CHAPTER TWELVE
‘For a few moments her imagination
and her heart were bewitched.’
Persuasion – Chapter 17
On my return to Melbourne, I was excited to tell Amanda about my trip, but Amanda had news of her own. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer and needed surgery and, most likely, a full course of chemotherapy and radiotherapy. I didn’t know what to say. I was devastated and couldn’t begin to imagine how Amanda and her husband were feeling; she faced months of gruelling cancer treatment and, perhaps, her own mortality. As a friend, I didn’t want to let her down, and I wanted to support her in the best way possible. Amanda was determined to remain positive and to take each day one step at a time. I resolved to do the same and kept my worries to myself. I assumed she would want to take leave from the foundation, but she wanted to carry on working as best she could.
The following month, I met the president of the National Trust of Victoria Foundation at a charity event. She was excited to tell me that a giant statue of Colin Firth wearing a white shirt and striding out of the lake at Pemberley was on its way to Australia from Lyme Park in England. Lyme Park had been used for the exterior shots of Pemberley in the BBC 1995 series adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. The statue was to be installed in the lake of a National Trust property in Melbourne, Rippon Lea Estate. Rippon Lea was also hosting an exhibition of wedding gowns with costumes used in Austen movies. I couldn’t believe it—Mr Darcy was coming to Melbourne!
A few months later, I returned to England to meet Simon Langton and to attend my father’s seventieth birthday party, which was to be held at Chawton House on the day before the end of my week-long stay. I had previously gone out of my way to avoid family gatherings at Chawton, but this time I was determined to be there. I was also determined to overcome the uncomfortable feelings I had had at Chawton earlier in the year, and so I arranged to visit the house a number of times during my stay.
Early in the week, my father and I met Simon Langton at the front door. I immediately felt at ease with Simon—an intelligent, kind man and a gentleman. My father and I talked about our heritage, Jane Austen and our lives at Chawton as we gave Simon a guided tour of the house. We laughed at the memories of Granny waving her stick at picnickers on the lawn and refusing to allow tea room customers to choose their cake. We also marvelled at how busy her life had been—looking after Bapops, the tenants, the tea room, the cricket teas, family lunches and all the events. I asked my father why Bapops had slept in such a small room, but he didn’t know.
We looked at the coats of arms in the stained-glass windows and told the story of Suicide Alley. Most of the family portraits had been moved to the picture gallery, as it is properly known, and I was overjoyed to see the familiar face of Elizabeth Martin Knight sitting in her luxurious blue gown. Sir Richard’s portrait still took pride of place on the first half landing of the main staircase overlooking the inner hall. Simon was enthralled and curious to hear the details from a family perspective. It still felt strange to be a visitor at Chawton, but it was much easier with my father, as he was so at ease walking around. Old memories came flooding back, and as we neared the Reading Room, as it is now called, I could see clearly in my mind old Mr Humphries filling the wood cupboard under the main staircase and, behind the door, my grandparents in the library, sitting in their well-worn favourite armchairs. The memories were vivid. As I remembered playing sardines during the holidays and Snap-Dragon on Christmas Eve, I could hear my cousins’ laughter.
I still felt conflicted. It was great to see the house in such wonderful condition, but the extended family and heritage I had grown up with was now fading into history. I didn’t recognise the new portraits that hung above the panelling in the Great Hall.
Early in the afternoon, my father went home, and Simon and I decided to have a late lunch at The Greyfriar. Simon was particularly curious about my relationship with Bapops and of the sense of responsibility—and perhaps of a need to ‘keep up appearances’—that drove my grandparents to continue to host community events despite being in financial crisis. He was also interested in how Jane’s fame had brought a continuous flow of tourists to our home and family. ‘It’s a fascinating story,’ he said and suggested I write a book.
Many writers and historians had documented the history of Chawton House and the Austen and Knight families, but there was nothing written about the last years of Chawton as a family home. Montagu had written the last book over one hundred years ago. I had flicked through my parents’ copy the night before and had enjoyed every minute. I loved seeing the photographs of the Great Hall, the original plans of the house and the vivid prints of the family portraits. It was such a joy to read. I only wished he had written more about his own life at Chawton. I would love to know whether Montagu knew the estate was heading for trouble or whether it took Lionel and Bapops by surprise.
We talked late into the afternoon about the making of Pride and Prejudice (1995). Simon’s twelve-year-old stepdaughter thought previous adaptations were ‘so artificial’—all the interior scenes were filmed in a studio and recorded on tape instead of film. Pride and Prejudice (1995) was filmed entirely on location, and Simon considered this one of the major contributing factors to its success.
Simon winced as he remembered filming Colin Firth powerfully swimming breaststroke underwater for the famous lake scene. This scene was shot at Ealing Film Studios in a tank, which was usually covered by four heavy slabs. Simon instructed that all four slabs be removed, but only three were taken off the top of the tank—he didn’t know why, but he was told there was no need to remove the fourth slab. Simon was concerned about safety, but Colin agreed to push on. As Colin dived into the tank, he swam farther than he expected and hit the bridge of his nose on the metal support bar of the offending slab. ‘I died for a few milliseconds,’ Simon told me ‘while the worst scenarios flashed through my head: shut down the filming while the insurers sort it out, recast Mr Darcy and reshoot nearly half the footage or wait until he is fully recovered, with a reconstructed nose!’ Luckily, the collision was not nearly as bad as Simon had feared. The swelling on Colin’s nose did not stop filming, although Simon avoided profile shots for some time after!
I couldn’t help but ask about the most famous clip of all, the most iconic Austen scene ever created—Colin Firth as Mr Darcy in the wet shirt. I was surprised to hear that the scene wasn’t in the script and hadn’t been planned at all. Mr Darcy had arrived on horseback and decided to take a swim in one of his lakes, but after his swim, his horse was nowhere to be seen. Towards the end of filming, Simon realised this was a continuity problem and imagined young daughters complaining that Mr Darcy had simply abandoned his horse. Colin Firth gamely had a bucket of water thrown over him to create a last-minute continuity scene—Mr Darcy walking away from the lake carrying his outer clothing, while a convenient estate worker leads his horse.
Simon spoke of Jane Austen with fondness and great respect and was humble about the success of his production and its influence on the modern-day fandom of Jane Austen. The number of visitors to Chawton doubled to fifty-four thousand the year after its release, and almost twenty years later it was still the most loved Austen adaptation of all time. Simon was enthusiastic about my vision for the Jane Austen Literacy Foundation, and when I asked him to be the foundation’s first ambassador, he didn’t hesitate to accept. I planned to eventually launch an online journal for the foundation called ‘Pride & Possibilities’, and Simon agreed to write about ‘shooting Jane’, as he called it, for the first issue.
The next morning I met with the librarian of Chawton House to visit the Knight family library and view the books I had grown up with. Our books, now owned by Uncle Richard, were kept in storage in the basement. My first bedroom in the converted boiler room was gone; it was part of the removed Victorian extension. The other basement rooms had been converted into book stores, not open to the public, with rows of shelves and controlled temperature and humidity. The Knight family library was in the middle room, which had once been our bathroom.
Despite the change of location and order, the books were very familiar, particularly the largest sets with long rows of matching spines decorated in gold leaf. I was delighted to see Edward’s, Montagu’s and Thomas’s bookplates and flicked through Montagu’s photograph albums, intrigued by every detail of the black-and-white pictures. I was very surprised to see some of our childhood books: Winnie the Pooh, a children’s book of science experiments to try at home, and a guide for art and craft projects. I was thrilled that we were part of this historical collection.
The next room, where we had huddled around the open fire and played giant dominos when the power was off, now housed a variety of books from the main collection at Chawton House Library. I opened the cover to the pages of the original manuscript of Sir Charles Grandison, written in Jane’s hand, an adaptation of one of her favourite books by Samuel Richardson into a play. Just as I had been as a child, I felt overwhelmed with pride to call Jane my aunt.
Over the next few days, I returned daily to walk around the grounds, see Sir Richard, read the family plaques in the church and visit the Austen and Knight gravestones that Fiona and I had cleaned when we were children. Although I now lived on the other side of the world, I would always be connected with Chawton and consider it my home. The house had seen numerous changes over its four-century history, from one squire to the next and from one branch of the family to another. From the mid eighteenth to the mid nineteenth century, Chawton had been the squires’ second home. At times in its history, the house had been rented or leased for short periods. During the war, it had welcomed children evacuated from London, and it had housed paying tenants in its wings.
I was relieved and grateful that Richard had not sold our house outright. The house was on a long lease with ninety-nine years remaining, but the freehold of Chawton Great House, which hadn’t been sold since the house was built in 1585, was still owned by my family. I realised this was simply a new chapter in its long and varied history—a history I will always be a part of. Perhaps Richard’s descendants will one day use the house as a home again, and the time when the house was leased to a charity will be a distant memory.
For my father’s birthday party, my mother planned a delicious buffet: coronation chicken, baked ham, new potatoes and fresh salads to be followed by a metre-long pavlova, coffee cupcakes and fruit fools—gooseberry and rhubarb—in decorative jam jars. I jumped at the chance to help with the catering. My father made a wooden stand for the pavlova, complete with a lip to keep it in place. My mother baked the meringue base in sections and stripped the cooked chickens while I chopped and sliced the salad ingredients, iced the coffee cakes and mixed the dressing for the coronation chicken.
On the morning of the party, we loaded the food and drinks into my parents’ cars, drove the few miles from Alton to Chawton and parked at the rear of the house. The servants’ hall had been divided and converted into toilets, a storage room and a modern catering kitchen leading into the back of the original house kitchen. Meat, coleslaw, tomato, and green salads were transferred from plastic tubs to the serving plates and laid out on the kitchen bench. The desserts created an impressive display on the dresser at the end of the room.
As the guests arrived, I was delighted to see so many familiar faces. It was wonderful to host a party at Chawton and be with aunts, uncles, cousins and friends I had known as a child, even if it was just for a few hours. The sun was shining, and a harpist played in the courtyard. That night after the party, I sat at Trish and Dennis’s kitchen table with Jake, Amber and my parents and talked into the night, as I had done many times in my youth. For the first time in twenty-five years, I felt happy and relaxed in Hampshire, almost at home. It was the perfect end to my stay.
It had been an emotional and exhausting week, and I was pleased to return to Melbourne, Roger and our dogs. My father rang a few days later. A second-hand book dealer, whom my father had never seen before, had approached him in Chawton to ask whether my father was interested in buying an old book. It was an original copy of Montagu’s book, published in 1911, in near-perfect condition, complete with Montagu’s square bookplate embossed in gold on the front cover. My father had bought it for me. It seemed such an extraordinary coincidence. I could hardly believe it. I was so excited to have my very own original copy of Montagu’s book that I whooped for joy.
I updated my profile on LinkedIn, an online business network, to include my role as founder and chair of the Jane Austen Literacy Foundation, and soon after, I was contacted by a colleague I had worked with at DemoPlus, who had not known of my connections. He offered to introduce me to his uncle, John Wiltshire, a Jane Austen scholar and author who had taught about Jane Austen at a Melbourne university for many years. Coincidentally, John lived less than five kilometres from Roger and me.
It was as if fate had intended it. John had spent weeks in Chawton and decades reading, studying and teaching about Jane Austen, as well as writing and editing books for Cambridge University Press. John encouraged me to record my memories and offered to mentor me as I wrote. I had many attempts at the first few chapters, and we met for coffee often to discuss each draft at length. I began to research and fill in the details of the stories I had heard as a child. I enjoyed sharing new titbits of information with John and pondering what Jane may have thought. One day, the cafe owner asked me what John and I talked about; the staff were bemused by the roars of laughter, occasional tears and conversation that flowed seamlessly from one century to another.
I had a lot of work to do to, but I was determined. It felt right, more so than anything I had ever done. I worked three to four days a week as a consultant and divided the rest of my time between writing, setting up the foundation and other board responsibilities. On 30 October 2014, the anniversary of the date Jane first became a published author, the website of the Jane Austen Literacy Foundation was launched. Within a few short weeks, we had received our first donations and funded our first literacy materials—a literacy kit to teach forty children for a temporary school, run by UNICEF in Syria. We still had much to learn, but we were on our way. Amanda finished her chemotherapy treatment towards the end of the year. We had often talked non-stop on the days when I had kept her company in the chemo room at the hospital. But sometimes we had just sat in silence together. Chemotherapy was followed by daily radiotherapy, which finished on Christmas Eve. We celebrated the end of Amanda’s treatment with a lunch overlooking the water; she was on the road to recovery.
The foundation’s priority for 2015 was driving awareness and getting to know the Jane Austen community. I used Skype to talk with hundreds of Austen enthusiasts, or Janeites, from all over the world. I was keen to understand what drove their passion and interest. I became fascinated with the modern-day Austen fandom and the desire of her followers to immerse themselves in every aspect of Jane’s life, works and times, as well as the modern adaptations. It seemed Jane Austen had reached all four corners of the earth, and she was enjoyed in many different ways. It is a unique fan culture, unlike any other.
I began to piece together what had happened to the 6,800 acres in Hampshire, distributed through thirty-four parishes, which Thomas Knight had left to his son, Thomas Knight II, in 1781, as well as Godmersham Park in Kent. I had always believed that Lionel and Bapops were responsible for the demise of the family fortune, but I wanted to know the truth.
When Thomas Knight II died in 1794, he left his estates to his wife, Catherine, for her life and confirmed Edward Austen to be the eleventh squire of Chawton. But four years later, Catherine passed over the estates to Edward to run, rather than have Edward wait until her death for his inheritance:
Catherine Knight out of her love and affection for Edward Austen and in order to advance him to their present possession of the estates which were settled on him and his issue in remainder under the will agreed to convey all the estates unto and to the use of Edward Austen during the joint lives of him and her Catherine Knight subject to a rent charge or clear annual sum of £2,000 clear of all deductions and taxes to be reserved and made passable.
It was supposedly a generous act, but the burden and responsibility of managing the estates had also passed to Edward as well as the risk of the income falling short.
Jane did not hide her views on Catherine’s actions. On 8 January 1799, she wrote to Cassandra:
Mrs. Knight giving up the Godmersham Estate to Edward was no such prodigious act of Generosity after all it seems, for she has reserved herself an income out of it still;—this ought to be known, that her conduct may not be over-rated.—I rather think Edward shews the most Magnanimity of the two, in accepting her Resignation with such Incumbrances.
Edward made Godmersham his primary residence and took an active role in the community, including taking up the office of High Sheriff of Kent in 1801. He served for several decades as a magistrate, and his name often appeared in newspapers as among the organisers or supporters of charitable and civic endeavours. Edward made annual visits to Chawton for up to five months at a time. Jane wrote to her brother Frank in July 1813: ‘We go on in the most comfortable way, very frequently dining together, & always meeting in some part of every day.—Edward is very well & enjoys himself as thoroughly any Hampshire born Austen can desire. Chawton is not thrown away on him.’
I asked my parents endless questions during our weekly phone calls. They answered as best they could, but they didn’t know all the details of Edward’s finances or exactly when each property and landholding was sold. Early in May 2015, my father called to say he had put a book in the post for me that I simply had to read. Linda Slothouber had stayed in Chawton for a few weeks the previous year and had researched the family archives to understand Edward Austen Knight’s management of the Chawton estate. I was excited and impatient for my copy to arrive.
I was not disappointed. Linda’s book Jane Austen, Edward Knight & Chawton: Commerce & Community was a revelation. I was fascinated to read how Jane and Cassandra had helped Edward perform the duties of the landowner. There were details about Edward’s financial affairs when Jane lived in Chawton and about estate management that I had never considered. I hadn’t realised to what extent running an estate was like running a business. I contacted Linda to thank her, and we talked at length about Edward and Chawton in Jane’s time.
Linda estimated Edward’s annual income at around £8,000. This may sound like a lot (not far short of Mr Darcy’s £10,000), but there were many financial demands to be met. Between a quarter and a half of Edward’s gross earnings were spent annually on expenses, including labour, repairs, professional fees, tithes, transport, taxes and rates. Catherine Knight received £2,000 a year for thirteen years until her death in 1812, which was equivalent to nearly sixty per cent of the net profits of his Hampshire estates. Perhaps Jane had been right; the early passing of the estates to Edward by Catherine was not such an act of kindness.
Edward also provided financial assistance to his mother and his sisters, Jane and Cassandra, after his father died and took over the financial support of his disabled brother, George. He lent Chawton Great House to his naval brothers and extended his hospitality at Godmersham to his siblings and their guests. He provided significant financial support for Henry’s career as a banker and as an army agent. He created annuities for his siblings to help them manage their savings, and he paid his lawyers to handle the legal business of the family. He provided for six sons variously with military commissions and university club memberships, as well as European tours and allowances for five daughters—four of whom married, so there were settlements to pay.
With privilege came responsibility, and estate owners extended support to the community, particularly to the poor of the parish, and Edward made many provisions for the welfare of Chawton residents. Edward gave an Alton apothecary and surgeon £10 a year to attend to the health needs of the poor, and he added two tenements, or houses, to the six he had already made available in the parish. Cassandra and Jane took up the duty of home visits when the Knights were away. Edward made small customary donations to the most needy, and he gave Jane and Cassandra £10 each year to provide small comforts for the poor in the village.
Edward paid for schoolmistresses for Chawton and Steventon to provide basic education for the poor. In September 1813, the same month that Jane and Edward had visited Wedgwood in London to commission the Austen Knight dinner service, Jane made a charitable donation to The Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, an organisation that established Sunday schools throughout the country, which for many was the only opportunity to learn to read and write. I was thrilled to know I was continuing a family tradition by contributing to literacy and the education of those who would otherwise miss out.
Most of Edward’s income from his Hampshire estates came from land rental and payments related to use of the land. He let houses, farms, mills and labourers’ cottages. Rent provided a steady income, which Edward supplemented by working in the woodlands. Wood was routinely cut from the 900 acres at Chawton, and Edward sold the same range of wood that Elizabeth Martin Knight had sold a century earlier: firewood, hop poles—cut from slender branches to support growing hops—and fencing rods harvested through coppicing—that is, cutting wood from a tree without killing it. Trees were cut down or topped and the timber sold, and bark was sold to one of the several tanneries in Alton. Edward relied most heavily on the coppices that supplied underwood, the most renewable resources after 1812 when Catherine died. Income from timber had been up to ten times higher in her lifetime, perhaps to pay her annual stipend.
Edward was fastidious. He kept bank clerks on their toes, correcting mistakes in their ledgers, and he took swift and firm action to collect money where he was owed. He met with his steward annually and inspected the accounts in detail. ‘He must have been more his own “man of business” than is usual with people of large property, for I think it always was his greatest interest to attend to his estates,’ Caroline Austen recalled. However, despite careful management of his financial affairs, Edward decided to sell the Abbots Barton estate in 1811 after thirteen years of stewardship. Through the sale, Edward was able to cut running costs by selling land that was expensive and difficult to maintain and to release capital to finance expenses, such as improvements to Godmersham.
Edward’s finances were put under further pressure by Henry Austen’s business affairs. In November 1815, Henry’s Alton Bank collapsed, due partly to a countrywide agricultural depression and partly to the actions of Henry’s banking partner, Edward Gray, who siphoned the bank’s liquid assets to his family and friends, leaving a balance in the bank of only sixteen shillings. Edward Gray was declared bankrupt at the end of December, and Henry borrowed £10,000 from Edward on a promissory note. But in March 1816, Henry’s London bank also failed, and he too was declared bankrupt. He wasn’t blamed personally, but he was embarrassed, as several of his nearest relatives had acted as his guarantors. Edward suffered heavy losses of more than £20,000.
From the time of his inheritance, Edward’s ownership of Chawton and other Hampshire property was disputed, and a number of court challenges were filed by those who believed they had a greater claim on the estates. The affair dragged on for several years, and it was not settled until the year after Jane died. In April 1818, Edward was forced to acknowledge the claims of Hinton and Baverstock for the manors of Chawton, Alton Eastbrooke, Steventon and Shalden, and he settled for £15,000. In order to pay this large sum so soon after the collapse of Henry’s bank, a substantial area of timber was felled that, according to a niece writing a half century later, ‘occasioned the great gap in Chawton Wood Park, visible for 30 years afterwards, and probably not filled up again even now.’ Jane died before the matter was settled and, therefore, she would not have known that her mother and sisters would have a secure home for the rest of their lives.
The Knight estates were reduced again in 1824 when Edward sold a large farm at Colemore in Hampshire. The Manor of Shalden and some farmland at Wivelrod, also in Hampshire, were sold in 1840; it is not clear why.
Edward Knight II inherited upon his father’s death in 1852, by which time he had lived at Chawton for twenty-six years. He had taken up residence at Chawton House in 1826, perhaps preferring to be master of his surroundings than living in the shadow of his father in Godmersham, or perhaps he moved away in disgrace after eloping with Mary Knatchbull to Gretna Green in Scotland.
Only three years later, in 1855, Edward II sold the 1,700-acre Steventon property to the Duke of Wellington. Despite the sale, Edward II was listed as one of Hampshire’s top landowners in The Domesday Book of 1873, owning 5,044 acres. The following year, Edward II sold Godmersham Park to an industrial businessman from Manchester, and Chawton was once again the only country manor of the Knight family.
Land values had plummeted from 1870 as foreign imports undercut home-produced goods. Death duties were introduced in 1894, and changes to estate economy in England were already well advanced by 1900. Estate duties and taxes were crippling for the landowners of England. For many, labour forces had been depleted during the First World War, and after the war, many former estate workers sought alternative employment opportunities. The traditional structure of landed estates all over the country was beginning to fail, and Chawton held out longer than did many others.
I calculated that Bapops was only twenty-two when he inherited Chawton in 1932. Lionel had died suddenly after less than twenty years as squire, so none of Bapops’s children had known their grandfather. I asked my father whether the estate was already bankrupt when Bapops became squire. Lionel hadn’t finished paying off Montagu’s death duties before he died, and Bapops had inherited an estate with significant financial burdens, but my father didn’t know the details. The majority of the Chawton properties that were sold by Lionel—and by Bapops in his early years as squire—were sold to pay death and estate duties, to finance the costs of running the remaining estate and to cover living expenses. Inflation had remained largely stable throughout Montagu’s ownership, and despite an inflation jump during the First World War, my father thought that Bapops was given advice, which he believed, to the effect that the interest from the money raised would look after the estate into the future. But inflation continued to rise, and by the early 1950s, the estate was practically broke.
It was clear: the demise of the family fortune inherited by Edward Austen began long before Bapops and was, in large part, an inevitable consequence of political, social and economic change throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The extensive financial pressures borne by Edward Austen Knight had led to more than a century of land, property and asset sales. I needed to discover more about the legal challenge that had cost Edward so dearly, but it would have to wait—I had other work to do.
In March 2015, I was invited to be on the panel of the Australian Institute of Management’s International Women’s Day debate event, and for the first time, I spoke about Jane, her remarkable achievements and the success of her brand to an audience of women executives. People approached me afterwards, and it was remarkable to see their enthusiasm.
Amanda continued to work on projects for the foundation throughout 2015. Her treatment was complete, but as the months passed, she seemed to be getting weaker, not stronger. The toxic side effects of the chemotherapy had left their mark, and it became obvious that her recovery was going to take far longer than we had anticipated. Amanda had changed physically, mentally and emotionally, and she fought hard to remain positive and as active as she could manage.
In July, we staged our first Jane Austen Literacy Foundation ‘High Tea for Literacy’ fundraising event, held at the Jane Austen Tea Room in Melbourne. I shared tales of growing up in Chawton against a backdrop of old family photographs, followed by tea, cakes and scones. It was a great success, and the money raised was used to buy books for a library in an Indigenous community in a remote part of Australia. I was a confident business speaker, but I was only now gaining confidence talking publicly about Jane and Chawton.
I read Montagu’s book again and discovered further extraordinary revelations about my family—at least they were extraordinary to me—and both Roger and Amanda indulged me in my conversation. I came across an article online by Christine Grover, an author and lecturer at the University of Winchester, titled ‘Edward Knight’s Inheritance: The Chawton, Godmersham, and Winchester Estates’, which showed Elizabeth Martin Knight’s family trees. As I read the article, I came to the shocking realisation that Elizabeth Martin Knight had inherited Chawton from her father’s side of the family—Michael Martin was the son of Dorothy from the original Knight family. But Thomas, Elizabeth’s chosen heir, was descended from her mother’s family (Thomas’s and Elizabeth’s mothers were first cousins). From what I could see, Thomas had no blood relationship to the original Knights. None of us did. I wasn’t related to Sir Richard Knight after all!
I had always thought that despite the twists and turns of the inheritance of the house, we were of the same family. I felt numb. I told myself that it didn’t matter or make any difference because we still shared Chawton. But it did matter. Elizabeth Martin Knight may have been a great squire, but this decision had broken the bloodline. Could it be true that the figure I had considered the greatest of all my great-grandfathers wasn’t my relative at all?
I looked again at the pedigrees, or family trees, in Montagu’s book. I had never noticed, but it was there plain to see. Elizabeth had indeed passed the house from her father’s to her mother’s family. I had previously misunderstood Montagu’s meaning when he had written that Elizabeth ‘was the last descendant of the original family of Knight who reigned at Chawton’ and that ‘in making the disposition which she felt obliged to make of her estate she must have deeply regretted having to nominate persons who did not belong to the old family of Knight’. I had wrongly assumed we were still blood-related to the Knights—somehow. But that wasn’t the last shocking discovery I made. Elizabeth Martin Knight was responsible for much more than breaking the bloodline.
Another article by Christine Grover revealed that instead of leaving Chawton to Thomas ‘fee simple’, with no limitations on the subsequent inheritance of the land, Elizabeth had left it by ‘fee tail’, whereby the estate was entailed with conditions, which meant the property could only be passed linearly to each heir. Thomas could not sell or break up the property or leave it to whomever he wished. Furthermore, Elizabeth had restricted the succession to ‘tail male’, rather than ‘tail general’, with the obvious intent of ensuring that she would be the only female squire of Chawton. I wanted to see for myself and obtained a copy of Elizabeth’s will from the Public Records Office of The National Archives in London. The hand-written document was a little difficult to read, but eventually—on the fourth page—I found the words:
To the use and behoofe of the first Son and all and every other the Son and Sons of the Body of the said Thomas May lawfully begotten or to be begotten and of the heirs male of his and their Body and Bodies lawfully issuing severally and successively one after another as they and every of them shall be in priority of Birth and Seniority of age the Elder of such Sons and the Heirs Male of his body always to take and be preferred before the younger of such Sons
It was difficult to comprehend: the entail that set the tradition of eldest male ownership was implemented by Elizabeth Martin Knight herself. I was speechless.
As far back as 1741, only four years after Elizabeth had died, Edward Hinton claimed that Chawton should be his, as he was more closely related to Elizabeth. Thomas Knight filed and won legal proceedings to prove he was the rightful owner under the terms of Elizabeth’s will. The terms Elizabeth included in her will also led to the legal battles Edward faced from the time that Catherine Knight died and he became the eleventh squire. Hinton and Baverstock challenged Edward’s ownership, as it clearly did not comply with Elizabeth’s conditions. I had immediately assumed that this was because Edward was adopted and not a ‘Son of the Body’. However, although this also invalidated the entail, the case cited as the basis for the claim that the order of legal procedures in the transfer of the property from Thomas Knight I to Thomas Knight II was in conflict with Elizabeth’s will.
Elizabeth may have stipulated such conditions in an attempt to ensure that the Knight lands would not be sold or broken up. Thomas and his successors were life tenants, entitled to use of the land and any rental or investment income, but they were not free to sell Chawton. Elizabeth may have intended to secure the Knight family fortune, but the terms of her will ultimately cost Edward Austen a huge sum, and the resulting financial pressures, perhaps, triggered the start of the sales.
I immediately thought of the scene I had watched in Miss Austen Regrets and the conversation between Jane and Edward. Jane was well informed about Edward’s legal affairs. ‘It is a nasty day for everybody. Edward’s spirits will be wanting Sunshine, & here is nothing but Thickness & Sleet,’ Jane wrote to Cassandra from Henrietta Street in a letter dated 5–8 March 1814. ‘Perhaps you have not heard that Edward has a good chance of escaping his Lawsuit. His opponent “knocks under.” The terms of Agreement are not quite settled.’
If Jane knew the details of the case, she must have also known that Elizabeth Martin’s actions prevented another woman from being squire. I asked my father, and he was certain Jane would have known about Elizabeth—as well as the legal challenges stemming from her will. Jane likely had access to the family records. Elizabeth Martin was famed for insisting the church bells were rung to mark her arrival at and departure from Chawton. Fanny Knight wrote to her old governess in 1807: ‘It is very curious to trace the genealogy of the Knights & all the old families that have possessed the estate, from the pictures of which there are quantities, & some descriptions of them have been routed out, so that we are not at a loss for amusement.’
Did Jane understand Elizabeth’s decision to secure the future of Chawton through the traditional male lineage (it was the norm of the day), or was she as flabbergasted as I was? It was hard to comprehend. The woman in the luxurious blue taffeta gown I had admired daily in our hallway, the only celebrated female of the family other than Jane, had broken the bloodline and left an entail that dictated male-only ownership and was the source of Edward’s legal battles. I could only guess, as I could find no definitive explanation.
I contacted Linda Slothouber again to ask whether she had learnt anything from the archives and family records. We spoke at length about what the Austen ladies might have thought of the ‘grande dame’, and Linda wrote an article, published online in 2015, about Elizabeth. In her article, Linda starts with the extraordinary similarity between Elizabeth’s visage in a 1730 portrait and that of Queen Anne, who reigned from 1702 to 1714. It may have been due to a conventional pose for portraiture at the time, but they were so similar that it was difficult to believe there was not some deliberate attempt to give Elizabeth a more regal persona.
Linda goes on to provide tantalising clues as to Elizabeth’s reputation. On 26 February 1838, Cassandra Austen wrote a letter to her niece describing the funeral of Mary Dorothea, the wife of Edward Knight II, who was interred in the Knight family vault under the church: ‘The old vault was opened and is now under repair—It contains at present four Coffins, I suppose those of Lady Knight, alias Betty Martin, her two Husbands and one Brother.’ Betty is short for Elizabeth, so I assumed this was merely a play on her name, but there was more to it than that. Elizabeth Martin was not eligible to use the title ‘Lady’, and it seems to have been underlined in mockery. In her article, Linda said:
One way to mock the grandeur of the great lady was to inflate her title from ‘Mrs.’ to ‘Lady’; another way was to downgrade her to common ‘Betty Martin.’ Betty Martin was not just a diminutive form of Elizabeth Knight’s birth name, however: It was also part of an idiomatic expression that took different forms over the years. A few examples: That’s my eye, Betty Martin (Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 1788); My eye and Betty Martin (from a song of the same name in Ashburner’s New Vocal Repository, 1807); It’s all my eye and Betty Martin (Hampshire Chronicle, 1810), Oh! My eye, Betty Martin! (Oxford University and City Herald and many other newspapers, 1814), All Betty Martin (A Disagreeable Surprise [play], 1828).
Whatever its form, the expression was well-known, and its meaning was, essentially, ‘That’s bunk—I’m not buying your story.’ (Who Betty Martin was and how the expression originated are unknown.) Cassandra Austen’s words ‘Lady Knight, alias Betty Martin,’ suggest that Elizabeth Knight was a bit of a fraud, and beneath the satin gown and queenly stare was only plain old Betty Martin.
It appears that Cassandra was sharing an old family joke with her niece, as she gives no other explanation for her remarks, indicating that there was little reason to think Jane would not have known the joke too.
I had most of the answers I was looking for. I understood the entail, the decline of the family fortune and the enormous challenge Bapops inherited at such a young age. I knew he had sanctioned many property and asset sales, including Edward Austen Knight’s portrait in the early 1950s. A cousin told me that Bapops had reportedly been distressed by the sales, had retreated to the library and had never fully recovered. I don’t know whether this is true, but it is an explanation for his reclusive lifestyle and why he didn’t celebrate his position as squire with a coat of arms or a bookplate.
The biggest mystery remaining was Lionel, Bapops’s father, who started the break-up of the Chawton estate with the sale of 220 acres in 1919. I did find some clues about Lionel in a photocopy of his obituary, sent to me by my mother. The obituary printed in the local paper was titled ‘Loss to the County—Sudden Passing of Col. Knight, of Chawton—His splendid public work’:
We deeply regret to announce the death, which occurred suddenly from heart failure at Chawton House early on Friday morning, of Lieut.—Col. Lionel Charles Edward Knight, J.P., c.c. He was only 59 years of age, and his sudden passing came as a great shock to the district, the more so as he had not been suffering from any illness, and was in the very best of health on the day before he died. On Tuesday he presided over the Alton Police Court; on Wednesday he attended a meeting of the Hampshire and General Friendly Society at Winchester, and a meeting in connection with the Hampshire Hunt; while on Thursday he was about Chawton village, looking as hale as one could wish.
It was clear that Lionel didn’t shut himself away from the local community—unlike Bapops. ‘He has served his generation, and served it well. Firstly by administering the estate which fell to his lot, with its many pressing responsibilities and increasing difficulties in these most difficult days, and with tact, humour and kindness,’ the Rector of Chawton said in his tribute to Lionel, indicating the estate was already in trouble and that it was common knowledge. At the end of the tribute, the rector said, ‘Finally would we ask God’s guidance on those to whom this heritage passes, that they may bear its responsibilities and guide its destinies to the well-being of all concerned.’
The weight of the duties that befell the squire was not underestimated, or the consequences for others if the estate did not prosper. It was important for the whole community. I asked my father whether he knew anything about Lionel, but he had never heard anyone talk about him. Bapops and Aunt Betty obviously would have known him—he was their father. I wished I had thought about it when they were alive, although I would not have had the courage to ask when I was young, even if it had occurred to me.
Out of the blue, at the end of 2015, a Janeite sent me an advertisement for a talk that Diana Shervington was giving in Lyme Regis. According to the advertisement, Diana was from Chawton House and related to Jane. I had never heard of her and was instantly intrigued. I turned to Google and discovered that Diana was descended from a granddaughter of Edward Austen Knight and referred to Montagu as ‘Uncle Monty’. Diana was about ninety-five and, from the dates, it seemed that she may well have known Lionel when she was a child.
I was very excited and called my parents immediately. My mother made a few phone calls and arranged to visit Diana at her home in Lyme Regis for a cup of tea. I waited with bated breath for my mother to call me after her visit. Although my mother enjoyed her visit, listening to Diana’s memories of staying at the dower house and visiting Chawton House as a child (she hadn’t lived at Chawton) Diana had not known Lionel and was not able to offer any enlightenment. I couldn’t help but be disappointed; Diana was my last hope. There cannot possibly be anyone else alive who would have once known him, and so Lionel remains a mystery to me.
Awareness of the Jane Austen Literacy Foundation continued to grow, and I spoke at some Austen events in Australia. I continued to be surprised at the level of interest, but I was also delighted at the joy that sharing my heritage and memories of growing up with Jane Austen seemed to bring to others.
On 16 December 2015, I received a wonderful surprise. Rita, the woman behind the very popular Facebook page ‘All Things Jane Austen’, sent me a photograph of Sir Richard reclining in the church with holly in his hand! She had travelled from America to Chawton for Jane’s birthday and had remembered the family tradition I had told her about. I loved it—and vowed to make sure there was holly in Sir Richard’s hand every Christmas, just as Granny had all those years ago.
At the beginning of 2016, I visited a grammar school in Melbourne and spoke to a very enthusiastic group of ten- and eleven-year-old girls who were reading Jane’s work for the first time. They were spellbound and listened intently to every word. Each had prepared a question. Most asked what Jane may have meant in various passages of her novels, or whether she had ever been in love. But one very sweet girl asked, ‘If you are the last Austens to be raised in Chawton, if you’re the last one, are you lonely?’ She then asked why my surname was Knight and not Austen; I explained but thought how much easier it would be for others to understand the family connection if my parents had christened me Jane Austen Knight after all.
Afterwards, the head teacher told me how excited the girls had been in anticipation of my visit: ‘They’ve been talking about nothing but Austen all week!’ It brought a tear to my eye.
In the middle of 2016, Amanda took a step back from the day-to-day work of the foundation to focus on her recovery. I fully supported her decision. She needed a fresh start and went to Queensland with her husband. It was a good decision, and I was thrilled to see her looking stronger and healthier on her visits back to Melbourne.
More and more volunteers came forward to help with operations, and on 30 October 2016, the foundation launched an online journal, ‘Pride & Possibilities’, with unique content and articles from Jane’s family, celebrities, Austen experts and foundation ambassadors. The first article was ‘Shooting Jane’ by Simon Langton, and the response was overwhelmingly positive—our community quickly began to grow.
At the end of the year, a woman who had heard me speak at a women’s event in Melbourne earlier in the year contacted me. Tina, as I shall call her, represented a very wealthy family and wanted to talk to me about Chawton. We met for a coffee, and after the initial pleasantries, Tina said it had become common knowledge that Sandy Lerner’s involvement with Chawton House Library was coming to an end and that the family Tina represented might be interested in providing some financial support to the charity. I agreed to contact Uncle Richard and make an introduction.
Tina also said the family were interested in a business venture. She painted a visual picture of me, living permanently in Chawton, hosting events year round and welcoming visitors from around the world for their own luxury Jane Austen experience with Jane’s fifth great-niece. It was an extraordinary suggestion and impossible, I was sure. Chawton House was a library that promoted early women’s writing, and I couldn’t imagine the charity agreeing to it being used in this way. ‘But don’t you want to go back to Chawton?’ Tina asked. ‘I assumed from listening to your story, this would be your dream.’
That night, I couldn’t help thinking about the possibilities, of the joy of hosting at home again—in the Great Hall. I had missed Chawton House for so long that the thought of returning was intoxicating, and for a few moments I was as bewitched as Anne Elliot had been when Lady Russell encouraged her to accept a marriage proposal from her cousin, Mr Elliot, who was set to inherit her family’s ancestral home, Kellynch Hall:
I own that to be able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future Lady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother’s place, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as to all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me. You are your mother’s self in countenance and disposition; and if I might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation, and name, and home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to her in being more highly valued! My dearest Anne, it would give me more delight than is often felt at my time of life!
Anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table, and, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue her feelings this picture excited. For a few moments her imagination and her heart were bewitched. The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of having the precious name of “Lady Elliot” first revived in herself; of being restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for ever, was a charm which she could not immediately resist. Lady Russell said not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own operation; and believing that, could Mr. Elliot at that moment with propriety have spoken for himself! – she believed, in short, what Anne did not believe. The same image of Mr. Elliot speaking for himself brought Anne to composure again. The charm of Kellynch and of “Lady Elliot” all faded away. She never could accept him.
I imagined being at home again at Chawton House. I immediately pictured Bapops sitting in the library, and I imagined cooking with Granny in her kitchen. I thought of playing with Fiona in the cellars, helping my father in the vegetable garden and enjoying family lunches in the Great Hall. But none of my family was there, and the house was now a public building, with stakeholders and a board to report to. The charm of Chawton faded away.
Like Fanny Price when she returned to her beloved Portsmouth, I realised I could no longer call Chawton home. ‘When she had been coming to Portsmouth,’ Jane wrote, ‘she had loved to call it her home, had been fond of saying that she was going home; the word had been very dear to her, and so it still was, but it must be applied to Mansfield. That was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield was home.’ Chawton was Chawton; Melbourne was home. And with this realisation, I left the past behind.
I will always be Caroline Jane Knight from Chawton, a privilege I cherish. I have embraced my heritage wholeheartedly and can now think of Chawton House with joy and great fondness. But I am now looking to the future. I am happy and settled in a home of my own. I have a wonderful husband and my family, and I have Jane—my ‘very great’ great-aunt—wherever I am.
This year, 2017, marks the bicentennial of Jane Austen’s death. The life and works of one of the world’s most famous and acclaimed authors are being celebrated all over the world. I have made many friends in the Austen community and love hearing the stories of how Jane inspires and brings pleasure to people today. With Jane’s fame and my determination, I will continue to work to grow the Jane Austen Literacy Foundation. I might not be successful, but Jane’s words are clear in my mind: ‘I must keep to my own style and go on in my own way; and though I may never succeed again in that, I am convinced that I should totally fail in any other.’