Dearest Cousin Jane by Jill Pitkeathley Page B

Eliza is especially sensitive at the moment. I know that from some of her reactions to my scribblings. I showed her part of a work I called ‘Catherine,’ thinking it might divert her as she loves stories about romance and affairs of the heart that go awry. To my great distress, when I looked up from reading aloud I found her in tears.
    ‘Oh Jane, how can you write so of my dear mama’s experience? When I think of what she endured on those long journeys and how courageous she was…’
    I was astonished and cried ‘But of what are you speaking?’
    ‘Why, the mock you make of young ladies who journey to India in search of a husband, of course’.
    I looked down at the page, at a speech of Catherine’s, and could have torn it in two.
    But do you call it lucky for a girl of genius and feeling to be sent in quest of a husband to Bengal, to be married there to a manof whose disposition she has no opportunity of judging till her judgement is of no use to her, who may be a tyrant or a fool or both for what she knows to the contrary.
    ‘Oh, dearest Eliza, I do not write from life. I know full well that my uncle Hancock was neither a tyrant nor a fool and that he and my aunt were very happy together. I write only to amuse.’
    She smiled through her tears and forgave me, but I was careful to be more cautious in what I read to her, given her low spirits, and in truth I never could quite resume ‘Catherine’ with the same enthusiasm as I had begun it. I have now left it on one side.
    She and Henry seemed to get over the quarrel about his profession and for a while they seemed to be on easy terms again, but soon another disagreement ensued. It was a fine morning in September when Henry and my father came in from a visit to Basingstoke to tell us some shocking news: ‘They have abolished the monarchy—done away with it,’ my father almost shouted as he entered the vestibule.
    ‘Great Heaven, Mr Austen, what do you mean?’ asked my mother, running in from the dairy, her cap awry.
    ‘Just that, my dear, they have declared a republic in France and imprisoned the king and queen.’
    ‘Where is Eliza?’ asked Henry. ‘She must be told for this is serious news for her.’
    ‘How so? How will it affect her?’ my mother’s face showed her alarm.
    ‘Now Henry, do not shock her I pray you,’ my father said. ‘Let us discuss it calmly at the dinner hour and consider whether there is anything useful to be done about the Comte.’
    I could not truthfully see the import of this news but was aware that so much in France seemed to be turned upon its head. I was intrigued that their year now divided into ten instead of twelvemonths. In truth I thought some of the new names for the months rather pretty and very descriptive— Pluviose for January and Thermidor for July, for example—but when I mentioned this once Mama immediately said how very unchristian it was. I did not point out that most of the names for our months came from pagan societies. I started to, but caught my father’s eye and thought better of it.
    At dinner I said not a word but only listened as the conversation swayed back and forth and tempers, especially Henry’s, became more frayed.
    His view was that as the monarchy had been abolished, it was only a matter of time before the king and queen were executed and that anyone with aristocratic connections would soon be in similar danger. He and my parents both urged Eliza to beg the Comte to return to these shores as soon as was possible. Eliza refused to believe that any such outrage could happen and declared that in no circumstances would the Comte abandon his birthright for the whims of a mob.
    ‘You simply do not understand the seriousness of the situation, do you?’ said Henry in exasperation. ‘Make no mistake, if you do not act now to urge your husband to flee, your son may well never see his father again.’
    Eliza burst into tears. ‘How can you be so cruel? Have I not endured enough this past year