Posts Tagged ‘Steventon Rectory’

Jane and her fatherSome years ago, I painted a little picture of how I imagined Jane and her father would look when she was about five years old. I thought about this painting whilst I was writing a little scene in Project Darcy when Ellie goes back into the past and becomes Jane Austen, and tied it in with what seem to be Jane’s own recollections that she wrote about in Northanger Abbey. Although she is writing about Catherine Morland when she says her heroine was ‘noisy and wild, hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house’, I have a feeling she was referring to a memory of doing that herself. If you’ve ever been to Steventon to see the site where the rectory stood, the back of the garden has a pronounced slope! Here’s how I imagine Jane and her beloved brother Henry playing at the back of the rectory. I hope you enjoy this little excerpt from my latest novel, Project Darcy.



The slope at Steventon Rectory

The moment she stepped through the hedges and trees that screened the fields, Ellie knew something was different – her world was changed in more ways than she could ever have imagined. Like the little girl in Alice in Wonderland, she’d grown smaller and everything around her had doubled in size. Trees were so tall she could not see the top of them and the grass that tickled her bare legs nearly came up to her knees. Ellie looked back towards the way she had come but she knew it was fruitless. There was only one way to go, and that was to follow the sound that beckoned her. It was as if she saw everything through mist, layers of white vapour that rose to reveal a reality that became sharper with every passing minute. She was no longer Ellie Bentley; that she knew. She was a child, perhaps no more than five years old, and her thoughts intruded until Ellie had none left of her own. Her world was larger, more defined, sounds and smells were fresher, brighter and vivid. More than that, she felt different. Ellie saw life through the eyes of someone else, and when she heard the boy’s voice calling her name she knew him to be her brother.

Site of Steventon Rectory

Site of Steventon Rectory

Henry pulled me up the slope to the top of the field where the elm trees stood like sentinels and whispered over our heads in their hushing, leaf language. The day was hot like the one I’d left behind, and my legs struggled to keep up with him in the heat. He sensed that my small legs were tiring and he turned to wait, looking at me with a grin. Light flickered in his hazel eyes, those that I knew grown-ups said were so like mine, but his were almost golden on this day, like Baltic amber. The grass up at the top of the terrace was so long; it prickled the back of my legs. Beads of dew, like fairy necklaces strung along green blades, felt cold under my feet. When we reached the top, he showed me how to lie down in line with the trees, my toes pointing one way and my arms stretched over my head.‘Come on, Jane, let us go again!’

‘Jane, wait until I count to three,’ I heard him say.

Lying in the sweetly fragrant meadow, I felt so excited I started to giggle, and my body fidgeted in response. And before he’d managed to shout out the number three, I’d started going, rolling down the hill, and gathering momentum until the world was spinning. There was a blur of blue sky; then green fields, and then over I went again like a flyer on Nanny Littleworth’s spinning wheel. I could see Henry overtake me, going faster than ever. He got to the bottom before me but I came to a standstill at last, my heart beating with pure pleasure as I lay in the grass chuckling and laughing. There were grass stains on my dress and daisies in my hair, which Henry picked out, one by one.

Sitting up, I could see a house that I knew was my home and I had a sudden longing to see my father.

 Site of Jane Austen's home, Steventon Rectory

Site of Jane Austen’s home, Steventon Rectory

‘Are you not coming up again, little Jenny?’ Henry asked, calling me by the pet name my family used when they wanted to appeal to my better nature. He had his hands in the pockets of his breeches. His shirt was crumpled and stained like my gown. Brown curls flopped over his eyes, which looked into mine so tenderly that I almost changed my mind. I ran to hug him, stood on my tiptoes and planted a kiss on his cheek. Henry was my protector, and my beloved playmate. I longed to be just like him but my mother scolded me when I behaved too much like a tomboy. I knew I should not run or jump or shout, as my brothers did, but nothing she said would deter me, so when Henry begged me to play with him I did not usually need to be asked twice. But, as much as I wanted to be with him, home was calling.

I shook my head and muttered, ‘I’m going to see Papa.’


I have vivid memories of rolling down the slope in the park at the back of my childhood home with my brother and sister, which was a thing we all loved to do. I remember one time when we were recovering from German Measles, and the grass made our rashes flare up again, all very prickly and itchy – but we were all so glad to be outside again. Most of my childhood seemed to be spent outdoors playing, or indoors drawing and writing if the weather was bad – I’d love to know what pastimes you enjoyed as a child!


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Jane Austen was born on this day, 16th December in 1775.

The little imagining that follows is a picture, a glimpse into life at Steventon, written from Jane’s point of view as she remembers carefree, summer days and a birthday with her cousin, Eliza de Feuillide.

It is the smells and sounds of Steventon that I most recall, the particular fragrances and resonances peculiar to my beloved home of twenty-five years. Returning home from time away with my sister I recall the glow I felt at the familiar scene as the coach swept through the carriage drive to halt before the red-roofed Rectory surrounded by sloping meadows sprinkled with elm trees. Passing under rose-covered trellis into the hall, the sound of noisy, clattering boys and raucous laughter deliciously combine into a pot-pourri of memories sharper now than ever. The joy of coming home again to see my father running out into the hall to greet us surrounded by clamouring pupils, his beautiful hair as white as a silver fox and those soft, hazel eyes expressing the love he always bore for us is a picture that immediately springs to mind. My mother’s welcome is a brisker affair when she chooses to make an appearance at last, yet loving nevertheless, as she enquires after our relatives.

I’m running upstairs at the first opportunity. I’m not really at home until I’m back in the rooms that we share, Cass and I. Oh, such delights await me, my pens and paper on my desk, my pianoforte and the painted press with my books above. Striped curtains at the windows match the summer sky outside and the papered walls within. The wonder of lying on my bed, blue-checked curtains drawn about me to keep out the draughts and those I do not wish to find me. Hidden under the bed is my box of delights, all my writing to date. I fetch it out hauling it onto the coverlet disturbing the dust lurking below to sparkle in sunlit clouds like powdered diamonds. Opening the heavy lid with impatient fingers I can’t wait to fetch my scribblings out, to glance through the familiar pages. I enjoy a feeling of greeting old friends as I stroke the papers one by one, stopping to read a draft, laughing at another or exclaiming over something that needs to be written again is a pleasure as satisfying as any worldly sensation and surpasses any other amusement. Am I a little vain to think they are diverting? But, truly, I am convinced of being quite a comic genius and of their merit!

CASSANDRA was the Daughter & the only Daughter of a celebrated Millener in Bond Street. Her father was of noble Birth, being the near relation of the Dutchess of —-‘s Butler.

How I long to write something more substantial, a full-length novel with a little more shade like those from the circulating library or in my father’s bureau. Well, I am determined to do so some day soon.
The sun feels warm. It is good to be home for the summer with the thought of long days bright with light and heat. To run wild, play cricket, and roll down the slope at the back of the house without a care. The garden is my retreat, the arbour my refuge – a heavenly place for private moments and for sharing intimate conversations. To spend time with my darling Henry, my dearest brother of all my sweet brothers, I have looked forward to above everything else.
The garden in June calls me and so I float as in a dream back downstairs past my father’s study and the back kitchen to the sunny side of the house and run down through the strawberry beds to the sundial. I turn to wave at my father framed in the window as he sits at his table, and see him look up with a smile pleased to be distracted from the corrections of the last Latin lessons of young boys.

My sister Cassandra is sitting in the garden with a visitor, Mr Thomas Fowle, who is an old friend and past scholar of the Steventon school that my father and mother supervise between them. Cassie, at fourteen, is already something of a beauty and I suspect young Tom’s calling is not only to pay his respects to my parents and brothers. His admiring glances directed at my sister are amusing for me to watch. He makes a comment about the coral necklace at Cassie’s throat. Her fingers fly to her neck. Stroking the beads she is all too aware of his lingering expression, her discomposure flooding her cheeks in carmine blushes to match the wild strawberries snug in the flowerbeds. At twenty two Mr Fowle cuts a dashing figure, one that my young brother Charles clearly admires. He is pulling at Tom’s arm demanding yet another piggy-back by his hero who does not seem to notice so engrossed is he in my sister’s conversation and her modest looks.
I wander along further away from the house. Birds chatter and chirp in the branches above hidden amongst the foaming elder flowers, pungent and intoxicating. Spruce firs in the avenue scent the air with pine recalling Cowper’s words to my mind –

‘…the stock-dove unalarm’d,
Sits cooing in the pine-tree nor suspends
His long love-ditty for my near approach.

Shaded under their outstretched arms, the giant guardians of the Rectory form a cool colonnade to the terrace walk and the gate beyond. Sitting down upon the bench I give in to the pleasure of listening to the swinging scrape of the weathercock high on the end of a long, white pole, as it moves to and fro in the warm breeze and watch the faded ribbons Cassandra plaited at its base snap and flutter.

What shall I write of next – comedy or tragedy, of love or poetry? The possibilities flow along in my mind like the hedgerows winding and curling along the edge of the rolling meadows. Within their secret lanes of copse-wood and timber those who wish to steal from view may walk and talk, whisper and converse without the world knowing of their existence. My near presence is not observed on the other side and it is here that I sometimes snatch parts of the most interesting conversations, not that I care to eavesdrop, you understand. Henry and my cousin Eliza choose to walk this way sometimes skirting the fields quite alone. I watch them disappear arm in arm through the gate to the Wood Walk overhung by tall, magnificent elms knowing that my company will not be required. They whisper and laugh, their heads bent toward the other, enraptured.

My earliest recollection of Eliza is at Steventon in the best parlour decorated in gleaming winter greenery of laurel and holly, a perfect foil to her slender, white arms lit by candlelight as her fingers fly over the keys of a borrowed pianoforte; her voice sweet and lively as she sings. My sophisticated French cousin was a revelation – French by her marriage to Count de Feuillide and French in the adoption of that country’s ways from spending much time at the Court – she captivated and entranced us all.

I was just eleven; Christmas was almost upon us when Betsy (as my father called her) arrived fluttering into our lives like an exotic, bejewelled bird along with her small boy, Hastings, and her mother, my Aunt Hancock. Presents for everyone, extravagant treats were lavished upon us along with Betsy’s exuberant embraces to bring a blush to my brother Henry’s cheeks. A wonderful set of books written in the French tongue bought especially for my birthday made my heart sing – leather bound; white paper, crisp and uncut, lay within!

Eliza’s upbringing, a cosmopolitan concoction of growing up in India, France and London was of endless fascination to me and she readily satisfied all my curiosities and questions about her time spent in such different surroundings to mine. India was a land of exquisite spices, textures and fragrances – curry leaves, coriander and cumin, sandalwood, jasmine, and attar of roses. Parcels of scented, flowered chintz, white muslin and brocaded silks made my mother gasp with admiration and my father shake his white head in wonder. France was described in terms of fairy tale imaginings, of far away princesses and chateaux – silver gauze, white lilac, feathers and ribbons gleaming in diamond-sprinkled tresses tall as the towers of the petit Trianon.
Eliza’s portrait describes a young woman at ease in the French court at this time showing her delicate features, an elfin beauty with large, dark eyes. Dressed in white, trimmed with ribbon, she is the epitome of fashion with her cascade of hair caught by a loop of the same blue ribbon on top of her head. But her serious expression does not convey the Eliza I remember, a girl who laughed at life with a perpetual twinkle in her eye! I loved Eliza, indeed, we all fell under her charms! My brothers were all captivated by her charisma, her flirtatious manners, and other worldliness. James and Henry, in particular, were mesmerised, quite entranced by the faerie enchantment that cast its spell during the following winter of 1787.

I seem to remember that it was James’s idea to put on a play, though I am certain that Eliza put forward the first suggestions for particular choices. ‘The Wonder’ was decided upon after much debate and long after my father’s tithe barn had already been fitted up with wooden flats, a green baize curtain and a row of candle footlights.
I watched my brothers court Eliza in turn.

Copyright Jane Odiwe 2009
Jane Austen’s birth – Jane Odiwe
Miniature Eliza de Feuillide
Blindman’s Buff- Jane Odiwe
Jane Austen – Jane Odiwe

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Eliza de Feuillide (1761-1813) is a fascinating personality in Jane Austen’s life. Eliza’s mother was Jane’s aunt, her father’s sister, Philadelphia Hancock. Jane’s father George and Philadelphia had been orphaned from a young age and though it seems they managed to stay in touch with one another, they both had to make their way in the world. Philadelphia was apprenticed to a milliner in Covent Garden for five years before being shipped off (most likely by her uncle Francis Austen) at the age of 15 to India in order to find a husband. She met and married Tysoe Saul Hancock, a surgeon, twenty years her senior but remained childless for the first six years of their marriage. In Calcutta they befriended Warren Hastings who later became the Governor General of India. When Eliza was born Hastings became her godfather and took his role so seriously that there was a certain amount of gossip spread about that he was in fact her father. Whatever the truth of the matter, he set up a trust fund for Eliza of £10,000. After Mr Hancock died, Philadelphia took Eliza to France and it was here that she became part of the glittering French society and where she married her first husband, Captain Jean-Francois Capot de Feuillide, a self-styled count who had little fortune but had been given the grant of an area of marshland near Nerac. It was decided that her first child should be born in England though in fact Hastings, as the child was named, was born prematurely at Calais.
Eliza, her mother, and the baby first visited the Austens in Steventon on December 21 1786 just in time to celebrate her own twenty fifth birthday, also bringing a present of books for Jane’s birthday which had been on the sixteenth. Jane was 11, Cassandra, nearly 14, Henry, 15, Frank, 12, and Charles, 6. James was away at this time travelling to France to visit the count. Jane must have been intrigued by the exotic Eliza who would have shared wonderful tales of her life in India and France. Mrs Austen’s description of Eliza in a letter paints her as lively and entertaining, amusing them all with her performances on the pianoforte. It is interesting to note that Henry, ten years younger than Eliza (and most likely already infatuated) went to stay with her in London the following April. Eliza must have introduced Henry to a style of life he had never witnessed before and to have a beautiful young woman accompanying him around the metropolis would have been enough to turn any young man’s head.

This extract from a letter she wrote to her cousin gives us an idea of her life in the capital.
…I have been for some Time past the greatest Rake imaginable…I only stood from two to four in the Drawing Room & of course loaded with a great hoop of no inconsiderable Weight, went to the Duchess of Cumberland’s in the Evening, and from thence to Almacks where I staid till five in the Morning, all this I did not many days ago, & yet am alive to tell You of it. I believe tho’, I should not be able to support London Hours, & all the racketing of a London Life for a Year together.

Eliza’s letters at this time are full of descriptions of society gatherings in London and her cousin Philadelphia Walter wrote of their experiences in Tunbridge Wells; shopping for bonnets, attending balls, horse races and the theatre. Whilst in Tunbridge Wells they saw the plays Which is the Man? and BonTon which by the following Christmas, Eliza had decided would be the very entertainments to show off her dramatic talents and simultaneously flirt with the Austen brothers, James and Henry!


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The weather here in the UK has been getting colder with freezing winds blowing down from the north. Last night was most unusual for this time of year as autumn was quickly ousted by winter. Last night we had lightning, a thunderstorm, followed by snow – huge, fat flakes of twirling ice hurtling to the ground and settling to form a blanket over the garden and the street outside. Everywhere looks so pretty, and as I write there is a pink glow from the sun as it rises, gilding the tops of snow-covered roofs with rose and gold. A day to stay in by the fire, I think!

Here, in contrast to the chill outside, is a lovely review from Sharon at her blog, Ex Libris

Title: Lydia Bennet’s Story Author: Jane Odiwe Publisher: Sourcebooks Rating: 5/5

“The true misfortune, which besets any young lady who believes herself destined for fortune and favour, is to find that she has been born into an unsuitable family.” (pg. 9)

The opening line of Chapter 1 of Jane Odiwe’s sequel to Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice describes the character of Elizabeth Bennet’s youngest sister Lydia to a tee. In Lydia Bennet’s Story, Jane Odiwe brings to life Lydia’s lively, high-spirited character as we gain insight to her side of the Wickham debacle through her eyes – and her heart.

Lydia Bennet’s Story begins at the point where Lydia becomes increasingly involved with that dastardly rake, George Wickham. Lydia, who cares not to think beyond a new bonnet and how many suitors will ask her to dance at the next assembly, falls quickly under Wickham’s spell. To Lydia, who is high spirited and wants nothing more than to be married to a wealthy, handsome soldier, Wickham seems to be the man of her dreams. But she finds out the hard way that Wickham’s heart has never been hers and that he only wants her as a connection to Mr. Darcy and his money.

Odiwe weaves her fiction into Austen’s story seamlessly, as we follow Lydia through the aftermath of her marriage to Wickham and the subsequent scandals she is subjected to because of him. We also watch Lydia transform from a selfish girl into a mature young woman who wants nothing more than to love and be loved – in style, of course.

I enjoyed Lydia Bennet’s Story immensely. It was a fun story with everything I love about good Regency fiction – good writing, plenty of period descriptions and background information that lend authenticity, and romance that is exciting but not over the top. Odiwe did an excellent job of staying true to Austen’s style while creating new characters and plots to make the story fresh and interesting. She also gave me a new appreciation for the character of Lydia. In an age of numerous Austen sequels, this one is definitely worth reading.

The illustrations show Jane Austen’s first home, Steventon Rectory, Jane Austen and her sister Cassandra walking in the snow outside their home at Chawton.


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