and amusing writer, Jane.”

“I am flattered that you think so, but I still say: what is the point of reading my old correspondence? It is full of nothing but useless details which can no longer be of interest to anybody.”

“I beg to differ. Reading them is a source of great pleasure for me, dearest.” Turning the letter over, she continued, “Look what you write here: We went by Bifrons and I contemplated with a melancholy pleasure the abode of him, on whom I once fondly doated.”

I paused, the spoon which I had been holding forgotten in my hand. That single sentence caught at my heart, of a sudden bringing back to mind a person, and a time and place, which I had not thought about in many years—and an attachment which I thought I had long since got over.

Cassandra looked at me, empathy in her eyes. “You are thinking about that summer, are you not?”

I nodded.

“How many years has it been?”

I did the mental calculation. “Twelve and a half years.”

She carefully refolded the letter. “They say that memories fade in time—but where particular people and events are concerned, I have not found that to be the case.”

I knew that she was thinking of Tom, her own lost love, who had tragically died so many years before. Our eyes caught and held across the room.

“Nor have I.”

She came to me, removed the spoon from my hand, and set it on the table; then she took me in her embrace. “You are older and wiser now, Jane. But it is only natural that you should think of him. I know what he meant to you.”

So saying, she kissed my cheek, handed me the letter, and left the room.

I sank into the nearest chair, immediately opening and scanning the letter until I found the phrase which was of such interest to me. Then I held the missive to my chest, as a hundred memories came flooding back.

At that point of my life when this history occurs, I had attained my fifteenth year. I was young, I know it; but does age matter? Did Juliet, not fourteen, love her Romeo any less? What of Pyramus and Thisbe’s burning passion? Ought we to discount their raw and overpowering feelings, simply because of their youthful age? I think not. When he was near, at times my heart did not beat to its regular rhythm; in so many ways, I thought he was my perfect match.

To my mind, particularly when one took into account my education and the manner in which I was raised, I was, at fifteen, a grown-up person in every way; indeed, I felt as mature and worldly as my sister, who was three years my senior. I was not beautiful, like Cassandra; my hair was far too curly, and neither fashionably light nor dark, but a shade of brown somewhere in between; even so, I received compliments on my hazel eyes and clear complexion, and was often told that I bore a strong resemblance to my father and my six brothers, whom I believed to be handsome.

I lived in the house where I was born, Steventon Rectory, in the county of Hampshire. Although not grand or elegant by any means, it was a dwelling worthy of a scholar and a gentleman and had provided me with all the comforts and joys of a happy childhood. It offered more accommodation than many parsonage houses, making it possible for my father to augment his income as rector by taking in boarding pupils—as such, my sister and I had the benefit of growing up in a house of rowdy boys and being educated at their side. Since Cassandra had finished her studies, and all my brothers were grown and gone except Charles (the youngest, at nearly twelve), the size of the school was much depleted; yet Papa gave it no less attention than before.

We had a lovely garden and a big old barn, where for years my brothers and sister and I had enjoyed holding home theatricals. I had done very little travelling outside of Hampshire, other than two brief intervals away at school, and one family excursion to east Kent to visit my elderly great-uncle at Sevenoaks. I was anxious to see the world.

I had been taking dancing lessons since I was a child and loved nothing more than the idea of a ball; but an idea was all it had been, for as much as I perceived myself to be an adult, my mother still forbade me from attending the assemblies at Basingstoke. This was the greatest cross I bore at the time, for I dreamt of three things in life: doing something useful, writing something worthy, and falling in love—and how could I ever fall in love if I had to wait nearly two years before Mamma would allow me to come out?

On Thursday morning, the 18th of March, 1791, I was in my dressing-room, a smallish chamber which communicated with my bedroom and had been especially fitted up for my sister and me. I adored every inch of that room, from the chocolate brown carpet, blue wallpaper, and comforting fireplace, to the painted bookshelves and cheerful striped curtains, for it was a place of quiet and refuge, where I could write in privacy and peace.

I was seated at the small table between the windows, above which hung a looking-glass and our Tonbridge-ware work-boxes, thoroughly engaged in composing a little play I had entitled The Visit, and was just considering the next line to be spoken, when I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs and my mother’s voice ringing out:

“Jane! Jane! Come down! You are needed!”

“I am writing, Mamma!” I doubted very much that my reply would hold much weight with her, and sadly this proved to be the case.

My mother entered the room and stopped beside me, shaking her head and clicking her tongue. “Look at you, bent over that table like an interrogation point—do sit up straight, Jane!”

Like myself, my mother was of middle height, and spare and thin; I never understood her personal assertion that she had never been handsome, for with her bright gray eyes, her aristocratic face and nose, and her shiny dark hair (which had retained its colour, although she was two-and-fifty) I thought her attractive. Although at times her behaviour mortified and infuriated me, I loved her dutifully, for she was a clever, honourable woman who worked hard to manage our busy household. However, to my everlasting distress, although she doted on her other children, she seemed to have singled me out as the one with whom to persistently find fault.

“Jane, put down your pen and come downstairs; we have work to do.”

“What kind of work?”

“I told you at breakfast! We still have all those shirts to make for Charles, and two new pairs of breeches, and who knows how many handkerchiefs. Cassandra and I have been working all morning, and with only two pairs of hands, it is slow going.”

My brother Charles was a cheerful, sweet-tempered, affectionate boy, who had chosen to follow in my brother Frank’s footsteps, and was to start at the Naval Academy at Portsmouth a few months hence. We had been sewing his new clothes for months, and although I was very happy to assist in the occupation, I saw no reason to interrupt my writing at that precise moment for such a task.

“Mamma: Charles is not going away until July. We have plenty of time.”

“The time will fly by, Jane. Even if we sew every day between now and July, we will be lucky if we finish it all before he leaves.”

“May I come down in an hour, Mamma? I am right in the middle of the most amazing scene: eight people are crowded into a tiny drawing-room which only has chairs for six. Two large persons will be obliged to sit on the laps of others—only imagine the hilarity which will ensue!”

“That can wait, Jane; this cannot.”

“But, Mamma! I have the whole dialogue in my head. If I stop now, I will forget! Did Shakespeare’s mother interrupt his efforts with a pen? Did Mozart’s father oblige him to sew gowns for his sister?”

My mother raised her eyes heavenward. “I know how much you enjoy your writing, Jane. Lord knows, we all love a good laugh now and then, and if anyone understands the pleasures of composition, it is I—I flatter myself that my poetry is not entirely unreadable—but it is only a hobby, Jane: an amusement for the family. We are neither of us Mozart nor Shakespeare.”

I could not argue with that assessment. The short stories and plays I had written were only fluff and nonsense which I composed to amuse myself and my family. When it came to literary talent, that honour belonged to my brothers James and Henry, who had demonstrated their brilliance by editing a newspaper while at Oxford.

“I write because I cannot help it,” said I.

“I understand; but that does not make it important. What is important is that you improve and perfect your needlework skills, Jane, for they will be of infinite value when you have a family of your own one day.”

I turned in my chair to face her. “How do you know I will have a family one day?” We had always been allowed—nay, encouraged—to speak frankly within the confines of our family; outside the home, it was a different matter. Perhaps this was to my detriment, for I often spoke without sufficient consideration, regardless of the setting; but my mother and father said they wished to know what was on our minds. “That will only happen if I marry, which requires that I meet an eligible gentleman—which seems highly unlikely given that you will never allow me to attend a real ball!”

She sighed. “We have been over this too many times to count, Jane. You may come out when you are seventeen, just as your sister did. Your father and I do not wish you to enter society or marry at too early an age.”

“Dancing does not necessarily lead to matrimony.”

“No, but dancing facilitates the means by which one might meet her life’s partner, and is one of several, certain steps towards falling in love. I met your father at a ball.”

“I know; but Cassandra has been out more than a year already, and she is not in love, nor even close to engaged. No doubt we shall both be required to attend many balls before we each find our perfect match. What is the harm in me starting early? Cassandra and I have done everything together since the moment of my birth; our progress in everything we have learnt has always been the same. Cannot you forget our age difference in this one, particular matter?”

“No, I cannot. Now go wash your hands—your fingers are all black—and come downstairs at once.” So saying, she quit the room.

With a deep sigh, I returned my aborted manuscript to my writing-box, washed my hands at the basin, and joined my mother and sister in the sitting-room. I threaded my needle and worked beside them in silence, struggling to keep the conversation between the characters in my play alive in my mind; but my mother’s and sister’s chatter, and the sounds of my father’s Latin lesson issuing from the adjoining parlour, forbade it.

After two hours thus employed, I felt I could sit still no longer. Glancing out the rectory window, I observed that the sun had made a bright appearance, and there was nary a cloud in the sky. After a frigid and dreary winter, the last dusting of snow had at last melted away, and the fields beyond, covered in a sparkling frost, beckoned to me. “Mamma, I have finished the long seam on this sleeve, and made good progress on the cuff. May I stop working now and take a walk?”

“You wish to go out in this weather?” She was incredulous.

“The post will not deliver itself. Someone has to go to Deane and fetch it,” replied I lightly, adding to my sister, “Would you like to join me?”

“I would, very much,” answered Cassandra, lowering her work. My sister, a prudent, well-judging young woman, was generally less demonstrative of feeling than I—a characteristic which I struggled in vain to emulate. She was also my dearest friend in the world; I valued her advice and counsel above anybody else’s, and loved her more than life itself.

“Well! I, too, am ready to do something else for a while,” mused my mother, putting her work in her bag, “but to go out? The roads and fields are all covered in frost. You will catch your death of cold!”

“It is nought but a light frost, Mamma,” countered I.

“There is nothing worse than a light frost, for it will soon melt away, and then you are forced to walk over wet ground. I had a childhood friend whose death was occasioned by nothing more—she walked out one morning in April after a hard rain, and her feet got wet through—she never changed her shoes when she came home—and that was the end of her! Have you any notion how many people have died in consequence of catching cold? There is not a disorder in the world except the smallpox which does not spring from it!”

“Mamma,” said Cassandra gently, “you are very right to be concerned, but I do not think there is any danger of the frost melting away today. The fields are still quite frozen.”

“We have walked for miles over fields far frostier than this,” added I. “We have been stuck inside such a long time this winter. I am dying to get out.”

My mother stood, and said, “Well, I can see there is no point trying to talk sense into either of you. If you catch cold, it will not be myfault. But see to it that you put on your boots, change your shoes the minute you get back home, and then it is back to sewing for the three of us.”

Cassandra and I donned all the essential accoutrements, and as we were about to leave the house, my mother cried, “Jane! That shawl will never be warm enough! Take it off and fetch your cloak! Why cannot you be more sensible, like your sister?”

Exasperated, I ran back upstairs and did as bidden.

As we stepped outside, I savoured the taste of the crisp, winter air and the refreshing bite of the breeze against my cheeks. “Is not itglorious to be outside? It is cold, but not too cold. Sunny, but not too bright.”

Cassandra agreed. “It is the perfect day in every way.”

“Yes—well—nearly perfect.” As we struck out along our usual shortcut—the well-travelled path carved across the half-frozen field in the direction of Deane Gate Inn, where the mail was delivered—I could not help but sigh. “Cassandra: why is Mamma so harsh where I am concerned? She is ever so sweet to you, yet constantly finds imperfection in me.”

“I think it is because she admires you more, Jane.”

“Admires me more? That makes no sense!”

“It does. You are ever so much brighter than I am, Jane.”

“That is not true.”

“The point cannot be argued. It is not in my nature to invent clever and witty stories, and relate them aloud in such a manner as to have the entire family laughing into stitches. Mamma perceives how very clever you are; so naturally, she expects more from you.”

“That is kind of you to say, but I fear it is not so. I know you all indulge me only because you love me. Mamma insists that my writing is not important. It is expert needlework, she said, which is to be the hallmark of my future.”

“Every woman needs to be skilled at needlework, Jane; but regardless of what Mamma says, she knows you are capable of far more than that; I feel certain of it.”

“If that is true—what do you think she expects of me?”

“I do not know,” replied she, troubled. “It is possible that even she does not know.”

“How confusing this is! How I wish I could oblige her! How I wish I could do more, Cassandra; more than darning stockings and making shirts and writing nonsense for no ears other than our own. Nothing of interest ever happens to me. I should dearly love to be useful somehow, to do something which might make a difference in the lives of others—but what that might be is a mystery to me.”

“You will discover it in time, Jane. You are still young.”

“Young! How that term exasperates me!” My footsteps crunched noisily against the hard, frosty ground. “I am not so very young, Cassandra. And what does age matter, in any case? How often have you said that you consider me your equal in every way? Oh! If only I were seventeen and out like you!”

“Do not wish your life away, Jane.”

“I am not wishing it away; I only wish to be out. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sit home while you go off to the assembly rooms without me?”

“I understand how you feel, my dearest; and I am sorry for it.”

“There are so few real amusements in the world. Dancing is such a glorious activity! It exercises both the body and the mind, all while moving with spirit and elegance to lively music.” Holding out my arm as if to an imaginary partner, I curtseyed, then practised my dancing across the field, making several turns.

Cassandra smiled. “You are an excellent dancer, Jane—so much more elegant and animated than I could ever be.”

“You are too modest. I love nothing more than watching you dance, dearest; except, perhaps, dancing myself. Oh! We know of parents who allowed their daughters to come out at fourteen, when accompanied by their mother or an older sister. Why must I be denied the same pleasures? How I wish I could powder my hair and put on a new gown, white gloves, and satin slippers with shoe-roses, and make my debut at the ball at Basingstoke with you tomorrow!”

“It is not all that agreeable to powder one’s hair, Jane; I only do it when I absolutely must, and because Mamma insists upon it. And with regard to your debut—you know Mamma will never bend on this matter. I wish you would not continue to let it vex you so.”

“How can I do otherwise?” The breeze whipped the strings of my bonnet, and I pulled my cloak more closely about me as we walked along. “It is so unfair. I am tired of dance lessons with Catherine and Alethea, improving my skills for nothing more than children’s balls at Manydown, or snug dances in our own parlour with pushed-back furniture and our brothers and neighbours’ sons for partners. How I long to converse and dance and flirt openly with gentlemen I have never met!”

With a little laugh, Cassandra said, “What appeals to you more? The flirting or the dancing?”

“The flirting, absolutely!” We had reached the opposite side of the field now, and holding up the hems of our skirts, we made our way up the mud-encrusted lane, past the tiny village and the church of St. Nicholas, over which my father presided. “Oh, Cassandra! Every night I dream of meeting a worthy young man who incites all my passions—a gentlemanlike, pleasant young man who is intelligent, thoughtful, kind, and accomplished, who shares my enthusiasm for literature and music and nature, with whom I can converse on any topic at length with spirit and debate—if he be good-looking, all the better—”

“Where are you to find this paragon of virtue?”

“I have no idea—but I have conjured him in my imagination. He must exist.”

“I fear you expect too much, Jane. No one man can be all these things to you.”

“But he must be! For he is the only man I shall ever marry. Were I to meet him tomorrow, I should fall instantly and happily in love with him.” With a deep sigh, I added, “But that can never happen until I am out. Why cannot Mamma and Papa be more liberal-minded on this subject? Can they truly expect me to wait nearly two more years?”

“You reflect a maturity well beyond your years, dearest. Perhaps Mamma will allow you to come out next year, at sixteen. In any case, the time will pass more quickly than you think—and there is much sense in waiting.”

“Do you really think so? I cannot agree. I think a girl ought to be introduced into company in a more gradual manner, so as to slowly become accustomed to the alteration of manners required of her. Was not it difficult, Cassandra, for so many years, to be allowed only to smile and be demure, and say barely a word except to friends and relations, and then suddenly at seventeen to be introduced to society with no real preparation?”

Cassandra coloured slightly; it was a moment before she replied. “I suppose it was unsettling.”

Our discourse was at that moment curtailed by the sight of two friends, Martha and Mary Lloyd, who were just emerging from the Deane Gate Inn with their own daily mail.

Martha and Mary, who resided at Deane parsonage with their widowed mother, had moved to the neighbourhood two years before. Although Mary, at nineteen, was closer in age to me than her sister, it was the kind, intelligent, and sympathetic Martha, ten years my senior, with whom I felt a deep connection, and who had become my own particular friend. Martha had generously finished my new cloak for me the year before, when my fingers had been suffering from chilblains, resulting from a particularly cold winter; and in return, I had dedicated a short story and poem to her.

We exchanged greetings; and upon learning that the Lloyds had no engagements that afternoon, I inquired as to whether they might like to return with us to the rectory.

“We are making clothes for our darling Charles, for the Naval Academy,” explained I.

“Oh! I would be happy to help,” announced Martha with a smile. “The endeavour will be more enjoyable if we work together, and—” (with a twinkle in her eyes) “I am certain your mother will not mind.”

I laughed. My mother, more often than not, embarrassed me by mending clothes and darning stockings when people came to call, insisting that it was an excellent use of her time. Mary also agreed to join us, and while the Lloyd sisters dashed up to the parsonage to get their work-bags, Cassandra and I retrieved our mail. There was only a single letter, addressed to my father, from our brother Edward.

Edward was my second-eldest brother, and he had led a charmed life. At the tender age of twelve, he had so impressed my father’s wealthy cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Knight, with his charm and sunny disposition, that they invited him to accompany them on their wedding trip, and to visit several times at Godmersham Park, their manor home in Kent. When it became clear that they were not to have any children of their own, they expressed their desire to adopt Edward and make him their heir. My father had initially been reticent to the idea, but my mother wisely insisted that Edward should go if he wished it—and wish it he did. The move had elevated Edward’s status into a world of wealth and privilege which he could before have only imagined.

“A letter from our Edward! Why, we are starved for news from him!” cried my mother, when we returned to the rectory. “He is so good, so amiable and sweet-tempered. Any letter from him is always a high point in the day for me. Do read it, Mr. Austen, without delay!”

My father, an intelligent and amiable man of nearly sixty years of age, adjusted the fashionable white wig which curled above his ears, and disappeared into his study. Not long after, he came out to the front parlour, where we ladies were at work, and after calling my brother Charles to join us, said,

“This is a most interesting letter. I see no reason why Mary and Martha should not hear it.” He gave me the letter, then sat down in his favourite chair. “You may do the honours, Jane.”

I opened the letter and read it aloud.

Chapter the Second

Godmersham Park, Kent

11 March, 1791

My dearest father,

I trust you are well. I have news which I had hoped to share sooner, but Mr. Knight has kept me much occupied since my return from the Continent with matters of business on the estate, with a view to furthering my education in such matters—and we have just returned from a brief trip to town. Both you and my mother will be pleased to learn, however, that in my moments of leisure, I have had the opportunity to involve myself again in the social activities of the neighbourhood—which brings me to the purpose of this letter. I have developed a strong regard for a particular young lady: Miss Elizabeth Bridges, the third daughter of Sir Brook William Bridges, 3rd Bt, of Goodnestone Park. She will soon be eighteen years of age and was educated in town. She is an elegant, graceful, accomplished, beautiful young woman.—I am honoured and gratified to say that she returns my affections; for I have asked her to be my wife, and she has accepted.

Here my reading was interrupted by a great cry of thrilled astonishment from my mother. “Engaged! Edward is engaged! Heaven be praised! My first child to be married! I thought it would be James, but no, it is Edward after all, and to the daughter of a baronet!”

“I am so pleased for him,” said Cassandra, beaming.

“Did not I tell you all those years ago, Mr. Austen,” continued my mother, “that it was for the best that we let him go to your cousins? That it should elevate him beyond any expectations we could ever have for him?”

“You did indeed, Cassy my dear.”

“And now I have been proved right! Such a match! It is a great blessing that he is to one day inherit all that property, with Lord knows how many mansions and houses, but to see him happily married, that has always been my greatest wish.”

“Mine as well, my dearest.”

So delighted was I by this news, and so eager was I to read the rest of the letter, that I could yet vouchsafe no comment; but my sister added, “She sounds a most appealing young lady.”

Martha and Mary offered their congratulations, and Charles exclaimed his own excitement; but all were silenced when my father held up a hand and announced in a firm voice, “Let Jane finish the letter, if you please.”

All eyes turned to me in expectant silence, and I read on:

Sir Brook and his lady have approved the match, as have Mr. and Mrs. Knight; and my dearest hope now is that you will be as forthcoming with your good wishes. No date has yet been set for the nuptials, but it is Mr. Knight’s wish that, (in his words) as we are ‘both very young, the event should not take place immediately.’ When we do marry, he thinks to give us his small house at Rowling, where we shall be quite content, although our income will be small.

—

16 March, 1791

Please forgive the interruption in my writing; I received a summons to Goodnestone Park where I spent the past several days, and I have even more good news to impart: Elizabeth’s eldest sister, Fanny, is now also engaged! She is to marry a Mr. Lewis Cage, a propertied gentleman thirty years of age of excellent character. It has been decided that both weddings should not take place until the end of the year. However, Lady Bridges feels such happiness at the good fortune of her daughters, that she does not wish to wait so long to celebrate the impending unions. There is talk of a fortnight or more of parties at Goodnestone during the month of June, the details of which are not yet fi