I should not be a woman for anything in this world.

6 July 1809, cont.

Chawton Great House, constructed of flint in the Tudor style, sits at the southern end of the village on a gentle rise above the church of St. Nicholas. It is a noble and somewhat eccentric old gentleman’s house, with wings facing awkwardly to west and north, and any number of curious, ill-considered passages running through its interior. I spent more than a week as an intimate of the place two years ago, while Edward made some repairs to the property prior to Mr. Middleton’s taking up his lease, and was thus prepared for the archaic splendours within.

Tho’ the light of a summer’s evening was still strong as the Austen party approached the entrance porch for our appointed dinner, Mr. Middleton had caused flaming torches to be set into brackets near the door.

“Quite a feudal note, Jane,” Henry observed; “I wonder whether we shall be compelled to share our joint with the hounds?”

As a sportsman, Mr. Middleton might be expected to keep a pack of hunting dogs, or at the very least a family of spaniels; and the galleries running off the top of the main staircase do possess a Dog Gate, designed to prevent the beasts from invading the upper storeys. There is a Great Hall within, accessible through a gap in an ancient oak screen; a draughty, inhospitable space, such as may serve for the reception of tenants on Publick Days, but cannot hope to cheer a family party even in July. Oak panelling rises on every wall, much of it carved, and a massive fireplace struggles in winter to heat the room — notable for its fireback, which is engraved with the name John Knight, and the date 1588—the year of the Hall’s completion as well as the Spanish Armada. In addition to all these, the house boasts a dining parlour; a stone-flagged kitchen; a buttery; a drawingroom where the chief treasure of Chawton — the Lewkenor Carpet[13] — is hung; and a much-neglected garden. The Knight family line failed in 1679, when Sir Richard Knight — whose imposing effigy is carved in stone on his tomb in St. Nicholas Church — died childless, and all the subsequent owners of Chawton have been obliged under his will to take the name of Knight in order to succeed to his riches. In death Sir Richard exerted a powerful influence over as-yet-unborn kin: the Martins and Broadnaxes, and now the Austens. It was inevitable, I supposed, that my brother Edward and all his progeny would one day exchange their name for Sir Richard’s — and I should have done the same to possess even one such house. Mr. Middleton had caused a fire to be lit in the massive Hall grate; and around this cheerful if superfluous blaze several persons were gathered. I recognised Miss Benn, looking selfconsciously fine in a gown of black sarcenet; all the Prowtings; Mr. Julian Thrace, whose attention was claimed by Miss Ann Prowting; and standing a little apart from them, another gentleman perhaps five years Thrace’s senior, in close conversation with a handsome young woman whose dress and air proclaimed her an established member of the ton.

Mr. Middleton, who was listening to Miss Benn’s effusions regarding his kindness, patted that lady’s gloved hand gently and broke away long enough to pay his respects to the Austen party. A sharp-featured and brilliant-eyed lady was before him, however, her hand imperiously extended.

“My brother should have brought me to your door already, Mrs. Austen, but that he is too intent upon showing his guests the country; I hope you will forgive our appalling manners.”

“My sister, Miss Maria Beckford,” interposed Mr. Middleton hastily. “She is so kind as to do the duties of the Great House.”

From the difference in the lady’s name, I must assume she was actually the sister of Mr. Middleton’s deceased wife, and had established herself in the household to oversee the education of his five children. However long ago Mr. Middleton’s lady had departed this world, he had not learned to love her sister instead; but Miss Maria Beckford appeared entirely in command of the situation, in her richly-trimmed silk gown and her dignified posture. I should not have judged her to be much beyond the middle thirties, an age I am myself approaching; her hair, though pulled back severely from her forehead under a lace cap, was still a rich reddish-brown, and an expression of intelligence and good humour lit her dark eyes. This was no female dependant or shrinking drudge sacrificed to her family’s service, but a lady who could command all the glories of Mr. Middleton’s income and establishment — without the bother of being his wife. I thought her rather to be congratulated than pitied.

“You are Miss Austen?” she demanded.

“Miss Jane Austen. My elder sister is as yet on her road from Kent.”

Miss Beckford surveyed me from head to foot; lingered an instant in contemplation of my own unwavering gaze; and then nodded slightly as though in approval.

“And are you fond of books and reading?”

“I am, ma’am.”

“Do you sketch or paint in watercolours?”

“Unhappily I lack that talent.”

“A pity. The beauties of Hampshire afford innumerable subjects for contemplation. But perhaps you play or sing?”

“I am a devotee of the pianoforte — although my own instrument. is not yet arrived.”

“That is very well. You may delight us with a performance this evening. We are happy to welcome you to Chawton, Miss Austen. The accomplishments of ladies in these parts are most unfortunately limited. But for Miss Hinton and the Prowtings we should have no society worth the name. — But I see that the Hintons are arrived. If you will excuse me—”

She brushed past, intent upon the couple who now stood in the doorway; and as I had no desire to hasten my meeting with the avowed enemies of the Squire, I stepped forward to claim the notice of the rest of the party, to whom my brother Henry was already speaking. He intended, I knew, to make the most of his proximity to such exalted circles, and dine out on the strength of his intelligence regarding Julian Thrace for the next twelvemonth.

“Mr. Thrace and Miss Benn you know,” Mr. Middleton was saying, “but I do not think you are as yet acquainted with Lady Imogen Vansittart.”

The handsome young woman inclined her head with a regal air, but uttered not a syllable. She was tall, slender, darkeyed, and eloquent of feature; her gown was white muslin; she wore a circlet of emeralds in her dark hair. Tho’ I should judge her to be several years younger than Miss Catherine Prowting, who stood a little distance apart from the elegant Lady Imogen, she was so far beyond Catherine in countenance and assurance that she seemed the woman, and Catherine the girl.

“And Major Charles Spence,” my host continued, “who comes to us, in company with Mr. Thrace and Lady Imogen, from Stonings — the Earl of Holbrook’s seat near Sherborne St. John.”

If my own heart quickened at the name of that man and that estate, Henry was before me. My brother’s keen grey gaze was immediately fixed upon Major Spence.

“Sherborne St. John!” he cried, with unforced delight. “But then you must be acquainted with the Chute family, our friends these two decades at least. As a boy, my brother James and I hunted with the Vyne.”[14]

“—As it was my privilege to do only last winter,” Major Spence returned amiably. “Mr. Chute is a very respectable, gentleman-like man, and a most welcome neighbour.”

“I cannot perfectly recall Stonings, however.”

“My father caused it to be let to a family from the North for much of the past two decades,” Lady Imogen supplied. “But the Rices have lately given the house up — and I took a fancy to see it. It is possible the estate may fall to my lot in time — and I have never been the sort of woman to buy a mount without first having a look at its teeth.”