Chapter One.
Any person glancing up at the carriage as it jolted its way into Chawton village that evening over rain-filled potholes, and observing the heart-shaped face, surrounded by a mass of blonde ringlets and peering out with a frown into the stormy night, might have supposed the agitation writ on those otherwise pleasing features to have been caused by the condition of the road, or by the ferocity of the growing storm, or perhaps by the prospect of alighting soon (in an undoubtedly fine dress) onto muddied ground.
Yet had our observer known the lady better, they might have surmised something closer to the truth: that the thoughts whirling inside Miss Christiana Austen’s head had very little to do with her present physical condition, and very much to do with the letter from her Aunt Cassandra that she held clutched tight in her lap. Though its contents were now impossible to read in the fading light, Christiana could have recited them word for word, so many times had she read and re-read the brief missive since receiving it that morning.
“My dearest Christiana” the letter began, its opening smudged perhaps by haste, “I fear I must bring you unhappy tidings. Since the untimely death of my dear sister, your beloved Aunt Jane, I have consoled myself with the prospect that her final novel would soon find a publisher. But one week ago, when I returned finally to our cottage in Chawton, the precious manuscript could not be found where I believed it to have been left, and a thorough search of our home in the ensuing days has produced not a single page.”
To any admirer of good literature those words must surely have brought a pang of dismay, but in Christiana they had produced an immediate urge to action, the natural instinct to preserve the memory of a much-loved aunt being magnified by Christiana’s empathy as an aspiring novelist herself. For it was true that, since the day of her fourth birthday, when presented with the gift of a small journal (by an elderly godfather somewhat confused as to her age), Christiana had delighted in the joys of composition. Major events, such as weddings or family gatherings, were immortalized in lines of poetry or prose, and even the smallest of occurrences might trigger the urge to capture their essence in ink.
By the time she reached the schoolroom, Christiana’s mind was prone to drift away from lengthy histories of Caesar or Pitt to imagined tales of heroic centurions or new adventures for Robin Hood; at an older age, she would often seek refuge from such tedious entertainments as embroidery or watercolors between the covers of books, losing herself for hours in the thrilling novels of Mrs. Radcliffe and Miss Burney, or in the poetic imaginings of Milton and Wordsworth. These works of wonder, transporting her from the day to day repetitiveness of Steventon village life, inspired in Christiana a bold, fluttering hope that perhaps she might some day swell the ranks of literary entertainments with a contribution of her own. How this miracle was to be accomplished she did not know; nor, it must be owned, had she decided what the story should contain, who the main characters might be, or whether the setting should be familiar or fantastic.
At such a young age, however, such high aspirations without any reasonable hope of them becoming true, are surely to be preferred over not raising one’s sights at all?
This opinion was not shared by Christiana’s mother, the second Mrs. James Austen. That good lady, whose intellect focused firmly on the affairs of her offspring and whose shrewdness knew no bounds when it came to managing their futures, began to worry that her eldest daughter would be relegated to spinsterhood if she maintained her present course. Such concerns could only be worsened when, in Christiana’s thirteenth year, a chance remark by her father led to the discovery that her quietly spoken Aunt Jane was the author of no fewer than two published works of fiction, “Sense and Sensibility” and “Pride and Prejudice”, the latter of which was already a strong favorite.
“But I was sure you knew, m’dear” Mr. James Austen had replied, in response to Christiana’s repeated utterance that surely someone should have told her this important information; her mother, by contrast, had claimed a migraine headache and taken herself to bed.
In truth, that otherwise inestimable lady, concerned that better acquaintance might result in Christiana choosing the same trap of ‘literary spinsterhood’ into which she perceived her sister-in-law to have fallen, had quite deliberately omitted to inform her daughter of the relationship. Already fearful of having produced a child who might eschew dances for diary-keeping, shun suitors for scribbling, and – of all unthinkable things – place a career (a career!) over courtship and marriage, she had concealed the literary accomplishments of Christiana’s unmarried aunt for as long as possible, so as to limit her daughter’s exposure to such a dangerous influence.
Regrettably, Christiana’s awareness of her aunt’s true identity could not have been more ill-timed, Miss Jane Austen having recently come to live a mere sixteen miles away in Chawton village, taking a cottage with her mother and sister on the estate of her brother Edward. Christiana’s mother had thus dreaded her young daughter’s dancing attendance on the published authoress at their inevitable meetings, and discouraged them as best she could.
As the carriage made its way slowly through Chawton’s centre, and glimpsing familiar landmarks even in the deepening gloom, Christiana was forcefully reminded of her several visits to the village – those visits, indeed, which her well-intentioned mother had sought to discourage – and of the many happy hours spent in conversation with her aunt.
Much to her delight, Christiana had soon discovered that – far from being arch and sharp-tongued, as she had feared of one so witty in her writings – the great Miss Austen was instead a sensitive and perceptive listener, in whom Christiana had shyly confided her own literary hopes and found them gently encouraged. Over the next few years, she had risked her mother’s disapproval by continuing to write her stories and poems, and by sending them regularly to her increasingly famous aunt. Visits to Chawton Cottage were never complete until Christiana had both read her latest work aloud to her aunt, and been read to by her aunt in turn.
Upon Christiana attaining the eminently marriageable age of seventeen, however, her tenacious mother redoubled her efforts to steer her daughter in a direction more suited to feminine happiness and comfort; efforts that ultimately bore fruit in the form of Christiana’s wealthy Uncle Edward.
Mr. Edward Austen Knight – older brother to Jane – had been so fortunate as a child as to attract the kind attentions of a Mr. and Mrs. Knight, wealthy cousins of the Austens with no children of their own. Much taken with young Edward Austen’s sunny nature and sweet disposition, the Knights had proposed an adoption of sorts: Edward would travel with them and be treated as their son, and upon their deaths would inherit their estates of Godmersham Park, Kent and Chawton, Hampshire, on condition only that he took their last name for his own.
Though Edward and his family had made their home at Godmersham Park, letting Chawton Great House to a succession of gentleman tenants, in recent years they had visited Chawton more often owing to the presence of Jane, Cassandra and his mother in the cottage there; and by Christiana’s seventeenth year – the Great House itself then being occupied by Edward’s naval brother Frank and family rather than by strangers – the Edward Austen Knights had become frequent visitors indeed.
Realizing this, Christiana’s mother had felt the dangers of exposing her daughter to Miss Austen’s society to be outweighed by the likely advantages of her forming a more intimate friendship with her wealthy uncle and cousins, and had permitted her daughter more frequently visits to Chawton than ever before. In this appraisal the lady had been proven right, for a visit the preceding autumn had brought an invitation for Christiana to join her Uncle Edward’s household for a season in fashionable Bath, far from both Chawton and (her mother fondly hoped) her Aunt Jane’s influence.
The introductions and entertainments made possible in Bath by Edward’s inherited wealth had soon had their desired effect. Christiana found many of the activities proposed by her mother over recent years in Steventon, and once looked upon with such scorn – such as dress shopping and attending balls and card parties – to be of increasing interest now that she was a seventeen year old young lady residing in a genteel area of a fashionable city, and the urge to write of daring, thrilling events was soon matched by the desire to experience them for herself.
To be sure, Christiana accepted that no ball was like to result in her abduction followed by her eventual marriage to her rescuer, as in her favorite of Mr. Richardson’s novels, or in her meeting a man as handsome and intriguing as her aunt’s invention Mr. Darcy. Yet the possibilities seemed endless, the variety of enjoyments open to her occupying much of her mind previously taken up by the consideration of poetry and novels, and though Christiana continued to seize upon and devour the latest works, she did not spend nearly so much time seated at a desk attempting to equal them.
Thus Christiana’s time in Bath produced largely desirable results to both daughter and absent mother, the latter being gradually relieved of her fears as to the former’s future. Christiana, meanwhile, would have felt herself completely satisfied with her first visit to the city, had not the arrival of a certain gentleman obscured the happiness of her last week there…..
The carriage came to an abrupt halt before a large cottage that, even in semi-darkness, was easily recognizable to Christiana’s gaze. As the driver climbed down from his seat, then plodded up a mud-splattered path toward the front door, Christiana recalled with a pang how many of her letters had sped their way from Bath to that very door in Chawton village eighteen months earlier, and how quickly Aunt Jane had replied with advice that was both amusing and wise in turn.
How long ago that all seemed now! In the eighteen months since her hasty departure from Bath, the passage of time and resilience of youth – as well as Christiana’s newfound enjoyment at the modest entertainments available even in rural Hampshire – had dulled the mortification of her final days in the elegant city; indeed, Christiana had eventually come to think of those events with so little discomfort that, having composed a short poem based upon her experiences of Bath life, she had gone so far as to lampoon the offending gentleman in her second verse.
How happy Christiana had been upon sending Aunt Jane that poem to peruse; how concerned when a response came in her other aunt’s hand, making her sister’s apologies for being unable to reply directly owing to a slight weakening of health; and how distraught when, what seemed but a short time later, news arrived at Steventon rectory that Miss Jane Austen’s illness had progressed beyond hope of recovery, and had ultimately claimed her life.
In the three weeks that had elapsed since that dreadful day, Christiana had mourned the passing of her dear aunt, bemoaning the loss to the world of such a great talent, though feeling most keenly the loss to herself of such a sympathetic yet true-spoken adviser.
“Looks like nobody’s home, miss.”
Christiana was jolted out of her reverie by the return of the driver, his face barely visible in the shadow of the wide-brimmed hat he wore to keep off the worsening rain. “In that case we must proceed to the Great House instead.”
“Very well, miss.” The driver nodded and re-took his seat, gathering up the reins.
Christiana frowned thoughtfully out at the darkened windows of the Cottage as the carriage pulled away, thinking of the final paragraph of Aunt Cassandra’s letter:
“Having searched every inch of our cottage without success, I can only hope and pray that Jane’s manuscript may be found within the walls of our brother’s home, the Great House, to which my sister was a frequent visitor in the months before her death. I beg your parents will allow you to come here and assist in the search.”
Christiana had always resided at Chawton Cottage during her visits before; but given their absence from the cottage, perhaps her aunt and grandmother were staying at the Great House to speed the search, and intended her to do likewise upon her arrival? Though surely the distance between the two houses, which was less than a mile, was not great enough to make this a necessity, or even of much practical use… no, far more likely she was making too much of their being away from home. They may simply have joined Edward for dinner, and not yet returned, having no reason to expect her in Chawton so soon. In all probability she would arrive there to discover them about to leave, and find herself returning with them to the Cottage forthwith.
Nevertheless, as the carriage rattled its way off the main village road and onto a narrower uphill track, signaling their approach to the Great House, Christiana felt a shiver pass through her at the exciting possibility of staying there for the first time, and perhaps beginning her search for the missing manuscript that very night.
She had puzzled through much of her journey over how an item so precious – and customarily guarded so closely by its mistress – could have come to be mislaid in the first place, and whether it did indeed now reside safely somewhere within her destination’s centuries-old walls. Certainly Aunt Jane had spent a good deal of time at the Great House since family had taken up residence; but had she taken to writing there too, rather than at the small table by the window in Chawton Cottage where Christiana pictured her even now? Even if she had, why had the manuscript been left behind at the Great House, rather than returning to the Cottage with Jane; and how could it have gone undiscovered for so long, even in such a large residence, given the number of servants and family members who must surely pass through each room every day?
Yet Aunt Cassandra had seemed convinced in her letter that it must be concealed somewhere in the Great House – a property in which (if the stories were to be believed) secret passageways and priest holes dating back to Elizabethan times might abound. Searching its entirety was a daunting task indeed… though it must be confessed that, despite the import of the assignment, Christiana’s romantic and adventurous nature could not help but be tantalized by the prospect of such an exploration; of the many hiding places that might exist to be discovered behind false paneling and heavy tapestries, under loose tiles and flagstones, or in cobweb-filled attics and cellars.
The carriage pulled around in a half circle and came finally to a halt. Opening the door herself rather than wait for the driver, Christiana peered up through the rain at the imposing edifice before her. The Great House seemed even larger than she remembered it, silhouetted against a rapidly darkening sky in which flashes of lightning now appeared in the far distance. No light came from the porch, and no door had opened upon their arrival, indicating most likely that visitors were not anticipated this evening. This was no surprise, Christiana having set off sooner than could have been expected, and mere hours after her aunt’s letter was read.
Christiana reflected with satisfaction that, had her mother not been from home and her father not been in a persuasive mood following an excellently-received sermon that morning, she should have had to wait several days before a suitable male escort could be found to accompany her to Chawton, rather than being permitted to travel almost immediately with only her father’s trusted old groom acting as both driver and escort. Quickly folding the letter away, and stepping down from the carriage into driving rain, Christiana paused only to request he lift out her single, heavy portmanteau before turning once again toward the front door.
The rain was now joined by the faint, distant rumblings of thunder, and Christiana hurried the few steps to the large porch and the shelter it provided. With an unpleasant shock, she realized suddenly that not only was the porch unlit, little light came from any direction, and none at all shone from inside. It seemed the household might already be abed. Reaching for the bell, Christiana pulled it once; and after a moment’s hesitation, pulled it once again. Still no sign of life came from within. Shivering in her serviceable yet thin cloak, she began to fear she had erred greatly in departing with such haste, and in sending no note ahead.
At last, however, a light showed faintly through the thick glass windows above the front door. With a small sigh of relief, Christiana stepped back and waited patiently as – with a creaking groan – the heavy door opened, revealing the tall figure of a woman in the entranceway, a thin candle held at her side.
“Yes?” The unfamiliar voice fairly crackled with dislike.
Aware that she may have roused the unknown lady – likely a new housekeeper – from her bed, Christiana forced herself to reply with calm politeness despite what she felt to be unwarrantedly unfriendly tones. “I am Miss Christiana Austen, Mr. Edward’s niece.”
The woman raised her candle, casting its light out onto the porch for a better view of Christiana and her driver, and simultaneously revealing her own deep-set eyes, graying hair and thin, wiry frame. What she saw appeared to reassure her at least that the arrivals were not planning to rob the house, and she drew the candle down again. “Mr. Edward’s not due back til tomorrow.”
Christiana felt a little desperate. Surely this woman could see she was who she claimed to be, yet still she stood blocking the entrance, her manner largely unchanged. “My cousin Fanny?” The woman merely shook her head. “My Aunt Cassandra, though – she must be at home!”
The woman made an unpleasant sound, halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Miss Cassandra doesn’t live here.” She added scornfully “Whoever you are, you have the wrong house.” To Christiana’s horrified amazement, the housekeeper moved back a step, seemingly ready to close the door in her face.
“Wait!” Grasping hold of Cassandra’s letter inside her reticule, Christiana hesitated a moment, little wishing to share its contents with a stranger, though sorely affronted by the woman’s apparent certainty of her being a fraud or charlatan of some sort.
“Well, what is it?” The woman raised her candle again, eyes narrowing on the letter just visible in Christiana’s hand.
Christiana hesitated still. There was no real secret as to the cause of her arrival, yet for reasons greater than mere privacy Christiana found herself unwilling to share her letter’s contents with this dour, suspicious woman, and thrust it deeper into her reticule instead. Stiffening her back along with her resolve, she replied haughtily “I am certain my uncle would not be pleased at having his niece treated in this way. But if you doubt my word, I shall seek a room at the nearest inn, and return on the morrow when he is returned.”
The woman stared back at her unyieldingly, appearing neither cowed nor impressed by Christiana’s utterance. Christiana turned away in a defiant swirl of her cloak, fury dancing in her blue eyes as she fought to suppress tears of rage.
Before she could take a single step away from the porch, however, a deep, quiet yet commanding voice came from several feet behind her. “I believe that will not be necessary.”
Christiana frowned, trying to recall where she had heard that voice before, as she turned back toward the door. An instant later she regretted her action, finding herself staring in dismay at the tall, broad-shouldered yet still shadowy figure who now approached the housekeeper from the direction of the stairs.
The quiet voice continued with implacable intent “Mrs. Norton, I believe your master would want his niece accorded every courtesy in this house.”
The housekeeper’s cheeks turned a fiery red as she sketched the briefest outline of a curtsey. “Very good, sir.”
But Christiana was oblivious to this small triumph over her nemesis, her widening eyes instead fixed in growing horror upon the newcomer to the hallway. Despite being illuminated only by the single candle in his hand, and still standing some feet away, there was no doubt in Christiana’s mind that in a very few moments a pair of probing, serious gray eyes would meet hers, transporting her back to that most mortifying evening in Bath eighteen months before.