The Persuasion of Miss Jane Austen – Part 2

Tom Lefroy or the mysterious Captain Devereaux? They both play key roles in Jane Austen’s life, but which of them did she prefer? And how is her new novel coming along? You will find the answers in chapters 2 and 3: today’s installment of The Persuasion of Miss Jane Austen! (If you missed part 1, click here to catch up first)

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~Chapter 2~

 

I first set eyes on Captain Philippe Devereaux on the last day of 1797, at my brother Henry’s wedding to our cousin Eliza de Feuillide.

I was just barely two-and-twenty years of age then and arguably at the pinnacle of my modest looks and charm. For a season at least, I did possess a very particular attraction for members of the opposite sex. Having discovered this capability a few years earlier, I had since given it free reign, taking every opportunity for dancing and flirting that our limited society could afford.

I had had a consummate teacher, after all, in my older and much more sophisticated cousin Eliza, whose wider experience of the world made her a creature of endless fascination for an impressionable young girl such as myself. But I was not the only one who had proved susceptible to her inherent appeal; two of my own brothers and nearly every other gentleman in our circle had succumbed as well. To one extent or another, they were all bewitched by the vivacious Comtesse de Feuillide. Here at last, I thought, was an example of how a woman might gain a measure of power over men. And although I did not aspire to Eliza’s metropolitan way of life in general, this seemed a lesson worth attending to.

I daresay flirtation came as naturally to my cousin as breathing. Not so for me. But after years of narrow observation, I did begin putting what I had gleaned from her into practice myself. I soon discovered it to be a most delightful sport, especially when lucky enough to be matched with a partner likewise devoted to the game. I never enjoyed it more than when, in the December I turned twenty years of age, I practiced the art with a handsome young Irishman by the name of Mr. Tom Lefroy.

“How do you like my morning coat?” he inquired of me two days after our first meeting at a ball at Manydown. He was come into the neighbourhood for a Christmas visit to his Aunt and Uncle Lefroy at Ashe, where this conversation unfolded. “Do you find it fashionable?” he continued, preening for me like a peacock.

We had liked each other at once upon being introduced at the ball, but now a new uncertainty at this second meeting needed to be overcome. Our footing with each other had to be tested once again to establish that the camaraderie we felt the other night was solid and genuine.

After a moment to ponder his question, I shrugged and replied, “It appears a serviceable enough garment. That colour, though…” I made a face and shook my head.

He tugged the white coat into sharper order and checked his reflection in the window glass. “I am surprised at you, Miss Austen. I would have you know that this is the same shade as the one worn by my favourite literary hero Tom Jones.”

“Is that so?” My countenance and manner of speaking betrayed nothing more than mild interest in the subject, when in actuality his reference to Mr. Fielding’s work intrigued me very much indeed. “Now it is you who have surprised me, Mr. Lefroy, for I did not have you marked out for a great reader. Although again, I am compelled to question your taste. Perhaps you are unaware that novel-reading is not considered quite respectable in certain circles.”

“What about in your circle, Miss Austen?” he asked, leaning a bit closer. “Yours is the opinion I most wish to hear at the moment. Do you admit to reading novels?”

I drew back in mock horror. “Really, Mr. Lefroy, this is terribly forward! I am afraid you presume too much upon our rather brief acquaintance. Is not this a very personal question to be asking a lady whom you have known for so short an interval?”

“Quite possibly so,” he said, examining the well-manicured nails of his left hand. “I truly cannot say, for I admit that I am somewhat mystified when it comes to these complex social niceties. They seem, in general, to accomplish very little of value while at the same time requiring a great deal of effort.”

“What nonsense you talk, Mr. Lefroy.”

“Do you think so? Then I must be in error, but not irretrievably so, I trust. I am not a hardened case; I am perfectly willing to be guided by the wisdom of one more expert in these matters.”

I nodded my approval, and he went on.

“Perhaps you would consider undertaking the challenge of reforming me, Miss Austen. And you might start by settling the original problem for me. What would be the appropriate time to ask my impudent questions of you, such as the one concerning your reading habits? If not at our second meeting, then when?”

Instead of being so obliging as to answer at once, I deliberately left the gentleman in doubt of any satisfaction by adopting a pensive expression and taking one full tour about the room before returning to him. Then presently I said, “As to undertaking your thorough reformation, Mr. Lefroy, I can promise you nothing. That monumental task may require more time and industry than I can spare at present. However, it is my judgment that you may safely ask your more personal questions upon our third meeting.”

His aspect brightened. “This is most encouraging news, Miss Austen. So you believe we shall meet again, then, do you?”

“I think it highly probable we shall, Mr. Lefroy, especially if you are determined to persist in the neighbourhood for some little while. In fact, such an occurrence could hardly be avoided. So I suppose I must prepare myself to answer your impertinent curiosity by and by. For tonight, however, we had much better confine our discourse to the usual polite topics.”

“The weather and the state of the roads, I suppose you mean. How dull,” he said, finishing with a sigh.

I smiled. “It needn’t be, Mr. Lefroy, with a little imagination. For example, I was just about to remark that, although you may know how to wear this light coat to best effect, I fear it may not hold up well in the rain.”

He bowed, acknowledging the compliment. “Ah, I see what you mean. And if imagination is what discussing the weather requires, then I am only too pleased to employ it. I can imagine the effects of a downpour easily enough, and that this…” He teasingly brushed one finger across the thin muslin fabric of my sleeve. “…this insubstantial gown you wear would fare no better in the rain. Yes, I can picture the results of that calamity very well indeed,” he said with an especial gleam in his eye. “There, is that what you had in mind, Miss Austen?”

Our eyes held for a long moment before I answered. “That remark, while somewhat predictable, will do at present, Mr. Lefroy. Now, you really must excuse me. Here are other gentlemen waiting to discuss the weather with me. Would you not allow that it is only fair they should have their share of my conversation as well?”

“I would by no means allow any such thing. As I have often heard it said, all is fair in love and war.”

“I have heard your saying as well, and yet, even if that were true, I hardly see where it applies here. Which do you presume this to be, Mr. Lefroy? An occasion of love or war?”

“Oh, war, Miss Austen. By all means, war.”

“I see. You fancy me your enemy, then.”

“Not an enemy. A better word would be opponent, for one requires an opponent – a worthy opponent – to engage in any kind of enjoyable sport.”

What followed this exchange was an additional fortnight of highly enjoyable sport indeed, with behaviour deemed by some standards profligate and shocking. To my mind, however, it encompassed everything most pleasant by way of dancing, talking, and sitting down together. It was a remarkable time. We played at being in love, Tom and I, and we could not be bothered to hide our infatuation from anybody.

Although I believe Mr. Lefroy to have experienced some embarrassment for the teasing he endured on my account, to this day I cannot argue myself into feeling one bit sorry for anything that occurred between us. We may have bent the rules of decorum nearly to the point of breaking, but there was no real harm in it. If there could be any cause for regret, it would be for worrying my dear friend Madam Lefroy, who, seeing how the two of us had been carrying on, did kindly caution me against the danger.

“You are too rational a girl,” she told me one day, “to fall in love merely because I warn you against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking my mind. I would wish you to be on your guard. Do not involve yourself, or attempt to involve him in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent. You have sense, dear Jane, and we all expect you to use it.”

Her words – similar to those which I later put into the mouth of Elizabeth Bennet’s Aunt Gardiner in a like situation – were kindly meant but entirely unnecessary, for I am sure the gentleman and I did not fancy ourselves much more than half in love. When he went away, it only confirmed what I already suspected – that my happiness was very little dependent on Mr. Lefroy’s continuing in my presence. Although my vanity could not help being gratified by his conspicuous attentions, I found I was in no danger of wasting away under a perpetual gloom of temper when they were withdrawn. I cannot suppose Mr. Lefroy suffered so very much for the loss of my company either, not unless I flatter myself that his subsequent engagement to another woman, his marriage, and his begetting of many children were all by way of consoling himself for the overwhelming loneliness which my absence occasioned.

I have no scruple in admitting that I took great enjoyment in that brief interlude with my Irish friend, and I would not be persuaded to part with a single minute of it for any price. Looking back on our short acquaintance, it is clear to me now what a fortunate meeting it was, one that taught me lessons which have served me well. With Tom I gained confidence and I refined my facility for flirtation. With him I practiced a type of imitation love that prepared me for the genuine article when I later encountered it. And I have long since lost count as to how many of Mr. Lefroy’s words and mannerisms found their way into the stories I have written.

Yes, Tom Lefroy did me a good turn, and I shall always wish him happy. There were others as well, potential suitors who contributed to the catalogue of memories and experiences upon which I daily draw for the characters in my books. But despite my mother’s opinion in the case, not one of them would have made me a tolerably good husband. Or perhaps it would be more correct to say that I would not have made a tolerably good wife, for the problem, in truth, was more with me than with any of them. I could not give my heart; I had no heart to give, for, from age twenty-two, it already belonged irrevocably to Captain Devereaux.

 

 

~Chapter 3~

 

All through the second chapter of the new book, I delay. I write of Sir Walter’s debts, of retrenchment, of quitting Kellynch-hall for London or Bath, and of the danger posed by the insinuating presence of Mrs. Clay – everything but him. In chapter three, I dare to venture a little nearer by expounding at length upon the navy and the merits of its officers. I admire the profession as a whole and, with two brothers also belonging to it, the fate of all sailors has long occupied a prominent place in my mind. But there is still another reason, for, like Anne Elliot, I cannot think of the navy without remembering a certain captain. In Anne’s case, it is Captain Frederick Wentworth, whom I finally summon up courage to introduce this way in chapter four:

 

…who being made commander in consequence of the action off St. Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in the summer of 1806.  He was, at the time, a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit and brilliancy; and Anne an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly any body to love; but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. They were gradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love.

 

This is all I write of the young couple’s first meeting and brief courtship. Why? Well, I suppose I feel very protective of their privacy at this tender time. And also, no further explanation seems necessary. When two such promising young persons are brought together by fate, there can be nothing less extraordinary than their falling in love. Their mutual attraction assures the outcome. It is for them a force of nature as impossible to oppose as the change of seasons. Just as flowers invariably turn their faces toward the sun, so Anne and Captain Wentworth instinctively turn toward the warmth of admiration aglow in the eyes of the other.

It was much the same for us – for me and my captain – only a different time and place.

“Jane, do allow me to introduce to you a very good friend of mine,” said my cousin Eliza (newly made my sister-in-law) at the breakfast following her wedding to my brother Henry. “This is Captain Philippe Devereaux.”

I looked up and there he was. The second before, I had been laughing and rattling on with someone else – who, I really cannot remember – in a most frivolous fashion. But my chatter died instantly away when I saw the dashing gentleman in naval uniform before me. He was tall, and, as I have now written of Captain Wentworth, a remarkably fine young man. My breath caught in my throat as he reached out his confident hand for mine, and I stood frozen for a moment, unable to do anything more than stare at him.

I had beheld plenty of handsome men before, of course, none of whom had demonstrated any ability to deprive me of my considerable powers of speech. This was different, however; I knew it at once, even before Captain Devereaux opened his mouth. Perhaps it was the soulful way he returned my gaze with those searching, dark eyes of his. Or perhaps I had a certain sense, even then, that my life would be forever changed because of the stranger before me.

The gentleman bowed deeply over my hand. “Enchanted,” he said in a low rumble. I believe I murmured something unintelligible in response, and then Eliza, looking at me archly, got on with the business of making us acquainted.

“Captain Devereaux has been a friend to me – as he was to my first husband – for many years. He did me a great service at the beginning of the Revolution, seeing to it that my son, my mother, and I came safely away from France.” Then, addressing the gentleman, she added, “Dear Jane is by far my most favourite cousin, sir, and it is my considered opinion that two such charming people ought to know one another.” With no more than that, she left us together.

We continued to stare at one another until finally the captain said, “I am very happy to make your acquaintance at last, Miss Austen. In truth, it was all my own idea. So highly has your cousin spoken of you that I insisted on receiving an introduction.”

His English was flawless. His elegant accent, however, although faint, was decidedly French like his name. A French expatriate in the British navy? My quick curiosity demanded satisfaction. But first, I nodded, acknowledging his compliment, and I managed to say, “I am pleased that you did, sir.”

This is when I should by rights have smiled coyly. Here was my opening for trying my powers of flirtation on a new and very appealing subject. Yet I was too much overcome by the strength of the man’s mere presence to attempt it. His nearness made my every nerve come alive. It excited an almost painful mingling of attraction and agitation. Ordinary flirting was out of the question. How could I hope to be clever when I could neither think clearly nor still the violent flutterings inside my breast? Besides, some inner voice told me that this was not a person to be taken lightly.

So instead, I did my best to swallow my discomposure as I said in earnest, “Eliza has the most remarkable friends. I am already intrigued by what she says about you, Captain, that you helped her to escape from France. I can only suppose that there must have been considerable danger involved.”

He dropped his eyes for a moment. “Some, yes, but I would not wish to excite ideas of heroism. It was my own life I was saving as well as hers when we sailed for England.”

This surprising humility impressed me. “I am sure you are too modest,” I said. “May I know more about how it happened?”

A shadow crossed his face. “Oh, no. Reciting my sad history can be of no use on a day meant for celebration. Let us find a more suitable topic. Your cousin has told me that you possess a very keen interest in literature, Miss Austen. Pray tell me, what is the kind of thing you most like to read?”

As disappointed as I was to have been turned aside from the first subject, the second was equally compelling. “All kinds, Captain, or very nearly all. How could I chuse only one food when there is a banquet spread before me?”

One side of his mouth pulled up into a half smile. “That is well expressed, mademoiselle. I myself take my reading pretty equally from biographies, plays, poetry, and the papers. For moral extracts, I like Dr. Johnson. Have you read Dr. Johnson, Miss Austen?”

“I have indeed! He is a great favourite with me as well.”

“Excellent. We have already found one thing we have in common. I very much look forward to discovering many more.”

By this time, my initial unease was fading, nearly done away with by growing exhilaration. Abandoning my last scruple, I plunged ahead. “Then, at the risk of offending you, sir, I will be so bold as to ask you this. Do you admit to reading novels?”

“I do! And furthermore, I am not ashamed of saying so. Although novels may not yet enjoy the respect they deserve, I believe nowhere else is the excellence of the human mind and imagination so well displayed. I have novels to thank for taking me on some very fine adventures – to the far corners of the world as well as to the hidden reaches of the soul.”

I could not trust myself to speak at this, so deeply were my already-excited feelings gratified by the captain’s warm commendation of that art form which meant the world to me. It seemed there could be no better proof of our compatibility.

“You smile, Miss Austen, and yet I cannot judge what you are thinking. Do not leave me in suspense. What do you say to my confession that I esteem the novel?”

I gathered my wits together again. “I could not agree with you more, Captain, I assure you.”

We pursued this happy line for several minutes longer, comparing lists of our preferred novels and discussing in further detail those we had read in common. Nothing could have been more satisfying or more thrilling. It was not that our opinions, Captain Devereaux’s and mine, always coincided; they did not, in truth. But here at last was an attractive gentleman – a very attractive gentleman – with excellent manners, a well-informed mind, and a wealth of intelligent conversation. I had nearly despaired of finding one such; now he stood before me. And, of equal importance, he appeared to be as taken with me as I was with him.

I saw and heard nothing beyond ourselves. For the moment, my world had contracted to that one conversation, and yet it had at the same time immeasurably expanded to encompass all the pleasurable possibilities as to where it might lead.

After a time, I endeavoured to turn the discussion back to the earlier subject, which I had been obliged to abandon too soon. “It seems we have both been for fine adventures by means of the novel, Captain. Unlike in my own case, however, my guess is that you have indeed experienced things quite equal to those found within the pages of books. Now that we are a little better acquainted, perhaps you will indulge my curiosity and tell me more of your escape from France.”

“Are you truly interested, Miss Austen?”

“Why should you doubt it? I am interested, or I would not have said so.”

He gave me a long, appraising look. “Yes, I see I can take you at your word. Very well, then. Your wish is my command, but you must promise to stop me if I begin to bore you.”

I already knew that was impossible; I knew I could listen to Captain Devereaux speak at length on any subject and never grow weary of it. The deep resonance of his voice was enough to captivate me, and I could have happily lost myself in those drowning eyes. I agreed eagerly so that he would go on, which earned me another of his quick, lopsided smiles. Then he began his remarkable tale.

“As I was saying before, my own life was in danger in France. The Jacobins had already taken my father and brother, you see. And they would have arrested me as well, if I had gone home after I arrived in port. Thankfully, I received the warning in time to set sail again, and some of my friends with me. I have never since set eyes on my home or any of the family I left behind that day.”

“How awful for you, Captain! Do you know what became of them?”

“My home? – confiscated. My father was executed.”

I gasped; I could not help it.

“Forgive me, Miss Austen. That was careless of me. I have lived with this knowledge for long enough to become accustomed to it, but I had no right to blurt out such a shocking thing to you.”

“Do not apologise, Captain. My existence has been less sheltered than you might suppose. I have heard of such atrocities before, and I believe it is fitting that we should be shocked by them. God help us if we ever cease to be.”

“Quite right. Nevertheless, let us change to a new subject, one better befitting a lady’s tastes.”

“Sir, I may be a lady, but I am also a rational creature who wishes to hear more of this history you have been relating. Now, if I may ask, what was it that made your father an enemy to the revolutionaries? Was it the same crime that condemned my cousin’s first husband and so many others to death – the unpardonable sin of having royalist leanings and aristocratic blood in his veins?”

I saw a new spark of approbation light in his countenance at this question. No doubt he was more accustomed to finding females either uncomfortable with, or out of their depth, in a discussion of world events.

“You have deduced rightly, Miss Austen. Supporting one’s king has traditionally been seen as a virtue. But the world seems to have turned upside down, and now such a natural allegiance is enough to send a good man to the guillotine.”

“I am truly sorry about your father, Captain. I hope the rest of your family fared better.”

“I was told that my elder brother, as my father’s heir, met with the same fate. Although I have never been able to confirm that fact, I have no doubt it is true. My mother died when I was young, and my older sister was already in this country, so now it is only my younger sister whose outcome is still unknown. She was swallowed up along with so many others in the reign of terror, and I shudder to think what might have become of her since. One day I will return and search her out. This is my solemn vow.”

“I trust you will find her safe and well, Captain. In the meantime, however, you are at least not a man without a country,” I said, directing my attention to his attire. “I have two brothers in His Majesty’s navy, so I am quite familiar with the uniform you wear.”

“Yes, as you see, I am an English sailor now. When I fled my homeland in ‘93, I surrendered my ship – a merchant vessel, as she was then – to the British fleet. She has since been refitted for war. And now, by four years of loyal service to the crown, I have lately earned the right to captain her again – against my former countrymen if necessary.”

“Oh, dear! I must pray that, for the sake of all, peace will prevail. If you are forced into action against the French, would not that place you in an untenable position? Divided loyalties, and so forth?”

“No danger of any such thing, I assure you, Miss Austen. What loyalty should I feel for a renegade regime with the innocent blood of thousands on its hands, including that of my family and very good friends? No, I shall suffer no qualms going to war against that unlawful order. The Republic, in its degenerate state, is not the country I knew and loved; it is the monster that has killed everything I once held dear.”

I could see he was battling a tide of rising emotion, and my heart swelled with sympathy. Before I could think of what to say, however, Eliza came hurrying over to us with a frown threatening to disfigure her comely face.

“What’s this? What’s this?” she demanded. “Why do you two look so serious? This is an occasion for gaiety. Now, Captain, tell me you have not been worrying my young cousin with the trouble across the channel; not today!”

“Guilty as charged, my dear Eliza. No, I suppose I must call you Mrs. Austen now!”

“Yes, please do, Captain. I very much like the sound of it. And now promise me there will be no more talk of France.”

“Really, Eliza,” I interrupted, “you mustn’t blame Captain Devereaux. I found his story so compelling that I encouraged him.”

“Very well then, but let us banish all sad subjects henceforth. I am a bride, and I command that everybody must be as happy as I am!” Then off Eliza flitted again. I watched her back across the room to my brother’s side. Henry attended to a whispered word from his new wife, smiled, and then lifted a glass to me.

“It was generous of you to come to my defense, Miss Austen,” said the captain. “But your cousin is right to scold me. A bright young lady, such as yourself, should be free to make merry at her own brother’s wedding instead of being expected to lend her ear to the misfortunes of a world-weary exile. Do not allow me to keep you from your friends any longer.”

His tone told me clearly enough that I had been dismissed. But for what reason? Had I displeased the captain in some way, I wondered, or was he over scrupulous – truly afraid of monopolizing my time? I could read nothing useful in his countenance. All I knew was that I was profoundly unready to tear myself from his side. My brief encounter with Captain Devereaux had already sunk the fortunes of every other person in the room. For not one of them could I any longer feel the slightest interest.

This excursion to London had promised to be a rare and delightful treat for me. We could not afford that the whole family should make the journey, and I alone had been singled out for the privilege. So there I was, in an unfamiliar city with a company of fashionable strangers, all of whom an hour before had seemed so intriguing. Now, my happy anticipation for making their acquaintance had vanished completely. They were suddenly only a collection of people in whom there was to be found little beauty, less importance, and no pleasure at all.

Nevertheless, since I had been correctly raised, I did what was expected of me. I curtseyed to the man and said, “Yes, of course. How thoughtful you are, Captain. Please excuse me now.”

I moved off to join Henry and Eliza’s party, but I could not properly attend to the lively conversation going forward there. All my senses were engaged elsewhere, acutely attuned to following the movements of the gentleman I had just left and to deciphering any syllable he might happen to drop within my hearing. My heart raced at my every glimpse of him, and it leapt alarmingly when I happened to be so fortunate as to once catch and hold his eye for a moment. In that look, I thought I confirmed the regard I had seen there before. Yet he never approached me again that day, and he later slipped away without taking any leave of me.

Had I misread his feelings completely? Had the instant attraction I thought we both felt been all on my own side and none on his? In that case, I would see Captain Devereaux no more, for it seemed most unlikely we should meet a second time by chance. He belonged to the navy, and I was for Steventon on the morrow.

But to never again encounter him? A bolt of near panic ran through me at the thought, and my chest constricted to where I could scarcely draw breath. What sort of madness was this, I wondered? How could such a fleeting encounter – our entire conversation had spanned little more than half of one hour – have so thoroughly changed everything? And yet I knew without a single doubt that it had.

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I hope you’re enjoying the book! Do you have any questions about what you’ve read so far? How about the segment on Tom Lefroy? We know JA had a brief but flagrant flirtation with him (although other works of fiction have hypothesized it might have been more). Were you satisfied with my explanation of their relationship? And now are you intrigued by Captain Devereaux? I do hope so!

Continue reading part 3 now.

The Persuasion of Miss Jane Austen is available in paperback, e-book, and audio.