A Jane Austen Encounter (12 page)

Elizabeth shook her head. “Imagine,” she said to Richard. “Writing all that by hand at this tiny table, working just in the mornings, since they spent the afternoons entertaining visitors and the evenings reading aloud after dinner.”

“Yes,” Richard agreed. “It’s an amazing output for the brief eight years she had left to her. She must have had it all stored in her mind, and when the peace of a settled life gave her opportunity, it just poured out.”

Elizabeth gazed out the elegant Regency window Edward Knight had installed so his mother and sisters could look out over their garden. She started to comment on the beauty of the scene and how much Jane must have enjoyed the peaceful view, but she drew back with a sharp intake of breath. “Richard! It’s him. That man who was walking away from us on the path.”

“Are you sure it’s the same person? How can you tell?”

Elizabeth considered. How could she tell? How many sturdy young men must there be in the area wearing a blue shirt and jeans? And yet, surely the sun glinted the same red-gold highlight from his rather long hair as he moved on to examine another flower bed. “How did he get here, when he was going in the other direction?”

Richard shrugged. “He forgot something he had to turn back for? He was meeting someone?”

“He seems to be alone now,” Elizabeth said half under her breath, then moved on to the dining parlour. Here was the fireplace where Jane prepared the family tea and toast each morning and a square mahogany table like the one where they sat to eat. A sign by the door gave a calculation of Jane’s earnings from her writing: £40,000 in today’s terms. “That would be more than $60,000. I’m so pleased she saw that much return. It must have been enormously gratifying to her, after not having so much as a farthing of her own before. Such a shame she couldn’t have enjoyed it longer.”

But Richard had moved on into the vestibule. “Elizabeth, come see,” He indicted an open drawer in a small chest. Elizabeth peered in.

“Oh, my amber cross!” She fingered the one at her neck. She had worn it almost every day since Richard gave it to her their first evening in Bath. “And Cassandra’s. How lovely. The very ones Charles sent his sisters ‘from the prize money he was awarded for the capture of a French vessel during the Napoleonic Wars,’” she read from the accompanying sign.

Richard stopped to peruse the letters in the display case. “Look,” he said. “Original letters. In Jane’s own hand.”

Elizabeth looked at the small, neat handwriting, but didn’t wait to make out the words. She would rather see the bedrooms above. She was almost at the top of the wooden stairs when a creak on a step below made her turn. Did a figure pull back around the corner? It was hard to tell because two ladies were ascending just behind her. No reason to suppose one of them hadn’t stepped on a loose tread.

Elizabeth was admiring the bowed canopy bed like the one Jane and Cassandra would have shared, imagining how cozy it would have been with the ivory draperies closed like a tent, when Richard joined her. “I longed for a bed like this when I was a child,” she said. The wide, bare floorboards, however, were less appealing. “But I would want a fuzzy rug when I got out of bed on a cold morning with bare feet.”

“And think how cold it would have been washing on a winter morning.” Richard indicated the adjoining closet furnished with a bowl and pitcher for the ladies’ ablutions.

Elizabeth was about to move on when she paused at the framed letter by the door. This one she did take time to read, with a lump in her throat. Cassandra’s letter to her niece Fanny, written two days after Jane’s death:

Winchester Sunday

My dearest Fanny,—Doubly dear to me now for her dear sake whom we have lost . . .

Jane seemed so close to her here, almost as if she might come in at any moment, perhaps returned from one of the shopping trips to nearby Alton which she enjoyed so much.

They finished the upstairs and went back down to admire the kitchen with its fine inglenook fireplace. From there, they stepped out to what would have been the kitchen garden, with Mrs. Austen’s vegetables and the potatoes she was so fond of. Elizabeth turned to go straight across the courtyard to the bakehouse and well, but Richard turned to the right. “I think I’ll just look in at the learning centre first.”

Elizabeth went on, pausing at the well to read that it was dug deep into the chalk, so it would have provided pure, cold water. Jane’s donkey carriage was housed in the bakehouse beside the large brick oven. The donkey cart, which Jane drove herself, must have been the smart car of its day—economical transportation for two people. Elizabeth could just picture Jane driving down the leafy country lane to Alton with Cassandra beside her. What a charming picture the Austen sisters must have made.

Elizabeth turned at the sound of a footstep on the brick floor behind her, expecting to see Richard. She took a sharp step backwards when she saw the red-haired man she had noticed earlier staring at her. Elizabeth’s instinct was to look around for a weapon to defend herself. One of the pans from the oven? Then she glimpsed several visitors milling around the courtyard and recalled what a public place this was. Far better a direct approach.

She advanced toward him in two strides. “May I help you with something? You’ve been following us all morning. What do you want?”

Elizabeth almost laughed when he blushed. “S—sorry. I’m not following you.” He paused. “Well, that is, I am, but I mean . . .”

“What do you want?” Elizabeth repeated.

“Um, an interview.”

“An interview?” Elizabeth almost choked with surprise. “Why? What about?”

“I’m a reporter. Well, freelance, really. But I heard—um, at the library—that you and your husband are researchers. From America.” For a moment, he seemed to warm to his topic. “I wanted to do an article about your research.” He paused. “But I didn’t want to disturb you . . .” He ground to a halt.

Elizabeth’s reaction was to laugh, but the poor fellow already seemed uneasy enough. “Oh, I suppose you want to know about that letter Richard found in Bath? Well, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong person. You want my husband—he’s the researcher. I’m on holiday.”

“Oh.” He looked around as if expecting Richard to appear.

“He’ll be along in a minute. I don’t suppose he’ll mind talking to you. What’s your name?”

“Brian. Brian Woodhouse.” He looked uncertain as to whether or not he should offer to shake hands.

Elizabeth didn’t offer hers. Instead, she commented, “Woodhouse. Like Emma.” She laughed. “No relation, I suppose?”

“Um, no, I don’t think so.”

Elizabeth was trying to figure out why anyone who knew that little about Jane Austen would be interested in doing an article on a subject related to her, but didn’t have time to inquire as Richard entered the bakehouse.

Richard obviously recognized the man from the path because he stopped short. Elizabeth said brightly, “Oh, Richard. This is Brian—Brian Woodhouse, but he doesn’t think he’s related to Emma.” She paused for the significance to sink in. “He wants to interview you about your research.”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yes?” He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Well then, Brian, shall we sit on that bench in the garden? I don’t have much time, but I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Elizabeth smiled, thinking that Richard would undoubtedly get more information from Brian than the ersatz reporter would from him.

The men sat on the wooden bench on the side lawn and Elizabeth wandered along the mixed borders planted in the cottage-garden-style she so loved, with flowers of all varieties growing riotously together. The brochure she carried told her that Mrs. Austen, in her seventies, was a passionate gardener and went about wearing a green round frock like a day laborer, which much amused the locals. ‘Her garden was a riot of colour with sweet Williams, columbines, peonies, pinks and laburnums.’ Elizabeth tried to identify samples of each in the current garden, but wasn’t confident enough of the identity of the flowers she saw.

She glanced toward the bench where Richard and Brian were still talking, Richard leaning forward, Brian pressing into the corner, running his hand through his hair. She went on into the converted barn that now housed the shop. Ah, books, note cards, gifts of lavender . . .

In the end, she bought only a few postcards of delightful Victorian illustrations from
Pride and Prejudice
and a visitor’s guide titled
Jane Austen’s Homecoming
. She emerged from the shop in time to meet Richard walking to her as Brian scuttled toward the exit.

“I don’t think he’ll be bothering us anymore,” Richard said.

“What an odd fellow. He said he was a reporter, but he didn’t have a notebook.”

“Oh, I think he was a ‘reporter’ all right, but nothing to do with journalism.”

“What do you mean?”

“I asked him where he’d studied, what he’d published. Seems he’s self-taught and what he’s done so far have just been ‘bits and pieces.’”

“But you said you do think he’s a reporter?”

“I think he’s reporting
to
someone.”

Elizabeth chilled as the meaning of Richard’s words sank in. “You mean he
was
following us—surreptitiously?”

“I think that was the idea. I think someone wants to know what we know or what we found.”

“And when I challenged him, he made up the reporter thing?” Elizabeth shivered. Brian Woodhouse seemed innocuous enough, but what about the person he was working for? Could Elizabeth have wound up on the floor with her head bleeding like Claire had been a few days ago?

Richard put his arm around her. “Don’t worry. I think I convinced him we don’t know anything about any papers of Jane’s and have no idea where any might be, and that if he interferes any more with our holiday, I won’t hesitate to ring the American consulate.”

“Richard, you didn’t!” Elizabeth’s outburst of laughter made three ladies coming from Jane’s kitchen turn their heads and stare.

“Well, not in so many words, but I made sure he got the idea.” Richard grinned. “How about lunch?” They crossed the street to the flower-bedecked country pub directly opposite the house, and in a few moments, they were sitting at a table in the wood-beamed Greyfriars.

Elizabeth looked around. “Richard, do you think this might have been an inn at one time? Maybe this is where Edith was staying when she wrote that letter.”

Richard looked around at the low, dark-beamed ceiling, leaded glass windows, and uneven floor boards. “It looks authentically old,” he agreed.

When the waitress approached, he inquired about the history. She looked doubtful. “No, I’m sure it was always a pub. We never let rooms.”

Richard shrugged. So much for another good theory.

“Would you like to see our special Jane Austen menu?” the waitress asked.

“By all means,” Richard agreed.

Elizabeth accepted the card printed in elegant script and read out, “‘Plaice and flounders—13 guineas.’ What fun, they’ve even used Regency pricing. This recipe is from a Regency chef named John Farley: ‘Fillets of plaice and flounder cooked with oysters, white wine, nutmeg, and anchovies served on slices of toast and finished with crumbled egg yolk and slices of lemon in a butter sauce.’ It seems ladies’ dresses weren’t the only elegance of the age.” She laid her menu aside, her decision made.

Richard looked up. “I think I’ll go for this dish from Martha Lloyd. Since her household task was supervising the meals when she lived here with the Austen ladies, it’s undoubtedly something she would have directed the Chawton cook to make.”

Elizabeth picked up her card and read on down the menu:
Harrico of Mutton—casserole of lamb cutlets, braised with turnips, carrots and mushroom ketchup
. “Dibs on bites,” she said.

“But of course, all in the cause of research.”

The menu warned that the dishes were all prepared fresh and would take time, so Elizabeth drew out the book she had purchased at the shop. “There’s a picture of Martha Lloyd here.” She held it out for Richard to see. “Amazing, isn’t it—she lived long enough to have an actual photograph taken.” She peered at the photo of the elderly lady in a fine black bonnet, holding a white dog on her lap. “You know, I believe she’s almost smiling. That’s most unusual for a Victorian photograph.”

“Probably thinking about the delicious meal she’s soon to have,” Richard suggested.

Elizabeth returned his smile and read on. “‘By the time they moved to Chawton, Martha Lloyd had become a permanent member of the household. Her father, the Reverend Lloyd, had been a great friend of George Austen’s, and when he died, Reverend Austen allowed his widow and her two oldest daughters, Mary and Martha, to live for a time in the unused parsonage at Mr. Austen’s living at Deane. James married Mary after the death of his first wife.

“Old Mrs. Lloyd died shortly after Mr. Austen. Cassandra attended her deathbed and brought Martha back to Bath to live as part of their household.” Elizabeth skimmed on down. “Oh, Martha’s cookbook survives to this day, so your lamb casserole is sure to be authentic.”

“Didn’t she later marry Francis Austen after his wife died?” Richard asked.

“Yes, it mentions that here. I’m sure he appreciated her culinary skills.”

“He undoubtedly knew them well because Martha was part of the family party that lived in Francis’s home in Southampton when they left Bath,” Richard said.

Elizabeth went on perusing her booklet. “Richard, it says here that Martha Lloyd was privy to Jane’s ‘great secret—her writing—an honour accorded to few.’” She looked up from her reading. “I remember that in one of Jane’s letters, she warns Cassandra not on any account to allow Martha to read the manuscript of
First Impressions
because she was certain Martha meant to publish it herself from memory and one more reading would surely make that possible.”

Richard nodded. “Yes, and I think Jane dedicated an early piece of her Juvenilia to Martha—for repairing her cloak or something like that.”

“So, do you think Jane might have discussed her stories with Martha?”

“And that Martha, who was living with the family when Jane wrote
The Watsons,
would have known her plan for it?”