Chapter 14
Catherine’s Confession
7 July 1809, cont.
Neddie thought it only proper to continue on to the Great House, and pay his respects to his tenant Mr. Middleton, and listen with becoming gravity to all the discussion of roof-slates, stable accommodation, and patches of damp, while I made my thanks to Miss Beckford for the previous evening’s entertainment.
“My brother tells me that you have suffered a loss, Miss Austen, as well as a second violation of your privacy,” she said soberly. “A very valuable chest, I believe, that had only lately come into your possession.”
“That is true. And the man Mr. Prowting has detained cannot tell us what has happened to it.”
“Bertie Philmore,” she said succinctly. “The Philmores are an odious lot. Bertie’s uncle, Old Philmore, is the owner of that group of hovels known as Thatch Cottages, where poor Miss Benn resides. Old Philmore drives a very hard bargain in rents, I believe, and does absolutely nothing towards the maintenance of his property. We really must endeavour to find Miss Benn more adequate accommodation before the winter; for the place is barely fit for stabling cattle, when the storms of January set in.”
“Miss Benn is awkwardly left, I take it?”
“Very sadly so. Her father was once rector of Chawton, before old Mr. Hinton’s time; and her brother, while possessing a fair living in Farringdon, is so beset with children himself that he cannot provide much towards his sister’s support. For a gentlewoman of good breeding and nice habits to be reduced to Miss Benn’s present degree of poverty is lowering in the extreme. We do what we can for her, of course, by including her in some of our amusements; and she is very grateful, poor soul, for any attention.”
But for the generosity of my brother Neddie, and the steady contributions of my other brothers towards the maintenance of our household, Cassandra and I might have been left in similar poverty at the demise of our clergyman father. I had viewed Miss Benn with easy contempt for her silly manners and vague understanding, for the spinster effusions to which she was too much given; but my conscience smote me at Miss Beckford’s communication. My contempt for Miss Benn was too much like self-hatred at the aging woman I was myself become. Miss Beckford led me to the wilderness that comprised the back garden, and here, for the first time in my acquaintance with the household, I observed no less than five children — four well-grown girls and a little boy of perhaps six — at play in the grass under the watchful eye of a maidservant.
“What fine, stout creatures they are,” I observed with a smile. “And how lovely to think of this house populated with young people! My brother, I am sure, is happy to find it so!”
“The eldest, John, has been at sea from the age of ten,” Miss Beckford told me, “and at fifteen, is now become a Midshipman. I wish that my sister could have known of his success; she died the year before he went away, in 1803—after little Frederick was born.”
The small boy was laughing as he tumbled down the gentle slope behind the Great House, and I thought of dear Elizabeth, and the babe she had left behind, with a pang. Someday her eleventh child would play even so with his sisters, forever ignorant of the lovely woman who had given him birth and marred his father’s life with her passing. The impermanence of existence — the cruel lot of women in childbed — impressed me with a weight of sadness that was become too familiar. As the years advance, we find more cause for sorrow, and less occasion for laughing in the grass.
“Mr. Middleton has had much to do with so many children to rear,” I observed. “He is indeed fortunate in possessing an aide as admirable as yourself, Miss Beckford.”
“I am happy to do it,” she answered simply. “In truth, having no penchant for matrimony, I might otherwise have ended my days a governess. Here I may instruct and educate in the guise of a beloved aunt, without the discomfort of being forced to earn my living; and in the two eldest girls, I might imagine my sister revived again. To live in their presence, and watch them grow, is to fight a little against the awfulness of Death.”
“And you have been travelling en famille, I understand, some months on the Continent.”
“Yes — we spent the better part of last summer in Italy and the mountains of Switzerland.”
“What courage! But I must suppose that Buonaparte’s attention was happily fixed elsewhere.”
“On Spain — that is very true. I should have regarded the adventure with trepidation, I confess, but for the steady influence of my brother, Mr. Middleton; and of course, we were accompanied from Rome to Spa by Mr. Thrace.”
She had reverted in all tranquillity to a subject I was longing to introduce, but had known not how to do, without arousing a suspicion of inquisitiveness.
“He seems a very gentleman-like man,” I said cautiously.
“Was he, too, a traveller like yourselves?”
“Mr. Thrace is an orphan — raised in the household of an English couple resident some years in Rome, I believe; the gentleman who oversaw his early education is Mr. Henry Fox, nephew to the late Whig leader, and now elevated to the title of Lord Holland. His lordship has spent much of his life abroad — owing to the extraordinary circumstances surrounding his marriage. His wife, Lady Holland, was once married to another, and eloped with his lordship.”
“I see.” The perfect household for the bastard son of a peer.
“John — Mr. Middleton, I should say — was acquainted with Henry Fox at school, and naturally called upon him during our travels. He suggested that Mr. Thrace might serve as tutor to young Frederick for the remainder of our trip, and then return to England in our train — Mr. Thrace having intended to visit London in any case. We were most happy in the arrangement, and must look upon Mr. Thrace as quite an intimate friend. But tell me, Miss Austen,” she said decisively, “before I bore you too much with our family histories — is the damage to your house very great?”
“One window only; but we are less than fortunate in having the local joiner locked in Alton gaol. The likelihood of repairing the casement is thus put off.”
“I am glad to see you retain your sense of humour,” she retorted drily. “Another woman would have quitted the house entirely under such provocations, and sought lodgings elsewhere.”
“But then we should be satisfying the dearest wish of our enemies, Miss Beckford,” I replied tranquilly, “and that I mean never to do.”
She studied me with her sharp, intelligent eyes. “I have often thought that the evils of a Town existence — the constant dangers and ill-health to which one is exposed — are as nothing compared to the quiet malice of a country village. The people look too much inward, and nurse their grievances in solitude.”
“We have received nothing but kindness from the Prowtings and yourselves.”
“But the Baigents would have it your house is cursed; Libby Cuttle refuses to sell you bread; and that impudent scamp, James Baverstock of Alton, offers you insolence in his own house. I know it all, Miss Austen. I have heard from Mrs. Prowting what the Hintons are saying — and it is my opinion they should both be horsewhipped through the village. Such conduct, before the dear Squire and his family! Had I known of their behaviour before, I should never have asked them to dine with us last evening, I assure you.”
“We have no wish to make of Chawton a divided camp,” I protested.
“And no more you shall. By the serenity of your response to every adversity, Miss Austen, you show the Hintons their proper place. I am not the sort of woman to indulge in idle gossip — but I cannot like Jack Hinton. For all his fine manners, he has a taste for low company — for idleness and the kinds of vulgar pursuits that cannot become a gentleman — and I fear his morals are very bad.”