by Gill Hornby
“Miss Austen.” The negligible bob, a curt sniff. “Is there something I can do for you, m’m? Lost your bearings again, is it?”
Another suggestion of her incipient senility. “Not at all. I…” It was simply easier to pretend it was so. “Yes. I am sorry. I cannot remember why it was I came in here.”
Dinah looked satisfied. “Been looking for you, m’m. Was quite worried when you weren’t in your room.” Her room! The letters—unhidden! “So I cannot help you at all?”
“No. Thank you, Dinah. I am quite well. In fact, I think I may have a walk before breakfast.”
“As you wish, m’m.” Dinah creaked a knee before vanishing down the back stairs.
Cassandra retreated back to her chamber and, though she feared that particular horse had already bolted, collected the papers and hid them under the mattress. And she realized it was true: Some fresh air was just what she needed. A good walk would always buck one up.
An encouraging smell drifted across from the bakehouse, but otherwise the household was quiet. Isabella, no doubt, still languished in bed. Cassandra met no one on the landing, took the stairs as quietly as possible, and stepped around Pyramus, who was stretched, luxuriously, out on the rug. The dog struggled to his feet. She did not greet him, certainly did not invite him, and yet, it seemed, he would be coming. They carefully negotiated the chaos of the hall and together set off into the morning.
To the right, past the church, was the village, which would, of course, already be busy. There would be plenty of dear, familiar faces up there who would be more than happy to stop what they were doing and talk. But, huddling into her shawl, Cassandra at once turned left, her companion padding beside her, over the bridge and down onto the towpath beside the canal. She had villagers aplenty of her own back in Chawton. What there was not at home—the duck pond, though charming, could not help its own limitations—was the joy of a waterside walk.
How things had changed since that first Christmas when she was staying with Tom. Back then, there had been only a humble little river. This canal, now all boats and business, was but a plan and a controversy. She remembered the debates about it while sewing with Eliza in the drawing room every evening. Fulwar was, of course, loudly, in favor. He strode around, declaiming: The March of Progress! The Wonders of Communication! The new varieties of employment! While old Mr. Fowle sat in his chair and worried about the crime and corruption it would bring. And Tom?
Tom was greatly interested in the engineering of it, but otherwise unengaged. Though he liked to imagine their future together, he did not talk much of the future in general. Now that Cassandra thought about it, he never once showed any interest in the new century that was upon them or the changes, the revolutions, it might bring. How queer she had not noticed that before. A filthy, thin little lad rushed past her, jumped onto a coal boat, and got his ear clipped. She stopped and stood, watched the sunlight dapple the water, and looked over to the island, where a duck sat on eggs and her drake busied around with a beak full of twigs. A large sigh escaped her and, hearing herself—where did that come from?—she was suddenly reminded that she was now an old lady. With all this reminiscing, she had quite forgotten the fact. How foolish to hang about in the damp at this hour of the morning. If she did not keep moving she would doubtless catch a chill, and then where would she be? She pressed on toward the wharf, but that looked far too crowded at this time in the morning. Perhaps she would turn and go into the village after all.
She looked up at the bridge before her, and noticed a little black figure. Why, Isabella was out even before her! So not languishing in her room at all.
“Miss Fowle!” They could walk back home together, Cassandra thought. “Miss Fowle!”
Her thin voice could not carry above the canal noise. She tried waving, but Isabella did not seem to notice.
“Miss Fowle!” Pyramus barked, trying to be helpful.
Isabella ducked away as a gentleman approached her. Cassandra was closer now and could see them more clearly. This was not a person she immediately recognized. Indeed, was he even a gentleman? She could not quite tell. He was not a tall man, quite stocky. He and Isabella had fallen into what looked like deep conversation. Cassandra left the towpath and hurried up to the lane. Did Isabella need rescuing? If only her legs would move a bit faster.
“Miss Fowle!” She reached the bridge. “Isabella! I am here!”
But … how very odd: Isabella and the mysterious “gentleman” were no longer there.
* * *
BREAKFAST WAS SILENT. Isabella, forbearing to mention either meetings or gentlemen, seemed mournful and subdued. Her eyes were swollen; her complexion was mottled: She had clearly been crying. She must miss her father—and, lately, her oppressor?—more than anyone could understand. Dinah, unnaturally attentive that morning, fussed about. Isabella sipped the tea that was poured for her but did not touch any food, and when the clock chimed the hour, made her excuses and left. Cassandra wondered that the early-morning outing had not inspired an appetite in Isabella. She herself was quite hungry, and ate well, though alone. When finished, she went out into the hall.
The door was shut on Fulwar’s study, but the sound of voices came through it. That was odd. She had not heard any arrivals. Intrigued, Cassandra moved over and loitered a little.
“Six times seven is forty-two,” a small boy was chanting.
“And rise and shine?” Isabella seemed to have pulled herself together.
“Seven times seven is forty-nine!”
“Well done, Arthur. You have practiced well this week. I am pleased with you.”
Of course Isabella took in pupils. She had been raised by her mother to be a good daughter of the parsonage, and a good daughter of the parsonage she had turned out to be.
How the village would miss having this family at its center. To lose a much-loved vicar was one blow; to lose his womenfolk quite another. Fulwar was a popular preacher, an active and, on the whole, fair politician, but he had spent much of his week riding to hounds. It was the women who provided the vital care the parishioners needed: the broth for the sick, the clothes for the poor, the basic education. Cassandra smiled with satisfaction and thought again how the Fowles were like the Austens, in so many ways.
As it seemed the household would make no sort of claim on her this morning, Cassandra went once again back to her room. A maid had been in: Her pot was emptied; there was fresh water in her washstand. She rushed to the mattress and lifted it: Yes, the letters were still there, undisturbed. The one great indulgence that had been afforded Miss Murden was a rather threadbare armchair beneath the little window—perhaps the poor woman herself had worn it so thin? Cassandra settled herself down to return to her labors.
6
Steventon Rectory
4 October 1796
My dear Eliza,
I am so pleased to hear that you are much stronger in body—and sorry, but not surprised, that your spirits remain low. Of course, I have no experience of the sorrow you feel, but I do have deep sympathy and a rich imagination. And thus armed, I cannot agree with the rest of your family. You have suffered a loss as profound as any death, and have had not yet a year to recover. That your poor baby only lived for a day is quite immaterial. We do not calculate love by the hours spent with the loved one. Please know that you are in our thoughts and our prayers.
All that said, it seems I simply do not have it in me to write a letter that is all on one shady note of sadness and condolence. With my pen in my hand, I find there is nothing for it but to at least try and amuse you, and bring in a glimmer of light, if just for a moment. I am sorry. Forgive me. It is a failing I have. And there is so much going on here that I think will amuse you—it is all too hard to resist.
For lately our quiet little home has been transformed into the most industrious marriage market! For a connoisseur of domestic drama—such as myself—it is almost impossibly diverting. My eyes have quite left my head and now sit permanently on stalks. I need not
tell you that I play no part in it at all, other than that of delighted observer. It is all the doing of my mother and sister, and each is enjoying herself hugely. That Mrs. Austen is up to her tricks will not surprise you—she prefers matching over any other form of employment. Cassy’s part in it all, though, is more unexpected. I can only put it down to her own elevated status as an engaged woman. She has a future husband, so everyone must have one—as when one is suffering from the coughs or the sneezes, it is a great comfort if others are similarly afflicted.
I must add that no attempts are being made to match me—or none of which I am aware. Perhaps I shall wake up one day and find myself ushered before an altar, but I rather suspect not. It pleases me to report that my own fortunes are being quite overlooked. In fact, dear Eliza, it is your two sisters who form the objects of all this activity. Now, please admit it—you do find this amusing! I knew that you would.
Let me start with the eldest. It has been decreed, by the Austen ladies, that your dear sister Martha shall marry my dear brother Frank. Yes, I know as well as you do that there are problems inherent in this arrangement. He is much Martha’s junior, far away at sea and years off being wed—all mere inconveniences, according to the plotters. There is also the small matter that Frank has never, as far as I am aware, expressed any opinion on Martha. That bothers me less, as who could fail to love such a kind and intelligent woman? I should marry her myself if I could. But putting all that aside, the marriage will happen, or so I have been firmly informed. And on Frank’s next shore leave—poor lamb, he cannot know what is about to hit him!—he too will be apprised of his own situation. I do hope he has the sense to comply.
But more immediately, the scheme to attach your sister Mary to my brother James is progressing at full pelt. Mary has been staying with us for a week, at my mother’s instigation, so that James cannot avoid her when he comes here. And, whether by coincidence or design, he happens to visit us every day! Mrs. Austen is in paroxysms of excitement and, for once, I do not think it is a case of her imagination getting the better of her. For all the time that James is conversing with us, he is studying Mary discreetly. His eyes follow her about; when she leaves, his gaze lingers on the door. It is not yet love, as far as I can gauge it—do not hope for that—but it is a profound interest. He is assessing her, considering her, in that slow and serious way of his.
I must warn you that there are other young ladies in the county who have their sights on him. Is it not interesting that a widower in indifferent humor should have so much choice, when your cheerful sisters have so little? But do not worry. My mother has decided that your Mary shall triumph and, as we well know, when Mrs. Austen has decided then the fates must abandon their designs and bend to her shape. And for all our sakes—not least that poor motherless child of his—James must marry again soon.
Tomorrow night, we are all to go to the Basingstoke Assembly—Martha is joining us!—and I have a feeling that, there, the situation may reach its conclusion. And if so, I shall be as delighted as my whole family. For I shall have had my revenge on you then, Eliza: you will have my own darling sister, but I shall have one of yours!
As ever,
J. Austen.
The Assembly Rooms were humming, the dance floor was filling, and over by the wall, the four ladies—Cassy and Jane, Martha and Mary Lloyd—stood alone in a cloud of anxiety.
“There. I knew it. I feared this would happen.” Mary Lloyd dropped, with a dejected thump, onto a chair. With a little more grace, the other three took their seats beside her. “He has not looked at me, not once, since the moment of our arrival.”
All relevant feminine eyes searched the crowds to find the figure of James Austen. He was over on the far side with his back to them, in animated conversation with friends—as if they alone were the party; as if there were no others at all in the room.
“I am sure he is merely greeting the Terrys,” Cassy was swift to reassure her.
“It is not entirely unreasonable of James to be sociable,” Jane cut in briskly, “at what is, after all, a social event.” She flicked open her fan. The evening was only beginning, but Cassy could see that Jane’s patience had already worn dangerously thin.
Martha patted Mary’s knee—the pat of a kindly, consoling, concerned elder sister.
Mary remained unconsoled. “I should never have got my hopes up,” she moaned. “Why would a man like James look at me? Oh, Cassy,” she sighed dramatically. “Would that I were as handsome and elegant as you.”
Martha looked down at her hands. Jane raised an eyebrow.
“I have never seen you look as elegant as you look this evening,” said Cassy warmly. The ladies had spent hours on Mary’s preparations. A new paste had been purchased from the apothecary, the very latest method for concealing the smallpox scars with which she was so horribly afflicted. Its application had proved a little trying. “I would go so far as to say that you are glowing.” In fact the paste was now starting to flake in a manner that was rather alarming. Cassy worried that the heat of the room might be having an adverse effect.
“And that pale blue does become you so,” Martha added. “I wish I could alight on a color that served my complexion so well. I fear this pink might be a mistake.”
Mary, encouraged, smoothed her own muslin with quiet satisfaction, but issued no compliment in return.
The band struck up a cotillion, and the dancers arranged themselves. Jane stood up. “Well, I, for one, do not intend to spend the whole evening staring at the back of my brother. Come, let us take to the floor.”
Cassy longed to dance, but was torn. Mary was clearly not quite in the mood, and she felt more than a little responsible. But before there was time to decide, the door opened. A new party blew from the night into the brightly lit hall. And she turned and saw there, on the threshold, a new—much discussed, deeply dreaded—threat to the evening. Cassy’s heart fell with a thud.
She leaped up and blocked Mary’s vision. “Instead, why do we not take a turn about the room?”
But it was too late. “No! She has come!” Mary wailed, her neck flushed and mottled. “Cassy, you said she was out of the country! That is it. I am sunk.”
“Nonsense,” Cassy retorted firmly. She pulled Mary out of her chair, and signaled to the others that they too must help her. “There is no evidence whatsoever that James has even noticed Miss Harrison. He has never before mentioned her to me.”
The ladies began what was hoped to be a dignified parade through the hall, the Lloyd sisters in front, the Austens, arms linked, following behind. Cassy sighed heavily.
Jane leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper. “This scheme of yours, Cassy, to bring Mary into our family … You are quite convinced it is sound?”
“Why, of course!” Cassy replied. “Mama believes—”
“Oh, Mama!” Jane interrupted. “Do not talk of Mama. She merely favors marriage in general. She cannot help herself. But what of you, Cass? What of us, indeed? Do we truly want Mary as our future sister?”
“Jane!” Cassy laughed. “The Lloyds are our greatest friends, are they not? And the sisters of Eliza. We will be all of one clan. There never was a more perfect arrangement.”
They sidestepped the dancers, and were forced back into the wall.
“I would say that Martha is our great friend, certainly,” said Jane. “And Eliza, of course. But Mary … would you not say Mary is of a more difficult nature?”
“Oh, Jane. Why must you be always the pessimist? Any character flaws on display at the moment are due entirely, in my view, to the fragility of her confidence. Once settled, Mary will bloom. Mama and I are in one accord on it. My only concern now”—they had reached the top of the room, and Cassy looked about her—“is that this evening is shaping into a perfect disaster. I must salvage it. Where is James?”
She studied the dance floor. James was on it, in partnership with Miss Harrison—now smiling, now laughing, his poor widower’s spirits seemingly banished. She glanced o
ver at Mary, and watched as a tear—ill advised and regrettable—cut a livid, red path down a white pasty cheek.
“I have a new idea,” she called, brightly, over the noise. “We should withdraw for a while. It is not long till supper. I hate to be last and deprived of a good seat.”
They were the first there by at least twenty minutes, which three of them spent in false animation, while Mary sat blowing her nose. At last James came through. Mercifully, he was alone. Cassy jumped up and took him to one side.
“Rather a good evening, much to my surprise.” He was quite uncommonly cheerful. “I hope you are enjoying yourselves. I have not seen you since the coach!”
“It does seem a success,” she began, with some caution. “Though I am surprised that you have not yet asked Mary to dance.”
“Mary?” The very fact of her existence seemed to have slipped James’s mind.
“Miss Mary Lloyd.” Cassy smiled. “It looks a little strange, Brother, when she is staying as our guest and you have spent so much time together lately. I think it would be in order for you to pay some attention to her now.” She paused, breath bated. It was not in her character—and had never before been necessary—to tell her eldest brother how to behave, and she was not sure quite how she would now be received.
Fortunately his new good humor was robust and undentable. “If you say so, dear Cass. Of course.” He took her arm and led her over to the small, feminine party. “Is there space at this delicate table for one hungry man? Might I join you?”
In the moment it took for James to pull out a chair and be seated upon it, Mary’s countenance altered. While he stood, she was the picture of Tragedy; when he sat, the embodiment of Joy. Only a man with no vanity could fail to notice the difference between the two Marys, or believe that difference was not down to him. And for all his many excellent qualities—he was intelligent, articulate, loyal, and godly—James Austen was not a man without vanity. He did notice, and was visibly pleased.