by Gill Hornby
Mrs. Austen sat up, giving a round chuckle.
Cassy dropped her needle and looked up again in horror. “Jane!”
“Oh, I am sorry. I have spoken in error. Ignore me, Charles. Cassy has, after all, no suitors. And I would particularly like to point out that she has no suitors who go by the name of Hobday. Specifically, Mr. Henry Hobday—”
“—who happens to be both exceedingly agreeable and heir to a Derbyshire estate,” joined in their mother.
“No, indeed. She has bewitched no gentleman who could answer to that description. No man at all.”
Cassy, blushing, was silent and resentful. She enjoyed these family jokes only when she herself was not the butt of them.
“You are making your sister uncomfortable, Jane,” Mr. Austen reproved. “And I must add that I have seen no evidence of this romance of which you speak.”
“That, Papa, is because it is a very deep secret. So deep that it is known only by all of Dawlish.”
“And Sidmouth?”
“Yes, you are right, Mother. I have heard there to be pockets of Sidmouth in which people talk of little else.”
“Oh, enough. Please,” Cassy begged. “You see, Charles, that Jane has become no less outrageous since your last visit. Her love of fiction has spread from the page and into our lives. I am sad to report that now she routinely spouts nonsense. We can no longer believe a word that comes out of her mouth.”
Charles, although he had been enjoying himself hugely, was never anything other than kind. He knew that it was the moment for a change of conversation, and with a captain’s skill he steered it away. He entertained them all with stories from his ship and descriptions of faraway places.
And the sun set on a parlor that was all familial contentment. Cassy, recovered now and calm, looked about her with love. Her father asked learned questions and basked in the detail of the son’s answers. Her mother rocked gently and smiled at her own thoughts. Cassy hoped that they were not straying into the district of Derbyshire, although she feared it most likely they were. And Jane? Jane looked happier and more alive than she had for months. Here in this room was all that her sister needed: good conversation in which she felt no inhibition; time and space to write, with an intelligent audience to listen; her family around her, with whom she could be her own self. These were the conditions upon which her happiness, or her equilibrium at least, depended. Were they altogether too much for a single woman to ask? Just these small things. She required nothing more.
* * *
IT DID NOT TAKE LONG for Charles to lose patience with Dawlish. As Jane had predicted, this gentle village did not offer enough distractions to detain him. He was a young man of great energy, who had been away at sea and had little hope of this peace lasting. He craved a summer of society: fashionable crowds; no doubt, too, fashionable ladies of his own age and regular assemblies at which he might meet them. With that in mind, the Austens agreed to remove themselves to Teignmouth forthwith.
The prospect brought Cassy enormous relief. Of course she had no craving for fashion or society, nor was this place too tame for her tastes—quite the opposite. For her, here lurked danger, and she had become almost desperate in her wish to escape it. She had feigned headaches, avoided calls, retreated to darkened rooms, and ignored the entreaties of her mother for as long as could possibly be tolerated. Her behavior was attracting attention, and all of it negative. For once Jane was left in peace to act as she pleased. Mrs. Austen had shifted her focus of maternal concern. Cassy, of all people, was her new problem now.
“And how are you today, child?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed as she peered over the breakfast table. “Recovered at last, I do hope?”
“Thank you, Mama. Perhaps I am a little better.” Cassy dared not say otherwise, and indeed, she did feel much calmer. Her sense of threat was diminishing. After all, what could possibly happen? They were to leave Dawlish the following morning.
“Splendid!” exclaimed Charles. “I suggest we three take our young legs out for a good walk, up over the cliffs and into the country beyond. What say you?”
“Nothing would delight me more,” Jane replied. “It has been such a sadness to me, having an invalid sister. You cannot know how I have suffered, Cass, left all alone. Let us take a good picnic, and we can celebrate your return.”
The matter was settled without waiting for Cassy’s agreement, and she was soon caught up in the flurry of necessary arrangements. Neither of her siblings could be trusted to remember all that they needed, and so, of course, she had to take over. There was an art to overseeing the composition of a good picnic. It happened to be one of her skills.
They set out. This was the first time she had taken the air in more than a week, and her senses could only delight in it. Yes, the sun was behind clouds and the wind was a little fresh, but then, were these not the perfect conditions for walking? And she could think of no better companions than her sister and this brother. They proceeded along the seafront, turned, followed the brook up to the village, and by now Cassy’s spirits were completely restored. She was laughing and happy—any onlooker would have to presume carefree—when the others stopped and looked around. As if they were waiting.
“What is it?” she asked of them. “I assure you we need nothing more for the picnic. We have all we could possibly want.”
“There he comes!” Charles raised his hand and his voice. “Hobday, my good fellow. Here we are. Delighted you could join us. What a fine day we have for our outing.”
“Good day to you all.” Mr. Hobday lifted his hat. “And I am equally delighted to be invited. Ladies. Miss Austen, my particular pleasure. I have not seen you about lately. I do hope you are well?”
“Thank you, sir,” Cassy stammered. Her curtsy was not all it should be. She was not quite in control of her limbs.
“Capital!” Charles exclaimed with great satisfaction, as if all was well in the world. “Let us sally. I am told that if we take this stream as our guide, then a picturesque splendor awaits us. Tell me, Hobday, where do you stand on this picturesque business? Not sure I quite grasp it myself.”
The men strode ahead, and Cassy hung back. She did not want to hear Mr. Hobday’s opinions, on that or any other matter, for fear they might meet her approval. A morning of mutual agreement would prove most unhelpful. Better to live in ignorance, and hope him to be stupid and wrong.
“Do you mind terribly?” Jane, walking with her, put a hand on her arm.
“Yes, Jane. I mind very much.”
“It was all Charles’s doing.”
“Of which you knew nothing?”
“No,” Jane conceded, trying to be serious, but too cheerful for that. “Of which I knew all, and in which I could not see any malice. While you have been sickening with—well, whatever it is that has sickened you—the two have become friendly. Charles seems to like him exceedingly well.”
Another conquest, Cassy thought irritably. Why could he not just leave all well alone?
“Indeed, no one can find any sort of fault with your Mr. Hobday. It seems he is the very model of masculine perfection. The universe has met and agreed upon it. It is all most infuriating.” Jane sighed. “You know that, as a woman of many faults, I abhor faultlessness in others. What is there to be done with them if they cannot change or improve?”
Cassy laughed. “You are faultless in my eyes.”
“No, I do not think so. But you do bear me better than anyone else ever could.” Peace was made between them. “My dear Cass, it is you who are faultless, or as close to it as I could tolerate. You deserve something better than this wretched future of ours. This denial of yourself is completely absurd.”
“Jane! Why must you make such drama from nothing? Our future is not wretched. We have our parents—at least for the moment, God willing. We have five fine brothers who will never neglect us. Most important of all, we have each other—unless or until you meet someone good enough. And even then, I should not starve.”
“Not t
o starve! Is that your ambition? ‘Here lies Cassandra Austen. She did not starve.’” Jane’s mocking tone at once became grave. “I have no crystal ball and cannot say yet exactly what will become of us, but this much is certain: We must be poor. We must, in no time, be old. We must find ourselves become objects of pity or—worse, even!—comedy. This must be my fate, and though I dread it, I have now reached acceptance. But it does not have to be your own. Cass, you are so dear to me. I love you above all. But we do not have to live as one. We are two different women. I beg you”—she stopped and grabbed Cassy’s hands—“if you are offered some means of escape, do not refuse it.”
“How goes it back there? Is it not splendid out here today?”
The gentlemen had paused their walking so that the ladies could catch up.
“Indeed!” cried Jane. “We are loving it, are we not, Sister? We were just celebrating our own good fortune, to be surrounded by such spectacular beauty on this particular day. How blessed are we? Our hearts runneth over! What an excellent scheme to come out here. What excellent men you both are to think of it. Our gratitude is so great as to be beyond all expression!”
This was such un-Jane-like behavior that Charles, rather letting the side down, barked with delight. “What say you to that, Hobday? Not effusive enough, to my mind. Do you not agree?”
“Very poor, indeed.” Mr. Hobday was smiling. “Most wanting, as a response to such excellence as ours. I am starting to fear that your sister is hardly grateful at all.”
“Perhaps you should offer up a sonnet or two, Jane? In praise of us. That might be appropriate.”
“A mere sonnet? Too short, and too easy. I demand an epic poem, Miss Jane, long and heavy, very much in the Romantic style. If it could be delivered to my chambers sometime this evening?”
“I shall start composing at once. On Dawlish, it is to be called.”
“Make sure you include that millwheel down there,” Charles put in. “I feel rather poetic m’self when I look at it: Sort of … moving like time … sort of thing.”
His sisters erupted in mirth. “Charles, you are hopeless.”
“Well, what about that old fellow in the field, tilling the soil? Dashed backbreaking stuff, that is.”
“Ah, Austen,” Mr. Hobday cautioned, “you are failing to appreciate the relationship between the peasant and the poet. I am afraid that whatever his pain or his misery, whether his children be dead or his belly roaring with hunger, poetry can record only his unaffected happiness.”
“You see?” Jane cried. “Mr. Hobday understands the craft perfectly. I think I shall not bother with people at all in my epic. They always appear to me too complicated and ridiculous. I shall get caught up in their dramas, and it will interrupt my flow. Mind,” she added, glancing sideways. “Do you see how that shaft of light falls upon the face of my sister? That might be worth a line or two.”
“Oh, surely a stanza all to itself?” Mr. Hobday smiled at Cassy. Cassy blushed back. Then Jane and Charles walked off at high speed.
And they were left there, alone, on the hillside. The sea sparkled beneath. The clouds of the morning had cleared, and the sun seemed to bless them. There were no other walkers around.
* * *
“WHAT HAPPENED?” JANE BLEW into their bedroom. “Tell me, Cassy, now! Did he speak?”
Cassy lay on the bed, willing her heart to calm down. Her bonnet lay abandoned on the floor; her hair was all over her face. “He spoke.” She turned on her side, away from her sister, and wept.
“And? Well?” Jane leaped onto the bed and grabbed her shoulders. “Your answer? What was your answer?”
“I refused him.” Her words were muffled into the pillow.
“Refused him?” Jane screamed.
“Hush, Jane. Mama is downstairs.” Oh, her poor mama! She must never hear of this. “Yes. I refused him. I do not appreciate you conspiring to leave me so undefended. But there.” She sat up and wiped her face with her handkerchief. “’Tis done.”
Jane got up and began to pace around the bedroom. “I do not, I cannot understand you. What fault could you possibly find with him? What more could you ask for? A match like that, at your time of life—it is a story almost beyond fiction!” She stared out of the window, silent for a moment; then she returned and took her sister in her arms. “Please, at least, do try and explain,” she begged tenderly.
“I—I…” Tears fell again. “I cannot marry him. It is impossible. I promised Tom I would not.”
“Tom?” Jane was now genuinely puzzled. “But Tom had no knowledge of your Mr. Hobday.”
“On our last day in Kintbury, just before he left. We were in church.” Cassy struggled. She had never before admitted this. “In front of the altar. We stood before God, Jane. And I promised him, faithfully, I would marry him or I would marry no man at all.”
Jane pulled back in horror. “And Tom dared ask that of you?”
“No. Of course he did not. He begged that I not feel beholden.” She blew her nose. “But beholden I most surely am. I cannot go back on my word. I should be punished again.”
“Cassandra! Punished, indeed. Punished again? What is this Old Testament nonsense? Who is this cruel God of whom you speak? I have a mind to call in Papa.”
“Our parents must never know any of this!” Cassy was urgent. “They will not forgive me. And it would be useless. I shall not change my mind.”
The sisters lay down together then. Jane held Cassy tight in her arms while she sobbed until she was calm.
Presently, when it was safe, she could not resist asking: “Pray, Cass. Tell me all that he said to you. Did he ask well?”
Cassy pulled back and smiled. “You will not be surprised to hear that he asked perfectly. He has loved me since the first time he set eyes on me. He was good enough to pay homage to my beauty, but only in passing. He spoke more of intelligence, mind, and spirit and my, well…”
“Go on.”
“… character and—what he takes at least—its excellence. That he has perceived a gift for improving the lives of those I have around me.” She flicked her hand as if to brush away such a fancy. “Though how he has come to that conclusion I really cannot say.”
“He is right, though. You do, my love. And here was a man capable of seeing it.” Jane sighed. “How did he take your refusal?”
“Oh, perfectly, of course. He was grim but respectful. He did not try to persuade me. Though he did beg for permission to write in the future.”
“And you granted that?”
“Yes, though I now deeply regret it. In the moment—Oh, Jane! It was dreadful—it seemed the least I could do.”
“So he still must have hope.” Jane brightened. “He could ask again.” She got up, collected herself, and went to rejoin the family, to tell them that the headaches had returned, that she had seen for herself how much Cassy suffered.
Her report must have been accepted without question. Cassy stayed in her room and was left alone.
18
Kintbury, April 1840
IT WAS NOW LATE IN THE AFTERNOON. Pyramus guided her down the path through the graveyard to the porch of the church, and sat down as if to wait. Feeling herself to have been delivered for a reason, Cassandra opened the heavy oak door, entered—and was at once overcome.
The House of God, when empty, behaved in a quite different fashion from the houses of men. This was not sunken; this was no shell dependent upon people for its personality and atmosphere: Quite the opposite. Free of worshippers and busyness, it stood solid in its own splendor; confident in its own purpose: cold, damp, and simple, yet rich with magnificence.
Cassandra walked down the aisle, alone with her God, and lowered herself onto a pew, to keep His company for a while. She studied the altar, bleak in its Lenten attire, and thought back to that winter’s night long ago, when it was dressed up for Epiphany and she had stood there with Tom. Her mind’s eye conjured up that Cassy—slim and handsome—making that promise she had no need to make. Ho
w rash she had been—impulsive, intemperate—to play games with fortune; it was quite out of character. There had been moments—in Dawlish, and after—when she had railed at God for letting her act so. He had been there as her witness: Could not He have stepped in and held her younger self back?
But sitting there now, Cassandra had her own small epiphany. On reflection she could see that the promise had proved a gift, provided an alibi: It gave her the power to refuse good Mr. Hobday. It led her, through a serpentine route, down many dark and blind alleys, to her own eventual happy ending. So, one could argue, it never had been the willful act of a foolish young woman, but instead the centerpiece of her whole life’s design.
Cassandra rose, left the church, and made her slow return to the vicarage, pondering the mysteries of events and their outcomes. The ambiguity of it all made her head hurt. She felt weak and depleted and longed to sit down. But when they came to the gate, her faithful canine friend did not lead her into the house, but instead set off for the bridge.
“Pyramus!” She could not walk any farther. “Here, Pyramus!” Nor could she leave him out here alone, unattended. No doubt he knew his way around—he was blessed with more sense than most humans—but still, he was too precious a creature to lose. She took a deep breath and followed.
Beyond the bridge was the Avenue, a long, straight lane, lined with good horse chestnuts, that led to the Manor. And there, halfway down it, was the small figure of Isabella in deep conversation with a tall man in black. Pyramus must have heard his mistress’s voice. As they drew nearer, Cassandra divined this to be a conversation of some awkwardness. Pyramus must have sensed her distress. At last she came upon them.
“Oh, Cassandra.” Isabella was trembling, almost tearful. “I am pleased to see you.”
Not more Kintbury dramas! Cassandra did not have the energy.
“May I present to you Mr. Dundas, who is to take over from my father as the new vicar of Kintbury. Mr. Dundas has just informed me that he would like us to remove ourselves from the house within the next fortnight.”