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I should not be a woman for anything in this world.
Chapter 11
The Steward
6 July 1809, cont.
Chawton Great House, constructed of flint in the Tudor style, sits at the southern end of the village on a gentle rise above the church of St. Nicholas. It is a noble and somewhat eccentric old gentleman’s house, with wings facing awkwardly to west and north, and any number of curious, ill-considered passages ru
Tho’ the light of a summer’s evening was still strong as the Austen party approached the entrance porch for our appointed di
“Quite a feudal note, Jane,” Henry observed; “I wonder whether we shall be compelled to share our joint with the hounds?”
As a sportsman, Mr. Middleton might be expected to keep a pack of hunting dogs, or at the very least a family of spaniels; and the galleries ru
Mr. Middleton, who was listening to Miss Be
“My brother should have brought me to your door already, Mrs. Austen, but that he is too intent upon showing his guests the country; I hope you will forgive our appalling ma
“My sister, Miss Maria Beckford,” interposed Mr. Middleton hastily. “She is so kind as to do the duties of the Great House.”
From the difference in the lady’s name, I must assume she was actually the sister of Mr. Middleton’s deceased wife, and had established herself in the household to oversee the education of his five children. However long ago Mr. Middleton’s lady had departed this world, he had not learned to love her sister instead; but Miss Maria Beckford appeared entirely in command of the situation, in her richly-trimmed silk gown and her dignified posture. I should not have judged her to be much beyond the middle thirties, an age I am myself approaching; her hair, though pulled back severely from her forehead under a lace cap, was still a rich reddish-brown, and an expression of intelligence and good humour lit her dark eyes. This was no female dependant or shrinking drudge sacrificed to her family’s service, but a lady who could command all the glories of Mr. Middleton’s income and establishment — without the bother of being his wife. I thought her rather to be congratulated than pitied.
“You are Miss Austen?” she demanded.
“Miss Jane Austen. My elder sister is as yet on her road from Kent.”
Miss Beckford surveyed me from head to foot; lingered an instant in contemplation of my own unwavering gaze; and then nodded slightly as though in approval.
“And are you fond of books and reading?”
“I am, ma’am.”
“Do you sketch or paint in watercolours?”
“Unhappily I lack that talent.”
“A pity. The beauties of Hampshire afford i
“I am a devotee of the pianoforte — although my own instrument. is not yet arrived.”
“That is very well. You may delight us with a performance this evening. We are happy to welcome you to Chawton, Miss Austen. The accomplishments of ladies in these parts are most unfortunately limited. But for Miss Hinton and the Prowtings we should have no society worth the name. — But I see that the Hintons are arrived. If you will excuse me—”
She brushed past, intent upon the couple who now stood in the doorway; and as I had no desire to hasten my meeting with the avowed enemies of the Squire, I stepped forward to claim the notice of the rest of the party, to whom my brother Henry was already speaking. He intended, I knew, to make the most of his proximity to such exalted circles, and dine out on the strength of his intelligence regarding Julian Thrace for the next twelvemonth.
“Mr. Thrace and Miss Be
The handsome young woman inclined her head with a regal air, but uttered not a syllable. She was tall, slender, darkeyed, and eloquent of feature; her gown was white muslin; she wore a circlet of emeralds in her dark hair. Tho’ I should judge her to be several years younger than Miss Catherine Prowting, who stood a little distance apart from the elegant Lady Imogen, she was so far beyond Catherine in countenance and assurance that she seemed the woman, and Catherine the girl.
“And Major Charles Spence,” my host continued, “who comes to us, in company with Mr. Thrace and Lady Imogen, from Stonings — the Earl of Holbrook’s seat near Sherborne St. John.”
If my own heart quickened at the name of that man and that estate, Henry was before me. My brother’s keen grey gaze was immediately fixed upon Major Spence.
“Sherborne St. John!” he cried, with unforced delight. “But then you must be acquainted with the Chute family, our friends these two decades at least. As a boy, my brother James and I hunted with the Vyne.”[14]
“—As it was my privilege to do only last winter,” Major Spence returned amiably. “Mr. Chute is a very respectable, gentleman-like man, and a most welcome neighbour.”
“I ca
“My father caused it to be let to a family from the North for much of the past two decades,” Lady Imogen supplied. “But the Rices have lately given the house up — and I took a fancy to see it. It is possible the estate may fall to my lot in time — and I have never been the sort of woman to buy a mount without first having a look at its teeth.”
13
The Lewkenor Carpet is a tapestry roughly sixteen feet by seven feet, executed in the mid-sixteenth century in France and now in the possession of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. — Editor’s note.
14
The Vyne, or Vine — ancestral home of the Chute family at Sherborne St. John a few miles beyond Basingstoke just north of Chawton — was the site of one of the more famous hunting groups in southern England. William Chute (1757–1824), the patriarch in Jane Austen’s time, was both Master of the Vyne Hunt and a Member of Parliament for his borough. — Editor’s note.