by Gill Hornby
Cassy sat in her blue armchair, soothed, bathing in her own pure contentment and ludicrous good fortune: The afternoon sun fell through the window, warming her hair; her betrothed was sailing home on his ship. Soon she would be married, and to one of the best, the kindest, the sweetest men there was in existence.
Yes, of course, she would own that she was still more than a bit nervous. And yes, she did worry about Jane. All their brothers had moved out now and onto their own no doubt glorious paths. Once she left, Jane would be all alone with their parents: the last one to be picked in the party game. It was an ignominious position, and there would be long moments of loneliness …
She pulled herself together, shifted her dark thoughts back toward the light. Jane’s destiny would make itself known, surely; Cassy was confident that her own marriage would be the best that marriage could possibly be: all would be well. And on top of all that to which they looked forward, the two sisters had for the past few months luxuriated in this period of perfect happiness. She could not, right then, understand how conjugal felicity could be any better than that which they enjoyed here in their dressing room. But it had to be done. And at least they had known bliss: ludicrous good fortune, indeed.
This new story of Jane’s was quite captivating. What a privilege it was to be the first audience. She already looked forward to hearing it again this evening, with the added delight of her family’s reaction. She loved knowing what was coming, anticipating their glee.
“… and even Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of ‘Lord, how tired I am!’ accompanied by a violent yawn…”
But at that moment there came a sharp knock on the door.
“No!” Cassy moaned. “I knew that would happen. Who is this come to ruin our fun? Dispatch them immediately. Say we are most terribly busy!”
Jane, laughing, jumped up and opened it.
Mary Austen was there on the threshold, four-square and determined. Behind her—wearing the gray, grave countenance of a reluctant executioner—lurked James.
8
Kintbury, March 1840
CASSANDRA FELT A LITTLE UNWELL the next morning—her limbs were heavy; she was shivery with cold—but she knew well enough to disregard it. She went down to breakfast and found she was alone: Isabella, too, she was told, was under the weather. Long experience taught her that—physically—each of them was perfectly well. There was no doubt of it. They were merely suffering the symptoms of a deeper malaise that was sadly incurable: Mary Austen would be here for the day.
With a sigh, Cassandra settled herself at table, with ham, eggs, and only Dinah for company. Sipping her tea, she thought of all the things she must do and had not yet even tried to accomplish. There should be at least a few hours of freedom due to her before the visitors arrived.
“Thank you, Dinah.” She watched as the maid poured some more for her. “I was thinking that I might call on Mrs. Dexter after breakfast.”
“You’re going there?” Dinah thumped down the teapot. “Well, if it pleases you.” She turned back to the sideboard, muttering audibly: “Each to her own.”
“I am troubled, Dinah, by this issue of where Miss Isabella might now live. It surely makes sense that she should be with her sister. But there seems to be some sort of stalemate?”
“Is that what you call it? It may not be my business to say so—”
It was not, though Cassandra had early on established that Dinah’s position in the household with just the one mistress was now something beyond that of the ordinary servant.
“—but Mrs. Dexter has been no sort of friend to Miss Isabella lately. That I can tell you.”
Cassandra sighed once again. She and her siblings were, to one another, a source of constant love and cheerful support. It was such a sadness to find other families so differently arranged.
“But surely, if Miss Isabella and Mrs. Dexter were to live together, spend more time with each other, they would find they had more in common than not?”
Dinah shot her a pitying look—not dissimilar to that which Jane might shoot when Cassandra was too optimistic about the redemption of others—gave a sniff of derision, and withdrew the jam.
“Thank you, yes, I am sure I had finished with it.” That was a little regrettable. She had been looking forward, keenly, to jam. “And what about you, Dinah? Has a new position been found for you yet?”
“I’m staying with Miss Isabella,” she replied firmly. “We’ve been together too long to change now.”
“Ah. And you can both go to Mrs. Dexter’s?”
“I’m not going there.”
“So you would prefer it if instead Miss Isabella and her other sister, Miss Elizabeth, took a place in the village?”
“No.” And then, grudgingly: “But at least she’s behaved a bit better than her.”
“Well.” Cassandra folded her napkin and rose from the table. “It seems to me that those are the only two options.”
“If you say so.” Dinah removed everything tempting from the table—“You know best, m’m”—and left the room.
Perhaps it was just Dinah—the overmighty Dinah—who was obstructing all progress in this matter. But what- or whoever might be the impediment, it was imperative that the matter was now resolved. For Cassandra knew from experience that, for the spinster on a limited income—most spinsters, therefore, at least of her own acquaintance—these moments of transition were the moments of danger. They could arrive without warning, lift the roof from your head, remove the table at which you once sat every evening. And even, if you were careless or simply unlucky, pluck the food straight out of your mouth. This was the peril inherent in every single situation. It took quick thinking, courage, sometimes something as low and unseemly as cunning, in order to simply survive.
The trick was to find some pattern in the chaos, trace the path to your own destiny, grope your way forward. Cassandra had been forced to realize that early, although, looking back, she must admit that even she had taken her time, and the occasional wrong turn. But poor Isabella had been cosseted and protected by family life and the family home until now—and this was her forty-first year! She clearly had never developed an idea of, or instinct for, her own comfort.
Yes, this needed resolving. Miss Austen would see to it today.
* * *
MARY-JANE DEXTER’S COTTAGE—a long, low, and ancient affair—sat beyond the flint wall on the other side of the church. It was one of the nearest houses to the vicarage, and Cassandra marveled that two sisters such as Isabella and Mary-Jane could be so physically close and yet so effectively distant. She went through the front garden gate, approached, knocked and—yet again—found herself waiting for entry.
At last a deep voice came out through the doorframe: “Who goes there?” Mary-Jane had spent much of her married life out in India. The experience had left her with a certain distrust.
“Mrs. Dexter, dear, it is I, Miss Austen,” she called back, feeling a little absurd. “Come to call on you.”
There was a pause. Bolts were drawn, locks were turned, and with a loud creak—as if it had not done so for decades—the oak door yielded and Cassandra was in.
“Forgive me.” The two women embraced. Mary-Jane stuck her head out, scouted the churchyard and cottages for threats and insurgencies, then pushed Cassandra through to the hall. “One cannot be too careful.” There was a great deal of rebolting, relocking. “You should not have come alone, Cassandra. It can be dangerous around here, you do know.”
“Oh?” Cassandra was surprised. “To my eyes Kintbury seems peaceful enough.”
“With respect, you were not witness to the riots ten years ago.”
“No, I was not. And I gather they were most unsettling, but lasted only a day or two, I understand?”
“It seems longer when you live with unrest, I can tell you. I have seen some things in my day.” Mary-Jane, a short, wide woman with a square, ruddy face and no-nonsense hairstyle, was dressed—well, Cassand
ra was not qualified to assess it. Suffice to say, she was prepared for conditions and climate not previously known to West Berkshire. “I sleep with my late husband’s gun under my pillow now.” She tilted her chin with defiance. “And—so help me—I will not hesitate to discharge it, if needs must.”
They moved into the parlor, and once her eyes were accustomed to the gloom, Cassandra took in her surroundings. Miss Austen was not a well-traveled woman. She had never been farther east than Kent—had certainly never been as far as Bengal. And standing in Mary-Jane’s quaint Tudor dwelling, she was amused to discover that she now did not need to: much of Bengal having, conveniently, come here.
Tigers bared their teeth at her, elephants their tusks. Under glass, a menacing snake—she chose to presume stuffed—was coiled, ready to strike. On every surface were enough swords to sever the heads from a multitude of rural workers impudent enough to ask for fair pay. A curious fragrance filled the room, which brought to mind some receipt of Martha’s. It must be her curry, though there was some other musklike ingredient in play. She looked around to find somewhere to settle. “What interesting things you have accumulated, dear.”
Mary-Jane picked up an animal skin and tossed it on the carpet. She watched, waited for the dust clouds to clear; then she indicated the bench: “Sit yourself down here.”
The guest did as bid, while her hostess lowered herself to the floor—with some effort as her limbs were not long—crossed her legs, and reached for her pipe.
Cassandra studied her for a moment. Again, like Isabella, Mary-Jane was not what one would expect to be the issue of Eliza. Her friend had been beautiful and gracious. These daughters must surely have come as something of a disappointment: None of them had been blessed with the mother’s many charms. Of course it could be a burden to a girl to be born of a perfect mother: to feel that she is making no contribution to humanity’s progress. Perhaps that had affected them. In that regard she and Jane had been lucky. Mrs. George Austen was of course splendid, too, in so many ways, but not least in her casual disregard for the concealment of her flaws.
“I had heard you were here, Cassandra. Forgive me for not visiting you,” Mary-Jane was now saying. “Dare not risk it at this time of year, when the days are so short. I could get trapped there! By darkness!” Her small brown eyes flared at the thought.
“Oh, I quite understand. And Isabella has been looking after me quite impeccably.”
Mary-Jane tamped down her pipe. “Brave little thing. Heart of an ox. No idea how she manages there alone.” She took a long draw. “Still, she will be coming to live with me when the old house is cleared out. Safe here. Away from the natives.”
“Ah, is that settled, then? She is to join you? I was not sure—”
“What else would she do?” Mary-Jane shot back, suddenly angry.
Cassandra was quite taken aback by her tone. “Well—”
“Do not tell me there is a return to that nonsense!” She was shouting. “My parents would not tolerate it! They would turn in their graves!”
“‘Nonsense’? What nonsense?” Cassandra was starting to feel nervous. It was as if Fulwar were miraculously resurrected and returned to them. “I am not sure I quite follow—”
Mary-Jane calmed down. “No? That is all right, then.” She puffed on her pipe. “No harm done.”
* * *
CASSANDRA STAYED ONLY AS LONG as was courteous, and not a minute more. With enormous relief she returned to the vicarage, more delighted than was usual to find the reassuring figure of her niece, Mary’s daughter Caroline, waiting in the hall.
“Aunt Cass, how good—” When she was able, Caroline drew back from the unexpected, untypical warmth of the greeting. “Heavens. Are you quite well? You seem not much yourself.”
Cassandra, who did not like to appear foolish, composed herself. “Yes, thank you. Never robust, as you know, but doing quite well enough. What a pleasure to have you here for the day.”
“Not all pleasure, Aunt.” Caroline lowered her voice and tipped her head to one side. “My mother is in there. We are come here to work.”
“Ah.” Cassandra shed cloak and bonnet, steeled herself, and made for the drawing room. All brightness, she said: “Mary. Good day.” Then: “Oh, dear!”
Mary was laid out on the sofa, with one leg balanced on a high pile of pillows and a collection of medicines by her side. “It is the most cursed luck, Cassandra. I woke up this morning, all happy anticipation of a solid day’s labor, only to find that while I slept my foot had become most horribly afflicted.”
“Your foot?” Cassandra moved to the patient, examined her, but could find no obvious external symptoms. “How strange.”
“Well, indeed. As you know, I have always been unusually lucky in the foot department. Mrs. Bunbury suffers with hers most particularly. Never stops moaning, to the extent that it is hard to find sympathy. One does value bravery in others, above all. And of course, though I am no stranger to suffering, my feet are among the best parts of me. I had no idea of the agony they can cause one, till now.” She lifted a limb, gasped, and fell back. “The upshot of it—and this distresses me greatly—is that I cannot do anything but lie here today. Nevertheless, while suffering, I have come up with a table of tasks that the rest of you might accomplish, under my guidance.” She passed the paper to Cassandra, made herself yet more comfortable on the sofa, and added: “Oh, and please tell Dinah we shall, after all, be staying for dinner. I know that none of you would want me to hurry home in this sorry state.”
* * *
THE DAY DID, AT LEAST, pass quickly. The house was moved further toward some sort of order. And Mary’s mysterious condition kept her downstairs and away from the letters. It also forced her away from the dinner table. She took her meal on the sofa, while the three mild-mannered women dined contentedly alone.
It was with some reluctance that they rose and moved through to the drawing room. Caroline—the most hardened by battle with her mother—led the way; Cassandra brought up the rear. At the doorway, she thought to thank Dinah.
“Yes, m’m.” Dinah nodded, heaping plates on a tray. “And how passed your morning? I ’ope you found a pleasant welcome from Mrs. Dexter?”
“Very pleasant, yes, thank you,” Cassandra replied properly. “I was interested to see her—er—fascinating house at last.”
Dinah put down her tray and came close to Miss Austen. “You didn’t say anything did you, m’m? Nothing to suggest we might think of going there?”
Cassandra had always been the kindest of employers. A certain warmth, a dash of intimacy between servant and mistress were, over time, unavoidable and also, managed correctly, promoted efficiency. However, insubordination at this level was not only outrageous—astonishing!—but bound to create difficulties. It must be stamped out at once.
“Thank you for your interest, Dinah. Naturally I could not disclose that which was said in a private conversation. We would like tea, now, please, by the fire.”
* * *
CASSANDRA WATCHED THE TWO cousins busy themselves with pouring and serving, and was struck—and touched—by the familial connection between them. Isabella and Caroline were close in age, and similar in build—trim-enough figures, average sort of height. There was nothing in the appearance of either woman to which an onlooker could reasonably object.
And yet they shared the same destiny—or rather, the lack of one: a spinsterhood spent in long-suffering service to parent and siblings. Not that there was anything wrong with spinsterhood—far from it! But when the spinster herself was so reluctant about it as these two women were: Well, that was a shame.
Isabella, she suspected, was, in some measure, the victim of parental neglect. Fulwar and Eliza had put considerable energy into their eldest daughter Mary-Jane’s match, and when the only candidate insisted on removing her to India, were conspicuously brave in containing their grief. By contrast, the prospects of their younger daughters, who had the virtue of being much easier characters, were
not blessed with such keen attention.
With Caroline, she knew and had been its witness, the problem was one of maternal control. Though Mary herself had benefited enormously from the institution of marriage, she held no similar ambitions for her offspring. She liked, at all times, to have Caroline beside her, and found no pleasures in wider society.
Still, Cassandra had often wondered that neither Isabella nor Caroline had found suitors of their own. After all, many a more unattractive woman was married; plenty of less sympathetic women had children. Yet somehow these two had failed to provoke Life into noticing them. It had simply just passed them by.
Were she to work on their likenesses—Had anyone ever done so? Neither had the sort of personal power that inspired others to cause their likenesses to be taken—Cassandra would use only charcoal for Isabella. With the exception of those bright blue eyes, and the pale brown hair that had not yet any gray, she was otherwise a naturally monochrome creature. Caroline, though, would demand the use of her colors—the stronger, the redder, the better—for she flushed at the merest suggestion of attention. A casual “Good morning” could provoke the deepest of hues.
Caroline was reddening now as she asked Isabella a question. Her voice was low, but the room was all ears: “So have you seen the good doctor since the funeral?”
“Doctor?” Mary’s voice cut in from the sofa. “Are you, too, unwell, Isabella?”
“Quite well, thank you, Aunt Mary. Other than the stress of my current situation.” Isabella rattled the cups as she passed round the tea.
“Ah. This must be the doctor Caroline speaks of, who attended your father?” Mary turned to Cassandra: “You may not know that Caroline offered an incalculable support to the family when Fulwar was dying. The poor girl was quite wrung out by it, here all the time.”