Miss Austen

by Gill Hornby

  The ladies left the table so that the gentlemen could enjoy their port in peace. They walked through the hall, where the white marble was softened by firelight and candles, and the stone staircase stretched like a dancer out and up in an elegant curve. Jane sighed and squeezed Cassy’s arm. “Is this not heaven?”

  “It is all very lovely.” Cassy patted her, soothingly. “And you may have had a little too much wine.”

  Jane giggled. “Then who can blame me? It is very good here, and no one can predict when we will next sample its like. I intend to stock up like a camel, so as to somehow survive the oncoming drought.”

  Once in the drawing room, Cassy settled herself with the others on the sofa while Jane walked over to the pianoforte and lifted its lid.

  “What a fine instrument.” Her fingers brushed the keys.

  “And wasted on we sorry creatures,” said Alethea. “Will you play for us, Jane?”

  She sat down. “I fear I am no longer the pianist I used to be. All this unsettlement means not so much practicing. You may find you regret having asked me.” But she started to play anyway, a Bach prelude of which Cassy was particularly fond. It took her mind back to their dressing room in Steventon, to their own safe, closeted little world.

  Jane was still playing when Mr. Bigg-Wither Senior came in and approached her.

  “Miss Jane. Do excuse me. I come bearing a message. If you would be so kind, my son is requesting you join him now in the library.”

  Cassy stiffened, looked around, and caught Catherine and Alethea exchanging glances. She was seized with a sense of foreboding.

  Clearly her sister was not. “The library? How charming.” Jane rose and giggled again. She really had drunk too much wine. “I am always delighted to go into a library.” And she swayed out of the room.

  “What is this?” Cassy asked of her hosts, while remembering to appear calm. “What is this mystery?”

  “We could not possibly say,” returned Catherine with the most knowing smile. “No doubt all will be revealed.”

  They did not have to wait long. The young Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither soon entered the drawing room, with a flushed-looking Jane upon his arm.

  “Father, Sisters, madam. It is with great pleasure that I announce”—he paused, either for theatrical effect or to control his stammer—“that Miss Austen has kindly consented to be my wife.”

  The family swarmed about the couple in great celebration. Cassy was unable to move. This was madness! A toast was suggested, glasses were filled, health was proposed, and still she sat watching. Could not anybody else see that this was sheer madness? Everything about it was wrong! Oh, as proposals go, it looked the part, certainly. The evening, the drawing room, the candlelight, the couple—dazed and yet beaming. Yes, the stage was set exactly as it should be.

  All as it should be. And yet, in Cassy’s eyes, nothing as it ought.

  * * *

  IT WAS SOMETIME LATER that they were able to shut the door on their bedroom and talk openly.

  “Jane! My dear, what on earth have you done?”

  “Well, there is a response. Are you not to congratulate me on the splendor of my match?”

  “Yes. Of course. I shall speak of my joy and express all the right sentiments and kiss you and bless you. Once you have assured me that you are in love with Mr. Bigg-Wither.” Cassy’s voice rose. “And that you admire him above and beyond all other gentlemen. That he is your one chosen companion for the rest of your life.”

  “I cannot do that, of course.” Jane sat on the bed, a hard smile fixed on her face. “Nor could he with me, I dare say. Indeed, I am not entirely convinced he likes me particularly. But when manna does happen to fall down from the heavens—which it has singularly failed to do upon me before this very evening—then it would be foolish to squander it.”

  “Of course he must like you. Why else do you suppose he would—”

  “Oh, Cass. A dull boy growing up with such intelligent sisters can hardly be expected to own his own mind. I suppose I just happened to be on hand, he thought the arrangement might bring pleasure to the family, and that I may do as well as any civilized woman of their acquaintance.”

  “Then what are you doing?” Cassy knelt down at her feet. “This goes against all that you feel and believe in. It makes a mockery of everything you have ever said on the subject of marriage and love—love, in particular.”

  “And what did I know? What did I know about love or any other matter?” Jane cried out. “In truth, I now look back on my erstwhile confidence and shudder at it. Before we left Steventon, I had no understanding of the world and its malice. The things I once wrote!” She put her face in her hands. “What a silly, silly, naive little child.” She thought for a moment. “This after all, need not be such a stretch of my so-called principles. I have always maintained the impossibility of love without money, but there must still be the hope that, with money, love can perhaps grow, over time.”

  “And you truly believe that could happen here, that you could one day love Mr. Bigg-Wither?”

  Jane sighed. “I cannot, of course, predict any such thing. I admit it unlikely. But this much I can say, and I have said it before”—she grabbed Cassy’s hands—“We cannot go on in this fashion. One of us has to do something that might release us from this pitiful state. What should I care the sort of man he is in thought or in habits? It may hardly matter. He is from a good family. He cannot be all bad. And think of it, Cass: His sisters can stay here. We will all be safe! And together!” She looked at Cassy then and stroked her face. “And you, my best girl, are now free. Free to marry your Mr. Hobday.”

  “Jane!” Was this what was behind it? She pulled away and stood up. Was Jane truly willing to enter into a disastrous match so that she could enjoy what might be a better one? Cassy could never know freedom in a strange place like Derbyshire, while her own sister was miserable and miles away …

  She sat down again. This was Jane’s first proposal, the closest she had ever been to marriage, and she was too excitable, right at that moment, to look at it seriously. Cassy had been there twice now, and had the presence of mind, the time, the experience to peer in and see enough to know fear at all it entailed. The image of Tom’s dirty shaving rag swam up before her … Of course, there was a chance that it might work out well with Mr. Bigg-Wither … but all evidence pointed against it. If Jane was sure and determined, then Cassy would not prevent her. But to be the cause of the marriage, to know herself to be its true justification? That was unthinkable. Cassy could be no part of this story.

  “I can tell you now that whatever you do will not make me marry Hobday. I have refused him. It is over. I never think of him, even.”

  That was untrue. Of course she thought of him. Often. Through his letters he had become less the unknowable stranger, and something approaching a friend. But, if needs be, for the sake of her sister, she would resolve never to think of him again.

  “And how could I leave our parents now?” Cassy went on. “Papa is old and ailing. Mama cannot be left by herself. There is my duty—”

  This, at least, was the truth. If Jane was indeed gone, then Cassy could not possibly think of leaving.

  “Oh, Cass. You and your infernal sense of duty! I beg you, lay it aside and think of yourself for once.”

  “But I could not be myself if I did that! Without it, I should be nothing—or some other woman whom I could never respect.”

  Jane flung herself back on the mattress and started to cry.

  Cassy opened her arms and cradled her sister. “If you can be happy here, then I shall be happy, just in that knowledge.”

  They lay together, each in her own thoughts. In time Jane asked, in a voice so quiet that Cassy at first did not hear it: “And will I be happy here, do you think?”

  “Well.” Cassy sat up to consider the question. This was a strength she had over her sister: to analyze, assess; bring a rational head to the complexities of a problem. “You love Manydown, and place is of particular
importance to you, to your sense of well-being. But then you would be its mistress, with all the little issues of the day-to-day that are entailed. That may not suit you!” She smiled. “Though Catherine and Alethea would, no doubt, help shoulder the burden.”

  “As you do for me?”

  “Possibly not quite as much as that, my dear. The control, all the decisions of the household, must fall upon you, or you should be failing in your wifely duties.”

  Jane was pale.

  “And then, of course, there will be children. I presume Mr. Bigg-Wither would hope for a lot of them. Men are prone to when there is an estate to consider, and so many bedrooms to fill.” She offered up a prayer that her sister would somehow prove strong enough to survive it.

  “I shall be in pig for the rest of my years!” Jane wailed.

  “Yes, but you love children,” Cassy countered. “You have a gift with them.”

  “With other people’s.”

  “You will love your own even more.”

  Jane sat up; she leaned her head on Cassy’s shoulder. “What else? What other factors should I consider?”

  Cassy was reluctant to continue. The conversation was heading for trickier waters; it would be wise to drop anchor now. “It is a bit late for any further consideration beyond that, my love. May I remind you that you have already accepted? The family knows. The deal is struck.”

  But Jane’s mind went on alone. “I will have no time to myself, for thinking. For writing. I shall not write more than a letter again.”

  “We do not know that,” Cassy insisted, though she feared it was true.

  “I shall have a husband. A master.”

  “Come now! You talk as if you are entering service, not marriage. Mr. Bigg-Wither is hardly a cruel man and not overbearing.”

  “Underbearing, if he is anything.”

  “Time for bed,” Cassy said briskly. “It has been a most eventful evening. I think we could both do with some sleep.”

  * * *

  AN HOUR BEFORE DAWN Jane shook Cassy awake. “I cannot do it. I have thought all night and, Cass, I cannot do it.”

  Cassy sat up with a bolt. “But you have done it, Jane. It is already done!”

  “No.” Jane was white and close to hysterical. “It was all a mistake. The most hideous error. I do not know what I was thinking. I shall tell him this morning.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Cassy fell back onto the pillow. “Oh, but this is a calamity. The girls. The father. Mr. Bigg-Wither himself, the poor boy! Are you quite certain? You cannot go through with it?”

  “Certain.” She rose and marched to the wardrobe. “We will leave here this morning.”

  “And go where? Back to that life you so hate, that you cannot abide? Remember now your reasons for accepting.”

  Jane was removing her nightcap and pulling at her hair. “They are not enough. This is not the answer. I shall stay with you. Together we will survive it, somehow.” She turned then and smiled at her sister. “To quote a philosopher of my acquaintance: I shall not starve.”

  They dressed, sought out Alethea, and prostrated themselves before her. In that moment the latter proved her worth, as a very good woman and an even better friend. Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither was fetched and he and Jane left alone for their interview. Cassy did not inquire of the details; she did not want to know.

  Then, at once, the carriage was called and the Austen ladies returned to Steventon. The rectory was stunned by their sudden appearance and the distress of their countenance. Mary, in particular, was all agog.

  “What is this new drama? Austen! What have they done now?”

  To her fury, the sisters said only that they must leave for Bath and begged James to escort them.

  “On a Saturday?” he exclaimed. “But of course I cannot. I am impossibly busy.”

  But such was their upset, Mary stepped forward and suggested he manage it. And then he could only agree.

  Once back with their parents, in the comparative tranquillity of their lodgings, Cassy sat down to address a last letter to Mr. Hobday. After careful consideration and in spite of her previous words on the matter, she must insist that they cease all correspondence. She had been grateful for his attentions and, if his disappointment was heavy, then she was sorry.

  Neither could pretend that she was his one chance of happiness. She wished him well for the future, extended her warmest regards to his mother. This was her final decision. She would not write again.

  20

  Kintbury, April 1840

  CASSANDRA SAT IN HER ARMCHAIR and thought for a while. Her purpose in coming to Kintbury had been to remove all that might reflect badly upon Jane or the legacy: That was the brief she had given herself. But the letters about Tom and Mr. Hobday were incriminating to neither, merely deeply intrusive upon herself. Was that justification enough to remove them, too?

  She pictured her sister-in-law Mary reading them, spreading the contents, passing them on. She imagined the next generation examining her own traces as if she were a South Dorset fossil. They would wonder, even laugh, at the idea that their desiccated old aunt might have known such romance. They would know that she had not, after all, been so very faithful to the memory of dear, good Tom Fowle.

  Worse yet was the fear that these letters might somehow fall into the hands of a stranger. Cassandra could never surrender the hope that there would one day be a greater appetite for Jane’s novels; that this could bring a new interest in the life of their author had long been a matter of dread. Now, in that moment, she felt the dawning awareness of a whole other danger. For was there not a chance—remote and, yes, possibly ridiculous—that even her own life might then be trespassed upon? After all, Jane’s story and her own could not be separated: They were bound tight together to form one complete history. On the fortunes of the other, each life had turned. A chill ran down her stiff spine.

  She had but one choice: As soon as she was back home in the privacy of Chawton, alone and unwatched, she would burn them. Lowering herself to her knees, Cassandra pulled out the trunk from its place under her bed, opened it, and secreted away all the letters she had so far found troublesome.

  And now for the crux of the matter: the difficult, second act of the drama: the unmentionable business. This would be painful to read about, hard to revisit, but the job must be done. And for it to be done properly, Cassandra now needed her own letters to Eliza. She knew full well how much she had once shared, and she knew she must censor it. Their retrieval was imperative. She would soon leave the vicarage. There could be no more delay.

  Determined, she hurried downstairs to the door that led through to the domestic offices. Sounds of spirited conversation came from within. The voices were Dinah’s and that of a man which Cassandra did not immediately recognize. She stood for a while, summoning the courage to enter. Then the door opened on her.

  “Can I help you, m’m?” Dinah asked.

  “Ah, Dinah.”

  Cassandra caught a glimpse of the table, upon which sat a slab of pork pie with an egg in the middle.

  “I wondered”—Cassandra withdrew into the hall, so that Dinah might follow her—“if I might have a word?”

  Dinah came out and stood before her, with that particular air of respectful impudence that she had made quite her own.

  “I had, as I believe you were aware, some private papers in my chamber.”

  “Is that right, m’m?”

  “And while I was ill, they were somehow … mislaid.”

  “Sorry to hear it, m’m. A body interfering in another body’s business? I don’t hold with that, m’m. Meddling, I call it.” She tutted. “That would never do.”

  Cassandra pressed on, regardless. “I wondered if you might know of their whereabouts?”

  “Me, Miss Austen? You think I’m one for meddling?”

  It was now perfectly clear that Dinah was the culprit and that she, Cassandra, was being punished for some reason.

  “Heavens, no! Not at all, Dinah. But perhaps y
ou have some idea of why they might have been removed?”

  “Can’t say as I do, m’m.” Dinah looked her full in the eyes. “Unless…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, unless there was someone who thought that you, m’m, was going in for a bit of interfering yourself … Oh, of course, I would never think such a thing … Just, you know, other people … Nasty thoughts, some of ’em.”

  The woman was an outrage. There were no “other people,” and Cassandra was interfering in nobody’s business but her own.

  She decided to play her trump card. “Of course, I would very much like to be free to leave you all in peace at the earliest possible opportunity. I am well aware that this is a difficult time. But I have come to say that I cannot possibly consider my departure until the letters are returned.” She turned on her heels and withdrew.

  * * *

  DINNER THAT EVENING WAS PLEASANT, for her niece Caroline was come to join them, but short. Dinah was absent, so Fred served them a quick meal that held no ambition beyond the continued conjoinment of body and soul. Cassandra, thinking with some longing of that pork pie out in the pantry, picked at her plate, while discussion ranged over the lives of various Fowle relatives. She took no part in it; her interest was limited. This was a failing of hers in old age, but she would not correct it. Members of her own family, all of them without exception, seemed so much more interesting, their stories more engrossing, their characters elevated and distinguished. Those other mortals, whose poor veins must somehow pulse with no Austen blood in them, always appeared to her comparatively pale.

  Once in the drawing room, she pulled out her patchwork and sat silently sewing while the two younger cousins talked together on the sofa, until Isabella, tiring of their subject, leaned across.

  “Your patchwork looks most impressive, Cassandra. When first you arrived, I thought you were doing nothing more than stitching together odd bits of stuff. But I see now there is more to it, is there not?”