Chapter One
24 July 1812
Chawton
Mr Henry Austen was a banker with a broad idea of friendship, or so his wife, Eliza, informed her sister-in-law Jane in her most recent letter. The fourth oldest brother in the Austen family had developed a wide circle of friends in the city, both those in trade and those of inherited wealth. Prejudice went both ways, with one group sneering at the other for being idle, the second regarding working for a living a shameful thing. However, Henry refused to entertain such small-mindedness; indeed, he went further. He had not hesitated to take on more outré acquaintances, such as Eliza’s French connections, not even when Comte Emmanuel Louis D’Antraigues presented himself in England with an opera singer for a wife.
‘You will remember them,’ wrote Eliza to Jane. ‘I took you to tea with them in March last year when you were correcting the proofs ofSense and Sensibility– they were the family whohad the grand house in Queen Anne Street.’ Perhaps it would have been wiser not to read that sentence aloud, thought Jane, regretting her haste, but Eliza’s letters were always so deliciously entertaining. Jane had a tendency to gambol through them like a puppy falling over its paws to reach a treat.
‘You did not have tea with an opera singer!’ exclaimed Cassandra, pausing in buttering her toast. Her eyes rounded in shock beneath her lace-trimmed cap, dark curls framing her pink cheeks. Even at thirty-nine, Cassie had lost none of her good looks and retained a youthful bloom. She had always been judged the most handsome of the Austen daughters. The sun certainly seemed to think so, bathing her in summer light as it came through the windows, making her its particular favourite.
In the shadows by the grandfather clock, Jane had to content herself with being the wittiest– and giving her own name to the most beautiful of the sisters in her next novel. Cassie had laughed at that little revenge. But back to the events in London…
‘I did call on them with Eliza. They were very pleasant.’ Jane had enjoyed her time in Henry’s home, 64 Sloane Street, seeing her first novel through the press. Her brother and sister-in-law had been so kind, introducing her to their friends, holding lavish musical parties, and helping to keep the reason for her visit quiet with a round of morning calls. The book had come out with the demur byline ofPublished by a lady, a charming secret identity that only the closest to her knew. It had been exciting to be in London on false pretences, like being a spy in enemy territory. The good wives of Chawton would swoon if they knew one of their number had dared to become a public figure– an authoress!
Cassandra shook her head slowly as if she couldn’t believe it. ‘Miss Jane Austen from Chawton village took tea with a Frenchcomte?’
‘And acomtesse. Antoinette-Cécile Clavel, formerly a famous soprano at the Paris Opéra.’ It was fun to tease her sister. Cassandra hated being left out of family events.
‘And yet you did not write to tell me about thecomtesse’s past?’ Cassandra looked more scandalised at the omission than the visit because the sisters told each other everything.
Almosteverything, Jane corrected herself. Everyone needed privacy. Living so that every whim and flaw was exposed to public attention resulted in shallow characters such as those who were counted as famous these days– not to mention the disgrace that followed whole families when one of them became notorious.
Publishing her books was not without risks to the Austen clan, Jane thought ruefully, particularly if someone influential decided to object to their content.
Jane glanced at her mother whose mouth was already set in a disapproving line. Her new independence had not found favour with every member of her family. ‘I did mention it, Cassie– in my letter about Eliza’s musical party.’ She had bundled it in at the end, hoping her mother didn’t notice. ‘True, I may have left out the detail about the opera singing but only because I did not think Henry and Eliza wanted that bandied about.’
‘Oh,’ said Cassandra, understanding. In other words, the less Mrs Austen knew about her son and daughter-in-law’s circle in London, the better. They dined with so many more people than the restricted society of a country village and some of them were decidedly… uncommon.
‘Thecomteand his wife were charming. Even the Duchess of York approves. Her Grace was the one who suggested thecomtesseset up a singing school,’ continued Jane.
‘A singing school!’ snorted Mrs Austen, stirring a spoonful of sugar into her tea as if it had personally offended her.
‘Mama, French émigrés need a way to support themselves now their ancestral estates have vanished like the morning mist, in the blaze of the revolution. They can’t all marry out of their difficulties like Eliza.’ Not that the D’Antraigues had seemed short of funds. Odd that, now she thought about it.
‘It is not your cousin’s fault her first husband was guillotined!’ said Mrs Austen.
Jane sighed inwardly. Her mother was apt to take what she said the wrong way. ‘I never said it was. I love and admire Eliza, and I consider her friend thecomtesse’s singing academy a brave attempt to reestablish a life in the margins of the court.’
As Mrs Austen didn’t have a response to that, Cassandra waved her piece of toast. ‘Read on, Jane.’
Her eyes went to the next line and the bottom fell out of their morning. ‘Good Lord.’ This was horrible and would bolster every prejudice their parent had against the diversions of a life in town. ‘Perhaps we should finish the news later?’ The clock began striking a doleful nine. ‘Look at the time: I have stockings to mend.’
Cassandra was having none of that. ‘Jane!’
Resigned, Jane cleared her throat. ‘However, Henry’s generosity might have a sting in its tail as thecomteandcomtessewere stabbed to death yesterday by a manservant, a deserter from the French army that they should never have trusted near them.’
There was a deathly silence.
‘Clearly not,’ said Mrs Austen. ‘That’s the French for you.’
Cassandra set down her toast. ‘That is not something one usually hears at the breakfast table.’ She fixed Jane with her sternest look. ‘One does not expect such things to happen in England where we have laws, and magistrates, and decency.’
‘I imagine the late Prime Minster thought very similarly before he was assassinated,’ said Jane. ‘By an Englishman.’ Still,she found it profoundly shocking that someone she had visited had met with such a violent death. It went far beyond her experience.
In the silence, the blackbird sang on the lawn, untouched by war and murder. The roses danced in the light breeze and the hollyhocks in the border bobbed their curtsies.
‘Read on,’ said Mrs Austen.
