Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Barque of Frailty

It is true that Henry was besotted with Eliza, who is almost ten years his senior, when he was a callow youth and she a young mother fresh from a château in France. She was infinitely captivating in those days, black-haired and exquisitely-dressed, with jewels at her throat and a delightful penchant for shocking conversation. Even our elder brother James, destined for the Church and a prig from infancy, was wild for Eliza. It became a sort of game for Henry and James to vie for my cousin’s favour when they were both up at Oxford, and she living in London far from the protection of her husband; but by the time the self-styled Comte de Feuillide was guillotined, and Eliza free, James had buried his first wife and was the father of a child. He courted Eliza for months, allowed her to toy with his heart and his future, and took her eventual refusal to become a clergyman’s wife in good part. The idea of Eliza — who at five-and-thirty was still the girlish beauty she had ever been, carrying her pug about Town and riding in the Park — as the mistress of James’s parsonage, was not to be thought of. Henry offered himself twice to my cousin, with a heart that had always been her own, and to the relief of the entire family — Eliza at last accepted him.

It was feared that such a rackety and volatile pair — one with more hair than wit and the other possessed of more charm than is good for him — should be run off their legs by debt. Dire predictions of a frivolous end — desertion or debtor’s prison — my brother’s affections elsewhere engaged as Eliza inevitably aged — were bruited about the family with ruthless disregard for the feelings of this junior son. But the Henry Austens have jogged along steadily in tandem harness for more than a decade now without disaster; and the family must declare Eliza much improved. It cannot be wonderful that a lady so intimate with death — of a mother, a husband, a son — could fail to be sobered by the prospect of eternity; but I must credit my brother with excellent sense, and the uncanny ability to manage his wife by never attempting to manage her at all. It was he who supported my cousin through every loss; he who travelled to France in the wake of revolution to demand recompense for the Comte de Feuillide’s confiscated estates; he who bore with Eliza’s extravagant tastes and exalted acquaintance. As a French countess, she had been much in the habit of attending Court Drawing-Rooms and the exclusive assemblies at Almack’s; she saw no reason to leave off doing so now that she was become the wife of a mere banker. There are still few in London who fail to address Eliza as Comtesse, rather than Mrs. Austen; but it is Henry who franks her style of life.

“You would tell me the d’Entraigueses are embarrassed in their circumstances?” I enquired now as Eliza emerged from her handkerchief. “But that muff—! Her opera dress of last evening! The furnishings of the house in Surrey!”

“As to that — it never does to betray one’s poverty to the milliner or modiste. You must know, Jane, that when one is in debt, the only sure course is to order another hat or gown; it keeps such encroaching persons dependant upon one’s custom. My sainted mamma never did any differently; but Henry prefers to be beforehand with the world, and naturally I would not deviate a hair from his wishes.” Eliza, despite her fifty years, looked as conscious as a girl as she uttered this palpable falsehood. “But the d’Entraigueses are quite at a stand. He cut a dashing figure in the early days of revolution, and escaped the guillotine by playing every side false; denounced his friends and turned traitor to the world; but when at last he was obliged to flee the country, his château was burned to the ground and his property seized. He has never entirely come about, and relies upon the kindness of friends — the gratitude of the various governments he has served— and something in the way of a pension from the present forces in France — in short, I do not know how they contrive to live. But that is not the worst, Jane.” Eliza leaned closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “He has lost his heart to a hardened Cyprian — a High Flyer of the most dashing order — a Demi-rep of the worst kind — and is demanding of Anne a divorce!”

“But he must be sixty if he is a day!”

“He is not above five years older than myself,” she returned, a trifle nettled, “and there is quite as much of that in one’s mind at our age as in the youngest stripling’s. The Comte thinks, perhaps, to reclaim his youth by taking a bride likely to be mistaken for his daughter. Every kind of folly may be imputed to a man in love. But consider of Anne! She has long known what her husband is — she became his mistress while performing on the Paris stage, and cannot expect fidelity from one who seeks solace in such places — and yet! To be setting up her own establishment at her age, and without the slightest hope of a suitable settlement from the Comte — for, in truth, he has not a pound to give her!”

“She told you all this?”

“In strictest confidence, of course. I do not consider myself as having violated that confidence by reporting the whole to you,” Eliza said comfortably. “You are almost my second self. But Jane — she has begged me to assist her, and I am sure I do not know what Henry would say if he were to learn of it!”

“She requires a loan? From Henry’s bank?”

“If only it were that.” Eliza plucked diffidently at the shawl draped across her knees. “Anne wishes me to sell her jewels for her. At Rundell & Bridge. She is convinced that a true English lady, as she is pleased to call me, will never be cheated by the most reputable jewellers in London — whatever nasty turn such a firm might serve an impoverished French opera singer.”

“You did not agree?” I faltered, as the breathless image of Rundell & Bridge rose in my mind. “Good Lord, Eliza — Henry should be appalled to find his wife despatched upon such an errand! What if the jewellers should assume that his circumstances are embarrassed? Consider of the damage to his reputation! The possible loss of custom at his bank! The spurt of rumour and innuendo in the clubs of Pall Mall — and the consequent run upon his funds as clients shift their money elsewhere! You cannot seriously contemplate such a thing, even in the service of a friend!”

“No-o,” Eliza conceded faintly, “tho’ poor Anne did beseech me most earnestly, and I suffered the greatest pangs in the knowledge I must disappoint her. I only succeeded in forcing her from the house, Jane, with the suggestion that you might be willing to oblige.”

“Me? Eliza—!”

“It is not such an abominable notion, after all,” she said. “You observed only yesterday that you wished to step into Rundell & Bridge. You might find a pair of earrings for your niece Anna, or perhaps a brooch for Cassandra. If you have nothing better to do, you might very easily slip into Mr. Bridge’s back room and negotiate the sale—”

“Indeed I might not!”

“But only look at them, Jane.” Eliza unfurled the paisley shawl. “Is it not a queen’s ransom poor Anne left behind?”

I stared wordlessly at the gems winking in my sister’s lap: earrings of ruby and emerald, a diamond tiara, a sapphire necklace. There were brooches in the shape of peacocks and tigers; jewelled ribands as might represent the honour of foreign orders; a spangle intended for dressing the hair; a quantity of rings. It was as tho’ a treasure from an exotic clime, redolent of incense and intrigue, had sprung from the carpet at our feet. The glory of the fiery stones caught the breath in my throat.

“Eliza,” I whispered. “What in Heaven’s name are we to do with them?”

“Secure them among the dirty linen,” she said briskly. “Else we shall certainly be murdered in our beds this night.”