by Gill Hornby
Cassandra lit up. “Ah!” At last they had struck upon her favorite conversation. She asked teasingly: “And they were by whom, may I ask?”
“By whom?” Isabella seemed at once baffled by the question, as if books were books and their authors of no matter. “Why, Sir Walter Scott, I do believe.”
Cassandra gripped her fork and stifled all natural expression. Sir Walter Scott. Sir Walter Scott! Why must it always be him? How she wished that just once, she too could let fly with an immoderate reaction. Instead she sat silently brooding—on the injustices of fame; the travails of true genius; the realization—and this came to her quite spontaneously—that she had never particularly warmed to Isabella’s sister Elizabeth. And then her thoughts were suddenly interrupted. What was this? Isabella had at last found she had something to say.
“It is my opinion that his books are very…” There was a pause while she looked around her, searching for the bon mot. “… very … very…” And then, as if by a miracle, it came to her: “long.” She drew breath to continue. Having thus broached the unlikely territory of literary discussion, she was somehow emboldened to journey yet further therein. “There are many, many words in them,” she carried on, with some bitterness. “They seem to take up too much of everybody’s time.”
Cassandra was generally used to a higher level of discourse, but still she could only agree. In other company she might have argued that he was a fine poet and joked that his work as a reviewer was quite unsurpassed, but could sense that this was not quite the forum. “And what about you, Isabella? Do you like novels? What are your particular favorites?”
“Novels? Me?” Isabella was back to being baffled. “Favorites? No. None at all.”
The debate was over. Cassandra surrendered. Dinah bustled in and slapped down a compote, and they supped in a silence broken only by the continued ticking of that clock.
* * *
“DO TAKE MAMA’S PLACE,” said Isabella when dinner was over. Cassandra accepted at once, as the chair happened to be nearest the fire.
The evening in the drawing room yawned before them, the latest challenge in a challenging day. Pyramus padded in and stretched out on the carpet: It had always been one of those houses of which dogs had the freedom. Cassandra did not mind this dog in particular, but did not quite approve of the practice in general. She tucked in her feet, opened her valise, and took out her work. How useful it was to sew, to fuss about with a needle, to keep your eyes on the stitch. It was always her armor in difficult situations, the activity itself a diversion from the awkwardness of the company. She often wondered how men managed, without something similar. Although it did seem that they were so less often stuck for words.
She had only brought her patchwork with her. Her eyes were no longer good enough for anything finer by lamplight. “Do you not have work, Isabella dear?” She slotted the paper behind the shape of sprigged cotton and started to stitch around. “Nothing with which you are busy?”
Isabella, staring into the fire, shook her head. “I was never terribly good at that sort of thing.”
Cassandra, who could patchwork with her eyes closed, looked up with some surprise. What an odd little creature Isabella was. She had known Isabella since birth—how the years blurred and fell away—and yet, she realized, she did not know her at all. She studied the woman before her: Her figure was neat, though ill served by her mourning; her features could pass as delicate, had sorrow not robbed them of prettiness. Isabella had neither the beauty of her mother nor the intellect of her father—though those arresting blue eyes were certainly his. And even after forty years of acquaintance, any sense of character or personality still seemed elusive. Cassandra could hardly stay here in the vicarage without establishing some sort of relationship, but it was as if she were in the dark, feeling around a thick blank wall in search of a secret doorway. It was hard to find a way in.
And then inspiration struck her: “I hope death was kind to your father when it finally came for him?”
For what else do the newly bereaved want to discuss but The End?
Isabella sighed. “It was clear about ten days before that his time was coming. He had a seizure after dinner, and when Dinah went in the next morning, he was too weak to rise…”
The lock had been sprung. The door to conversation now opened.
“The pain that afflicted him, with which he lived so bravely, was finally…”
Cassandra worked on, listening to stories of ice baths and poultices, and suddenly felt much more at home.
“On the fifth day, his spirits were so low that we were able to admit the doctor—”
“The doctor was not consulted before?” This smacked of negligence!
Isabella sighed. “Mr. Lidderdale is a fine surgeon, and we are lucky to have him. He is popular with everyone—everyone, that is, except Papa. My father had doubts on the very idea of a doctor in the village. He worried it could encourage illness in those who could least afford to be ill. But then, when he himself was past objecting…”
Cassandra reflected that dying must indeed have been a torment to the good reverend: to have to lie there mute and have his irascible demands ignored.
“… and I, of course, was so grateful to have Mr. Lidderdale there with me. Oh! The relief that I was no longer alone—”
“But your sisters, Isabella,” Cassandra interrupted. “Surely they both took their turns?”
“Well, Elizabeth is now so busy with her work with the babies in the village. And of course they must not suffer. We do not see much of her here.”
Elizabeth! Frankly, Cassandra expected no better. “But Mary-Jane? She lives just across the churchyard.”
“Mary-Jane of course has her own establishment to concern her.”
Ah, the tyranny of the married woman! thought Cassandra—even one now a childless widow.
“Then they should be grateful to you for shouldering that burden alone.”
“I did not mind it.” Isabella shrugged. “And did not mind it at all, once the doctor was with me. It is such an odd time, when someone is dying but you cannot tell when. Mr. Lidderdale says deaths are like births in that regard.”
Cassandra had had much experience of both and well knew their trials. She had run out of thread, and reached into her bag for a new length.
“… and then, just before the end, he said he was hungry, and I remembered we had a good raised pork pie. He does like a pork pie. And this one had an egg in the middle. He is quite unusually fond of an egg—”
“Fulwar was after pork pie even on his own deathbed?” Cassandra threaded her needle and shook her head: He really was the stuff of legend.
“Not my father! Mr. Lidderdale. Mr. Lidderdale is often hungry, even hungrier than Papa. He is not a tall man, but broad in the shoulder, and he does work so very hard.” For a moment her eyes caught the dance of the firelight. “Where was I? So, yes, there we were, sitting one on each side. He could not decide if he would prefer beer or tea. We were discussing it. The meals get so confused when one stays up all night. And he suddenly grasped my father’s hand and said, ‘Oh, Isabella!’ Those were his words. ‘Oh, Isabella.’ And I knew that was it. It was over. Never again would I sit by his side.”
Cassandra had already heard reports of Isabella’s distress at Fulwar’s passing. According to the family, she had been brave during his illness but quite beside herself when it came to the end. Even after the funeral she had had to be put to her bed. The evidence was still there—the tears in her eyes—but Cassandra found it a little surprising. Of course all parents should be mourned: That was the duty of all offspring. But were they all to be missed in the same way?
She began to pack away her work. Isabella’s newfound loquacity had quite seen off the evening. At last it was an hour at which they could respectably retire.
Isabella went first up the shallow oak staircase, holding the lamp for Cassandra, who took the steps slowly, one at a time. She had to stop for a rest on the half-landing and caugh
t the draft coming in through the curtain at the north-facing window. What a trial it was going to be, staying in a bigger, higher house when she was so used to her cottage in Chawton. Might her progress be swift so that she did not have to stay here too long.
They made their way down the corridor. The door to Isabella’s mother’s chamber was ajar, and Cassandra glimpsed just enough to assure herself that it too had not yet been cleared: That was most promising. They passed what she still thought of as Tom’s room—what a relief not be put in there!—and at last came to the end. Cassandra knew this room. It had been for many years the only home to poor Miss Murden, that friendless, captious burden on the family. “All Contents Herein to Go to the Workhouse” said the sign pinned outside it. Any hopes Cassandra might have once had for her own comfort were adjusted at once.
Isabella ushered her in, lit the lamp by the bedside, and bade her good night. The significance of being put in here was not lost on Cassandra. It was chilly and unaired, the furniture basic. There was water in the washstand, but that too was cold. She passed a hand over the bedcover; there was no brick or bottle in there to warm it, and thought: There we are, then. I am their friendless burden now.
Her trunk stood unopened, but she would not yet unpack it. There was a flicker of life in her yet: No time like the present. She would begin her search for the letters. Cassandra moved back to the door, waited for the footsteps to fade and the house to fall silent, opened it, and slid back to the landing. Through the shadows she crept toward Isabella’s mother’s room; she had almost gained the threshold when a voice came from behind her.
“Can I help you, Miss Austen?” Dinah, lit from below by a weak tallow candle, stood at the foot of the stairs to the attic. “Lost are we, m’m?”
“Oh, Dinah. I am sorry.” Cassandra put on a show of confusion. “How strange. I cannot remember why I came out here.”
“It’s tiredness, I’m sure of it. Best get to bed, m’m. Over that way, we are.” Dinah watched her, unsmiling. “That’s it. Good night then, Miss Austen.” And stayed in position until Cassandra was back in her room.
2
Kintbury, March 1840
A WHITE SKY RUSHED PAST the windows; the bare branches of the big beech waved high in the wind. The two ladies watched it all from their table, at which Cassandra was enjoying her breakfast. This was always the meal to rely on when visiting; even the worst of kitchens found it hard to go wrong. And she needed all the strength she could muster for the day that lay ahead.
“This jam was made by my mother.” Isabella spooned out just enough for a scraping. “She was so productive right till the end. We are still, even now, enjoying her food.”
Cassandra took another bite, and Eliza was conjured up before her. She could taste her in the fruit, see her picking and stirring and laughing and pouring, and thought: These are the things by which most of us are remembered, these small acts of love, the only evidence that we, too, once lived on this earth. The preserves in the larder, the stitch on the kneeler. The mark of the pen on the page.
“Now, my dear. What are your plans for the day?” Cassandra put down her muffin, all appetite gone. “Am I right to hope that we might see your aunt Mary this morning? I know that now she lives so close by, she calls here quite often.”
Isabella, who had until that moment seemed almost relaxed and nearly cheerful, adopted again her woeful air. “Yes, really quite often. And I am sure it will be oftener still if she knows that you are here.”
“In fact…” Cassandra picked up her cup and, quite casually, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, said: “I do not know what is the matter with me. I am becoming so hopeless and forgetful. I do believe that I failed to write and tell her that I was.”
Isabella’s blue eyes met hers. “And I have not had a chance to mention it, either. Your letter arrived so late, there was not the time.”
“Then she does not yet know of my arrival.” Cassandra turned back to study the weather through the window. “That is a shame.”
“And we cannot hope that my aunt might call today.” Isabella reached back to the jam and took a hearty dollop. “On Tuesdays Aunt Mary always takes tea with Mrs. Bunbury.”
They smiled. There was a new sympathy between them. In the unlikely figure of Mary Austen—a woman not previously associated with the promotion of social harmony—they had found a common bond.
“Ah!” Cassandra felt a new lightness in her person. “Then we cannot hope to have the pleasure before tomorrow at the earliest.” That she might be left in peace was now all that was required. “While I am with you, I would dearly like to be of service. Having been in your position, I know how very much there is to do. Please. Let me be useful.”
There are women who offer to help, do everything required of them, and can be relied upon to do so well. Historically Cassandra was one of these. But there are also women—of whom she knew plenty—who appear to want to do everything for everyone, to put themselves in the center of all operations, but whose excellent intentions are always to be met with some obstruction particular only to them. They are generally to be found on a sofa doing nothing, while the rest of the household flurries about. And on this day only, though it might rub at every fiber of her makeup, for the purposes of her mission Miss Austen was determined to be one of those.
“There is so much to do that I know not how to begin it,” said Isabella with a sigh. “It is all organizing … arranging … sorting through. These are not the things that best suit my talents.”
Which were what, exactly? Cassandra wondered. They were thus far mysterious. But she had an unshakable belief in God’s design of humanity: We all have our uses. She looked forward to Isabella’s being revealed.
“Perhaps you might be so good as to help Dinah go through my mother’s clothing?” Isabella continued. “I confess I have not been able to touch any of her possessions, and nor could my father, from the day that she died.”
Dinah, who was at the sideboard with her back to the ladies, gave a loud sniff that was heavy with some sort of meaning.
“Of course!” Cassandra sat up in her chair, the picture of enthusiasm. “Although”—as if the thought had suddenly occurred—“I cannot be on my feet for too long. That would require so much standing and stretching.” She held out an arm, and then retracted it, wincing. It was quite the performance. Dinah turned and looked on with approval. “Let us think. What else can I do?”
And so breakfast continued. Isabella served out suggestions; she batted them all back—her knees would not bend, her hands could not hold, the very mention of dust made her break into sneezes—until their napkins were folded, the table was cleared, and the morning was set.
* * *
AS THE CHURCH BELL CHIMED ten, Cassandra was at repose in the yellow drawing room. Tucked up with her valise in the corner of the sofa, work in her lap, needle in hand. It was all most satisfactory except for one thing: She had not yet been afforded the privacy she craved. The household was flurrying, certainly; unfortunately, it seemed only to flurry about her.
First it was Fred come to lay a fire, a task to which he brought much resentment but no kindling. Cassandra watched him set a few logs smoking, gave generous thanks, and waited until he withdrew. Might she now put down her needle? Dared she get up and begin her investigations? The bureau in the corner must be the first object of her attention. It was where Eliza, Isabella’s mother and her own dear friend, had sat at her correspondence each morning. Surely anything of importance would be in there … She moved to the edge of her seat. And then Dinah came in.
“Are you quite comfortable then, Miss Austen?” Having been spared the fate of a morning in the closet and left to her own slovenly devices, Dinah was suddenly all friendliness. Cloth in hand, she flicked dust hither and thither—from candlestick to clock to ornamental vase—and chattered on. “It’s quiet enough in here.” She picked up the cushion on which Cassandra’s elbow rested and thumped it. “Nobody to disturb you in whatever it i
s you’re busy with.” Moving to the glass above the fireplace she added a smear to its impressive collection. “Quiet everywhere in this house, since Mr. Fowle departed, God rest his soul.”
Cassandra made noises of sympathy and reached for her thimble. She was clearly not to be left alone for a while.
“And we don’t get the visitors now, either. No parishioners coming here with their problems. No men from the Hunt or the Kennel traipsing through with mud on their boots.”
Dinah moved to the bureau and gave it an aimless rub. Would she now open it and reveal its contents? Cassandra sat up in anticipation.
“Oh, yes. Very quiet we are now. Quite filled the ’ouse with his presence, did the reverend. Those rages of his! You could hear them in the village.” She shook her head, smiling fondly, and polished on—though without any beeswax. Cassandra had to suppress the urge to go and find some herself. “Used to fair bellow at Miss Isabella. Bellow!” With a chuckle, Dinah turned her attention to the casement of the window. “It was throwing his stick at her head that brought on that seizure. The exertion of it did for ’im, they say.” She stopped and gazed around at the product of her labors. “Oh, yes, it’s a terrible loss, Miss Austen. A terrible loss for us all.”
With her work there done, her standards met, Dinah departed. But before Cassandra could begin to reflect on the horrors she had heard—that a man so fond of his dogs could mete out such treatment to his daughter!—Isabella herself sank down beside her with a sigh. Oh, Isabella! What had the poor woman been through? “Are you all right, my dear?” Cassandra laid a hand on the younger woman’s knee.
“I suppose so.” Isabella fiddled with a tassel on a pillow. “It is just that I do not seem to know which way to turn. I was wrapping the china that is to go off to my brother, but then I took to wondering if there was not something else I should do…” She looked around her, helpless.