Miss Austen

by Gill Hornby

  There came a sudden disturbance. A square, solid shape loomed at the threshold. A gentleman—or a man, at least—came into the room.

  “Madam.” He acknowledged her with no more than a quick flick of the head and crossed the floor with a sure, firm step. He gained on her position. In the half-light, she could not quite see his face and began to feel apprehensive.

  But then he dropped to his knees at Mrs. Winterbourne’s side.

  “So now, me pet.” His accent was the broadest of Berkshire. He put down something that appeared to be a medical bag, and took her hand tenderly. “How are we now, then? Bin up at all since morning?”

  Was this the doctor of whom Isabella had spoken, he who had nursed Fulwar so well at his deathbed? Ordinarily Cassandra would endeavor some conversation: perform that ritualistic exchange of social connection that we all do when meeting a stranger, in the hope of imposing some order on this vast, difficult world.

  “Let’s see if you can’t take a bit of this nice jelly.”

  But conversation did not seem appropriate. The doctor had no interest in her; he had made no introduction: His courtesy was no more than rudimentary. She could not, though, fault his manner to the patient, which was clearly exemplary. He was trying now to feed her as she turned her head to the wall.

  “What is it that ails her?” Cassandra inquired quietly.

  “What ails her?” The doctor sat back on his haunches and looked round. “Naught I can cure, sadly, though I wish as I could. Poverty. Misfortune. A system as treats those like ’er without any fairness.” He gave an apologetic smile—“Forgive me, m’m, if you find me sounding too political”—and then a shrug: “You did ask.”

  “Indeed. Though I knew the answer already,” Cassandra replied. “Our views are not wildly divergent. Thank you for ministering to her.”

  “I’ll not let her go.”

  He turned back to his treatment. Cassandra watched him for a while—impressed by this man’s dedication; moved by his kindness—then quietly retreated. She made her way back, emerging into the street in the sunshine directly in front of the Plasterers’ Arms. Was it not in its back room that Elizabeth Fowle ran her nursery? Then here was today’s opportunity to be useful. She had been meaning to visit her.

  She crossed and took the alley to the side of the inn. The yard at the back was piled high with old barrels and broken boxes, but there was a small path through it. Pyramus of course knew where to go. Cassandra picked her way along behind him, toward the swelling noise of infants in varying states of extreme emotion, and found the door.

  “Miss Austen!” Isabella’s sister, Elizabeth Fowle, stood with a child on each hip. “Look, children, we have a visitor.” The only light in the crowded, dim room seemed to come from her radiance. “Now”—she stroked a few heads and wiped a few tears—“we must remember our manners. What is it we say when people are so kind as to call on us?” She appeared, to Cassandra, as a saint in stained glass: aglow, blessed, redeemed.

  A small girl toddled forward and wobbled a curtsy; a baby was placed in Cassandra’s arms and studied her with interest. Pyramus lay down, accepting that he must now be a plaything, and a few older children obliged. The rest—how many were in here? Cassandra counted at least ten—carried on with their day.

  “Elizabeth, my dear.” Cassandra moved forward, and the two women kissed. “So this is where you have been hiding yourself.”

  “Indeed. And what a pleasure it is for me to be able to show it to you. I am sorry I am never at home now. My days are so busy here, I can never find the time.”

  Elizabeth found Cassandra a chair and asked a helper to make tea for them. “My charges arrive from five in the morning, you see. That is when their mothers have to get to the whiting works or the mill, and the women have to do such long hours.” She reached for a hard biscuit and put it into a small hand. “By the time they have all left, I have no energy to do much but crawl up there to bed.” She gestured to a ladder that led to a loft. “Before dawn it all starts again!” The rigor of it all seemed to delight her.

  Cassandra listened. She could not help but be impressed, and as a consequence was forced to revise a long-held opinion—a process she never found pleasant. But credit must be given where credit was due, and this previously meek and quiet daughter of the vicarage must be credited for transforming herself so.

  “Come now.” Elizabeth picked up a crying baby.

  These were not her offspring, and the room was mean and chaotic, yet she appeared now to Cassandra just like any good mother in her own nursery: She had the same patience and devotion, and that infinite well of maternal sympathy.

  “There, there, my precious one.”

  Somehow, and one had to admire it, Elizabeth had found the solution to the problem that was her situation. She had used her own spinsterhood as an opportunity and put it to public advantage. Her reward was long days filled with purpose—and even love, apparently. Here was living proof of the lesson that Cassandra wanted to teach Isabella: Happy endings are there for us somewhere, woven into the mix of life’s fabric. We just have to search the detail, follow the pattern, to find the one that should be our own.

  The thought reminded her why she had come. “I would love to talk to you about Isabella and her future, if you can spare me the time?”

  “Ah, of course,” Elizabeth replied, setting clean napkins out on the table. “The great conversation about Isabella and her future that never seems to come to an end. I cannot stop what I am doing, but I can offer at least one of my ears.” She started to strip down a baby.

  Cassandra was astonished by her tone. “Then this is something the family has already often discussed?”

  “I try to keep myself out of it.” Elizabeth smiled through a pin. “The great pleasure of my own grand establishment”—she gestured around the nursery—“is that it is a haven from Fowle family politics. And indeed, there once was a time when they spoke of little else.”

  “What—even before the matter of it became so urgent? But—I do not understand—why in such a straightforward matter would there be so much to say?”

  Elizabeth looked at her. “I think I have already made plain: I dislike being involved and am resolved never to be so. All I shall tell you”—she turned back to the napkin and a bare little bottom—“is that there were, indeed still are, a few characters in my family who are known to be very persuasive. And my sister, of whom I am otherwise very fond, has the fault of being far too persuadable for her own good. Beyond that”—she stood up straight, nestling the baby into her neck—“I will not go.”

  Cassandra, baffled, tried to make sense of this sphinxlike pronouncement, but had never been one for the riddle. She gave up at once, and instead thought to revise her brand-new opinion: While one must admire a woman who looked after herself, one could never condone neglect of the family.

  She resolved to say that which she had already planned. It had been weighing on her, and she must unload it: “Well, I cannot stand by and watch Isabella suffer from the insecurity of her current position. I must—”

  “Why?” Elizabeth tilted her head to one side and looked quizzical. “Why should it concern you?”

  Cassandra was quite taken aback.

  “Forgive me. Please do not think me rude. Mine is a genuine inquiry. You must know that we are not a family that would condemn a sister to the workhouse. Our father has left us each a little money. Isabella cannot look forward to much, but she is in no explicit danger. I suppose it is better put this way—why are you quite so concerned?”

  That was, asked thus, indeed a reasonable question. Cassandra was forced to reflect on her own position. Was she being an interfering old woman? Oh, the horror if that were so! There was an invisible line between usefulness and intrusion and she well knew the perils of crossing it. She paused for a moment of routine self-examination until, satisfied with her own findings, she began her report: “You, Elizabeth, are unusual and, perhaps, unusually fortunate in being happy in your w
ork and indifferent to your home. Isabella is, as I saw at once when I arrived here, a woman for whom domestic stability is a prerequisite for function. It is breaking her heart to leave the vicarage; it is fracturing her soul not knowing what is to become of her.”

  Elizabeth put down one baby to pick up another and lay him down to change.

  “She reminds me, in that one regard, of my own dear sister,” Cassandra continued. “We had many years, as you know—with your aunt Martha, too, of course—in which we went from pillar to post without ever settling properly. None of us enjoyed them, but they damaged Jane particularly and possibly profoundly. The memory of it all haunts me today. I do sometimes wonder whether, if we had had the chance to settle down sooner, she might not have—well, we might have had a few more years with her. The stress, I believe, took its toll.” She paused again to gather herself. “I could not help Jane—we had little money and no power—but I would like to help Isabella. Her contentment is there in our grasp. As long as you, my dear, consent to take a house with her, then she can stay here in the village. I can see that you are fully consumed here, but surely she will find some occupation for herself. She has her pupils and her good works, I have noticed. So,” she concluded, brightly, “then all will be well.”

  “I am happy to do that,” said Elizabeth, with more than a hint of reluctance. “If that is indeed what my sister desires. But I will not be put in the position of forcing such an arrangement upon her, nor am I able to be very much help. I am, as you say, very busy. Now—if you do not mind—we are coming up to the children’s tea and…”

  All at once Cassandra and Pyramus were out of the door.

  * * *

  THE DOG LED HER BACK TOWARD the vicarage. Cassandra knew not by which route, took no notice of landmarks: There was too much to think about, and too much that was troubling. She would have liked to decipher the cryptic messages about Isabella’s wishes, but it was all too mysterious and, frankly, incredible. She had never heard whisper of any dramas before, and was quite sure that Eliza would have shared them. Elizabeth Fowle, she concluded, was a somewhat hysterical woman—no doubt provoked by too much exposure to the works of Sir Walter Scott. The only fact to hold on to was that she had agreed to live with her sister. So there Cassandra’s work had been done.

  Which left the unsettling memories of her own sister, stirred up first by her letters and then the stuff of that interview. The exodus from the vicarage, the uncertainty ahead … For the first time Cassandra realized why she was so affected by the predicament of the Fowle ladies. What was happening in Kintbury was so redolent of what had happened in Steventon. It took her back to those turbulent first years of the century.

  Jane had been shocked by their father’s retirement and removal to Bath, but had seemed to rally in Sidmouth. Decline set in, though, that following winter. Their father was still alive then; they still had his pension to keep them. There was no sign of the financial privations that were soon to assault them; they were not then forced upon the goodwill of their brothers: Their caps were not yet in their hands. But still, Jane could not settle and found no comfort in society or tranquillity at home.

  By the following summer she was beginning to show signs—even to Cassy, who watched through a prism of unqualified sympathy—of becoming that most unwelcome of creatures: the unhappy woman who refused to pretend to be anything but.

  16

  Dawlish, July 1802

  THE LAST BELL HAD CHIMED, and in the small village church the service was already under way as they hurried in and found a back pew.

  “After you, my dear.” Mr. Austen ushered his wife into her seat, but his courtesy did nothing to please her.

  “This is most unsatisfactory.” Mrs. Austen sat down, red faced from her exertions and quite out of breath. “I shall not see anyone poked away here.”

  Cassy and Jane took their places, found their psalmbooks, and each silently prayed that their mother might be quiet for the rest of the service.

  “Nor can I hear. Can you hear him, Mr. Austen?” It was always a wonder of science that a whisper could travel so far and so clearly. “Is this man any good?”

  A year had passed, and the family had once again chosen to take summer lodgings close to the sea. The ancient church, though, was set back in the country and could only be approached through gardens and fields. No one had expected Mrs. Austen to make the effort that morning—the distance was such that God might excuse her—but she was determined.

  For Dawlish, it turned out, was no Sidmouth when it came to society. Its fresh air and beautiful bay were certainly enough to attract visitors. It was ambitious to be an elegant watering place and not just a fishing village, but its transformation was not quite complete. So while it could boast of plenty of bathing machines and doctors for those preoccupied by their own ill disposition, it as yet had no assembly or other entertainments to amuse those who were well.

  “I was hoping to see some new faces. I only have view of the back of their hats.”

  It was only their first week there, but already Mrs. Austen was worried by the resort’s limitations. This was, of course, not on her own account. She would be perfectly content to spend a quiet summer in the company of her beloved husband and pursuit of their better health. But for her daughters she felt that a pitiful prospect. The girls must make new acquaintances—perhaps (she would never give up hope) some even deeper alliance. With so little else on offer here, it would clearly be foolish to pass up the social opportunities of a full Sunday service. And once she got word that the parson was a bachelor, well: The walk of a mile suddenly seemed no distance at all.

  The unmarried man began his sermon for the morning.

  Mrs. Austen leaned across: “How does he look?”

  Cassy studied him. She too would dearly like the season to yield some person of interest, although he would have to be very interesting indeed to wake Jane out of her doldrums. Could this be such a man? It was not easy to tell from an ordinary face coming over a pulpit. But then he got into his stride.

  And Jane turned to her, rolling her eyes to the conventional Anglican heavens. Another evangelist! Must they be everywhere? There was the end of it. Cassy sighed. He would not do.

  In time, and it passed slowly, they were able to brush away the brimstone and walk into the sunshine. Out there in the churchyard they would at last get their chance to evaluate the company. Mrs. Austen moved slowly, stopping all the while to look around, keen to see and be seen by as many as possible. Cassy and Jane drifted a few paces ahead, pretending at patience and warming away the cold damp of the church.

  “Mrs. Hobday!” Their mother’s voice rang out over the crowd. “I do believe you have followed us!”

  “Mama!” Cassy spun round. “Please.”

  He was there.

  “Oh, dear heavens. It was only my little joke. Why must our offspring be so alarmed every time we dare speak? I am sure your son is not so hard on you, Mrs. Hobday.” Mrs. Austen looked at the gentleman before her. “And is this he? How do you do, Mr. Hobday. Well, I believe I did see you in Sidmouth, eh? I thought I had not, but I remember it clearly. On the Mall, with my eldest daughter.” She reached out and grabbed Cassy, pushing her forward with force. “One evening it was.”

  Mr. Hobday bowed. “I could not forget.”

  “And may I present my younger daughter,” Mrs. Austen added—covering all options, just in case, should the age difference of three years be an issue—and all the remaining introductions were made.

  “Well, this is a coincidence, and I must say quite the happiest. How delightful to meet you again. You do look well this year, Mrs. Hobday. The winter clearly agreed with you. They have been to Europe, Mr. Austen—can you imagine? It puts our own adventures quite in the shade. Although we are even now hatching a plan to go to North Wales”—Mrs. Austen paused, and then added—“which is also very far away.”

  “Thank you. The alpine air was exactly what was needed.” Mrs. Hobday patted her son’s arm. �
�My dear boy was, as ever, quite right. I am so fortunate to have such a protector. His judgment in all matters is never less than impeccable.”

  Now it was his turn to look thoroughly awkward. Cassy should have liked him a lot less if he had not.

  “How did you come here this morning, Mrs. Austen? I confess the thought of the walk defeated me, so we brought a trap. But Henry, I am sure, would be happy to give up his seat to you for the return. Why do not we, the two senior ladies, travel in comfort and the rest of the party go back on foot?”

  This scheme clearly delighted Mrs. Austen on every possible level: the ease of the journey; the time alone with the pleasant, well-bred lady whom she was determined to befriend; and, of course, the opportunity for this fine gentleman to become more deeply acquainted with her two girls. She looked from one to the other, and Cassy read her thoughts as she did so: The choice could be his, according to his own preference. She would not much mind either way.

  * * *

  “AND HOW DID YOU FIND THE SERVICE this morning, sir?” asked Mr. Hobday.

  “I thought the young man did well enough.” Mr. Austen flicked his cane as he got into his long stride. They left the crowd behind them and moved on to the meadows. “It cannot be easy to have a parish with such a fluctuating congregation. Full this morning, but no doubt in the winter there is little more than one man and a dog.”

  “Then that might explain his histrionics in the pulpit,” Jane put in with some scorn. “Perhaps he is nurturing his own fame to drum up more trade.”

  “Now, my dear,” her father cautioned. “He is entitled to preach in the manner he wishes, and we have no reason to doubt his fervor.”