by Gill Hornby
“I hope you ladies are enjoying your soup. I am not sure that I can quite take any at the moment. I am warm enough from the dance floor, and it is—as ever—too hot in here.”
Mary put down her cup and nodded earnestly. “How right you are, Mr. Austen, and how pleased am I to hear you say so. My sister was earlier remarking about the draft in here. Fancy! ‘Draft?’ said I. ‘What draft?’ And do you know what I said then? I said: ‘It is—as ever—too hot in here!’ Is that not the most remarkable coincidence, Mr. Austen? We both used the very same phrase.”
Jane’s face lit up with amusement. Cassy—who had not witnessed any discussion of a draft—was surprised to see how gratified her brother was by this support. He followed it up with a discourse on the music that evening: “I am quite sure it is an improvement on the last time I was here.”
“Why, how right you are again!” Mary seemed quite taken aback by the force of this insight. “I do not believe I even noticed until you said so. I am quite staggered it did not strike me at once. But it is—to be sure—a vast improvement on the last assembly. I could not agree more.”
Jane gave a loud snort. James’s mood expanded yet further. “And how pleasant it is to be agreed with, Miss Lloyd. As soon as we arrived, I struck up a conversation with young Terry about this season’s hunting. I merely said I hoped for better than last year, as to my mind last year was quite dull. So imagine my surprise when I found that we were in something of a dispute. Mr. Terry has memories of a blistering campaign against the fauna of Hampshire that I simply cannot recognize. So forceful was he I began even to doubt myself!”
“Oh, but it is your memory that is the correct one, sir!” Mary insisted. “Of course, I know nothing of hunting, but I have listened attentively to all your conversations on the subject. Well, all those I have been lucky enough to hear. And your reports were certainly of a general disappointment. I do hope,” she added earnestly, “that you enjoy better sport this year.”
* * *
“WELL, I MUST CONGRATULATE YOU, my dear sister,” Jane whispered to Cassy as they returned to the ballroom. “Victory is yours.”
“Do you think so?” For some reason, Cassy was suffering from a momentary loss of faith in her own plan.
“Oh, very much so.” Jane chuckled. “Mary played her best hand. We need no longer worry about her lack of a fortune, or flaking complexion. For a gentleman like our brother, there is no greater proof of superiority—in charm, wisdom, and intelligence—than agreement with his every word.”
Dancing resumed, and this time James led Mary onto the floor, and at last the other ladies were free to enjoy themselves—while keeping their eyes on the situation, like anxious aunts over a debutante charge. As the couple danced again—and again—they began to relax, began even to feel something like confidence.
The crowd was thinning by the time Mary finally came back to them. She was flushed now: flushed with exertion; flushed with her own natural high color since the paste had dropped and scattered all over the dance floor. And, on top of that, flushed with success.
“Well,” Martha cooed at her, patting her hair back. “You have a conquest there, Mary. Of that there is no doubt.”
“Oh, Martha.” Mary flicked her hand away. “I shall take wisdom from Cassy if I have to—she is betrothed. But you, my poor sister? What could you possibly know?”
7
Kintbury, March 1840
CASSANDRA HAD CHOSEN TO forget, and did not enjoy being reminded, that she had once been so energetic in her promotion of Mary Lloyd’s cause. Jane, of course, had foreseen the inherent problems right from the beginning: She could not—would not—trust a girl who was so dismissive of her sister, and never did share Cassy’s trust in the wisdom of their mother’s many plans. From the most tender age, she had a seer’s talent for the analysis of character and the prediction of disasters. She was, indeed, something of the Cassandra of legend. It was their joke that the name should rightly be hers.
Jane’s letter was unhelpful; Cassandra must remove it. For on becoming Mary Austen, Mary Lloyd had rewritten her own history. And in her version, it had always been a love match for James: unconquerable, inevitable. Were she to read this evidence of plotting and conniving, unpleasantness would surely follow.
Cassandra folded it up, rose, lifted the corner of the mattress under which she would hide it, when there was a quick rap at the door.
“She’s ’ere.” It was Dinah, flicking her head, rolling her eyes, and then remembering herself. “Sorry.” She bobbed, adding: “M’m.”
Cassandra looked up in horror. Caught red-handed in her room—surrounded by papers to which she had no right! She started to gather them all up, hurriedly, while Dinah stood there and watched her.
“Best leave all that for now, m’m. Miss Fowle needs you, most urgent, downstairs.”
She found herself being led away, feeling as befuddled as Dinah liked to imagine her. “But who is here, Dinah?”
By now they were on the main landing. There was some sort of commotion going on down in the hall.
“I was insistent that it could not be possible.” The shrill voice was quite unmistakable.
They moved toward the stairs.
“That no member of my family would come here without first informing me. It was a slur on my reputation to suggest it. I had no choice but to mount the strongest defense.” The speaker was clearly aggrieved.
They reached the turn at the window.
“Mrs. Bunbury and I had quite the falling-out on the matter. A falling-out that will not be easy to rectify. Things were said. There was a scene. It was really most unpleasant.”
They got to the foot, where the disturbance in the air was palpable.
“And not, with hindsight, my fault at all. Time will tell if she has the grace to apologize—”
Their presence was noticed.
“Ha! There. So it is true. You are here, Cassandra. Well. This is a surprise. And—if I may make myself plain, which I feel perfectly at liberty to do under the circumstances—not entirely a pleasant one.”
“Dear Mary.” Cassandra approached and bent to embrace her short, broad sister-in-law. “What a pleasure to see you. How good of you to come.”
Isabella, welcoming the protection, moved to her side. Pyramus stood with them and growled.
“And that dog is feral, as I have had cause to mention on many an occasion. Isabella, now your dear father is gone, it must hereon be banned from the house.”
Cassandra stroked Pyramus’s head, rubbed his ear with a new-sprung affection, and suggested they all might move through.
* * *
IT WAS NOT A COMFORTABLE VISIT for anyone. Mary Austen had come with a long list of grievances and an ungovernable impulse to air them forthwith.
“We are supposed to be sisters,” Mary chided Cassandra, “though I do know you never considered me quite good enough. Fred! Where is Fred? Where does that man hide himself? This is the most miserable fire.”
Isabella called for coffee, which Cassandra regretted: More stimulation was not what their visitor needed.
“And to think that you drove past the bottom of my lane without even telling me! Whatever crimes you imagine I have committed against you, I surely could never deserve such an insult as that.”
Dinah came in bearing a tray and an amused expression.
“Is that the best china you have left here? Then I suppose it must do.”
“I am very, very sorry, Mary, for my thoughtless behavior. I arrived only yesterday—” Cassandra began.
“According to Mrs. Bunbury’s coachman, who happened to speak to your man at the turnpike, who, mindful of his duties, reported it to her, who then took too much delight in telling me, you have been here two nights already. Can that possibly be true? Are you now to deny it?” She paused and for the first time looked around her. “Isabella, what have you been doing, dear? Why is this room not yet cleared?”
* * *
AFTER A SHORT LUNCH
EON, which did not at all agree with her—Dinah must know by now that she was never quite right after cheese—it at last seemed that Mary might be persuaded to leave.
“You must excuse me, Aunt Mary,” Isabella was saying, leading her guest back through to the hall. “As you yourself have pointed out, I have much to be getting on with.”
“Well, that is certainly true,” Mary conceded. “I had simply no idea how badly you were managing.” Dinah was already waiting with her outdoor clothes, and dressed her at speed.
“I shall be back, though,” she promised over her shoulder. The dog was herding her to the doorstep. “In the morning. I shall bring Caroline with me.” She stopped there, turned and glared round at all of them. “And—yes, I am of course horribly busy but I believe, with some effort, I can somehow effect it—we shall stay the whole day.”
In her wake, the household fell back exhausted, drained—like a body that had battled with fever. Dinah returned to the scullery, Isabella slumped off into a corner. Cassandra went back up the stairs. She could not count on her own privacy from the morrow onward, and determined to make progress with this one free afternoon.
Steventon Rectory
13 February 1797
My dear Eliza,
We see from the Register that Tom Fowle’s ship has now left San Domingo and our house is returned to a pitch of excitement. I can hardly imagine the emotions in Kintbury. All those many, long months of Tom’s absence! At last, we can start counting in weeks—or days, even—to the moment of his return. The relief—to be delivered of such a burden of worry! And now, because it is my wont to pick away at a thing while others embrace and enjoy it, I find myself wondering: what will he be like? After the voyage, the campaign, the experience, will we even know this new Tom Fowle? Oh, Eliza, I do hope so. He has always been quite the dearest of men. Of course, I pray that he comes back unscathed but, on top of that, also unchanged.
The weather stays sharp with us; the hail of the morning is now turning to snow. My sister and I do not mind it. It justifies us in doing that which annoys our household and brings us the most happiness: we stay in our dressing room and keep to ourselves. I amuse Cassy with words, and she attacks her trousseau with a new sense of urgency. Today, she is trimming a cap with lace that our brother Edward has given her, and very splendid it is, too—far too—fine for a humble Miss Austen; no doubt it will sit well upon the head of a proud Mrs. Fowle.
With the approach of Tom’s ship and, en suite, her own marriage, Cassy is all a jitter. For me—and I must stake my claim to be the person who loves her the most (apart, of course, from our Tom)—it is a delight to see her returned to high spirits. Though I will admit to some jitters of my own. It is finally here, the point at which she and I must separate and I take up my position of Solitary Daughter. I cannot welcome it, but I suppose I shall bear it.
And I do, of course, have my new sister, Mary, living close by me! That will be a comfort, no doubt. She and James seem all marital contentment—marital contentment being quite à la mode—and I can report that they call on us as often, if not more, than we could ever have hoped. That is in part due to my little niece, Anna—she still prefers to stay with us in the Rectory, but I think only because it is what she is used to. We have tried sending her back to Deane a few times, yet somehow she always seems to return. It cannot be long before she understands that Mary is her new mama, and that is her family. It will all work out well in the end, never fear.
I shall finish now, and return to our sisterly haven, while it is still mine to enjoy. No doubt, I can count on seeing you in person very soon, at some point during the nuptial celebrations. It will be a joyous event, and if I am seen to be crying, do make sure to tell the world that my tears are of pride. Not only will my Cassy be the most handsome of brides, but also the best possible wife.
Your dear friend,
J.A.
Cassandra was trembling. The letter fell from her hands. She was arrested—submerged—by a tide of self-pity that was quite overwhelming. The feeling was repulsive to her; one to which, ordinarily, she forbade entry. And yet now she could not even begin to control it. She read the date again. Yes. The very day, possibly—who could say?—the very moment. She surrendered the struggle; let the loathsome emotion wash over her. Oh! To reach across the years, and hold that poor little Cassy close in her arms.
* * *
BY APRIL THE SEASON WAS TURNING. In the garden, around the small village, out in the rolling country of Hampshire, all was fresh, new, and reborn; yet still, in the afternoons, the young Austen ladies did not venture out if it could be avoided. Through the dark winter months spent waiting, they had found joy here in their dressing room. The closeness that had existed between them since childhood was explored, developed—mined to a new depth that both found enriching. Each preferred the company of the other over anyone. A habit had been formed.
“You are writing at quite a pace today, Jane.” Cassy was kneeling and pinning the empty shape of a lilac gown that she, as Mrs. Tom Fowle, would soon one day inhabit. “Mind your hand. Are you sure you will be able to decipher it when you read to us this evening?”
“I am a novelist in haste, Cass.” Jane’s pen ran on; her voice was distracted. “If I am to finish this before we are all weddings and departures…” She looked up and smiled at her sister. “How I shall miss you, my dearest.”
“And I you.” Cassy swallowed hard, turning her eyes back to her needle. “It will be strange for us at first, I do not doubt. But then, this is something that most sisters must go through, must they not? And they seem to survive, somehow.”
“Most sisters? Is that how you think of us?” Jane was all playful outrage. “Then forgive me, Miss Austen, for my previous intimacies. I had mistakenly assumed myself of somewhat greater significance.”
“Oh, Jane!” Cassy looked up in horror. “You do know—”
“Yes, I do.” Jane softened. “Of course I do. And it is for love of you that I am rushing this composition. I am sparing you agonies of dismay and frustration. For how could you bear to be dragged off to wedlock without hearing this piece of perfection through to the end?” For a moment, she gazed out of the window; then she turned her eyes back to the page.
Cassy held up a needle. “Dearest, you have brought me such ease in this difficult period. As have the Bennets, of course.” She spoke through the thread between her lips. “It really has been most diverting.”
“And that is most gratifying to hear.” Jane bowed her head in acknowledgment. “For what do I live but to divert?” She drew a firm line with a flourish and collected the paper. “There. I have finished the chapter. Would you like to hear it now, or wait for the drawing room later? I shall not be offended. I know full well you cherish the invisible stitching on your own undergarments over anything my poor pen can produce.”
“Is it the ball? At last!” Cassy leaped up from the floor with a squeal. “Now! Please! I could not possibly contain myself all throughout dinner.” She took the chair next to Jane, fixed her eyes upon her. “Quickly, before we are disturbed.”
Now laughing, now gasping, Cassy listened in the warm, little dressing room with the blue-and-white-striped wallpaper: utterly, transfixedly, consumed with delight. Though when Jane read, in her best Mr. Bennet voice—“That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough”—she was moved to protest. She did not want any sort of interruption, yet interrupt here she must.
“Oh, Jane. Does she have to be called Mary? She is so perfectly dreadful. And our Mary believes she has a beautiful voice. We should go carefully. It will not go down well when she discovers it.”
“But how could she discover it? Our new sister has limited literary tastes: if it is not by her husband, then it cannot be good. A remarkably singular position to hold.”
They both giggled. The subject of James’s poetic endeavors was one they could only laugh at in private. “She certainly never sits still long enough to listen to anything I have writt
en,” Jane went on. “As soon as we begin, she is checking the weather and telling James they should leave. Or suddenly remembering some item of news or an inquiry she has for our mother.”
“Perhaps, well—it appears to me, and I do have some sympathy—she does not feel fully comfortable here when the family is in full flight. You do not appreciate, Jane, how blessed you are, being so clever with words and able to provoke laughter in any company. Your gift comes too easily.”
“But she has been coming here, and sitting with us, as our friend, for so many years! I have never noticed her terrible discomfort before.”
“But—could it be?—she feels a new need to shine in front of her husband, and that is hard for anyone to do in a room full of Austens,” Cassy countered. “Now she is of our family, she perhaps feels her disadvantage more keenly. Since her marriage—”
“Oh, marriage!” Jane retorted. “Marriage! Always the excuse for all failures of character. One does so long for it to bring some improvements, but more often it appears the root cause of all poor behavior. My own explanation is a simpler one and you must agree with me, Cass, even you who has not a bad word for anyone: the thrill of being Mrs. James Austen has quite gone to her head.”
“Well…” Cassy thought for a moment, and found she could not disagree. “I suppose she is very happy to be married to James. And, perhaps, for the moment, yes, a little … bumptious with it.”
Jane laughed. “You see? My theory put there in a nutshell: Even happiness in a bride is irksome to witness. And yet the happy single lady spreads universal delight!”
“Jane!” Cassy protested, while privately resolving never to behave so herself. “You know you do not mean that.”
“Oh, very well.” Jane reached across, and the sisters held hands. “I know that you, my dear, will be the perfect combination of marital joy and nobility of spirit; you shall serve as a model to the rest of this poor world.” She returned to her pages. “And I promise you: if things improve—should Mary ever recover from the thrills of her dazzling promotion—I will change it. Until then, please indulge me in this private joke with myself.” She turned back to her pages, and the glances of Darcy.