Jane Austen Stole My Boyfriend (5 page)

I folded the letter and returned it meekly to my aunt, who briskly handed it back to me.

‘Well, well . . . well, that all seems satisfactory. My dear, perhaps I’ll leave you to speak with Jenny.’ Mr Austen shot off back to his breakfast.

‘Hmm,’ said Mrs Austen when he had gone. ‘That’s a clever young man of yours, my dear. He guessed that your uncle would have these scruples. That’s gentlemen for
you, Jenny. Your uncle is the best of men, but when he puts his foot down about something, well, we might as well give in as waste our time trying to change his mind. I suppose the message is in
the forget-me-not, is that it?’

When I looked back Mrs Austen was pursing her lips in a satisfied manner.

‘He’s a nice young man,’ she said. She seemed to think for a minute and then said, avoiding my gaze, ‘Jane liked him, didn’t she, Jenny? I suppose there is nothing
wrong in Jane writing to him and giving him news of you?’

I nodded. I was about to say that I had thought of that idea also, but then I decided that was enough. There was a gleam in my aunt’s eyes which warned me to say no more.

She looked at me with satisfaction and pushed the curls away from my face, patting my cheek gently. ‘You’re so like your poor mother,’ she said with a burst of emotion.
‘She was such a pretty girl. I don’t know why she married Dr Cooper. Your brother is the image of him.’ And then she kissed me quickly and we went back to the breakfast parlour.
As I slid into my seat beside Jane her eyes scrutinized me and I smiled blandly and helped myself to breakfast.

Friday, 15 April 1791

Today was such fun. At last the great day of the performance of the play had arrived. Mr Austen’s pupils will be going home for their Easter holiday tomorrow, so this is
the final opportunity to have all the cast together. Even James, who is so fussy, just can’t have any more rehearsals.

But before I write about that I must write about the letter.

After I had finished writing in my journal yesterday evening, I said to Jane that I wished that I could write a long letter to Thomas, but I had promised Mr Austen not to – and Thomas
could not really write to Jane or everyone would want to know where her letter came from. And then I suddenly got a good idea and thought of Harry Digweed, the boy who lives next door to the
Austens.

The Digweeds lived in an ancient manor house next door to Steventon church. Harry was the second son, a quiet, friendly boy with a nice smile but not much to say for himself. He spent a lot of
time at Steventon parsonage and he and Frank were always discussing shooting, hunting, horses and dogs. I had a feeling that he was rather fond of Jane. He seemed to watch her often when he thought
he was unobserved and he laughed uproariously at any joke that she made.

I asked Jane whether she thought Harry could keep a secret.

‘I should think so,’ said Jane after a moment’s thought. ‘I always trusted him. I used to tell him all my secrets. You know what children are like with their little
private affairs!’ And Jane sighed in an elderly fashion.

‘You see,’ I said to her, ‘I was thinking that if I could get Thomas to send a letter to Harry Digweed and to put a cross or some mark like that on the outside, then he could
bring it over here to me.’

‘Better still, bring the letters secretly by dead of night to the hollow yew tree outside the church,’ said Jane dramatically. ‘Do you remember how Cassandra and Tom Fowle used
to use that as a letter box? They’ve given it up now that they’ve become officially engaged; I’ve looked a few times and there never is anything there. We could use that now, and
it’s so near to the Digweeds’ house it would be quite convenient for Harry.’

‘And if we could get Harry Digweed to send your letters to Thomas, then no one in this household need be involved.’ I was getting enthusiastic about this idea. It was so much better
than my first idea, of asking Frank to post them and to collect the letters from Thomas and give them secretly to Jane and to post my replies. I would hate to get Frank involved in something of
which his father disapproved.

‘You’ll have to play your part cleverly, Jane,’ I warned. ‘You must make Harry Digweed think that he is doing a great favour to you. He’s fond of you.’

‘Ye . . . es,’ said Jane thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have to think out a “girl in distress” storyline.’ She stared unseeingly out of the window for a few
minutes and then said rapidly, ‘You have appealed to me to help you, and all I could think of was to go to this friend of my youth, my dear Harry Digweed. The thought of his manly profile, of
his blond hair and his blue eyes made my knees feel weak. He was the one, the only one, that I knew I could trust. One who could be a friend to weak girls . . . a brave, handsome, gentle, perfect
knight.’

‘Don’t overdo it,’ I advised, though I couldn’t help laughing.

‘No, just a touch of a quaver in the voice, just a hesitating gesture towards putting a hand on his sleeve – halted abruptly, of course . . . Leave it to me. I can manage
Harry.’

‘Poor boy,’ I said laughing, but I didn’t care really. All I cared about was being in touch with my lovely Thomas and to have him able to write letters to me that could freely
show what was in his heart.

‘Let’s write the first letter now. What do you want to say? Or do you want to write it yourself?’

I told her that I had given my word to her father not to write any letters while I was under his roof so I wanted to keep my promise. I think she was quite relieved at that because she got out
the paper and trimmed a new quill very enthusiastically.

‘Just leave it to me,’ she advised. ‘I’ll tell him all about how you wander the house as a pale as a ghost; how you start and blush when anyone mentions something to do
with the navy, like ships, or the sea, or even the colour blue.’

I begged her not to be so dramatic, that Thomas would think she was just laughing at us, but she assured me it would be a perfect letter.

I went to the window and waited while she was writing, and when she had finished she read it to me:

Jane was quite proud of her letter and I had to acknowledge that the idea of the anchor was a good one. I wished that I could write my own letter though. There were so many things that I wanted
to say, and I definitely would not have mentioned the episode with the tea cosy.

After breakfast Jane and I walked up the lane towards the church, and when we were almost at the manor we met Harry and his dog, a lovely friendly black pointer, who wagged her tail
enthusiastically at the sight of Jane.

‘Oh, Harry,’ said Jane dramatically, clasping her hands, ‘we are in such trouble, and we come to you for help.’

‘What’s the matter, Jane?’ he gasped. He really is very sweet.

‘I hate to ask you to do this, Harry, but would you swear never to tell anyone about this matter?’

‘What matter?’ He looked so bewildered that I felt I should explain. However, I kept silent. He must be used to Jane’s manner; he has known her all his life.

‘We need your help, Harry. True love must find a way. Tell me that you will help us in this affair of the heart.’

‘Love?’ queried Harry. Now he flushed slightly, and this time I could not help intervening.

‘Jane’s talking about me, Mr Digweed,’ I said in a dignified way.

Jane shot me a look that said you’re spoiling everything, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want Harry to be confused. I explained to him what we wanted him to do and he nodded
agreeably.

‘Yes, of course, yes, of course, no problem,’ he kept saying. ‘Yes, that’s no problem, Miss Jenny. No, no trouble at all. I’ll take this letter now and give it in
at Deane Gate Inn before the mail coach comes. I’m going that way in any case. And if a letter comes back, I’ll stick it into the old hollow yew tree.’

Then he blushed a little as he said, ‘Do you remember, Jane, when we were young and you made Frank and myself play a game with you there? You were supposed to be a new bride – I
remember you had a small tablecloth around your shoulders. Frank was your wicked husband who has only married you for your estates, and I was a passing woodman who hears your piteous cries and
rescues you just before you expired.’ He laughed at the memory and Jane laughed also, though I had a feeling that she didn’t remember.

I was impressed at how well Harry recalled all the details. ‘Marrying for your estates’ and ‘your piteous cries’ and ‘. . . expired’ all sounded just like
Jane. It was as if he had kept her words in his mind all through those years. I turned to go back, and Jane joined me instantly, saying over her shoulder, ‘We’ll see you later on at the
play, Harry.’

I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Harry, so I lingered a little and petted his dog and forced Jane to wait so that we could all walk down the path together. She was a bit shy of him now,
which probably meant that she had realized the significance of his little story. For Jane, she was very silent until after we parted from him at the gates of the parsonage and she waited for a
moment, watching him as he jumped the bank into the field and then strode up the hill, followed by his obedient dog.

‘He looks like a knight from the tales of King Arthur,’ I told her, watching the way that the sun lit up his golden hair.

‘I thought you preferred dark-haired men,’ said Jane abruptly, and then she ran on into the house. I followed her thoughtfully into the parlour. Was she thinking of Newton? I
wondered.

We were supposed to do what lessons we could think of – Mrs Austen was too busy making up end-of-term laundry bills for the pupils to give us even her usual vague directions but we mostly
discussed the best way of getting Mrs Austen to allow us to go to Bath with Eliza.

‘We’ll ask her after the play,’ decided Jane. ‘She’ll be in a very good mood then. She does enjoy plays.’

Neither of us even thought of Mr Austen. We were so used to his agreeing to anything that was proposed by his womenfolk.

The play was supposed to start at three o’clock dinner was early and rushed. As soon as it was finished everyone went over to the barn. The boys dressed there and Cassandra, Jane and I
grabbed our gowns and took them back to our rooms. Eliza had brought her own gown no one had seen it yet, but it was something that she had worn ten years ago when she was a girl at the court of
Versailles.

My gown and Cassandra’s had both belonged to Mrs Austen when she was young. Mine was a beautiful shade of blue and had panniers on either side, holding out the skirt. I have drawn a
picture of it here. It felt so strange to be wearing it it was almost like having two baskets, one at either side of my waist, underneath my skirt. That makes it sound silly, but I felt quite
elegant in it. Jane, as a maid, was dressed quite plainly, with a gown of striped dimity and a huge mob cap covering her curls. I was a bit sorry that she wasn’t more elegant-looking,
especially since Newton Wallop was playing the part of James’s servant, but Jane didn’t seem to mind; she was dancing around the room, repeating funny lines from her part.

Eliza was late in coming over for the play, and James was sending frantic messages by Charles, and I didn’t actually see her until she strode on to the stage, pointing at Cassandra and
declaiming: