by Gill Hornby
“Are we to stop there? Oh! Well, thank you, Cassandra. To my surprise, I found it rather enjoyable. Anne is a very pleasant sort of person, sensible—quite the right sort of heroine, to my mind. There is not so much drama about her as in other books. I do not appreciate too much drama myself, and fail to understand why it should be so often written about. After all, there is so little drama in life, is there not? Please, before you go up, do reassure me: Does it all turn out well for her? Is there a happy ending in store?”
“My sister did not write desultory novels, Isabella—that was just one aspect of her genius.” Cassandra put the book back in the valise. “But what would constitute a happy ending, in your view?”
“Well, marriage, of course!” Isabella retorted. “What other sort is there?”
Cassandra looked up, raised an eyebrow, and paused. She could now protest and proclaim, saying: Look at me, Isabella! I have known happiness. Without man or marriage, I found a happiness, true and sublime! But who would believe her? She was now an old woman, and such proclamations were really not in her style.
“Ah.” She spoke mildly instead, using the arm of the chair to push herself upright. “Then what a tragedy that the world has so many unmarried women in it, if there is no route to any possible happiness open to them.” She took the hand that Isabella offered, and together they walked through to the foot of the staircase. “Goodnight, my dear. We will pick up Anne’s story tomorrow evening. And I promise all will be revealed before I leave.”
* * *
IN BED—WASHED, CHANGED, her long gray hair plaited—Cassandra leaned back with relief upon the tough bolster and took a minute to luxuriate in the privacy of her bare little room. She was tired from the day, and quite exhausted by Isabella. But there would be little sleep that night: Work must be done.
Cassandra had been relieved, when she went through the settle to see dear Eliza had done most of her work for her: All correspondence had been individually arranged, tied into packets with a pale blue ribbon. On the top were all the letters from Eliza’s many children. Cassandra had rummaged beneath. She came, in passing, across those from her own mother, but was sure there would be nothing in there to detain her. She knew the detail without even looking: expert notes on animal husbandry, helpful tips for confinement, dramatic details of her many minor illnesses. She had leaned in further, hands delving deeper. A huge bundle from Martha—dear Martha!—formed an obstruction. She lifted it out, put it to the side; revealed was a hand that was both immediately familiar and yet hard to place. It was a long moment before the force of the truth hit her: that she was face to face with the evidence of her own happy, girlish self. She shook a little, and sighed. They must be examined at some point, but were not her main quarry. She took them out, and there below—a rich rush of love flooded through her—was the writing of Jane.
She had touched it and gasped. Her sister had been dead for so many years; in Chawton all her effects were cleared long ago. There had been a time when Cassandra—grief raw and still smarting—would stumble across some little trace, and the slow-healing wound would break open. Then, for hours, she could do nothing but cradle and weep over some inanimate object, as she had once cradled and wept over the corpse. But all that had passed. The pain had abated. The practical was here her concern.
Cassandra had sharpened her wits, gathered everything of interest, and come up with a clear plan of action. She returned to her room and hid it all under the mattress. Her own correspondence could stay there until she had time to peruse it. First, and as soon as was possible, she would deal with the letters of Jane.
But now the moment was upon her, she found that her resolution was dwindling. Cassandra reached over the coverlet and picked up the packet. Surely this should be a joy, to spend hours basking once again in the company of her sister? And yet she quailed at the prospect. She fell back onto the tough bolster. How much easier it would be to spend her last years in the present, rather than to confront her whole life in the round. Oh, to be allowed to dwindle away in Chawton, worrying about nothing but the roses and the chickens and the church.
Alas, there was not that option. This, her last duty, was the very cost of her privilege. Cassandra steeled herself, prepared her mind to be carried back through that mist of forgetting to the world that had once been their own.
She unfolded the paper, and began to read.
3
Steventon Rectory
1 May 1795
My dear Eliza,
You must find it in your heart to forgive the tardiness of my reply to your letter. The truth is that our once peaceful Rectory has lately been consumed by such a riot of celebration, that it is hard to find a quiet place in which one can write. I have just now crawled into the corner of the dressing room, which—for the moment, at least—is mercifully free of members of my family, noisily embracing and shedding tears of pure happiness. And I have shut the door firmly, in the vain hope of keeping the rioters at bay. Really, Eliza: there is so much joy and delight about as to make me feel quite sick and wicked.
I cannot quite remember how I once passed my time in the days before my sister’s engagement. But it appears that, from now on, nothing more is required of me than to congratulate others, as often as my poor breath will allow—my mother and father on the perfection of the match; Cassy on the perfection of her future husband; Tom Fowle on the perfections of his bride. Then when I have finished, it seems, I have to start all over again … And it occurs to me that, before I die from the exhaustion of it all, I should be congratulating you, too, my dear Eliza.
After all, once this momentous wedding has finally taken place, then Cassy will be a Fowle, and you will share with me the honor of calling her your sister. And you cannot know what delights are in store! She is the best, the cleverest, the kindest and most caring sister on this earth. And, should you occasionally be minded to say something witty, I guarantee that she will laugh until she is spent.
Of course, our insufferably happy couple must suffer a long engagement. A curate must always be patient; a curate’s bride even more so. Economy is as ever at war with Romance. But one day, Tom’s luck must change and they will be wed. I shall be so pleased for them then—but more than a little sorry for myself. For if there is a drawback to this perfect arrangement—and I should not dare to mention such a possibility in the hearing of my triumphant family—it is that I now have somehow to live without her. So felicitations to you, Eliza, and to all the Fowle family. For you are the victors. Yes, we have the comfort of knowing that Cass will always be happy. But you will have her—and she is the best of us!—close by you, always.
Do look after her. She is so precious to me.
Yours affectionately,
J. Austen.
It was a deeply ordinary Wednesday afternoon in the Steventon Rectory. Cassy was intent on her embroidery, Jane on her letters at the table by the window, Mrs. Austen nodding off over a sock yet undarned, when Tom Fowle burst without notice into the parlor.
“My love, I have news!” he announced, breathless, to his astonished fiancée. “Great news! And I have come to tell you in person.” Tom grabbed Cassy’s hand, greeted her family, begged for their privacy, and pulled her through the house to the garden.
It was now September, the day brisk and brittle. Cassy had to skip to keep up with his stride.
“Well then, am I to hear it?” she asked of him, delighted and laughing. “Dearest? What is this great revelation?”
In truth she was not expecting to be told of any important development, but was merely indulging his mood. Her Tom she knew to be more tortoise than hare, not known for his shocks and surprises—or, at least, not hitherto.
“Wait just a moment.” Tom steered her farther up the Elm Walk. “Wait until we are under our tree.”
Six months had passed since he had proposed to her there: months that Cassy had spent at the peak of contentment. She had discovered that favor in the family and fame in the neighborhood which an engagement
entailed, and was basking in it. She knew patience was required of her, and she delivered it without effort. There was no great imperative to rush on to the next stage, as far as she was concerned.
But Tom felt quite differently. The prospect of marriage had engendered within him the first stirrings of ambition. And it transpired that he did not, after all, share her appetite for waiting. He was suddenly keen to get on, get his hands on a living to which he could take his young bride.
They reached their spot. Tom stopped and turned to face Cassy.
“Last week I had an interview with Lord Craven”—Tom seemed to inflate as he spoke—“in which he agreed—oh, my dear love!—he agreed to act as my patron!”
His own family had nothing to offer him. Tom had, early on in life, committed the cardinal sin of being born second, and for that he was now keen to atone.
“Tom! That is great news indeed.”
Cassy had often heard talk of Lord Craven, a neighbor of the Fowles and some sort of relation. He was young, rich, and landed, with a powerful personality, or so it was said. Of course, she had not had the privilege of ever seeing him in person. But this she did know, for by now she had read a great many novels: Such august creatures, born so entitled, could not always be trusted.
“And has he made you an offer?”
“Yes! He has made me an offer.”
Cassy’s heart leaped. “A living?” Already! So soon! “We are to have our own vicarage?”
Tom smiled down at her. “My love, yes.” He then paused to gather his words. “In time. But first, he has asked me—and I have agreed—to accompany him on his next expedition.”
“Expedition?” Her mind conjured a few weeks’ stalking in Scotland, or sailing, perhaps, in the Solent.
“His lordship is leading a contingent of his regiment to the Windward Isles, shortly. I did not quite grasp his business down there. At the time, as you can imagine, I was quite overcome by the whole situation. Never before have I been alone with a man of such—”
“The Windward … But Tom”—fear gripped her—“they are in the West Indies.”
“So they tell me. I should not be gone more than a year.”
“Gone more than a year…” Cassy repeated, her voice trailing away.
“I will be paid very well; beyond anything I can make if I stay here. And he has promised an excellent position on our return. We shall be set! In just a year! Cassy, without this, we should have waited much longer.”
“Yes indeed. We had agreed, we were prepared to … It would have been hard, but at least we would have waited in safety. Surely there are risks involved in this scheme?” Had he promised all this without thinking? Simply because Lord Craven had asked it?
“I am to go as his private chaplain. Not too onerous a task, I am sure you agree!”
Cassy was struck dumb. His was not a naturally adventurous spirit. She had accepted a curate. Moreover, she was happy with a curate. Who was this new, seafaring, Romantic hero?
He kissed her hand. “My Cassy. See this as my investment in our future security. The ship leaves from Portsmouth in a fortnight. I have come to say my good-byes.”
* * *
THE AUSTEN FAMILY WAS SENSITIVE to the young lovers’ situation and, where possible, afforded them the privacy they deserved. On Tom’s last morning, Cassy came down to a household that was already hectic. She knew her work for the day. She went straight to the parlor, where her sister was sewing. Their brother, Frank, was now in the navy and needed new shirts. The two girls had been stitching their finest and fastest to get them done in time. Cassy made for her usual chair, but Jane, laughing, shooed her away.
She went through to the offices and her next pressing task of the morning: the bottling of the orange wine. If it was not done soon, there would be none for Christmas. This was urgent work indeed. Her mother was already there—apron on, face flushed, hair escaping from under her cap. And Cassy’s friend Martha was with her!
“You are not needed here, Cass.” Mrs. Austen took a measure of muslin. “I have a fine helper come from Ibthorpe for exactly this purpose.” She peered through the scullery window. “There is a good morning out there. You and Tom should seize it.”
Dear Martha—who always got the most happiness from enabling the happiness of others, who had never once known the pleasure of a walk with a young gentleman in crisp winter weather—first embraced and then directed her out of the room.
The day was, in fact, a little unsettled, but they wrapped up well and did as they were bid. The garden was sodden, the fields impassable, but though the mud was building, the Church Walk was still just good enough. Cassy balanced on her pattens. Once out of sight of the rectory, Tom gave her his arm.
It was a poignant outing for both. Tom Fowle had come to live with the family in his sixteenth year, to be educated by Mr. Austen. Here he had learned and grown up and become loved by all at the rectory. But from the beginning, his one, particular companion, with whom he shared an especial sympathy, was Cassy. For years they had been walking these lanes together, since she was a girl and he only on the cusp of manhood. As they grew, Cassy’s beauty bloomed to the point at which she was just the more handsome; her height stopped short of his at the requisite number of inches: They appeared to any beholder as the perfect young couple. Tom was already thought of as part of the family. Steventon was his home almost as much as it was hers.
“I shall miss this place,” he said grimly.
“Oh, Tom. It—we—I shall miss you.”
And then they talked—as they always talked when they were alone, without anyone else to tease them—about their joint future in minutest detail. Her favorite topic above all was their children. How she longed, how she ached for her arms to feel the warmth and weight of her own babies. It was what she was born for, she knew: to be surrounded by infants; to nurture; to care. They went through the naming process—her first girl would be Jane, after her sister, which she thought perfectly reasonable; his first son would be Fulwar, after his brother, which she rather did not—and moved on to the place that would be home to these offspring. And here the conversation took a more awkward turn.
“Unless we are in Shropshire, of course,” Tom was saying, quite casually.
“Shropshire!” Cassy could not stop herself gasping. The skies had turned gray; there was a smattering of rain. They were sheltering under the oak in front of the Digweeds’ house. Water dripped around them from the few remaining leaves.
“Why, yes. Lord Craven said so himself.” He inflated again. “Are there no limits to his influence? Not content with half Berkshire, he also has an estate out there, too!”
Since the moment of their engagement, Cassy had been planning her future in Berkshire. In all her fond imaginings—in those whimsical sketches a romantic young woman must somehow produce in her few idle afternoon moments—there had always been brick-and-flint cottages, gentle undulations, a parsonage solid and square. And in the background, off the page somewhere, there were Fowles close by and—this was important—Austens not too far. Surely that was the arrangement? She felt quite unsteady.
“It is good country around there,” Tom offered, but then immediately doubted it. “Is it not? Yes, I am sure someone has told me … Who was it, now?” Cassy knew that Tom had never developed a particular attachment to detail. “I think I believe I have heard that said.”
“Yes. I think perhaps I too have heard that.” In fact nobody around Cassy had ever testified to the goodness or otherwise of the country in Shropshire, not once in her life. She was certain of it. “It is just that … surely … the very great thing you are doing in joining the expedition … the prize would be … Well, we will be a little farther away than I had imagined, that is all…”
“Ah!” He brightened. “Yes.” He was triumphant. A fact had suddenly occurred to him. “I do know the living to be convenient for Ludlow.”
Convenient for Ludlow. Cassy thought for a while, and did try to find that consoling. She was alw
ays amenable, never known to be difficult, but even she could not find much consolation in Ludlow.
“Well, reasonably convenient, at least.” Tom looked vague again; confidence in his great fact was quickly diminishing. “Quite how convenient I am not at all sure.”
Cassy had lived all her life in Hampshire: To her it was God’s own country. She had been brave about Berkshire, accepting of her fate. Of course she must marry, Tom Fowle would be her husband—it was her destiny; indeed, her own good fortune—and so Berkshire it must be. That was quite exotic enough for Cassy. That was the limit of her own adventurous spirit. But Shropshire! That was foreign indeed.
A loud sigh escaped her. “I was just thinking of my family—our families—and the possibilities of visiting.”
“Ah, of course. Yes. Our families…” Tom pondered, while Cassy marveled that he had not thought of this sooner. “Well, with God’s blessing, we will soon have our own family to concern us. Wherever we live will become our home, will it not?”
“But we will still love them all! Even though we will have each other, and—God willing—children of our own. I cannot imagine how we will ever see our families again regularly, for we shall be several—many—days away.” Cassy’s mind, as always, turned at once to the practical. Her talent was for finding solutions, but on this she could see only difficulties—or, worse, realities, harsh and insuperable. How could her sister ever come to visit her? Which brother would give up all that time to escort her there? They could face years of separation! How could they bear it? What would Jane do?
Tom held out his upturned palm to check the rain was abating. “It may not come to that,” he said. “Let us not even discuss it. After all, I do have to get to and from the Windward Isles first.”
Immediately she was chastened, horrified, overcome by the force of her own selfishness. How dare she quail at the imaginary perils of England when he was off to face the real perils of heavens knew where?