Today's Reading
But Henrietta motioned to Charlotte to hush. For they were not com- posing inoffensive novels in that shared attic room of theirs after all. They were writing something entirely different.
CHAPTER THREE
Of Some Satisfaction to Know
THAT SAME DAY
Portsmouth, April 6, 1865
Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Francis Austen, G.C.B.
Portsdown Lodge, Hampshire, England
March 26, 1865
Dear Sir,
We write with esteem for your stature and gratitude for the writings of your late sister, to whose works we were at an early age introduced, as devoted sisters ourselves, by our father, Mr. Justice William Stevenson of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court. He, in turn, first learned of the genius of Miss Austen from our beloved late mother, Alice Gibbons Stevenson.
We write with esteem and gratitude, but also in supplication, for we are eager to learn more of Miss Austen. Her books are very popular amongst our set, and we would be honored and most grateful to receive any such thoughts of her as you may deem appropriate to share, should you have time and inclination.
We realize the impertinence of such supplication, but trust in your charity and tolerance. In the spirit of our request, we offer our abiding hospitality should you ever cross the sea in our humble direction.
Lastly, you may find it of some satisfaction to know that the honorable justices of our state's great and supreme court equal us in their devotion to the writings of Miss Austen.
A letter addressed to
"Miss Stevenson,
care of Mr. Justice William Stevenson,
Boston,
Massachusetts,
U.S.A."
would reach its destination.
Sir Francis "Frank" Austen sat by the bow window in his study, his trusty wood-and-brass telescope on a nearby stand, the cream-colored letter from Boston resting on the Davenport desk behind him.
Admiral Austen was a widower twice over, which might explain why—now in his nineties—he thought more and more of love and how to inch it along. Looking out at Portsmouth Harbour miles below, he recalled escorting Princess Caroline of Brunswick and her entourage from Cuxhaven to England many moons ago. Then-lieutenant Austen and the other lonely men at sea had admired the princess's mellifluous skirts and honey-colored curls—even more her composure under cannon fire from France. She was on her way to marry a stranger, the prince and future King George. The voyage had been rife with the momentousness of the occasion, even though the union later proved doomed from the start.
Frank—called "Fly" as a mischievous boy—was a hopeless romantic, just as his father and brothers before him. The women in the Austen family had always been much more hardheaded when it came to love—and possibly much less satisfied as a result. Fly had entered the naval academy at the tender age of twelve, and this early separation from home had carved an empty space inside his heart that he quickly sought to fill. God—a complete and evangelical dedication to Him—had been Frank's initial foray into love. His first wife, Mary, had come next, bearing him ten children until dying with the arrival of the eleventh. Martha—dear Martha, whom his sister Jane had always decried was perfectly matched for him—had been the last, and most lasting, love of his life.
Frank's devotion to God, which had sustained him through decades of war against Napoleon and the slaveholders of Santo Domingo, was finally beginning to wane along with his own time on Earth. Few had seen more of it: Egypt, India, Turkey, Greece, Italy, Belgium, Spain, America, Mexico. Yet what had it all come to in the end? A few military honors and decorations, a new title every few years starting with midshipman to lieutenant and ending in that finest of gradations: Vice Admiral to Admiral to Senior Admiral of the Fleet. Meanwhile, his beloved sister's books were accruing immortality with each new reader and every passing year.
It was a cool night for spring and the fire waned like Frank's spirits. His manservant George entered to stir the embers with an ornate iron poker, a souvenir from long-ago travels along the Flemish coast.
"Sir Francis, shall I bring you anything more?" George was almost as old as him—no wonder Frank felt starved for youthful energy and companions. His spinster daughter, Fanny-Sophia, was no substitution for that.
"Just today's post, George, thank you."
George brought the letter over and closed the study door behind him; the moon in the window shone clear as saltwater pearl; the bedroom above soon rocked with snoring. Admiral Austen put on his eyeglasses and unfolded the thick paper, which had been delicately fragranced by a far-off feminine hand. He breathed in the heady exotic scent of jasmine and mimosa before reading it again.
This excerpt is from the ebook edition.
Monday we begin the book The Road to Tender Hearts by Annie Hartnett.
...
