Preview of Jane and the Year without a Summer by Stephanie Barron
Preview of Jane and the Year without a Summer by Stephanie Barron
4
Seeking Health at the Bottom of a Well
Saturday, 25th May, 1816
Cheltenham Spa
The intelligent reader of gossip-sheets and scandal-rags will be wondering, I am sure, why Cheltenham, and not the far more celebrated watering hole of Bath, has been our object. Were Cassandra and I as determinedly bent on pleasure as I took pains to suggest to my brothers, the concerts and card-parties of the far more ancient town, as well as the delights of the Abbey and the Pump Room, the shops of Pulteney and the paths of Sydney Gardens, must have been unrivaled by any attractions Cheltenham Spa may offer. The latter is to Bath what a heedless country maid is to a dowager; lacking in refinement and dignity, and prone to a good deal of untempered noise.
And indeed, as we achieved the outskirts of the town late on Saturday, our carriage side-windows streaming with wet, Cassandra remarked on the differences from Bath: the crescents of new houses, girded with stone paving not yet mellowed by time; the raw mud splashed on foundations and walls; the fresh roadways branching from the High Street, where a once-modest village has in recent decades swelled to something greater. So many saplings, where there ought to have been trees! But neither my sister nor I have any deep love for Bath, where we resided for some years, at James’s succeeding to our father’s living. Bath must be forever associated in our minds with the loss of our home—and of Papa, too, as he passed from this life in our lodgings at Green Park Buildings. But I have another reason, one of considerable delicacy, for wishing to avoid the place; there is a widowed gentleman of my acquaintance presently residing there, in the company of his daughter, whom I hesitate to meet.
Mr. Raphael West—who claims as parent the celebrated artist, Mr. Benjamin West—is a valued acquaintance, tho’ our friendship is of recent formation. Possessed alike of an excellent understanding and a distinguished countenance, he is fully capable of engaging any woman’s heart. At the mere thought of him now, I felt a warmth steal over my frame and my pulse quicken—a sharp longing for his gaze that felt as deep as hunger. But it would not do; I closed my eyes and resolved that it would not do.
When I was last in his company, at Henry’s home in Hans Place, it was to resolve the puzzle of a curious map, discovered near a dying soldier in the Prince Regent’s library. That was six months ago; and at parting, Mr. West earnestly informed me of his intent to visit Bath, and his hope that I might do the same. There was that in his looks and manner that suggested I was dear to him—that our friendship was viewed on his side, at least, as capable of something more. But the sad events of this winter, the collective misfortunes of my brothers, and my dubious health, for a period of months put travel beyond my power.
Moreover, the lowering weeks of relentless rain, confining me within-doors, and the oppression of my own thoughts, urged me to confront certain truths: I am over forty years of age. My mother, my beloved sister, and our companion Martha Lloyd look to me for support in our collective household, where the modest earnings of my pen contribute greatly to the comforts of each. With every financial calamity gathering over Chawton Cottage and its defenceless inhabitants this year, the mite of income I supply is surety against future want. Could I be so selfish as to run away to Bath and the attractions of Mr. West’s society, abandoning duty and the claims of those who rely upon me?
I cannot.
And a glance in the mirror confirms what my flagging energy and vanished appetite already apprehend: the few charms remaining to my person are swiftly waning under the influence of ill-health. My countenance is sallow and dull, my eyes shadowed, my cheeks gaunt. I feel the jut of my hip bones with gloved fingers through the cambric of my travelling gown.
I should be ashamed for Raphael West to see me as I now am. Indeed, my lips compress with mortification when I consider the picture: a hag-ridden spinster descending upon Bath, to parade the Pump Room in hope of a chance encounter with the darkly handsome Mr. West. The gentleman, at first surprized and distressed, recovering to lift his hat and offer an introduction to his daughter—only to move on in a matter of moments, with the words, “Poor creature! She is sadly altered since I saw her last!”
Cheltenham would do very well for escape, I thought as our carriage rattled along the Gloucester Road and crossed the stone bridge over the narrow river. The silhouettes of buildings that line the Lower Turnpike loomed ahead; the highway gradually became the High, where our lodgings must be—and further to the south, all the pleasure-grounds and incidental buildings of the different wells stretched in tree-lined avenues before us. The High Street ran on for perhaps a mile, dotted with lodgings, the theatre, the Assembly Rooms and libraries; but beyond this brave front and the various spas, Cheltenham offered little more. In such a town as this, I might pass unremarked. I would drink the waters, think nothing of brothers or their cares, and perhaps recover a little of my health. I would endeavour to grow stout, and on occasion set down a few words of the story presently taking shape in my mind.
The Elliots is a fable of another aging woman, her bloom quite gone off, whose family is too dependent on her compliant spirit. I had sketched the initial scenes of an interesting dilemma—an heroine confronted with the return of a man she once loved and refused—earlier this winter. But the demands of family and ill-health had limited my time at the small, twelve-sided table in the dining parlour where I prefer to write. Now, however, with a full two weeks of leisure before me, matters were otherwise. While I sought refuge in Cheltenham, Anne Elliot might enjoy a renewal of youth and good fortune . . . in Mr. West’s streets in Bath. In writing of her, I might even think of him, in the familiar beauties of that city. Tho’ I dare not set foot among them myself.
Our conveyance pulled to a halt in the yard of the Bell Inn. The lodgings we sought—Mrs. Potter’s, on the north side of the High—were but a few steps further. I reached for my reticule and the bandbox that held my second-best bonnet, and followed my sister out into the rain.
a
Monday, 27th May, 1816
“Good God, Jane!”
Cassandra’s lips were pursed as tightly as a blighted rose. Her eyes swam with tears. As I studied her in trepidation, her throat convulsed and her countenance was suffused with disgust.
“It cannot be so dreadful, surely?” I attempted.
“Worse than your worst imaginings.” She set down her glass. “How can such a peculiar draught be everywhere proclaimed as an aid to health? The most blatant poison could not taste more vile!”
“Perhaps one grows accustomed to the flavour?”
“Only if one were to sample it repeatedly,” she retorted. “And nothing could prevail upon me to do so—not even my most earnest wishes for your welfare.”
I studied my own glass doubtfully. The water it contained was as brown as the bottom of a horse’s trough. Cassandra and I had taken our doses quite meekly from the hands of Hannah Forty, a pumper who had ruled the Royal Well for as many years as her name suggested; but neither that woman’s challenging look nor the crowd of genteel patrons surrounding us had quelled my sister’s revulsion.
“This particular pump is said to be saline,” I observed. “It cannot be worse than a mouthful of sea water, surely?”
“It is as sulphurous as a clutch of rotten eggs.” Cass turned briskly away from Mrs. Forty. “I must bespeak a cup of tea if I am not to retch this instant.”
I tossed the contents of my glass into a waste bowl and followed my sister further into the Long Room, the elegant saloon that housed the Royal Well’s pumps. Tho’ it was only half-past eight o’clock in the morning, a crowd of fashionable patrons strolled its length while the musicians ranged on the balcony overhead played a concerto by Beethoven. From the Long Room’s crush this morning, I concluded that half the Kingdom was come to the spa town determined to banish the humours from their blood, tho’ the end of May is still considered early in Cheltenham’s Season.
“We may discover the waters at Lord Sherborne’s Well or the Montpellier to be more to our taste,” I called after Cassandra. “We might remove to either immediately. Neither is at a very great distance; I am persuaded neither is beyond our powers.”
“But what adventure, then, may we hope for tomorrow? Or the day after that?” my sister answered with a pitiable groan. “Surely some of these delights may be put off to a later hour!”
If one is not to take the waters at a spa built for the purpose, one may at least enjoy the parade of those who do: elderly gentlemen bent over their canes, attempting to appear sprightly; groupings of young ladies newly come upon the town, and determined to go in white regardless of the mud everywhere in the streets; harassed mothers of unruly offspring, scandalising their neighbours with excessive spirits and noise. And then there are the invalids: propelled by companions or family, intent upon the salvation of lives overburdened merely with living. In Bath, these are legion; in Cheltenham, more common still. Novelty will always draw those hopeful of cure. Had I not travelled three days in pursuit of it myself?
“Do observe, Jane,” Cassandra whispered as she slipped her hand through my arm and drew me away from the teacups we had drained at one side of the Long Room. “Such a pretty creature, and so young, too, to be wheeled in a Bath chair!”
She was attempting not to stare openly at an interesting young lady, whose sweetness of countenance and modest air must draw every eye. Flawless skin, tho’ too wan and pallid; shadowed eyes of cornflower blue; guinea-gold curls trailing from a deliciously upturned poke bonnet, a frail figure handsomely gowned—and yet all confined to the basket-chair of an invalid’s conveyance. There was a thinness, a languor, that spoke of suffering gallantly borne. Such a picture, eloquent of Divine gifts and burdens equally bestowed, must inspire the most sympathetic concern! Little ripples of notice followed the lady’s progress down the room. Heads turned, and were as swiftly averted.
I guessed her to be in the middle-twenties. Her companion, a dark-haired, sober lady in dull grey, propelled the chair with devoted attention, indifferent to the impertinences of strangers. An elder relation, perhaps?
“How distressing, if she should be in a decline,” Cassandra murmured. “If she should be consumptive, perhaps! Do you suppose it is her nurse who accompanies her?”
“A relative, surely. There seems an intimacy between them that argues against mere paid employment.”
“I cannot think any indisposition of mine more than trifling,” Cassandra sighed, “when I reflect that I have enjoyed twice that young life’s span already, and yet command the use of my limbs. How happy I am that you are my companion, Jane! That I am not thrown upon strangers, while indisposed!”
I forbore to point out that it was my indifferent health that had driven us to Cheltenham. I owed Cassandra too much; where she loves, she is unflagging in her support. “To be sure. We have much for which we must be thankful.”
“Such elegance in her aspect! Such refinement in her features, despite the toll of ill-health! I am sure she is well-born, Jane. Every quality in her looks declares delicacy and breeding. She is likely the daughter of a baronet. —Or of even an earl, perhaps!”
I stifled a sigh. Although I am commonly supposed to study my fellow creatures on the sly, so as to invent amusing histories for them, my sister is no less avid a student of human nature. Indeed, I sometimes suspect she lives for gossip.
“Surely not,” I whispered. “However refined her looks, the Fair Unknown cannot be greater than the daughter of a viscount, or she should certainly be at Tunbridge Wells, and attended by two footmen at least.”
The intriguing pair had outpaced us, and were drawn up before the Patron’s Book, a large, gilt-edged volume in which the Long Room’s subscribers were meant to sign their names. Though it must be judged relatively small and rustic compared to Bath, Cheltenham apes the grander spa town in this respect, as in many others: sharing the same Master of Ceremonies, Mr. King, to preside over its publick Assemblies on Mondays and Fridays, while reserving certain evenings for card-parties (Wednesdays) and others for the theatre (Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays). Indeed, so great is its ambition to empty the purses of the Select, that Cheltenham is embarked upon the construction of far larger Assembly Rooms than it presently claims. The new rooms will accommodate more dancers to its balls—some six hundred!—than is possible at present, and offer billiards and backgammon in addition to whist. His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, is to open the new Assembly in July.
Cassandra is excessively disappointed that we shall have quitted Cheltenham before the Duke’s arrival. To cheer the Hero of Waterloo in publick, and perhaps observe him to waltz (for the Duke is reputed an excellent dancer), in rooms that cost upward of fifty thousand pounds to construct, should be something to report to Mary, indeed!
“We are not the interesting invalid’s only admirers,” I murmured. A gentleman in the blue coat of a Naval officer had just approached the two ladies and offered a scrupulous bow to both. I judged him not much above thirty, yet he bore the rank of captain on his coat—which announced a history of some daring and valor in the recent wars. Then, too, he suffered from a slight lameness in his left leg—had he come to Cheltenham for a rest cure, and once turned upon shore, discovered a fervent desire for a lady’s conversation?
“It is a charming grouping,” Cassandra said.
The sailor, frank and open of countenance, supporting himself on an ebony stick; the girl, her piquant face upturned confidingly to his own; the companion, with a faint look of consciousness, as tho’ embarrassed by the gallant figure’s notice—
I might invent stories all the day long, when supplied with sufficient matter. “Ought we to inscribe our names in the Patron’s Book?”
“If any of our acquaintance are presently in Cheltenham, they might then be apprised of our arrival,” Cassandra suggested.
We should certainly have known if even one of our friends had travelled out of Hampshire in parallel to ourselves, but I did not quibble with my sister. Any acquaintance might enliven our stay in the town. And Cassandra meant to learn the identity of the Beauty in the Bath chair. Wild horses could not prevent her.
We waited until the intriguing ladies progressed onward, the officer still in attendance, with a pleasantry on his lips—then we approached the book with a suitable air of unconcern.
“Miss Williams,” Cassandra read, “and Miss Fox. I wonder, Jane, which is which?”
Not an Honourable between them, I noted; not even a viscount could they claim as parent. Cassandra must suffer a disappointment.
The name scrawled beneath theirs, I observed, was equally democratic. Captain H. Pellew. Such a man might be anyone—but for his surname! There was an Admiral Sir Edward Pellew, familiar throughout the Kingdom, if one cared for the Royal Navy. My brother Frank had recounted the daring fellow’s exploits—how he had been taken prisoner in the Colonial wars, where his brother was killed; how he escaped being sunk in sea-battles against superior French firepower; how he swam out to the rescue of some five hundred souls grounded at Plymouth Hoe, with a rope clenched between his teeth—by which lifeline, most were saved. But the name must rivet my attention from a nearer concern—for the same Baron Pellew had been Commander-in-Chief, the Mediterranean Station, these past several years, and as such, must have one Charles Austen and his ill-fated Phoenix under his command.
Was this H. Pellew a near relation of the famous admiral? A son, a nephew, a cousin, perhaps? The Pellews were certainly an extensive Naval family, originating in Plymouth, I believed. Was the captain who limped slowly away from me at all acquainted with my Naval brothers—and could his famous relations bring any influence to bear on Charles’s Admiralty Board?
Some of these questions might be answered in a perusal of the Navy List, but the remainder must await a proper introduction to the unknown officer himself—unlikely, alas, to fall in my way. We possessed no acquaintance in Cheltenham capable of enlarging our circle.
With a sigh, I took up the pen set neatly by the Patron’s Book, and dipped it in the silver standish. Miss Jane Austen, I wrote. It looked very well on the page, however undistinguished by titles or honorifics.
Preview of Jane and the Year without a Summer by Stephanie Barron
