Miss Austen

by Gill Hornby

  “Nymph of the straw-crowned hat, & kirtle pale,

  Mild Autumn come, and cheer thy longing Swain;

  Whether thou pleased survey’st the yellow plain

  Bend in light currents to the Western gale…”

  And Cassy’s thoughts, so recently calmed, stirred again—rose up and overwhelmed her. What next? she asked herself as the sonnet trundled on. What came next in her tortuous journey? Where was life taking her now?

  12

  Paragon, Bath

  7 May 1801

  My dear Eliza,

  My mother and I are arrived in Bath—you no doubt want to congratulate us on that towering achievement—and as for our failure to stop off in Kintbury, there is no need to chide us, for we chide ourselves quite enough. Our excuse is that The Journey itself was our master; The Journey decreed that it should last but a day and we humble passengers had no strength left to argue. Pleasant though it would have been to be with the beloved Fowle family, we too were keen to get to our destination.

  Thank you for your sympathies, but, having begun life as a shock to which I should never become accustomed, our departure from Steventon came almost as relief. And for that, as you so rightly predicted, I can thank your sister. Though her overt elation did not ease our moment of loss, Mary’s keen delight to get her feet through the door, propel ours out of it and rob us of all worldly possessions in the process, was such that the end could not come quick enough. We surrendered as soon as we could. I hope that they are all as happy there as she is expecting. There is no doubt my brother will prove a fine parson to the parish, and the house has already proved itself a good one for children. James-Edward will soon get his pony. And Anna does love the place so—the poor mite may there at last feel at home in her own family.

  As for Bath—I cannot share my parents’ high expectations, but then they are so very exalted I am not sure who could. Mr. and Mrs. G. A. are determined on a glorious retirement, with as much fine company and good health as a person can cope with, while we young ladies are promised to be met with splendid suitors in an endless array. We shall see. But should that all happen, I give you fair warning: I shall ignore all evidence of character or appearance or the good of our families and instead plump at once for the richest. I intend then to become so horribly spoiled and affected that you, poor humble Eliza, cannot hope ever to hear from me again.

  In the meantime, we have been here three days and I have yet to meet a gentleman below the age of one hundred. And so far, even the city itself is toying with my affections. Its stone is refusing to glow in warm sunlight; instead it glowers darkly through a horrible fog. But I must give it time—not least because I have no choice in the matter. My future is here now, and I must make of it what I can.

  There is at least the great distraction of getting settled to consume me. We are on the hunt for more permanent lodgings, which we hope to find soon. Perhaps then this loud city will feel more like a natural setting for us. And after that comes the first of our Great Summer Schemes, and we will, with Cowper’s crowds “impatient of dry land, agree, With one consent to rush into the sea.” Can you believe that these gay footloose creatures are in fact your old friends the Austens of Hampshire? Well then, nor yet can I.

  You are kind to inquire so solicitously about my dear Cassy. While the world has moved on from her loss to other stories, it seems that you and I alone are left guarding her grief. I can offer the comfort that leaving our home has not caused her particular distress, but then I can remove it at once with my own reading: my sister’s unhappiness is such that mere place no longer matters at all. My mother’s hope that she will come out of it here and take to society is, I fear, unfounded. Yes, she still dresses in mourning, makes no more than the required effort with her appearance … You will have her ear, when she comes to visit with my father. Please, see if you can convince her; she does admire you so. Her current position is almost intolerable, and painful to this loving beholder: all the conduct befitting a widow, without the past comforts of being a wife.

  I am to tell you that she will be arriving on the 22nd and my father soon after. I trust that they find you both well and happy, and the nursery flourishing, and look forward to hearing all your news from them. As for us, please do try and get through to my sister, and give me your findings once they have left.

  As ever,

  J. Austen.

  Cassandra was stupefied. This was not at all what she had expected. Perhaps the trauma of moving had loosened Jane’s pen. She sat back to digest it: The confiding tone, the indiscretion, even, were amazing to her. She had known of their friendship, but not of this depth of intimacy. And that Jane should write of herself in those terms? It was, she shifted uncomfortably, more than a little odd. She leafed through the next few. Each of these was peppered with references to Mary, and her treatment of Anna: “she has now over-reached herself…” “please, can you talk to her…” “how much better it would be if she could stay with you in Kintbury…” “James’s collusion causes us especial pain…” “The rare sight of a man taking the lead from his wife is ordinarily a matter for rejoicing, but in this instance…”

  This sorry story did not reflect well upon the family. Cassandra shuddered. Her fear was always that the Austens should be made into some sort of spectacle—albeit, she was well aware, but a minor one—and her present labors were devoted to the avoidance thereof. There was but one fact that was allowed to walk with the novels into posterity: that Jane had lived her short life as a stranger to drama; that few changes, no events, no crises broke the smooth current of its course. Anything beyond could be none of posterity’s business.

  She gathered them up—her valise was the only hiding place left to her—when her eye was distracted by the page that came after. What was this? No date, no place-name, and an uncharacteristically hurried scrawl.

  My dear Eliza,

  This comes to you with much thought and great urgency, so please forgive me if I move too swiftly to the Heart of the matter. You will know that I hope the Measles has passed now and all in Kintbury &c. &c. For I must share this with you, as I must share it with someone, though it is not my secret to tell. Even our parents do not as yet know the half of it and will not until we have some sign of an outcome. Oh, Eliza. My sister is deeply in love!

  13

  Sidmouth, 1801

  “WHAT ARE WE DOING TODAY, Aunt Cass?” Anna stood still on the doorstep, gazing wide-eyed at the bright vista before her.

  The year was 1801, and the Austens were in Sidmouth, on the first of their Great Summer Schemes. At Cassy’s suggestion, her little niece had accompanied them.

  “Well, first of all, we are putting on our bonnets properly.” Cassy leaned down and tied the ribbon under that sweet, pointed, eight-year-old chin. “Today is going to be warm, and the sun is a fiercer creature here than in Hampshire. You do not want to get on the wrong side of it and end up in bed. There.” She straightened up again. “What would you like to do, Anna? What is the top of your list?

  “I cannot say.” Anna bit her lip and adopted the worried expression that bothered her aunts so. “I have never been to the seaside before.” She had become so wary of giving a wrong answer to anything, she seemed these days too frightened to say much at all. “I am not sure—you decide for me, Aunt Cass.”

  Cassy took her hand, and together they walked down to the Mall. “Let us start with the fish market; the earlier we get there, the better the choice, and your grandpapa’s heart is set on mackerel for dinner.” She nodded to and answered the good mornings from those out enjoying their promenade. “Aunt Jane is already out in the sea somewhere, bathing.”

  They scoured the machines, but one distant body looked much like another.

  “Is bathing pleasant? It looks pleasant. Are children allowed?”

  “You can paddle, my dear, later—if that is what you would like. Your aunt can show you. She loves the water. I cannot explain why, but I am no friend of the sea.” Cassy looked with distr
ust at the clear, still, blue bay: Her mind could only see death and corpses. “I shall stick to dry land. But the day is all yours to do as you please. Now, if I were still a little girl…” Anna looked up at her twenty-eight-year-old aunt with amazement. “I was once, believe it or not. Though never one so grand as to be granted a summer in Sidmouth.” She squeezed the small hand that lay in hers. “In your shoes I should have liked to start some collection or other. There are so many shells we could find.”

  “Shells!” The child’s guard dropped at last.

  “Yes!” Cassy felt excited herself. Anna was such a bright little creature, full of natural enthusiasms that had not lately enjoyed outlet. “And this is a very particular coastline. It is said you can find stones imprinted with shapes of strange, ancient animals.”

  “‘Strange, ancient animals’?”

  They stopped then, and stared at the soft, blue clay cliffs rearing up at the end of the beach—each finding it hard to believe in the legend.

  “So ’tis said.” Cassy shrugged, and they resumed their progress. “We shall have to investigate that for ourselves. But first, here we are.” They had passed the tearoom now, and arrived at the cottages, where nets hung on poles drying in the sunshine and boats were pulled up onto the beach. The catch of the day was laid out in baskets, and half of society was gathered around them.

  “You see”—she bent down and whispered in Anna’s ear—“even the mundane matter of buying one’s dinner becomes sport at the seaside. Hold tight, do not lose me. Let us go in.”

  Cassy was so intent on her selection of mackerel that she was quite unaware of being an object of interest. But as the fisherman busied himself with paper and wrapping, she felt the prickle of unease that comes when someone is staring. She swung round, held Anna closer, and caught sight of a gentleman, out on the fringes, who was now walking swiftly away.

  The heat was building as they made their way back down the shingle. Cassy lifted her pale-yellow muslin—here she, at last, had surrendered to popular pressure and given up all that hot, heavy black—to keep the hem dry. With deep concentration, and the odd outburst of joy, they hunted for shells and cleaned off the finest. Together they made an affecting tableau: this tall, slim, handsome woman and sweet little girl, locked into their innocent pursuit. There were those on the Mall—and one in particular—who looked on it with pleasure, though they were themselves too busy to notice.

  “This one is my favorite.” Anna stroked a small scallop inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  “It is a beauty,” Cassy agreed. “But this is only your first morning. If we are to be serious about this, then there will be lots more to come. I have quite lost track of time. We ought to get back to your grandmother. But first”—oh, she did love a project!—“let us go to the library on our way back, and buy a small notebook. Then you can keep a diary of your findings, and perhaps add sketches of the best ones? I can help with you that.”

  This excellent plan was pleasing to both, though perhaps Cassy was the more pleased of the two. Chatting excitedly, they left the beach, crossed the Mall, and made for the shop that stood next to the Reading Room. Its door was closed. Cassy’s hand reached for the handle, her face turned away while she explained something to Anna. The bell gave its tinkle, her hand chanced to touch that of another … She flinched at the shock of it, turned, and looked up. She felt the world change.

  How long did they stand there? It could be a lifetime but was more likely a moment. Cassy dropped her eyes, caught sight of a book beneath his arm, focused on its spine, the words—Elements of Conchology—written thereon, and felt a fleeting disappointment it was not a good novel.

  Then: “Do excuse me.” He was bowing and tipping his hat. “Good day to you, madam.”

  She somehow effected a curtsy.

  He smiled down at the girl—“Miss”—and gestured to her hand. “Forgive my impertinence, but I must say that is the most excellent shell.”

  And with that, he was off into the morning, swallowed up by the fashionable crowd.

  * * *

  “HOW MAGNIFICENT!” JANE BLEW in, untying her bonnet to reveal untidy hair and a glowing complexion. “The water is at its finest this morning. Oh, but I do like it here. So much better than insufferable Bath. Now, what have my darlings been up to? Well, you certainly look better, Cass—radiant, even. I hate to have to tell you that, despite your very best efforts, you seem to be recovering your bloom.” She took Anna’s shoulders and peered into her face. “And you, my child? Has the sea worked its magic yet? I think not! Now confess all, Anna. Where have you spent these past months—down a cave, up a chimney? Come now, spill out your wicked secrets.”

  Anna giggled for the first time since her arrival. “In Steventon, Aunt Jane, I promise!”

  “Then there is no accounting for your pallor.” She laid down her hat. “When your aunt Cass and I lived in the rectory, we were careful to bloom every day. Quite rigorous we were with our blooming. Back then, it was thought quite rude not to. No doubt you young people have other ideas.”

  Cassy laughed with them, quite distracted now from the unsettling events of her morning. Instead she felt her heart twisting with pity for the poor child. There had been many regrets on leaving Hampshire, but the deepest was their withdrawal of daily contact with Anna. They had removed the one refuge from her troubles with Mary, which had always been difficult and, since the arrival of the blessed boy child, were now possibly intolerable. It had been a triumph to get her here for the summer. They would restore her: Cassy was sure of it. While the rest of the family besported themselves, she would bring this dear girl back to life.

  “I will just go up and check on our mother,” Cassy announced, “and then we can make plans for the rest of the day.”

  “Is Grandmama very poorly?” asked Anna anxiously.

  “No, my dear.” Jane gathered her up. “There is no cause for concern. Your grandmother likes to take to her bed whenever we arrive somewhere new. It is her way of feeling at home. She can then test the mattress, meet the best doctors, sample the wares of the local apothecary, and know just what to expect should real illness afflict her. Which it never does, incidentally. But perhaps that is her wisdom: prevention by good preparation. Like all the best invalids, she will outlive us all.”

  “Jane, that is not quite fair. Our mother has suffered from biliousness since the journey. Travel affects her—”

  “Or it does not”—Jane shrugged, smiling—“and my thesis is true.”

  By the time Cassy returned, her sister and niece were deep in a game—one was a pirate, the other a poor castaway damsel; both were in fits of hilarity. The new notebook lay abandoned on the hearthrug. She retrieved it, picked up her embroidery, and waited until they were done.

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT Mrs. Austen declared herself quite well enough for a trip to the assembly. The illness had departed as swiftly as it had arrived, leaving no trace or effect, other than an urgent fancy for a few hands of Commerce. The whole family set off to indulge it at once.

  It was six o’clock, and the red sun was dropping through a violet sky toward the line of the ocean. All of Sidmouth was out enjoying the cool. Jane and her father walked briskly together, and were soon quite ahead of the others. Cassy watched their backs, saw them laughing and stopping to exchange pleasantries with their new neighbors, while she listened to her mother with only one ear.

  “My bowels feel much steadier now, thanks be to the Lord, after what was, as you of all people know, Cass, the most frightful evacuation. I think I shall like this apothecary. He has a good feel for my system.”

  Cassy ran her eye over the promenaders coming toward them, with what she persuaded herself to be the most casual sort of interest. She was certainly not expecting to see anyone of any particular merit: Oh, no. No one at all.

  “I think I may visit him tomorrow, to discuss them further. After all, I say they are steadier, but never steady enough for my liking. If I could just be rid o
f this turbulent wind—”

  And out of nowhere, there he was—suddenly upon them: taller than she remembered, more amiable than she had previously noticed. This time he smiled, revealing teeth that were good, white, and even. And again in his green eyes she saw that warm recognition, as if remembering a connection in some other life. His hat was lifted, her knee was folded, agreement was met on the beauty of the evening. And just as suddenly, there he was: gone.

  “And who was that fine gentleman?” Mrs. Austen stopped and stared behind her, though Cassy would rather she had not.

  “I am sure I do not know.” She took her mother’s arm again and drew her back to their walking.

  “Yet he seemed to have some knowledge of you.” She felt a beady eye upon her. “And an interest, too, if I am not mistaken. You know not much gets past me and my good sprack wit. Well, well. Well, well, well.” A new friskiness came into her step. “This is the most welcome development. It is nearly four years, now, my dear. God would not want you in mourning forever.” Cassy loathed this tired topic of conversation, though that loathing never got in its way. “Nor would Tom, for that matter.” Still, she thought she preferred even this to bowels and their behavior. “It is our dearest wish to see you girls both settled before the Lord comes to call us. And with my poor old stomach, that could happen any day.” This was a new hell: a fusion of spinsterhood with the troubles of digestion: “The next time I suffer an evacuation of that magnitude…”

  Cassy bore it courageously until they arrived at the door of the London Inn.

  14

  Sidmouth, July 1801

  “ARE WE NEARLY THERE YET?”

  Beneath the warm blanket of familial kindness, little Anna was improving in confidence. She now felt able to ask for outings and entertainments—each increasingly lavish and demanding upon adults—like any other happy, loved child. She had taken ice creams, patted the horses, watched the watermill wheel turn, become almost bored by the beach. Sadly, their great Shell Project had come to nothing, but Cassy contained her disappointment and went along with the rest.