Once Upon a Future Page 14
Paragon, Bath
Tuesday 19-Wednesday 20 May 1801
My dearest Cassandra,
Miss Lawson called upon us in the morning, & I found her a most agreeable companion, but very forward for a young lady.—Later we went for a walk together in the Crescent fields, & she admitted she was writing a novel in the style of Mrs Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho. I was amaz’d & excited at her sharing of my interest in stories of adventure & high romance, & so I told her of your own attempts to write down stories of country life, & she seem’d much interested in this. I long to see you again, & to introduce you to these new visitors from the Americas, who are proving most stimulating....
Log Entry #6: Patricia Wardon
The most astonishing thing happened today. I paid my respects to Miss Austen, as I had previously promised, and she suggested that we take a walk outside of town. It was a lovely day, warm and clear, and I thought this would be an excellent opportunity to open up several avenues of communication. Before this mission began, I had already thought of telling her that I was myself a nascent writer, and had cleared the idea with Shorter before downtemping.
Gothics were all the rage during the pre-Regency period, so I suggested to Jane that I was writing one in the style of Ann Radcliffe, one of the most popular purveyors of those wretchedly overwrought popular fictions. To my great surprise, Austen confessed that they were her favorite reading, when she read books at all. She also enjoys reciting the worst possible sentimental claptrap that passes for poetry in this period, and can’t stand any serious novels of quality, finding them so, so “tedious.”
But this wasn’t the greatest revelation I was to receive this afternoon. Austen mentioned that her older sister, Cassandra Elizabeth, had also penned three “rather dull” novels of society, but had had no success thus far in getting any publisher to read them, and so had given up her literary career for the time being. Jane had even offered to recopy them in her much superior hand, since Cassandra’s penmanship was, she admitted with a smile that was almost a smirk, “utterly wretched,” and Jane suspected that her sister’s poor reception had probably been due to the inability of anyone else to read them. But Cassandra had refused Jane’s offer, and so the manuscripts had only been perused by a few family members.
You could have blown me away, Theo! This was completely unexpected. However, the lady herself (Miss C.) will apparently be coming here in less than a fortnight, to employ the local vernacular, and so we shall see for ourselves, I suspect.
Letter #5: Cassandra Austen to Jane Austen
Kintbury, Newbury
Friday 22-Saturday 23 May 1801
My dear Sister,
I was pleasd & very thankful to have received your latest letter, & do look forward so very much to seeing you again, & to being introducd to your new friends. Perhaps we can even draw a certain entertainment out of them, as we did at Pudding Hill. I will leave this unto your usual discrecion.
I must relate that I saw Mr J.D. (who is visiting here) taking his customary walk on the Down this morning, & hastend to meet with him. He tells me the fanciful Mr W.S. is back to potching again, & that the Prince finds his scribbles most eminently amusing. I do wonder at the wisdom of this new forwardness, however, & dard to tell him so, by sending him a note thro’ Mr D.’s capable agency. We shall see what comes again of my interference in mine Elder’s business.
Miss Wickizr wants me to assure you that her mother sends her most gracious thanks & best wishes for the half-cheese, which is now all consumd & eaten with the greatest pleasure, & promises to return the favour to you very soon.
Tomorrow, I shall take a carriage to Conyngsdale Farm, where Mrs Appleby resides with her daughters, & there shall again attempt to make contact with our Freinds. I shall give you the precise details in a more personal forum, when next I see you at Bath.
But, I must tell you now of the delicious news of the Miss Applebys & how one of them became engagd this past Thursday. It seems that Miss Euphemia had been meeting unexpectedly with Mr Buccleigh Everede, whilst pretending to be infatuated with the Revd Mr Bolitho, of St Camber’s Parish in Hornswoggle, who made a great to-do of coming & going to Maybarlee almost every day, & paying his respects to the young lady.
Well, Mrs Appleby knew only what she forthrightly observd, that her second-born daughter was destind to become the bride of a well-constituted cleric, rather than of a gentleman of exceedingly good blood but lamentably poor finance, who scarcely had two guineas to enrich his most noble & excellent name.
Now, the manner in which the truth was reveald was this, that Miss Leopoldine Appleby observd her younger sister secretly leaving the manor house one afternoon after tea, & followd her into the garden where, in a copse of trees, she spied the pair in intimate conversacion & etc. This tête-à-tête she immediately reported to dear Mama, who, I am told, collapsd in a fit of anger right then & there on the sofa, & had to be revivd by threatening to call a physician.
Then, Mrs Appleby demanded of her daughter the entire truth, & Miss Euphemia admitted of the acquaintance without any further delay, & also stated, to wit, that she would not marry the Revd Bolitho even should her very life depend on it, whereupon her Mama swoond a second time, to the great consternacion of all.
Now, I witnessd the events myself, since I was visiting there during the latter event. You will be pleasd to hear, however, that I did not interfere with the proceedings, but let them run their due course. As silly Mr S. is fond of saying, the course of love never did run true, but that is another story.
But, to bring my tale to a close before this paper runs out, Miss E. is now engaged to Mr E., with the wedding to take place very soon, I am told. Everyone here talks of nothing else, & Mrs A. is still prostrated with the lamentacions.
Yr Eldr Sister, C.E.A.
Log Entry #7: Patricia Wardon
Shorter insisted upon a meeting of the entire team this a.m., following the little bombshell that I dropped into my last report. Everyone was present: myself, Lawson, Shorter, Long, Elliott, Kintore, Rangel, Ewbank, and the techies, Newton and Kalvan.
Shorter began the meeting with his usual practice of denigrating the two primary investigators, myself and Jake.
“I certainly understand your impatience with the slow pace of events that one often experiences in the field,” he said, “but I must emphasize to all of you again that you should not begin drawing conclusions based upon so little evidence. I’ve been associated with eighteen of these drops over the years, and I’ve learned to curb my investigative zeal with a well-tempered distancing of oneself from the individuals involved.
“To assume that Cassandra Austen is the author of Jane Austen’s novels flies in the face of all the scholarly and critical evidence of the last two centuries. It also, I might add, runs contrary to the multitudinous contemporaneous testimony of numerous members of the Austen family, who surely were in a position to know the correct identity of the rapidly-becoming-famous author rising in their midst.
“The trouble is, you risk the entire mission (and your careers) through such impetuousness. Do not make the erroneous assumption that these two ladies are naïve or stupid or unobservant. Everything that we know about them speaks to the contrary. If you appear to be too far dislocated from this particular time and place, they will notice, I assure you, and this could have a disastrous effect on our history. Remember the case of Joseph Wardmere and his interference with the Diamond Jubilee, and how much effort it took for us to re-establish the correct timeline. We are here to visit and observe, not to interact.
“Very well,” he concluded. “I expect you to respond like the highly-trained professionals you purport to be, and to perform the tasks established in our master plan, in the order given and at the times indicated. Then we will unobtrusively withdraw, all of us, never returning to this era again. Any questions?”
I foolishly stuck up my hand.
“Sir,” I said, “I really believe that we’ve chanced upon something her
e that could revolutionize the literary history of this era. If we don’t follow up now, if we can’t ask the appropriate questions, how will we determine whether or not our ideas possess some validity?”
“Well, I guess we won’t,” Shorter said. “That’s not our purpose, Pat. We just record what happens, while other folks draw the conclusions.”
Then Jake spoke up. “But Jane isn’t anything like she’s pictured in the existing histories and biographies,” he said. “I expected someone who was insightful, intelligent, and, well, interesting, and she’s none of these.”
“That’s not for us to judge,” Shorter said. “Folks, either we do this the right way, or I’ll issue the recall order immediately. Do you understand?”
We reluctantly nodded our heads. But we weren’t very happy about it, no indeed, and I promised to myself that I would pursue any leads necessary to resolve this mystery.
Letter #6: Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen
Paragon, Bath
Saturday 23-Monday 25 May 1801
My dearest Cassandra,
I return you my best thanks for your letter from Kintbury, & the account therein of the Miss Applebys’ adventures. Truly we abide in interesting times.—Our Mother remains abed with a cough, but it seems nothing for which anyone should have to worry. She was to accompany me to the Lawsons this morning, but instead Mrs Chamberlayne graciously agreed to stand in for her. The Lawsons have taken up residence in a fine little place in Green Park. You will remember that it was one of those houses that we ourselves had examin’d upon settling in Bath, but decided was too small for our needs.
Miss Patsy was perfectly hospitable, & her brother was ever the gentleman. I do believe Mrs Chamberlayne was impress’d by the way in which they received us. I inquir’d of Mr Lawson about their itinerary, & he stated that they would be returning to the Americas sometime later in June. He then spoke about the town of Providence & their home there & how much they miss’d their friends & acquaintances. Miss Patsy his sister wanted to know if I had myself ever taken up the pen, & so I told her about my one exercise in literature, whilst Mrs Chamberlayne mention’d my skill with another kind of implement, the brush. The hours pass’d very quickly & enjoyably, & we promis’d to meet once again as soon as you have arriv’d here....
Log Entry #8: Jake Lawson
We had a very pleasant morning. Jane Austen and her friend, Cecil (that’s how she appears in the reference books!) Chamberlayne, called on us about ten, and for a while, we just exchanged the usual pleasantries. Then Patsy, despite Shorter’s warning, pursued the authorship issue again, and Jane indicated that she had recently been working on a gothic novel, set in an old spooky abbey that had been converted into a large country house. It sounded perfectly dreadful.
Mrs. C. also noted Miss A.’s aptitude for drawing, something that was supposed to have been the highlight of sister Cassandra’s repertoire. They mentioned that the latter was coming to Bath on the first of June, and Jane said she would like to arrange a party to celebrate the occasion. She wanted to know all about Providence and environs, and I managed to BS her sufficiently with a mixture of fact and fantasy until they finally left.
We got everything recorded on digital video from several different angles, to supplement the long external shots of the author we had already taken. Shorter seemed to be very happy generally with the session, although he complained again about Pat straying from his script. That woman just never seems to learn.
Log Entry #9: Patricia Wardon
I was able to confirm at today’s session that Jane Austen is the author or at least partial writer of Northanger Abbey, which is obviously the novel on which she’s currently working. This book has always seemed to me a hodge-podge of different ideas and styles, almost as if the author had started doing one thing (a gothic or a satire of same), and then had suddenly changed her mind in midstream. It now seems perfectly obvious to me that Jane did the first draft and Cassandra the second, and that the transplant just failed to take.
Still, I have to say that Jane came across much better at this meeting than at our earlier get-togethers. She was definitely in her element: gracious, forthcoming, genteel, in every respect a lady of her time.
I also found myself liking Cecil Chamberlayne, the wife of a Gloucester squire, Edmund J. Chamberlayne. She was intelligent, athletic, and observant, and I had to be very careful indeed in her presence. I suggested that the three of us take a walk in the countryside sometime later in the week. They enthusiastically agreed. What else do they have to do?
Log Entry #10: Patricia Wardon
How can I possibly relate what has happened here today? Particularly since I don’t understand myself exactly what’s going on.
We set out for the village of Twerton about nine a.m., heading straight across country. The clothes we’re forced to wear can be exceedingly awkward in which to walk any distance, and although I consider myself in reasonably good shape, I was panting after the first few hundred yards, particularly when we started climbing the slope of a long, low hill just outside of Bath proper. Mrs. C. is a regular goat, it seems: she just plowed straight on, scarcely even puffing, while the rest of us (Jane included) had to labor to keep up.
We finally paused at the top to admire the gorgeous view. Dropping away below us and undulating into the far distance, we could see the beautifully green, unspoiled, pre-industrial countryside of England. It was utterly and amazingly lovely. I don’t think I had realized up to that point how much the world has changed for the worse in the intervening centuries. Even the imposition of Bath’s architecture on part of the landscape could not spoil the shimmering effect.
Then Cecil Chamberlayne rattled off something in a foreign tongue, and Jane responded back in the same fashion, very curtly. Miss Austen turned to me, and sweetly apologized for the discourtesy.
“I did not realize that you spoke another language,” I said.
“I was exceedingly well educated at home,” she replied.
“Please pardon me for inquiring,” I stated, “but what dialect was that?”
The two women exchanged quick glances, before Mrs. Chamberlayne responded: “It is merely a game that we play to amuse ourselves. The words have no meaning.”
She wasn’t a very good liar, but I let the issue drop. I have to say, Theo, that although I’ve been trained in a dozen European tongues, I didn’t recognize this one. Haven’t a clue.
We reached Twerton about noon. I caught myself unconsciously looking at my wrist to check the time, which of course I couldn’t do, and I’m sure the gesture caught Mrs. C.’s most observant eye. I need to watch these habits a little more closely in the future.
At Twerton we stopped at the home of a Mrs. Dunn (at least that’s how I heard the name), who welcomed us inside with the cordial hospitality that seems to me common to this place. We feasted on cold meat and cheese and bread and early strawberries.
Jane inquired of Mr. Dunn, and Catherine (that is, Mrs. Dunn) responded that he was gone away on business, although precisely what business was never actually elucidated during our conversation. These people have a unique talent for talking around subjects and never really saying anything.
All I could glean was that this Dunn was apparently quite upset over something that someone else had recently said to a third party. I didn’t quite get the context. Mrs. Dunn complained that the other man (unnamed) would not listen to any of them, and Mrs. Chamberlayne responded that something would certainly have to be “done.” At which point Mrs. D. suddenly laughed out loud, apparently due to the obvious pun, and the tension was finally broken.
Afterwards, we started back home through a series of fields, and I asked the ladies about the Dunns. Jane indicated that they had been married for some time, and that their relationship was rather unusual, which I interpreted as “strained.” This was beginning to get interesting.
Cecil said: “Of course, no woman is an island, complete unto herself,” which earned her a very sharp look indeed
from Miss Austen. Mrs. C. just smirked.
Then Jane asked me to tell Mrs. C. about my writing, and so of course I had to respond. It was an obvious diversion, and I learned nothing more about the Dunns that day.
The skies had been threatening since early afternoon, and about halfway home a storm quickly blew in. We hurried along as best as we could, but our skirts hampered us from making any real speed, and it soon became obvious that we were going to get wet. Indeed, “wet” is an understatement: the skies opened up and within seconds had drenched us to the skin. We started running up a hill. Then I carelessly stepped into a hole and sprawled full-length upon the grassy soil. My foot hurt like hell and the wind was completely knocked out of me. What was I doing here? I thought to myself.
Suddenly, out of the mist and fog a horse loomed up, and a well-dressed young gentleman leaped from its back.
“What is wrong?” he inquired.
“Miss Lawson has been hurt,” Jane responded.
“Let me take her to Wildwood,” he stated, and effortlessly picked me off the ground and set me on his horse.
He jumped up behind me, and we rode off together. Somewhere along the way I must have lost consciousness. I don’t remember much of the next few hours, only that I awoke in a large, comfortable bed, being tended by a maid and later by a doctor.
When I came to my senses the next morning, the sun was bright enough across my eyes that I could barely see the young man standing there. He was perhaps twenty-five or thirty years of age, thin and well-built, elegantly clothed, with a mop of long, brown, curly hair rippling across his forehead.
“Miss Lawson?” he said, when he saw me awake.
“Patricia,” I responded, before I fully realized where I was, and then knew that I should not have reacted so informally to one to whom I had not been properly introduced.
“My name is Mancefield,” he noted, “Jowell Mancefield. You were injured on Knob Hill yesterday, and so I brought you here to my estate.”