Miss Austen

by Gill Hornby

  “The pebbles are not easy to walk on.”

  The cliffs were that morning’s preferred destination. At breakfast Anna announced that she would like to explore them: She wanted to find some of those earlier-talked-of “strange, ancient animals.” Mr. Austen perked up at once. He offered to take the child there himself, and began a short, preparatory lecture on the mystery of fossils. Cassy did not listen closely: The subject seemed of no particular interest; she started to think about the things she might do with this sudden free time. They were expecting new muslin in at Potbury’s; she and Jane could go together … Then her father spoke the words “Elements” and “Conchology.” And suddenly it occurred that she was interested after all. Perhaps she would join them. Fossils might hold some sort of fascination. It was certainly worth taking a look …

  * * *

  “Not long now, child. See, the cliffs are just there.” Her father’s academic enthusiasm propelled him at a speed that defied the length of his years. His long white hair shone in the sun beneath his sensible hat. “There is no need to climb them, I am told. We have every chance of finding some treasure in the rocks lying down here on the beach.”

  Cassy and Anna were struggling to keep up with him, so he arrived first at the chosen spot. Their view was blocked, but they heard him give a cheery: “And good morning to you, sir!”

  Ah: So they would not then be hunting alone. They came round the rock and emerged into the clearing.

  And there he was. “Ladies.” He bowed, tipped his hat, and addressed only Anna: “And if it is not the proud owner of that excellent shell…”

  “So you are already acquainted?” her father began.

  “Not exactly.” He smiled. “We have yet to introduce ourselves. I am Mr. Hobday. Mr. Henry Hobday.” He nodded again.

  “Mr. Austen. And I have brought my daughter and granddaughter, the Misses Austen, here this morning. We are in search of fossils.”

  “The Misses Austen. Then you are in the right place.” He waved a small hammer. “I have found some interesting specimens. Come with me, Miss Austen. I shall show you.”

  But his words were—again—directed to Anna. The three of them clambered over the stones, leaving Cassy alone. She chose not to follow them—it would be unseemly to clamber—and instead leaned on the big rock and studied the party. Mr. Hobday—Mr. Henry Hobday, the name itself had a smile in it—and Mr. George Austen were at once the firmest of friends. Her father was a highly intelligent man who was no respecter of fools. So, if she read their demeanor correctly, Mr. Hobday, too, was intelligent.

  The time passed and, to her surprise, Anna was still deeply engrossed. Mr. Hobday took care to include the young scientist in all aspects of their exploration, and her capacity for concentration, which only yesterday was pathetically limited, had expanded dramatically. Cassy leaned into the rock, sighed, looked out to sea, and began to feel a trifle disgruntled by her own predicament. The sun was hot, the gulls were noisome and fractious. She had been right in the first place: Fossils were dull. Or they certainly caused dullness in others. Everyone had forgotten she was standing there, waiting. She failed now to remember why had she come.

  It had not been—could not be—due to a desire to see Mr. Hobday. Mr. Henry Hobday. It was a very good name. Anyway, it was not for him: Of that she was certain. He might be attractive—he was definitely attractive—he might have about him some winning ways. What of it? She was Miss Austen, forever Miss Austen. Attractive, winning men were no longer of use to her. The idea occurred: Perhaps he might do for Jane?

  Now there was a scheme. Her sister’s firm repulsion of each hapless suitor had long ago ceased to be a subject of parental amusement and was now one of general irritation. Cassy was in the uncomfortable position of seeing both sides: On the one hand, no man had been anywhere good enough; on the other, Jane could not go on in this fashion much longer. Their parents were determined to travel as much as possible during the years that remained, but must have someone to look after them. Cassy was, if not happy, exactly, then at least accepting that she would be that someone, and after that Kent would claim her. But Jane? She was not one of life’s carers and, what was more, needed stability. This peripatetic lifestyle would soon start to affect her: The mood would descend; there would be trouble ahead. But if this Mr. Hobday, Mr. Henry Hobday, was really as clever and amusing as the morning suggested, then …

  Sighing, Cassy reached down for the picnic basket and took out her colors. Drawing would soothe her. It always did soothe her when she was miserable and, she was forced to admit, she did, unaccountably, feel a little miserable all of a sudden. She would capture the party. She outlined the cliffs with her pencil, and began to draw in their figures, although as models they were all most unsatisfactory. Anna kept giggling and leaping about; Mr. Henry Hobday—she gave an involuntary smile—was not still for a moment. She would have to concentrate on her dear old papa.

  She was coloring it in when the party returned to her.

  “Look, Aunt Cass!” Anna squealed, and held out a rock to her.

  “Well now.” Cassy peered at it, not much impressed.

  “It is the shape of a worm!”

  “Yes. So I see.”

  “Mr. Hobday says it is thousands of years old.”

  “Many thousands, even,” Mr. Hobday put in. “There is our evidence of a creature that lived on this earth, perhaps even before man.”

  Cassy stared again, and felt rather sorry for it. She would hate to be dug up and pored over sometime in the future.

  “What have you been drawing, my dear?” Her father approached now and looked over. “Oh, that is charming. My daughter”—he addressed Mr. Hobday—“is an artist of some considerable talent.”

  “Papa!” Cassy blushed at his boasting.

  “Forgive me, but it is true. Look, Mr. Hobday, you are captured here brilliantly.”

  “May I?” He approached, and Cassy grew hot with discomfort. She was sure she had worked more on her father. But looking again—how peculiar!—the figure of Mr. Hobday did seem to loom large.

  “It is but a sketch.” She packed it away in a hurry. “Nothing distinguished, I assure you. Now, young lady, we must get you home and out of this sun.”

  Cassy took her father’s arm this time: All these exertions must have drained him. He would need her support on the return. Mr. Hobday was of a more vigorous age. She walked slowly, holding the older man back a little, so that, with Anna skipping beside him, the younger might go on ahead.

  Once at the Mall they all parted cordially and to Cassy’s relief made no plans for a subsequent meeting. He was soon swallowed up by the crowd.

  “What a fine young man,” her father remarked as they walked up the terrace. “He struck me as one unusually gifted with all that is agreeable.”

  “Is he? I am sure I did not notice.”

  Her father chuckled. “Well, Anna did, certainly. Mr. Hobday was especially kind and amusing to her.”

  * * *

  “PLEASE LET US DO SOMETHING.” Cassy put down her sewing with a sense of impatience. She was finding it hard to settle this morning. “Perhaps when our mother is down, we could join the promenade?”

  “Hmm.” Jane carried on writing. “Later, Cass, later. Mr. Thorpe is being particularly obnoxious just now. He is amusing me greatly. While I have him here in full flight, I must just work on.”

  Cassy rose and looked out of the front window and down along the terrace. Her father and Anna were out there somewhere. She had been foolish to turn down the offer to go. What did it matter if she were to meet any unsettling gentlemen? They took no notice of her; they clearly preferred to unearth poor fossilized creatures, long buried in stone. And she herself was secure in a place beyond danger. Nothing could possibly happen. There was no need to hide away here.

  She watched the parade of the fashionable off in the distance and a pleasure boat leave from the beach. The world looked so happy and occupied without her out in it. Sighing, she went back
to her seat. Oh, when would her mother arise?

  The brass knocker rapped upon the front door then, and she sat up with interest, turned an ear in case this might be a visitor. But she could tell from the exchange that it was only a servant. She sat back again and tried to stem her sense of despair.

  “A note for you, Miss Austen.” The maid came in, bobbed, and left again.

  “A note?” Jane looked up at that and could not help but notice her sister’s hand was trembling. “What is this, then?”

  “Nothing at all interesting,” Cassy said smoothly. “Do go back to your obnoxious Mr. Thorpe.”

  “Who is it from?”

  “Oh, nobody at all. Indeed, no one I know. A Mrs. Hobday,” she said, reading. “An invalid, I gather, who is staying on the Crescent. She asks that I might call on her this morning.”

  Jane was out of her chair now, and reading over her shoulder. “That is a little odd, is it not? If you have not made her acquaintance. Oh, I see. She writes that you have met her son.”

  “But hardly at all. He is the gentleman of whom we spoke yesterday. We met him at the cliffs. A Mr. Hobday. Mr. Henry Hobday.”

  “Cassy! You are smiling!”

  “I certainly am not. And I assure you, I do not know him, not properly. I was not even aware that he had a mother, indeed.”

  “Most men do, on the whole,” said Jane. “And this one has a mother who is very keen to meet you. That does seem to set him apart from the rest.”

  Cassy remembered her scheme. “Will you not join me? Mr. Hobday himself might be there, and I do believe you might find him very much to your liking.”

  “No, thank you.” Jane was already back at her pages; pen in hand, mind elsewhere. “I am busy with this. It is going well this morning.” She wrote a few words, and added absently, flicking her pen: “And I shall not.”

  “Shall not what?”

  “Find him much to my liking. You know that I never do.”

  * * *

  “MRS. AUSTEN! AND I TAKE IT YOU ARE Miss Austen.” Mrs. Hobday smiled and nodded. “Yes. I see at once. Quite charming. And how very kind of you to call on me. I am finding it difficult to leave the house at all this week. My poor lungs.” She patted the pearls on her bosom. “I am here for the sea air, yet this wretched body of mine will not let me outdoors.”

  As soon as word of the note reached her chamber, Mrs. Austen was up and dressed and ready to leave. A naturally garrulous woman, she needed no coaxing. New company was to her always delightful, but especially company of the invalid sort. So much to talk of! She settled down and pitched in forthwith.

  “Oh, how I do sympathize! When we arrived here, just a week ago, I was immediately struck down with my bilious complaint. That is my weakness. Lungs do not trouble me—but the stomach! Oh, Mrs. Hobday, you would not believe…”

  Cassy sat in a mortified silence and studied her hostess. She was a younger woman than one might expect. She must have had Henry—Mr. Hobday—quite early. He took his good looks—well, his looks—directly from her. Fine hair of the same rich, dark color framed a strong, intelligent face, a similar aquiline nose. From time to time, as Mrs. Austen moved through a long litany of symptoms, Mrs. Hobday glanced over at Cassy with twinkling green eyes.

  At last she was able to get a word in. “I see you are studying our books, Miss Austen. Do novels interest you?”

  “Oh, very much so. You have some of my favorites there. My sister and I never go anywhere without Sir Charles Grandison beside us.”

  “Then on that recommendation, I shall ask my son if we can do that one next. These all belong to Henry, you see. He is so good to read to me nightly, and I am very grateful. But in truth, I do believe the enjoyment is more his.”

  “Mr. Hobday enjoys the works of the Mesdames Burney and Edgeworth?” Cassy was startled. “I do not know why, but I had presumed he was of the more scientific persuasion.”

  “Oh”—his proud mother smiled—“he is a scientist, an artist, a philosopher, an aficionado of the novel…” She flicked a hand at the universe. “I believe he could take over the world, if he did not insist on caring for his invalid mama.”

  It was as if he had been created by some novelist to Jane’s own specifications. Cassy’s mind worked busily: One part was occupied with the practical matter of effecting a meeting, the other with the register of her own growing irritation. Was it possible that Mr. Hobday had in fact too many perfections? It could all quite get on one’s nerves.

  “We are very close. I think, sometimes, too close. You see”—she turned to Mrs. Austen, with an instinct that this fact might be of interest—“we lost his father five years ago.”

  She was right. “I am so sorry to hear that.” Her mother leaned forward, alert: a dog in the hope of a bone. “Was it anything particularly—”

  “A tumor.”

  This met with great gratification. “A tumor!”

  “We saw the best men, but there was nothing to be done.” Mrs. Hobday gave a sad smile. “It has left me with a certain distrust of the medical profession.”

  “Indeed. However, I would recommend the local apothecary here. I do not know if you have tried him since being in Sidmouth?”

  “I fear it is too late for that.”

  “Oh! Mrs. Hobday! I am so very sorry!”

  She laughed. “Do not worry, Mrs. Austen. I am not dying, or not yet awhile. No, we depart first thing in the morning, taking the diligence to Exeter. My son despairs of Devon curing me. He has already arranged for us to head off to Europe.” Here she looked at Cassy. “Though I suspect he is regretting that now.”

  “To Europe?” Mrs. Austen was aghast. “But, my dear lady, there is a war on! You cannot possibly—”

  “Yes, we are aware, thank you, Mrs. Austen. And let me reassure you, we do not intend to travel through France. Though, should it be necessary, my son is not the sort of man to let a wretch like Napoleon get in his way.” There was more than a hint of self-satisfaction in Mrs. Hobday’s smile.

  “I do not doubt it. Well then: That is a pity,” said Mrs. Austen, with feeling. “When we have only now made your acquaintance.”

  “Quite so. It seems a little previous to us, too. But perhaps your family might be here next summer?”

  “Sadly, not. Oh, it is indeed remarkably pleasant. We are very much enjoying ourselves. But it is our retirement, you see, and we mean to travel quite widely. Dawlish is the top of our list.”

  * * *

  SOON AFTER THAT, CASSY FOUND she was tiring of Sidmouth. The pleasures of the beach were exhausted; society brittle, empty-headed, and too fashionable; she had no desire to revisit the cliffs. Even the weekly assembly did not seem worth her while. What, after all, was the purpose of dancing? She could not remember. So she stayed home with Anna, and read.

  The weather caught on to the mood of disappointment and reflected it back at her. The clouds rolled in; the rain poured down; the blue vista was consigned to history. The wind that whipped off the sea brought a chill with it. Yellow muslin was now quite inappropriate. Cassy went back with relief to her hot, heavy black.

  15

  Kintbury, April 1840

  Cassandra needed air. Frail she might be since her illness, shaken she surely was, but she could endure that small room, these letters, those memories no longer. Society would offer distraction; some small act of usefulness would restore her spirits. She resolved to go up into the village and help Isabella.

  As soon as she alighted in the hall, Pyramus put on a show of welcome so exuberant as to be almost demented. Cassandra was disquieted to find how much this moved her. It had been years, decades even, since she had elicited such a response from any living being. She patted him fondly and rubbed at his ear. Of course he was still but a dog. Yet, within the limitations of the species—for which he could be held in no way accountable—he was clearly exceptionally fine. This time she made a point of inviting him to accompany her, and was delighted when he chose to accept.

  Togeth
er they walked out of the vicarage and onto the lane. Cassandra’s hope was to catch Isabella at the Winterbournes’. The family lived in the warren of mean dwellings behind the shops, near the cliff that hung over the canal. Her progress was not easy—this hill was a lot steeper than she remembered—but it was not an unpleasant outing. There was sun on her back and the happy sound of birdsong. Pyramus matched her pace in the fashion of a gentleman, and her mind cleared with every slow step.

  Up on the street now, she exchanged greetings with the blacksmith and asked after his boy—the inevitably full answer allowed her to take a discreet rest—then she turned onto the rambling path through the cottages. Here, families were squashed, haphazardly, into every free inch so that an outsider could not hope to find his way through. Miss Austen, though, knew exactly where she was going. She always made a point of visiting when she was here.

  William Winterbourne had been a ringleader of the agricultural riots ten years before. Cassandra had not known him personally, but he was said to have been a mild-mannered, hard-working fellow, and she chose to believe it. The fact that he swung at the magistrate with a hammer in the heat of the moment was clearly unfortunate, and it was hard to blame Fulwar for rounding him up and handing him in. No one could have anticipated that he should be hanged for his crime. But such was his fate, and he had ever since been a source of unease on the collective familial conscience.

  She reached the dark corner that housed what was left of the family. The door was open, and she let herself in.

  “Hello?”

  She peered through the gloom, across the bedding laid out on the mud floor. There was no sign of Isabella or any children, just Mrs. Winterbourne slumped a-heap by the damp wall with the calf’s-foot jelly beside her. Cassandra looked upon this sad remnant of a person and felt a cold anger. What sort of justice was this, that a good woman should be sentenced to a lifetime of misery for her husband’s one thoughtless crime?