Miss Austen

by Gill Hornby

  “‘Within the next fortnight’?” Cassandra repeated. “But that is too soon. Two months, Mr. Dundas. The retiring family is always granted two months. That is a custom as old as the Church.”

  “With a family, yes, I can see that is appropriate. But in this case there is no family left to speak of.” Mr. Dundas spoke with the confidence of one all too aware of his own winning charm. “There is only Miss Fowle, so I foresee no difficulty. I am keen to get on and do the best for the parish, Miss…?”

  “Miss Austen.” Cassandra had learned to be wary of charm. Too often had she seen it abused by the charmer in the ruthless pursuit of his own advantage.

  “Miss Austen?” Mr. Dundas bowed. “You are perhaps some relation of the actual Miss Austen—the great lady novelist?”

  She agreed that she must be.

  “Oh, but then this is a coincidence! For I am her greatest admirer.”

  Cassandra proceeded to revise her opinion of the gentleman. There was clearly more to him than manners.

  “Allow me, please, to kiss the hand that must once have touched our dear Jane. There. It as close as I will ever get to the real, proper thing.”

  She rerevised it, immediately, and placed it back, firmly, into its original position.

  “You cannot imagine my despair when she was taken from us so early. I was quite sunk for days when I heard.”

  “Then it only leaves me to say how sorry I am for your great personal loss,” Cassandra said calmly.

  “Thank you—most kind. I have read all of her works. Well, perhaps, most of her works. What is the one with the clergyman?”

  “Well, it is hard to say which you mean. She rather went in for clergymen … They all—”

  “Mansfield House! Yes, that is the one. My favorite above all. I read it and read it again. The thing about your sister, and so few people grasp this, is that her understanding of people, and a certain milieu, was so profound as to be almost unique.”

  “Is that so?” Cassandra started to walk back in the direction of the house. Mr. Dundas fell into step beside her. Isabella lagged behind.

  “And it seems to me that she must have somehow been the beneficiary of the great education that is ordinarily the preserve of the English gentleman. Perhaps she was lucky enough to have a master, and not just a governess?” Cassandra could sense this was more of a muse than a question. “I also feel—indeed, I am certain—that she traveled considerably and was the all-seeing guest in a great many drawing rooms of all the best people. I can tell you, definitely, that she was once in Bath, for my brother was fortunate enough to meet her there.”

  “Was he indeed?” Cassandra remembered the occasion with clarity. She had gone to the Pump Room alone with her parents; Jane could not be persuaded to come out that day. The senior Mr. Dundas had met only this other Miss Austen. As so often, poor, weak truth must lay down its life for the triumph of anecdote.

  “He reported that she was the most sparkling creature he ever did meet!”

  Well, that was most gratifying. She did recall, thinking about it, that she had been on rather good form.

  “Your situation interests me. It must rub, does it not? I often find myself pondering on the random way in which blessings are scattered in families. There is your sister, a woman of genius, who, if there is any justice, should be the subject of interest for future generations. And there beside her is you, madam, whom, by the vagaries of fate…” He paused, and for the first time showed a little uncertainty.

  “… am rendered of interest to no one at all?” she finished for him, helpfully. “I think we are going this way, are we not, Miss Fowle? If you are off to your church and the very great importance of its ministry, Mr. Dundas, please do not let us detain you.”

  They made their farewells, and he swaggered off into the distance.

  “Isabella,” Cassandra said gently, once they were alone, “do you intend to comply with this outrageous demand?”

  “I do not feel I have a choice.” Isabella sniffed as she walked. “He spoke as one most sympathetic to my predicament, and of course the parish must always come first. Mr. Dundas is a man never less than impeccable in all matters. He was very flattering about your sister, was he not?”

  “Indeed. I was quite charmed. But, my dear, have you yet found a place to which you might go?”

  They had arrived at the drive of the vicarage.

  “No, not at all.” Isabella sighed and sniffed again. “Oh, it is all my own fault, I dare say. It generally is. That is what my sisters would tell me. I have been too happy to let others decide on my behalf. I am a wretched creature, all abject and prone.”

  They were met at the door by Dinah, who stood waiting to take their outer garments.

  “Surely there must be somewhere to suit in the village.” Cassandra untied her bonnet. “You have some money, Isabella: the means of providing some sort of roof for your head. My dear, do remember that. All is not lost.”

  Isabella unfastened her cloak. “Yes, of course. A place. I shall find a place.” Her self-pity resurfaced as she looked around the gracious hall. “Though I may never again have a home.” She retrieved her handkerchief from a pocket, dabbed at her nose, and brightened a little. “Indeed, I did hear yesterday of a house here in the village.” Her face fell again. “No, that will not do. It is beyond my slender means. I could only take it if both my sisters came with me. Thank you, Dinah. That will be all.”

  Dinah stayed where she was.

  Cassandra’s heart lifted. A house of three women, and all deeply connected: This was the best possible outcome, the one she had hoped for since her arrival: the Holy Trinity of Domestic Perfection. And now she could share her own intelligence.

  “I spoke to your sister Elizabeth only this afternoon!” she declared with great satisfaction. “She is willing to share with you if you would like it.”

  They moved through to the drawing room. Dinah followed them.

  “And I am quite sure Mary-Jane, too, can be persuaded. She seems to feel a little insecure in that cottage.”

  Dinah fled from the room, Cassandra hoped to make their tea.

  “Oh, I do envy you. A new place is always a matter of tremendous excitement, and this will be the first of your own,” Cassandra went on. “Think of that, my dear. So many women end up perched on the edge of their extended families, trying not to get in the way. You will have a parlor! Possibly even a garden. We have so loved our garden in Chawton. A patch of earth of one’s own, to tend as one wishes; one small corner of the glory that is an English country village: It is the most we can wish for in this life of ours.”

  She was subsumed with joy at the future to which Isabella could now look forward. Living alone, for the first time, these women would discover the true bonds of sisterhood and learn that this was, in fact, the happiest of all possible happy endings. After all, mere men were no requisite to contented—

  A loud crash came from the pantry. Isabella rose and rushed through. Cassandra sat alone for a while, mildly curious as to what was going on in there now. Dinah was certainly not one of those servants who made life easier for the household, and Isabella’s apparent devotion was hard to explain. Still, there was no reason to get involved in any backstairs business. She had more serious matters to concern her.

  She returned to her room, reached into her valise, and retrieved that extraordinary note from Jane: My sister is deeply in love! Once again the words leaped out from the page, and struck her right to the core. What was Jane thinking of, to write in such terms? Cassandra was horrified anew, and yet quick to comfort herself. Surely this was scrawled out in the mood of a moment. Of course there would be no further assault on her privacy.

  Steeling herself, Cassandra reached for the next in the pile.

  Teignmouth

  10 July 1802

  My dear Eliza,

  You begged to be informed of the next stage in the saga, and it is with a heavy heart that I comply. For the news is that—despite all previous exc
itement and optimism—it seems, once again, we are to be left disappointed.

  I hasten to tell you that the gentleman himself was by no means the agent of this disappointment—indeed, the reverse. Over the length of our stay, he proved himself as good a man as those who love her could wish for; on our last day, he declared himself, just as we hoped. It was already clear that the attraction was mutual and that it was almost too good to be true. Yet Cassy refused him! The sheer madness of it drives me to distraction.

  As you well know, I am no advocate of marriage for its own sake, but I am all for a good match and this would be—could have been—a splendid one. Imagine, Eliza! My sister had the offer of a comfortable future—wealth, stability, love and respect—and she opted for more insecurity. I must say that I struggle to comprehend it. Bereaved fiancée, dutiful daughter, caring aunt—these are the roles she embraces. Esteemed object of a gentleman’s heart, though? That she would rather reject.

  I know that we—my parents and I—weigh on her. She fears we cannot manage without her and though that is true—I am guilty of an overdependence, as is our mother—I shall endeavor to persuade her it is not. But she speaks, too, of a whole other reason—if my sister has one fault it is that of a wanton appetite for the denial of self—and it is for this that I write to you now.

  It appears she feels beholden to Tom—some business of A Promise, though I suspect it is also connected to the fact of the bequest that he made her—and to your family. We have been so grateful that you have continued to treat her as one of your own, and the warmth, the kindness, the inclusion that you have shown to her in these dark times has been exemplary. But I am sure you would be happy to see her build a new life for herself, as would we all. Should the occasion arise, might you see your way to offering some Fowle absolution?

  If we both play our part, then I am sure he will need but the slightest encouragement to ask her again. He is a man of some pride, but not too proud to be malleable. Some of the very best marriages require at least two proposals—do they not?—to get them onto the right foot.

  And if that does not work, well then: I shall be forced to do something drastic. I would sooner sacrifice my own happiness than watch Cassy martyr herself so.

  With fondest wishes,

  J. Austen.

  19

  Manydown, December 1802

  “THE VERY PRINCE OF DAYS, and in the very king of counties!” Jane exclaimed, linking arms with her sister. “Oh, the joy of being back on Hampshire soil.”

  They were staying at Manydown, which happened to be one of Jane’s few favorite places, with the Misses Bigg, who were both on the very short list of her favorite people. A combination of a little good fortune and considerable conniving had brought them here for three blessed weeks. They should be with James and Mary at Steventon, that was the arrangement, and had survived almost ten days under the rectory roof. But the effect on Jane—the livid grief of revisiting her childhood home; the irritations of being under the rule of its new mistress—had been such that Cassy had become quite concerned.

  So Cassy had taken it upon herself to have a quiet word with Catherine and Alethea, and those excellent women had come to their rescue. This gracious house, with its spacious estate, had at once worked its magic. Jane was now almost restored. Together the four friends strode out over a field made crisp by the dry winter, and Cassy breathed deep with relief at the lift in Jane’s mood.

  “Can you have any idea of your own privilege, girls? To have this limitless acreage at your disposal. To walk and to think in unqualified peace. One cannot quite appreciate the wondrousness of it, if you have never known anything other.”

  “Oh, but we do, Jane. I assure you.” They had come to the ha-ha. There was a bridge farther up, but they had never used it in their youth, and they eschewed the use of it now. Alethea lifted her skirts and jumped the ditch. She landed with grace and, while waiting for the others, spoke on: “There is always that threat hanging over us, to aid the concentration of the mind and the counting of blessings.” She held out a hand to help Cassy. “We cannot forget that one day our brother will want to bring his own wife here, and she is unlikely to want all these sisters lurking about, getting older and crosser.”

  “You are the least cross women I know! But then who can be cross when in Manydown? Even I seem to have forgotten the knack.” Jane, too, leaped across the ha-ha unaided. “And I am sure that were I the future Mrs. Harris Bigg-Wither, I should make room for as many sisters as were available and then take to the streets and petition for more.” With a firm, quick step, she led their way across the pasture, scattering sheep in her path. “Anyway, your brother is still a young man. He could be years yet off marriage, and while your father is alive you can count on this as your home. We have a new and deep understanding of that small word now, do we not, Cass?”

  “Oh.” Cassy took her arm again—a gesture that hoped to ward off the demons. “Our life is not so bad, Jane. Bath certainly has its diversions.”

  “Indeed!” Catherine joined in now. “You forget, Jane, how bored you had become with Hampshire society. The same old faces at the Basingstoke Assembly … We hardly bother with it these days. Without you two there to laugh with, the evenings seemed simply interminable. There you at least have fresh meat to pick at.”

  “Ugh.” Jane tossed her disgust over her shoulder. “I should not dare, for fear it might poison me.” They crested the hill, and she stopped to soak up the vista unfolding before them. “Behold! A view for the ages. This is the stuff of life. Here is the place for proper contentment.”

  “That is all you require?” Cassy asked, smiling. “A mere one-hundred-and-fifty-acre slice of your own rolling country?”

  They all laughed at her.

  “I am a simple enough soul, Cass.” Jane laughed with them. “Modest in my ambitions. Something like Manydown would do me quite well.”

  * * *

  DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS UNCOMMONLY cheerful. They were not a large party, which was lucky, for Jane could not always be relied upon to enjoy those. But they were a happy one: just the Austen and Bigg ladies, their father, Mr. Lovelace Bigg-Wither, and his only son.

  Fortune had been most specific in the division of gifts to the Bigg-Wither family: The daughters had received intelligence, grace, and charm in abundance; the son had been blessed with a more grandiose surname and would one day receive the estate.

  Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither was the youngest in the family and as a child had suffered the indignity of a terrible stammer. Now one-and-twenty, he was not quite the miserable specimen he had been when the Austens last saw him. He had grown tall, and the strange distortion of his mouth become less apparent. The improvement was noticeable, and the Misses Austen duly approved it. Whether his mind had developed also, whether his opinions had become interesting or his reasoning sound—these things could only be guessed at. For although Mr. Bigg-Wither had learned to talk well enough and was able to do so without causing undue embarrassment to himself or his listeners, he still talked as little as possible. His youthful affliction had left him shy in company, and the company that evening required no sort of contribution from him.

  “Such a pity for the neighborhood that your family has left us,” Mr. Lovelace Bigg-Wither was saying. “Why your dear father should even think of retiring I shall never understand.”

  Cassy caught Jane’s eye across the table, and they shared a small smile. How could a landed gentleman appreciate the pleasures of retirement, if he has never before known the discomforts of work?

  “I believe it had all become too much for him,” Jane explained. “Not only the responsibilities of the church and his parishioners, but the running of the glebe too, I fear, took its toll.”

  “Well, if you say so, dear girl, though I have often thought rector of a small, country parish to be the most enviable existence, without the onerous responsibilities of having too much of one’s own land.” He took a mouthful of beef and ruminated for a moment. “But still, why could
not your parents have settled here in Hampshire? Bath—Bath of all places! It makes no sort of sense.”

  “Ah, there we are in agreement, sir,” said Jane warmly. “I now know to my cost that cities in general have not much to recommend them. The noise and smoke and the press of other people! All very well for a visit or two, but no longer than that.”

  “Quite so, madam.” Mr. Bigg-Wither pointed his fork at her to express his agreement, and peered with approval through a forest of eyebrow. “Many a time my dear, late lady wife would drag me to London, promising a dashed good time. I would hide in my club for a day or two and then scuttle back here as soon as I could.” He took a potato. “Never go near the place now. London, indeed. Makes a fellow quite ill.”

  “My parents,” Cassy put in, “felt that the winter in Bath would make a pleasant change, and they are very much enjoying taking their summers at the seaside.”

  “The seaside! The seaside?” The gentleman harrumphed. “Then it is as I feared. They have quite lost their senses. What business can anyone have with the seaside? That is the beauty of our neck of Hampshire. We cannot see it. Thank the good Lord, we cannot smell it. We can all but pretend that it is not even there.”

  “Papa, the sea is much in fashion,” said Alethea. “They now say that it is of great benefit to one’s health.”

  “Ha! It will kill you as soon as it looks at you.” He bellowed his warning: “Only a damned fool would trust it.” He sank into his chair and returned to his dinner.

  “Sir, I must say that I have every sympathy with your position. Once one has known Manydown, then one need never travel again. If you have met perfection, why go in search of inadequacy?” Jane’s words, though all true, were carefully designed to restore her host’s humor. “I feel just as strongly about Steventon. While I am very grateful to my parents for showing me other, different places, all that I have learned on our travels is this: There is no county to rival Hampshire, in my own affections at least.”