Miss Austen

by Gill Hornby

  “I do apologize. You must think us terribly wanting.” Isabella’s mouth twisted with shame. “I fear this is all I could find.”

  “Ah. Peveril of the Peak.” Cassandra’s arms drooped at the weight of it. “Well, I have certainly not read this one and am slightly surprised that you, as my doctor, might think of suggesting it. Should you soon find me in horrible relapse, you know what to blame.”

  Isabella, laughing, left her alone, and Cassandra did, at least, try to start reading. But it seemed she was in no sort of mood for Sir Walter. That must be a positive sign. As she had never before known the mood required for that overblown nonsense, her old spirits were surely returning.

  She dropped the book onto the table beside her. Perhaps, at last, she was well enough to return to her project? So much time had been lost; she could not impose on them here for much longer. Pulling herself to her feet, she waited for the dizziness to pass and then moved over to the bed, slipped her hand under the mattress, felt about, felt again … And soon was searching most frantically through the length of the bedding. Under the pillows. Between the sheets. All over the room. There was nothing. She gasped, clutching at the bedpost to stop herself falling. Import coursed through her.

  The letters were gone.

  11

  Kintbury, April 1840

  FOR THREE DAYS CASSANDRA WAS powerless. All she could do was stay in her bedroom and fret at the impossibility of her situation. It was unthinkable that she might ask for any sort of explanation. After all, the letters were not her property. She had no business keeping them. But was their removal simply a matter of innocent housekeeping, or was there a more sinister motive in play?

  At last the afternoon came when she felt almost well again. Isabella came in and exclaimed at the sight of her visitor, dressed.

  “Well, you are better. Look at you! Quite back to life.” She placed a hand on a forehead and declared it temperate; she examined an eye and announced it was clear.

  “Thank you, my dear Isabella. And may I apologize again for all the disruption I have caused you? I am very aware that maintaining my sickroom proved an onerous burden on your already stretched household.”

  “Not at all.” Isabella looked around and assessed the state of the chamber. The process did not take her long. “I wish now that we had given you more comfortable quarters. It is I who should say sorry to you. It must not have been pleasant, spending so long in here. We thought— Well, we were wrong.” She ran a finger along the chest top. “And I cannot pretend that much energy has been spent on cleaning while you were ailing. I fear the daily maid has never been known to perform above or beyond.”

  Cassandra pondered. So that left her with two possible suspects: Mary, who certainly had been given the opportunity. Oh, why had she begged for that laudanum? It was pure self-indulgence! And Dinah. Difficult Dinah—who knew both what was hidden and where.

  “There is no need to sit with me now, Isabella. Why not go off into the village? I am quite sure you have some good work or other to be getting on with.”

  “Well, there is some calf’s-foot jelly I must take to the Winterbournes. You will not mind being deserted?”

  Indeed, Cassandra would very much welcome it. She insisted. There were things she must do.

  * * *

  AFTER A SUITABLE HIATUS Cassandra rose and, for the first time in weeks, reentered the world. She stood on the landing, and sensed the particular sort of silence that prevailed only in an empty household. How different it felt, sounded, and smelled with its family away. The personality altered. It sank back into its shell. She wondered how it would behave when the Fowles had left the new man in charge. It was pleasing that Steventon had stayed in her family, and she never had to witness a stranger treating their rectory as his home.

  Great progress—if progress was the word—had been made during Cassandra’s absence. The Kintbury vicarage, now half empty, was officially in interregnum. The Fowle paintings were gone, and the blank walls stood, patient, awaiting those of another. There were no curtains on the window at the turn of the stairs. Tom’s room was bare. She moved gingerly toward that of Eliza. Grooves on the floor were the last testament of the bed that stood there for nearly a century. Black marks bore the shape of those samplers. But the settle, that heavy oak settle, was still in its place.

  Cassandra’s one hope was that the letters had been put back where they belonged. That would be sensible and quite understandable; indeed, the only possible explanation. She chided herself—foolish old woman!—for thinking that there could possibly be any other. It was even more of a struggle to lift its lid now; the illness had sapped her strength. But she was determined, moreover confident, that effort would be rewarded. And, after some considerable struggle, at last the lid yielded. She was in.

  All was exactly how she had left it. The Fowle children’s letters on top, her mother’s still beneath, with those of Martha. She rummaged through the next layers, where Jane’s and her own should be, had they been replaced in a casual, innocent manner … They were not. Now she was worrying, leaning in further, hands delving deeper. Fulwar’s script … Mary’s … two Austen brothers … She threw them to one side. Nearing the bottom, she could see only the writing of strangers, upon paper that was now cracked and yellowing: old, meaningless missives, of no possible interest.

  Cassandra surrendered all hope. With a creak of her joints, she sat back on her heels and took a moment to assess her situation. The letters had been removed from her room in an act of deliberate obstruction: That much was now clear. Her private correspondence, and that of Jane, was now in the hands of another. Their intimate thoughts and emotions, which she had sought to conceal, could be revealed to a stranger. Cassandra had come to Kintbury with but one, desperate objective: to protect her dear sister. And she had failed. Burying her face in her hands, she gave in to despair.

  Tempting though it was to spend the afternoon moping, reasonable though it might be to wallow in misery—she was old, she had been ill, she was thoroughly spent—Cassandra did not have the luxury of time. The rest of the household could return at any moment. There were packets of letters all over the floor. She must cover her tracks. With a sigh she struggled up and began to replace everything where it had been found. Now, how was it all arranged? Was James next to Mary, or was Mary under Martha? She cleared a small gap, and there, to her astonishment, was a whole other bundle from Jane.

  Cassandra seized it; she held it to her bosom. This was extraordinary! A gift beyond gold! And, as with all the best gifts, quite unexpected. She had had no idea that Jane and Eliza had corresponded so often. The two women were friends, of course, but not so very close. How did Jane have so much to say?

  All thoughts of the missing papers forgotten, Cassandra shut the old settle and scurried back to her room.

  Steventon Rectory

  19 September 1800

  My dear Eliza,

  We are delighted to hear that you are safely delivered of your recent encumbrance, and that the baby herself is thriving. It is a splendid name—an Isabella can only grow up to be a heroine—or a Spanish Queen, I suppose, but I think we will not wish that fate upon her. No. Isabella Fowle will be a heroine whose adventures are both magnificent and solely confined to the great county of Berkshire. I look forward to reading of them, sometime in the future, but in the meantime, please do assure her, mere thriving is all I expect and require.

  All goes well here with us. I have nothing to report but the general health of all in the parish of Steventon and Deane. Of the more far-flung Austens, we have only good reports, and thank God for them. My seafaring brothers continue to heap glory upon us—did you hear that Frank is now made Post-Captain? Of course you did. No doubt Kintbury has had so many letters on that matter that the Vicarage was buried and you have only this minute dug yourselves out from under. The act of writing the words brings such a thrill, that I cannot resist it. And now that he has a position, he can only want for a wife. I still harbor hopes of Martha
for him. My family is greedy, Eliza—not content with taking just one of your sisters—we want all of them. And Martha is already a sister, in all but name. She is coming to us tomorrow. We have nothing ahead but a festival of books and chatting and walking—so much walking in this excellent weather. Quite desperate walkers, we three ladies are. It may not be everybody’s idea of ultimate pleasure, but we are the oddest of creatures and will enjoy it enormously.

  I hope the visit will distract Cassy from her misery, for a few days at least. It is now three years since the death of poor Tom, and her spirits are nowhere near mending. Oh, I understand it, of course, I just wish it were not so. Her anxiety about her future is perfectly natural. After all, what will become of her? There is the question. And—this comes in deep confidence, dear Eliza—it leads us straight to another, which is: what, after all, will become of me, too?

  Before we lost Tom, there was no reason to doubt that the Future was a happy thing and off far in the distance. Yet, suddenly, it seems it is upon us, and has a menacing air. One day, perhaps soon, we will have to leave Steventon. Oh, do not worry! My fine father is as hale as ever, but even he cannot be Rector in perpetuity. And we two poor, dependent daughters must then be turned out into a world which is unlikely to receive us with the warmest of welcomes. I cannot pretend that the prospect is pleasing.

  Forgive me! This began as a letter of great celebration, and then without warning took a horrible turn. I am quite incorrigible. Present me with a clear blue sky and I will find you a cloud. Disregard all the above, and give our love to your little Isabella.

  Yours ever,

  J. Austen.

  “Oh, no!” Jane’s shriek pierced the air of the hills around Steventon. “Please—Cassy! Martha!—stop now. I beg of you. Or I shall die laughing, as we used to say when we were at school. And you will have to carry my poor lifeless body back home.”

  “I am sorry,” Cassy protested. “It is true. She looked simply ridiculous.”

  “She certainly did.” Jane giggled again. “But have we not analyzed the evening so very minutely as to destroy any memory of enjoyment? I thought it perfectly pleasant while I was there. Now, thanks to you two, all I can see is her thick neck and pink husband, and in retrospect it appears to me perfectly horrid.”

  “Very well,” Cassy conceded. “And if you did enjoy it, then I am happy for you. These days I find far more diversion in the analysis than the event.”

  “Dear Cass.” Jane took her arm and became serious. “You used to love dances and parties and going out in society.”

  “Did I?” She found it hard to remember now. “Then perhaps I am getting too old for it.”

  “I am older,” their dear friend Martha put in. “And I find everything amusing while I am with you.”

  They crested the hill, stopped to catch a breath, and gazed down upon Steventon.

  “Home.” Jane sighed happily. “Now, is that not the sweetest of sights?”

  “It is perfect,” Martha agreed. “What is there better than a small country village?” Bright autumn sunlight caught the edge of the steeple. “There goes your father.” Mr. Austen strode briskly down the lane in the direction of the parsonage. “Such an excellent man. I do not know how he manages, both the church and the land, at his age.”

  “Papa?” Jane scoffed, a little too violently. “Fit as a flea! So fit as to put most fleas to shame.”

  She led the march down the hill.

  “And long may he remain so!” Martha plodded behind them. “Still, he will be wanting James to take over ere too long, I dare say.”

  Cassy caught something in her tone: as if Martha knew more than they did. “He is not quite as agile as he was, that is true,” she said thoughtfully. “And Mama’s health is not all it should be. I wonder…”

  “The weather is turning. We are in for some rain, girls.”

  “What is rain to us, Martha?” Jane spun round, hands outstretched, her cloak dancing about her. “Come on! We have at least a whole hour yet before we have to be home.”

  But Cassy opted to return alone, and help her mother prepare for their dinner.

  * * *

  BY THE TIME SHE WAS IN the back door, Cassy was wet through. She took off her cloak and her boots, put them to dry, and made for her room to change. Passing the parlor, she heard the sounds of conversation within. Her brother James and his wife, Mary, were early—there was a surprise! She reached for the doorknob, fully intending to go in and greet them. And then James’s voice drifted through to her.

  “So, Father, I am—we are—keen now to advance. As I enter my thirty-sixth year, it is an appropriate time for me to assume greater responsibility and perform to the full my role as a Man of the Church. I hope you agree that my talents are more than equal to the task ahead of me.”

  “Oh, my dear boy,” Mr. Austen proclaimed, “I need not assure you of that. You are an exemplary curate to me and you will make an exemplary rector to the parish.”

  “Exemplary,” Mary repeated with fervor, adding quietly but urgently: “And then, Austen—the house. Remember: the house.”

  “Ah, yes. The house. I—we, that is— It seems, with our growing family—”

  “We now have a child.” Mary could not resist any opportunity to mention her triumph in that regard.

  “You have two children, my dear,” said Mrs. Austen. “Let us not forget Anna.”

  “Yes, of course. I mean to say that we do now have a son.”

  “And it occurs to us—it occurs to me, rather—that perhaps the space here may be proving too much for you both, with only the girls. Slightly smaller accommodation, less tiring for you, Mother, might be appropriate to the diminishing needs of your household as it is presently arranged.”

  She heard her father stand up and start pacing. “That you inherit the living has long been our agreement, and you have no need to doubt it. The question of timing that transfer, though … Perhaps I have caused some confusion by living too well and too long.”

  “George, my dear! Please.”

  “’Tis but the fact of it, my love. We might have presumed that the Lord would take the matter into His own hands before now, but it seems He has other plans for us. Thank you for raising this, James. I have no desire to stand in the path of a good man’s advancement. That cannot be God’s intention. Allow me to discuss it in detail with your mother in private and, with His guidance, I have confidence we will be led swiftly and easily to a judgment of benefit to us all.”

  Cassy pulled away and ran up soundlessly up to their room. Heart thumping, she fell onto the bed and digested that which she should not have heard. It should come as no surprise. This was always meant to happen, sooner or later. It was simply that she had not been expecting it now. Where might they all go? She had no way of knowing, and did not expect to be consulted. This was their parents’ decision, and theirs alone. By failing to marry, the daughters had forfeited any say in that matter. Cassy could accept it. This was her new life: to live helpfully, invisibly. She now viewed her own fate with the greatest indifference. But Jane?

  For Jane this would come as a terrible blow.

  * * *

  IN THE EVENING, AT GEORGE AUSTEN’S request, Jane read from Elinor and Marianne. Her parents sat each side of the fireplace, each mirroring the position of the other—hands folded in laps, the light of pleasure on their creased, worn, old faces—like a sweet pair of bookends. How they loved to listen to their Jane.

  “Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! Worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed to be otherwise. Use those words again and you will not hear back from me.”

  From time to time Mary leaned across to their mother, in an attempt to engage her in domestic conversation—“Is the pig back from the butcher?” “Now, your chutney receipt”—but Mrs. Austen firmly rebuffed her.

  “Excuse me, and be assured that I meant no offense to you, by writing, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, i
n short, to be such as his merit…”

  Cassy sat with her sewing and felt soothed. As ever, Jane’s words quelled her own troubled thoughts, and returned her to optimism. She might even have felt something approaching contentment, if only James would not fidget and smirk in that fashion. But jealousy in one—albeit a mild, silly jealousy that should not warrant notice—must always poison the mood of the whole company.

  “… there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank.”

  After half an hour, James could bear it no longer. He leaped to his feet, determined to make some interruption.

  “Very clever, Jane. I must say. And so brave of you to even attempt that which has undone many a good writer: the epistolary form.”

  “Indeed so!” Mary joined in, keen that the tedium be brought to an end. “‘The epistolary form’!” she repeated, obliging as a parrot, and with a parrot’s comprehension of the words she repeated. “Very challenging, I am sure.”

  “There is an accolade.” Jane looked up and smiled. “I appreciate it, coming from a writer such as yourself.”

  “Quite so. I wonder if we should not return home now, my dear?” He strode about the room, retaking command of it. “The weather and so on.”

  “But we have only had reading, Austen. I do not feel as if we have yet had an evening here. Let us just talk among ourselves for a while. Or”—her eyes lit up—“perhaps you, my love, might read to us now?” She spoke to the room. “I know we would all enjoy that.”

  “Oh, yes please, James.” Jane sat up, all enthusiasm. “Do show us all how it is done.”

  “Only if you insist.” Insistence was provided. “Well then.” At once the journey home lost its urgency. “Perhaps my ‘Sonnet to Autumn’ is most appropriate.” James settled down and began.