Miss Austen

by Gill Hornby

  “Oh, a good patchwork always starts with odd bits of stuff. Therein lies the glory of the process.” Cassandra was sewing a sprigged square to a blue one. “With sharp vision and no little imagination, those random elements become a thing that is quite other, and with its own intricate, inherent beauty. This will have one hundred and forty points of symmetry by the time I am done—if I live long enough, that is.”

  “Goodness. I cannot imagine! Do you work with a pattern?”

  “No, not at all. I do not need one.” She tapped the side of her head with a thimble finger. “All is in here. I shall not actually see it until I am finished. It will be too large to spread out in Chawton. I have not the space in the house. In the summer I shall take it in the garden, put it out on the lawn, and enjoy how it looks then.”

  “So you have all that complexity in your mind’s eye? You can look upon those small pieces and somehow see the whole?”

  “Well, not at first perhaps, but as it evolves I can see my way through.”

  “Oh, you are clever, Cassandra.”

  She was too old to be bashful and would not deny it. She was clever, and had been fortunate enough to grow up in a house in which cleverness in its daughters was valued, and no apology was made for it.

  “Is your aunt not clever, Caroline?”

  Caroline did not enthuse, but merely replied, “All Austens are clever.”

  Cassandra smiled: That girl was turning into her mother.

  “My own dear papa”—Caroline spoke with complacence—“had the most formidable intellect, as does my brother James-Edward.”

  “And my sister, of course.” Cassandra licked at her thumb. In the annoyance of the moment, her needle had slipped. “And what is cleverness when put beside brilliance? We are all in the shade of those who shine brightest. As I have always been—and quite contentedly so—in the shade of your dear aunt Jane.”

  “Oh, yes,” Caroline conceded. “And Aunt Jane.”

  “We are halfway through Persuasion now, Caroline,” Isabella put in. “I must say I wonder at it. I had no idea a novel could engross me so. It is a thing of genius, or it seems such to me. I now find myself wishing I had taken more notice of your aunt while she was still with us. I have vague memories of her visits, but no clear recollection. Tell me, what was she like? For genius often comes, does it not, with a difficulty of temperament?” She shrugged. “Or so my father used often to say.”

  Cassandra put down her sewing and shifted in her armchair, preparing to answer. There was no subject on this earth in which she could find the same pleasure, or on which she was most qualified to speak, though of course she must choose her words carefully. “Well—”

  But she was interrupted by Caroline. “Oh, Aunt Jane was the very best of aunts. Quite my favorite of all and, I am lucky to say”—now she was blushing—“I myself was a particular favorite of hers. We shared an uncommon bond, I remember, even from my earliest years.”

  Cassandra was dumb with astonishment. Jane was fond of all her nieces and nephews, and certainly did have her favorites: Anna, of course, and Edward’s daughter, dear Fanny. But she used to worry that Caroline might show traces of her mother—and, clearly, she had been prescient on that, as she was prescient on most things.

  “I would send her my own stories, and she would take them so seriously, as if I were her natural heir.” Caroline smiled. “I must look them out. James-Edward might be interested in them as family documents.”

  I would not do that, Cassandra thought to herself. You might see their true merit and suspect that they were received with no more than a patient indulgence.

  “And her temperament?” Isabella nudged.

  “Oh, her temperament!” Caroline clapped her hands. “On that your dear father was quite wrong. Yes, she was a genius, and yet a stranger to mood, other than cheerful good humor. I always so looked forward to my visits to Chawton, when Aunt Jane was still there. One would know, with certainty, that there would be such fun and games. It is not the same anymore. I do miss those days, I confess. Nowadays, every time I approach Chawton, I do so with sadness, a sense of dread, almost. As do my cousins. It is hard to be reminded of the joy that cottage once held.”

  Isabella, horrified, looked over at Cassandra. Cassandra, Chawton’s one remaining and apparently joyless inhabitant—the object of dread for a whole generation—was trying not to laugh. Of course their cottage had been a place of great joy when they had lived there together. But that joyfulness was Jane’s natural and dominant emotion was far from the truth. Oh, the power upon reputation brought by an untimely death and a modicum of fame and success! Still, she thought as she gathered her things, she would not contest that legend, if that was what they chose to send out to posterity. The moodless Jane Austen. What a splendid image. She rose from her chair. Now it only remained to destroy all evidence to the contrary. She did hope those letters had been returned.

  “I must leave you, my dears. I trust Caroline to give you a full picture, Isabella. Your interest is safe in her hands. I shall turn in now.”

  “Oh, but I was hoping we might read more of Persuasion,” Isabella protested. “We have just got to Lyme.”

  “And you will enjoy it enormously,” Cassandra said smoothly. “Do read on with your cousin. I know it too well.”

  She opened the door, strode into the hall, and into violent collision with the crouching form of a human.

  “Oh!” Cassandra gasped, then: “It is you! What on earth—?”

  Dinah drew herself up but made no excuses.

  “Yet more dusting?” Cassandra smiled. “Please do not overdo it. Good night.”

  * * *

  ON THE LONG, STEEP RETURN UP the stairs, Cassandra pondered the value of duty. She had given years in service to Caroline and her family, as she had given years to all Austens. That it counted for so little came as no surprise, and provoked no self-pity or rancor. She had never acted in the pursuit of fame or appreciation, but only in the interests of her own conscience. Cassandra was dutiful, had possibly been born dutiful, certainly could only be dutiful: She knew of no other way. In her own—for want of a better word—virtue, she had found an endless reward.

  She was not unique in this. The world, she well knew, was full of good women like her, who dedicated their time, their bodies, their thoughts, and their hearts to the service of others. And if they, and she, were rendered invisible: Well then, what of it? Let us just pity those who had not eyes to see.

  Back in her room, she put down her valise and looked about her: Nothing was altered. She shut the door and, with a quiet confidence, lifted the corner of the mattress. What a surprise! The letters were there. Now for her service to the one whom she loved above all other people, who had loved her in return and never failed to acknowledge her worth. She settled down, determined to make quick, sharp work of it.

  It was not an uncomplicated process. They spent eight years without an address of any real permanence—or, as Jane would refer to it, “out in the wilderness”—but they were not all unhappiness. Far from it, indeed. Cassandra leafed through the papers, caught passages detailing short, happy stays in Manydown and Kintbury, long weeks of luxury in Kent with dear Edward. She revisited the great news of April 1803, when Jane sold her novel, Susan, for a princely ten pounds—Oh! The excitement of that! She stumbled across references to Jane’s high spirits, remembered, and smiled. That those spirits were, sometimes, perhaps too high; that the happiness had an almost hysterical edge to it; that this tended to happen when they were in the comfort of the stable, established homes of their family and friends: These were not observations that Cassandra had shared with Eliza. She had chosen to keep them to herself.

  But the other extreme of Jane’s temperament, the seemingly endless days in the darkness: These she had written of, for she had to tell someone. Cassandra licked a finger and flicked through, searching for the letters of danger. There. January 1805. That was when it all began. She pulled out several, put down the rest of the pile
, and began.

  Green Park Buildings, Bath

  24 January 1805

  My dear Eliza,

  Your expressions of sympathy and respect were all that we might have hoped for from you, and brought us much comfort. Yes, we have lost an excellent father and are still almost numb with the shock of it. But, though his sudden death has been hard on those who loved him so dearly, it was at least peaceful for himself. He did not suffer unduly, he did not linger in pain, he was not given the time to reflect upon those he was leaving, and for that mercy we give thanks to God.

  Of course, it is with some trepidation that we all now must embark on a life without him, his wisdom, his tenderness, and his humor. You ask after my mother, and she bears it bravely, though these are early days and the future can only be hard. The burial is on Saturday, in—such awful symmetry!—the same Walcot church in which they took their vows forty years ago. Forty years! They were blessed with such a happy and fruitful union as is not often witnessed, and she has known hardly a day without him by her side.

  All my energies at the moment are directed in support of her, as well as the many practicalities that a sudden death must entail—it is quite all-consuming. Yet there is another aspect which, I must confide, also preys on my mind when I have a moment for it and it is this: my sister shows signs of taking it all very badly. At first, I charged her with writing the letters announcing the news to the family, which she did beautifully, of course, and their composition seemed to give her some sort of comfort. But now that is done, it is as though she is sinking away from us. She was devoted to her father, as you know, and is quite overcome with the grief of it. More than that, I fear that our new insecurity is affecting her adversely. That there will be a change in our circumstances is sadly inevitable. Yes, we shall be moving again soon, but then—just three ladies—we should not need or expect much to accommodate us. Jane knows that, understands it, but cannot yet make peace with it … I shall not write too much now in the hope that time does its healing but will say that I am more than concerned by the depth of her distress.

  Yours as ever,

  Cass. Austen.

  21

  Green Park Buildings, Bath

  14 February 1805

  My dear Eliza,

  Your kind letter was, I suspect, prompted by some intelligence from my sister. I do not doubt she has told you of my low spirits, I am sure she has asked you for some advice. Please believe me when I say that, at the moment, there is nothing to be done for me. Were there a way out of my gloom, I should find it. I am acutely conscious of being a drag on the household. My poor mother and sister have enough to concern them without tearing their hearts further. I am a poor wretch. All these potions and receipts create yet more work for Cass, and make no earthly difference. They cannot heal me. I beg that you offer no further suggestions, I wish only to be left alone.

  Yrs,

  J. Austen.

  “Dearest?” Cassy sat on the edge of the bed in their Bath lodgings and gently shook her sister’s shoulder. “There is news. We have now heard from our brothers. Jane?” It was late morning, but the curtains were closed. “You must try and rise now, my dear. We need to talk with Mama and make all sorts of decisions. Come now. Neither of us wishes to do it without you. These matters concern us all.”

  Jane stirred, turned, and looked up. Her white face appeared like a moon in the darkness. “You do it, Cass. I am sorry. I cannot. I simply cannot bear…” Her voice was reduced to a hoarse whisper. “I cannot see what there is to discuss on the subject of poverty. It brings with it no choices. If we have options, then I opt not to be poor. Anything beyond that, I trust you to decide on my behalf.”

  “But the news is good! That is what I want you to hear. Please. This is our future and we must face it together. Nothing will be as bad as you fear.”

  Jane turned away again. Cassy, surrendering, went back down to the parlor. Her mother, whom she had only ever known to be the most talkative, busy, and bright of women, now sat, bleak in her mourning: quiet, crumpled, defeated, alone. It was two weeks since the funeral, but still, every time she caught sight of such a sad alteration, it shocked and tugged at this fond daughter’s heart.

  Cassy stood for a moment to gather herself. Truly, there was within her a well of love and tenderness for these two women, so deep as to be unfathomable. She prayed too that there was also the strength, somewhere, to lift up and carry them both through this difficult period.

  “Mama,” she said quietly. “It is time now, I think, for us to discuss our business, if you do not mind?”

  Mrs. Austen started out of her thoughts, blinked, and looked up at her. “Forgive me, my dear. Yes. Our business.” Her chin wobbled, and Cassy feared another outburst of grief. But then she swallowed, controlled herself, and rose to sit at the table.

  Cassy drew out a chair for herself and collected the letters of the morning, when her eye was caught by the appearance of a figure in the doorway. “Jane!” she cried out in relief. “How good to see you downstairs.”

  Her sister was still in nightgown and robe, with a shawl pulled round her shoulders. Her hair, which had not been brushed for days, hung about her face. Pale, thin, and wild looking, she was more ghostly apparition than human. Cassy guided her to the place nearest the fire.

  “This should not take us long.” She returned to her seat, determined to be brisk. None of them needed to dwell on this subject. “Now, of course, we can no longer rely on our dear father’s income and annuity.” She spoke hurriedly. “They stopped with his death and left a little—a little—er—deficit in our finances.” Understatement was such a useful tool in these sorts of moments. “But, Mother, I am happy to say that your sons have risen to the occasion, as all we who love them could only expect. I hope you will be most touched by their proposal, which I received just this morning.”

  No one else spoke. Cassy wondered if anyone really was listening.

  “At first Frank was insistent on offering us one hundred pounds per annum.”

  “Oh, the dear boy!” That aroused her mother. “But that is too magnificent from him, even with his new promotion. Cass, I am sorry I cannot accept. He will want to be married soon, he cannot afford to waste that on us and should not commit to that which must soon be taken away again.” She wiped her eyes. “Tell him it is enough for me to know that he offered it. Such a good, fine man! His father would be so—”

  “I agree, Mama. We have all agreed. But I can now tell you that his generosity has been matched and shared among his brothers. It is now arranged that Frank, James, and Henry will each pledge fifty pounds per annum to your—and our—welfare. And from Edward, we are to receive a further one hundred a year!”

  “Oh, was there ever such an excellent set of children as these!” Mrs. Austen exclaimed.

  “Indeed. Altogether,” Cassy continued, feeling rather like a king in his counting house—albeit a king of somewhat limited munificence, “it means that—”

  “Sorry, Cass, to interrupt you.” At some point, it seemed, Jane had come to and now sought to contribute. “But am I to understand that Frank, the hardworking sailor who has not yet known a home of his own, offered one hundred pounds and Edward Austen of Godmersham, Kent, agreed to the exact same and no more?”

  It had not occurred to Cassy to make the comparison, and she would prefer not to examine it too closely. She could, though, choose to take comfort from this evidence of Jane’s acuity. Her sister was not, after all, losing her mind. There was something on which to hold. “Are they not generous?” she replied. “We must always be grateful to them for their willing and fulsome support.” She returned to her sheet of numbers and sums. “So that is a full two hundred and fifty from the men, then … To which we can add the yield of your own money, Mother, and mine … Which should leave us four hundred and fifty clear for the year!”

  “To which I contribute nothing.” Jane gave a low moan. “Not a farthing. What a wretched creature I am!”

  Cassy pre
ssed on. “We shall be comfortable enough on that, will we not? Of course some changes must be made. We cannot stay here in Green Park Buildings, but then these rooms are more than we need now. I think, Mother, you are set on staying in Bath for the winters? That seems entirely sensible. We can find somewhere smaller and cheaper, and then if we are able to visit our family and friends in the summer months, that will cut down on our expenditure considerably. We need only to think of our transport, and then trifles such as—”

  Jane rose and drifted, weightlessly, out of the room.

  “You have done very well, my dear.” Mrs. Austen put a hand on Cassy’s. “You are a great strength to me, as your father always knew you would be. We shall manage quite handsomely, I am sure.” She moved back to the armchair by the window. “Oh, yes, we will always get by. Three women alone”—she swallowed—“require so very little.” Cassandra arranged a rug around her knees. “And soon God will remember to send for me. He cannot intend to leave me down here much longer.”

  “Oh, Mama. Please.” Cassy stayed for a little to comfort one mourner, before setting off up the stairs to deal with the other.

  Jane was lying, face in the pillow, and weeping. Cassy got up beside her and gathered her in.

  “It pains me, my dear, to see you in this much suffering. Tell me, what can I do to help you?”

  “Nothing.” Jane turned and laid her head in Cassy’s lap. “There is nothing anyone can do to help a woman who has spent thirty years on this earth yet has nothing to show for it.”

  “But that is not true!” Cassy cried. “There is your ten pounds from Mr. Crosby. Forgive me. I omitted to mention it. It was cruel of me. Those ten pounds were earned, dearest, not the profit of a legacy. That is a great thing indeed.”

  “They were not worthy of a mention, as I have spent them. And I am at last facing the fact: Nothing will ever come of it.” At that the tears poured down Jane’s cheeks.