Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas (7 page)

“I trust you benefited from your rest, Miss Austen?” he enquired.

“—As I hope you did, from your glimpse of the stables and dogs. Do you intend to hunt on the morrow, Mr. West?”

“Undoubtedly. Tho’ I am no sportsman, I will follow the pack—with a sketchbook in my saddlebag.”

“Such colour and chaos as the scene presents must be tempting to one of your skill! I almost wish that I rode.”

“You do not hunt?”

I shook my head regretfully. “I was denied the means, as a young girl—clergyman’s households do not run to mounts for all and sundry, you know, and there were a healthy number of us.”

“Your brother followed your father’s profession, I collect,” he said, with a glance at James.

“In the very same parish—and being the eldest, was also taught to ride when young. He and Mr. Chute are old friends these five-and-twenty years. James shall be hallooing with the rest of you on the morrow—as will dear Eliza.” I nodded to where she sat at the table’s foot, on Mr. West’s right hand, in a daring gown of silver gauze. There must have been a wistful note in my voice—for I dearly love to be out-of-doors.

“Then I shall carry the better part of the hunt back in my sketches,” Mr. West replied warmly, “so that we may enjoy it together, in comfortable chairs by the fire!”

From across the table, Mary cried, “I should dearly love to peruse your sketches, Mr. West! Of all things, I am most alive to Art! I daresay there is not another lady in the country with as fine an appreciation of line or colour as myself. As a young girl, I was always at my sketchbook—but one is forced to set such things aside, regardless
of one’s talent or the calling of the Muse, when one has attained the maternal state.” A languishing glance at her children, happily chattering in the middle of the table and fortunately inattentive to their mother’s gushes.

Mr. West inclined his head without a word.

“Do not be prating of your poor daubs, my dear,” James hissed audibly at his wife. “Mr. West can have not the slightest interest in them.”

Poor Mary set her lips in a sneering line and reached for her wineglass.

Is there any agony comparable to the self-exposure of family?

My cheeks reddening, I said, “Do you prefer to draw art from life, sir?”

“Is it possible to draw it any other way?”

“Your father appears to rely upon invention, for his religious themes; the power of imagination is everywhere evident in his work.”

“True—but his figures are inspired by living models, his draperies limned from real cloth, thrown over an arm. He possesses the discipline I lack, Miss Austen, to study the smallest detail of his vast compositions, in order that the perfection of each part contributes to the whole. I am too hasty, too impatient, for meticulous study. I prefer to seize my subject with rapid strokes, a thing of the moment. What I lose in perfection, I gain in animation. My father’s generation composes in the classical mode; mine, in the Romantic.”

I felt my heart quicken. There was a passion to West’s words that argued truth. I had been afforded a glimpse, if only fleetingly, of the man beneath the Fashionable mask.

“When you write,” he continued intently, “you do much the same. Your Tom Bertram—your pert Maria—your venomous Mrs. Norris—all are sketched with a brevity and deftness that argues economy of effort.”

“Perhaps,” I said unwillingly, “they are mere caricatures, and thus demand nothing more.”

“Your Darcy is no caricature,” he retorted. “Nor is Willoughby. I have met that gentleman’s like on countless occasions, in the gaming hells and ballrooms of London—petted, indulged, weak, and subtle. That is where you excel, Miss Austen—in the subtleties.”

Our tête-à-tête was suspended by William Chute’s raising of his glass, and the resounding chorus of “Happy Christmas” on every side.

It has been whispered in the parish that The Vyne has fallen into sad disrepair under William Chute’s stewardship; and if one is to compare the house to what it was under its previous owner—when display took precedence over comfort, and Taste was preferred above human warmth, I daresay the whisperers are correct. But in one respect, at least, The Vyne is lavish—and that is in the enjoyment of food and drink among friends. William Chute was forever motioning to his footmen to replenish our glasses last night, first with champagne and Madeira, later with claret and hock; and every variety of dish was on offer. A handsome goose was set out, its skin crisply browned and smelling delightfully of onions and sage; half a dozen partridges accompanied it, as well as teal, and woodcocks; soles in béchamel sauce were at one end of the table, and a lobster cake at the other. I partook of saddle of venison, culled no doubt from The Vyne’s own park. With all this there were French beans and Jerusalem artichokes, stewed celery and mushrooms.

After the first remove, the white and clear soups went round, with a choice of jellies and Naples biscuit. I turned, as was only correct, to converse with Mr. Edward Gambier, who sat on my left. He had survived his interrogation at my sister’s hands.

“I understand your family has spent many years in this neighbourhood,” he began, with becoming easiness, “and has been intimate
with The Vyne family forever. Tho’ your sister informs me you presently live in the southern part of Hampshire.”

“Not far from Alton,” I replied, giving the name of the principal town near Chawton. “Our brother commands an estate in that part of the world, and has been so kind as to afford us a cottage. How do you come to be acquainted with the Chutes, Mr. Gambier?”

“Through my great-uncle,” he returned. “General Edward Mathew. My mother was his niece, you know, and spent much of her girlhood at Freefolk Priors, not far from here. The house, of course, is now pulled down—and another built in its place. Laverstoke House, I believe it is called.”

“Our acquaintance William Portal owns it now—tho’ the manor is far less homelike than when old General Mathew lived there.” I set down my wineglass. “But this is wonderful! My brother James”—I nodded across the sugar sculpture in his direction—“was married to Anne Mathew, the General’s daughter. They met while dancing at the Basingstoke Assemblies. Mr. Chute was their good angel, in making the introduction.”

“That will be Mamma and Aunt Louisa’s cousin,” Gambier said shrewdly. “Miss Anne was a twin, I believe. She died while I was still in leading-strings. I see your brother succeeded in forming a second attachment.”

“He had a young child to raise,” I said shortly. “I confess to a little confusion, Mr. Gambier—how do you come to share your Aunt Louisa’s name?”

He smiled broadly. “Because my father was brother to the Admiral, of course. The Gambiers didn’t look far when it came to brides, but married two sisters. Mamma is several years younger than my aunt, and much in request—she chose to spend the holiday in Bath, among her acquaintance. But Aunt Louisa has become accustomed to my
sister’s company, lacking daughters of her own—and I should sooner spend the season in the country, with a prospect of good hunting, then in all the tedium of Bath.”

“I could not agree more. I detest the insipidity of such towns, with their host of invalids, all taking their daily dose of water.”

“And the provender!” Mr. Gambier cried with relish, as the second course was set down. “Bath can offer nothing like a suckling pig, with an apple in its mouth! And I never see such a dish in Town. Are you fond of crackling, Miss Austen?”

“Invariably,” I said, “but my joy at the sight is entirely for my mother. She is partial to pork in any of its forms.”

“She seems a grand old lady,” Mr. Gambier said. “I wish Aunt Louisa might have half her energy.”

“Mamma may give Lady Gambier fifteen years,” I replied, somewhat startled.

“And that is exactly why I say it,” the gentleman replied, as he was served with crackling. “Only observe how much enjoyment Mrs. Austen betrays, and she with one foot in her grave! Aunt Louisa might as well be at a tragedy-play, for all the animation she offers.”

“Perhaps she is anxious for her husband,” I suggested. “The Admiral has been absent some time in Ghent, I believe, about the American treaty?”

“That is true,” he admitted, “but they never seemed particularly bosom-bows when Dismal Jimmy was in country.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dismal Jimmy is my uncle’s name in the Service,” Mr. Gambier confided. “On account of he’s so particular about Sunday Service, and no end pious when going into battle. He and my aunt never drove well in harness. A life spent at sea ain’t conducive, you know, to a love-match, particularly when there are no children in the case.
That’s why Mary and I”—this, with a nod to his sister, not my brother James’s wife—“spend such a deal of time in Aunt Louisa’s pocket. Cheers the Relation no end—and ensures we shan’t be cut out of the Will by a hired companion. When my father stuck his spoon in the wall last year, he left more debts than funds. Family habit. Must look to the future, and provide.”

Unblushing frankness appeared to be one of Mr. Gambier’s gifts. After an interval for appreciation of the second course—which was comprised of a beef roast, cauliflower in orange sauce, veal ragout, a dish of macaronis, and a pasty filled with spinach—I managed a reply.

“Are you then the Admiral’s heir?”

“Must suppose m’self to be,” he replied. “Unless there’s an inconvenient by-blow hiding in the wings. But I shouldn’t think the Admiral much given to natural sons—too devout by half. They call him the Praying Captain, you know. Devilish bent on Divine Service in the Fleet, and not ashamed to flog all shirkers. No, I think he’ll do the handsome—and remember his nephew, when Davy Jones calls him to the Deep.”

I could not like the thought of burials at sea, with poor Charles presently aboard—and gave Mr. Gambier no answer. I consoled myself with mince pies and apricot tart.

A
FTER NEARLY THREE HOURS
of jollity and conversation, Eliza rose from her place and nodded to the ladies. We left the men to their privacy and their port. I little doubted, with a Member of Parliament passing the bottle, that talk should be of the American War; and dearly wished I might have overlistened the gentlemen’s opinions. It is not often, living in retirement as we do, that the Austen ladies are treated to informed society; we rely upon the London newspapers for
nearly all of our intelligence of Government events. But this evening I should have to contain my impatience a little longer. I congratulated myself, however, that Mr. Chute must receive his papers promptly, no matter the condition of the roads, owing to his position—and that I might have a comfortable coze with them in the library while the men were out hunting.

Dessert was sensibly arrayed in the drawing-room on the Chutes’ massive sideboard, so that we might sample the brandied fruits and biscuits, the oranges and raisins, the wafers and sugared almonds at our leisure. Coffee was poured out, too, once the gentlemen joined us.

“I say,” Edward Gambier cried as he entered the drawing-room before the others, “it is as well that none of us must depart The Vyne tonight—for there is a gale of snow falling! I’d lay odds we’ll see no hunting.”

“Then it will be the first St. Stephen’s Day in memory that the pack lies in,” William Chute growled. He looked most unhappy, and went immediately to the large French windows giving out onto the back garden. A bitter swirl of frozen air blew into the room as he opened one of them, and the flames in the great hearth darted and hissed.

“Lord, William, you will carry us all away,” Eliza cried. “Shut the window and prepare to play at charades, like a gentle host.”

I daresay each of us was so stupefied by food and drink, that we should gladly have sat in silence for an hour or so before toddling to our beds; but Eliza was determined to lead us all in merriment—and what is Christmas night without charades?

“I do relish a good riddle,” my mother said brightly. She is inordinately proud of what she terms her “sprack wit,” or deftness with rhyme.

“Then I propose, madam,” said Mr. L’Anglois the secretary, “that
you take up this pad and pen.” He stood ready with a supply of each, and pressed them upon us.

“Are we to enter the lists singly,” I queried, “or play in teams?”

“Let it be teams,” muttered Lady Gambier, “lest we be tied here all night.”

If Eliza heard this dispiriting remark, she chose to ignore it.

“James,” Mary said quite audibly, “I have a fearful headache; and I am sure that Caroline must be nodding!”

Caroline had long ago disappeared with Miss Wiggett and James-Edward to the Chutes’ nursery wing—she was to have a bed near the governess, with all the delights of warm milk by the schoolroom fire. I had an idea of her introducing fine Jemima to Miss Wiggett’s dolls—no doubt long since outgrown—and talking over vanished modes. But James bowed to his wife with alacrity. “As you wish, my dear. You will always know what is best for the child.” He showed no inclination to accompany her upstairs, however, and made his way to the sideboard groaning with sweetmeats.

With a tragic air, Mary swept from the room. No one appeared to remark her departure.

We formed ourselves into three teams. William Chute, Miss Gambier, Thomas-Vere, and I were the first; Mamma, Mr. West, Mr. Gambier, and Eliza the second; Cassandra, Lady Gambier, Mr. Langlois, and James the third. Mamma’s team—to the surprize of none of us Austens—offered their clew before the rest of us; it was a foregone conclusion that in charades, sprack wit must carry off the laurels.

We were handed a few lines of verse in my mother’s hand.

Our group of four consulted feverishly, and I observed sidelong that Cassandra’s party was in vociferous debate.

“The first is quite obviously bed,” William Chute declared. “Streambed, you know.”

“That is under the stream, not beside it,” I muttered.

“Surely it is grass, Mr. Chute? Or perhaps moss?” Miss Gambier suggested.