by Gill Hornby
“I think not,” said Cassy quietly. “It appears that Tom did not mention me to his patron.” Her throat tightened. “Or so I have been told.”
“Told by whom?” Jane demanded.
Cassy looked to her lap.
“Mary!” Jane set off on a furious pace about the room. “Well. She was most conscientious in her duties indeed, that she felt she must include even that manner of detail.”
“Please.” Cassy raised her hand to put a halt to Jane’s raging. “Let us not pick over it. It is not helpful.” Tom’s omission was certainly hurtful. But in the great scheme of her agonies, she found it provoked but a moderate pain.
Jane quietened and sat again. “So. One thousand pounds. It is still not very much—is it?—for a gentleman of nine-and-twenty and a sound education.”
“I fear life treated him ill.” Cassy winced as that hideous vision revisited her: Tom sick and dying; his young body slipping below the surface of the water; falling alone, unheard and unwitnessed, to that foreign seabed. She hid her hands under her skirts to conceal their shaking and looked out of the window. “But I shall be sure to always be grateful. I am now covered, at least, for any emergency that might strike.”
“Indeed. And yet…”
They sat, each in silent computation, both achieving the same, irrefutable, result. One thousand pounds, over a long life, used carefully, keeping enough in reserve to ward against calamity, came to this: Cassy could put her own pennies in the poor box, and trim her own caps.
Jane saw that she was shivering, wrapped a shawl round her shoulders, and tucked it tight. It was not, though, the cold that affected her, nor, just at that moment, the loss of her Tom. Rather it was the knowledge of her own vulnerability: the years she faced alone with minimal protection.
Of course Jane understood that. “Oh, Cass. What is to become of us? How do you think we will make it through, when Papa is gone and we have to leave Steventon?”
Cassy fixed on her brave face. “You will be established long before then, dearest.”
“I will not.” Jane’s voice was low. “I know that is not going to happen.”
“What about this Mr. Blackall, who is soon to be delivered to the county for your delectation? Everyone has high hopes of the match. He may well turn out to be perfect.”
“I very much doubt it. I could never, anyway, think of leaving you now.”
“That is silly. It is time for you to start making an effort, and not discount every man at first sight. And I shall survive—in great style, thanks to my one thousand pounds! Please look to your own future. There is no need to worry about me.”
Cassy wanted to scream, rage at the Furies who had conspired against her, but did not. She simply reminded herself to be grateful, and returned to her tasks. It would be wise to reply to Eliza later: The matter was too delicate to rush at. She moved on to the next in her pile.
“Ah! This is from Edward. He invites me to Kent. Henry can deliver me…” She read on.
“Yes, well, do remember that Elizabeth is approaching her confinement.” Jane sounded caution. “I am quite sure they would welcome you, but truly, Cass, you are not currently strong enough to take on all that work.”
“Strong!” The word flashed through her. “I am perfectly strong, Jane. And, anyway, they cannot be expecting to use me at this sort of notice. Elizabeth is bound to have her arrangements in place. After all, they knew that I could not be avail—” She stopped. She had not been asked to help with this baby because this was the month in which she was expected to wed. “I think you are being too cynical, Jane. Listen. He writes: I think of you often, dear Sister, and would do anything to be with you there, to offer you comfort. You must understand that this is not the right moment to leave my family. But if it would help you to come to us here … You see? Edward is simply being kind.”
Jane, though unconvinced, did not argue further but returned to her writing; Cassy sat and thought for a while. The fact was that she was finding her position at home in the rectory difficult. She had long ago become used to pleasing; she liked to look at her parents and see contentment, pride, a sense of satisfaction reflected back in their eyes. This new identity—the black-clad Tragedy Queen—compounded her misery. Her father looked across the silent dinner table and sighed; her mother burst into tears whenever she walked into a room. She was reduced now, subsumed: the symbol of loss.
There was even, for the first time in their lives, a new awkwardness with her sister. On that first afternoon after Mary and James had broken the news, Jane had been horribly shaken by the one, short, private outburst of grief that could not be contained. Since then Cassy had resolved never to expose her to it again, with the result that her nights were yet more uncomfortable. In their snug, little bedroom, she had to feign sleep until Jane herself slept. Only then could she turn on her side, gag her mouth with a handkerchief, and weep silently until she was spent.
They were, the four of them, now locked into this unhappy situation. All needed to break free of it. To Kent, Cassy decided, she must go.
* * *
“MY DEAR SISTER!” EDWARD AUSTEN stood in the elegant porch of his gracious home, sleek with contentment and acting for all the world as if nothing had changed since the last time they met. “I hope your journey was pleasant? You picked a fine day for it.” He guided her through to the ample hall. “I know you will want to gather yourself”—the footman saw to her luggage, a maid vanished her cloak away—“but, I must tell you, the children are quite wild with excitement. If you do not soon go to the nursery, they may be in danger of bursting!”
Cassy was on the stairs before she noticed that her brother had made no mention of her bereavement or her pallor or her now-skeletal frame. Of course Edward had already dealt with the matter in their earlier correspondence. He would feel no need to raise it again. With a sense of relief she followed the maid down the long corridor, past a sequence of doors opening onto sunny, south-facing bedrooms: There was space enough here to contain any number of heartbroken young ladies, where they could weep undisturbed. She was shown into her own room, tested the mattress on the pretty bed with its muslin hangings, and found it to her liking.
A wisteria bloom peeked through the window. She lifted the sash, drank in the scent, surveyed the Kentish countryside arranging itself fetchingly into the distance, and then looked down to the lawn, where her two brothers walked side by side. Resting her forehead on the cool glass, she watched and wondered if they—as everyone at Steventon did, constantly—were talking about her. But studying the set of their heads, catching the occasional outburst of carefree laughter, she deduced they were not. These men had more cheerful matters to concern them; neither was minded to dwell on misfortune for long. And she thought: All this is just what I needed. Here, for a while, I might find some relief.
* * *
EDWARD LIVED IN A WHOLE other world from the rest of the Austens. Though not the most intelligent or talented member of the family—indeed, far from it—he was the luckiest by some considerable measure. Through the simple virtues of his charm and easy good nature, he had been adopted at the age of fourteen by their distant relations, the childless and wealthy Mr. and Mrs. Knight. His current home, Rowling—far beyond anything his siblings could dream of—was but a resting post on the route to his eventual destination: He would one day inherit three extensive estates—Steventon, Godmersham, and Chawton—and live the enviable life of the well-landed gentleman. In the meantime, Rowling would do.
To the blessings of a generous income and plenty of acres to manage, he could add three charming children and a beautiful wife who had wealth of her own. Why must money marry money, when the world would be so much happier were that not so?
Edward’s wife, Elizabeth, a woman of exquisite manners and breeding, was always unfailingly polite to her Austen relations—actual affection she reserved for the much richer Knights—but, Cassy well knew, she did not quite approve of them all. Jane she clearly found too clever and eccent
ric—somewhat satirical, always reading, and at Rowling that was thought to be a little bit odd. Mrs. George Austen: Well, Mrs. George Austen … Well-meaning and so good and kind, but of course she too was cleverer, and more outspoken, than good society required. But Cassy? Cassy had the great virtue of being unfailingly useful, and the comfort of knowing that—if Elizabeth must have a feminine in-law under her roof—then she was the one always preferred.
On this visit Cassy found in Elizabeth the perfect companion. Elizabeth cared little for much save her husband—whom she adored—her children—each, individually, a marvel—and her charming, well-appointed home. So all this fresh, raw grief did not seem to trouble her unduly. Cassy could sense it, and for that she was grateful.
One afternoon in late May, the two women sat alone in the sunny dressing room upstairs: Elizabeth gazing out at the park; Cassy knitting a shawl for the new baby.
“Oh, Cass, do look! Do look at Fanny out on her pony. There she goes. Oh, the cherub! I must say—do you not agree?—she is already developing the most exquisite seat.”
Cassy looked too, and complied: “She is an exquisite child in every respect. Already a lady, and only four years old.”
Elizabeth sighed with satisfaction and patted the baby inside her. “Perhaps this one will be a sister for her to play with. I think I should like that, after two little boys. Although husbands are—are they not?—always so delighted when one presents them with sons. Hmm.” She thought deeply. “No. I do not think I mind whatever it is, this time.” She shifted uncomfortably. “But I do dearly wish it would come.”
Cassy cast off and started another row: knit one, then purl one. “It cannot be much longer now.”
“Oh, indeed. And I am so grateful to have you here, after all. To think I was going to have to manage without you! I confess I had not come up with another arrangement to suit me.” She smiled, complacent. “It has worked out well.” Then had the grace to look, momentarily, ruffled. “Oh, forgive me—I did not mean—”
“But of course,” Cassy assured her, and loosened a stitch.
* * *
LITTLE HENRY ARRIVED SAFELY, his father was suitably delighted, and Cassy’s days were full from then on. It fell to her to keep the nursery happy while Elizabeth was confined. She oversaw Nanny and Nurse, played spillikins, taught cup and ball with an expert precision; consoled, controlled, and amused. There was the occasional skirmish with Fanny, who was deeply attached to her devoted mama and developing a rather strong character, but even that Cassy welcomed: Balm could be applied to those childish miseries; there was no sort of balm for herself. The danger times came when the children napped or took air. Cassy dared not sit idle, for then dark thoughts and grief might rear up and consume her. So she would relieve Nurse, and compulsively dry, press, and fold pile upon pile of muslin squares.
The great blessing of this interlude was that her evenings were easy. She and Edward dined alone, and in harmony; his company was never less than pleasing. This brother was not one for deep reflection or spiritual discourse or books, even: There was no reading here round the fire. Instead they enjoyed an excellent dinner, very good wine, and an uncomplicated, contented conversation that followed the same pattern night after night:
“I spoke to Spike today. He predicts the year’s crop will be excellent.” This over a dish rich and substantial: say, a large slab of venison pie.
“There is talk of a good young filly coming up at the next auction. Though my stables are already crowded, she may be hard to resist.” Here he might add a good slice of ham.
“So another fine son, and Elizabeth safe and getting stronger by the minute.” Edward generally enjoyed two servings of syllabub. And once his glass had been filled to the brim with his very good port, would always thus sum up his thoughts for the evening: “Yes. All would be splendid in every direction, were I not plagued with this insufferable digestion. It makes one quite bilious.”
Then, with an affectionate “Good night,” they would part good and early. Cassandra could return to her room at the end of the corridor and weep undisturbed.
* * *
AT LAST, ONE MONTH INTO CASSY’S stay there, Elizabeth was able to return downstairs for a much-discussed, highly anticipated Family Dinner. In a triumphal progress worthy of the Queen of Sheba, she returned to the drawing room, leaning on Cassy’s arm.
“How more than pleasant to be back!” she exclaimed in response to the warm welcome. “I must own that I have been looking forward to this moment with mounting excitement.”
Cassy settled her into her favorite armchair and tucked a rug around her knees.
“All of us together again. How blessed we are, husband. Mrs. Knight, my mother, and my sisters must be arriving shortly.”
Satisfied that her charge was comfortable, Cassy turned to leave.
“Although how I shall struggle through the evening without once gazing upon the beauty of my dear little Henry, I am not at all sure.”
There was not long now until dinner, and Cassy needed to wash the nursery off her person and make herself presentable.
“His eyelashes, Edward, are really quite astonishing! I am convinced they grow as one watches. Oh how I shall miss him tonight!”
“Do not worry yourself, my love,” Edward reassured her. “He will be safe with Nurse.”
The drawing room was so very long that Cassy was only at the door, and therefore still able to hear Elizabeth’s insistence: “Oh, he cannot be left with just Nurse, Edward. He is far too precious! Cassy can sit with him while I am here. We must not forget that she is still in mourning. It would not be appropriate for her to join our happy party. The servants can send something up on a tray.”
“But my dear,” she caught Edward’s reply, “I thought this was a Family Dinner?”
“Indeed,” agreed Elizabeth. “Now where is my family? I did think they would be with us by now.”
Biting her lip, nails pressed into palms, Cassy moved swiftly through the hall, up the stairs, along the long corridor into her room, and shut the door behind her. Henry’s lashes could go unmeasured, just for two minutes. She needed to think.
In fact this was a moment of sharp revelation. Since her youth she had held a strong sense of her own purpose. She had been put on this earth, blessed—though it sometimes seemed more of a curse—with a sharp intelligence and great appetite for employment, for a very good reason. It had seemed safe to assume that ordained destiny had been marriage to Tom. But there she had been sadly mistaken.
So what now? The day would come, sooner or later but would come for sure, when her parents were gone and Jane would be married. (Her mind always snagged on the words, but one must believe they were true.) Yet her own future appeared murky and unfathomable—like a pond after rainfall. She looked and she looked but could not see her way through. Suddenly, courtesy of Elizabeth, all was made visible.
Cassy might not have much money, but she knew herself to be rich in one other sound currency: usefulness. And on that she could get an excellent exchange. Elizabeth had four infants already and was still young; there could be plenty more yet. Kent was the place—the only place—in which Miss Austen could live well and work hard, keep herself to herself, and not be a nuisance. Here, she could become a near-priceless commodity: the single sister. The spinster aunt. The invaluable treasure. This, after all, must be her purpose; this, God’s design all along. She would prove indispensable.
A new and cold sense of calm came over Cassy as she splashed her face with water, adjusted her cap, and returned to her duties.
10
Kintbury, March 1840
“From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the same circle.”
It was Caroline who was reading this evening. Determined not to be ill, Cassandra had still to admit to being not quite well enough. Though she had made plans—to help in the house; to visit Elizabeth Fowle and insist she commit to a new house with poor Isabella—she had, in fact, been unable to be usefu
l all day.
“Whether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the proof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of each…”
Isabella and Caroline had been working together clearing the bedrooms, and Cassandra had deemed it unsafe to read through the letters: Anyone could walk in at any time. The afternoon she had passed on the sofa, in an unfamiliar idleness. She had not even made progress with her patchwork; her fingers were too stiff and swollen to sew.
“They had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the commonest civility required. Once so much to each other! Now nothing!”
The one blessing was that Mary had been unable to join them, foiled by the twin curses of her mysterious foot and her legendary busyness. So at least the household had been perfectly peaceful.
“Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.”
“Oh!” Isabella burst out. “Poor Anne! I do feel for her most awfully.”
Caroline stopped, for the tenth time that evening. A newcomer to listening, or certainly a newcomer to listening with any sort of enjoyment, Isabella was a most participatory audience. It was as if she were at the circus rather than listening to a novel. She was unable to sit still: one moment half out of her seat with excitement, the next slumping back in despair. Every few lines she exclaimed at what had just happened and wondered out loud what might come next.
“Will they ever be united? I think they will soon be united. Oh, will they be united? What will become of Anne if they are not?”
Caroline demurred and continued: “When he talked, she heard the same voice and discerned the same mind—”
“I must say,” cut in Isabella, “that your sister understood affairs of the heart better than anyone else I ever heard. Do tell me, Cassandra. Did she know love herself?”