Miss Austen

by Gill Hornby

  Cassy stroked her hair. For the first time, she could see through to the heart of Jane’s crisis. It was not just the loss of their father, but also her writing—and perhaps some interconnection between the two.

  After the debacle with Mr. Bigg-Wither, Jane had not, as Cassy had feared, slumped into regret and dismay. She had returned to Bath with no backward look but in its place a renewed, almost furious energy. She tidied up her latest manuscript, asked Henry Austen to see if he might sell it on her behalf and—to universal delight and no small pride—this he had done. A Mr. Crosby of London, whom none of them had met, had accepted Susan and promised its “immediate publication.” There was an advertisement in the press, which they had all pored over and exclaimed upon. Jane, now officially An Authoress, acquired a great confidence and began the composition of a new work, to be called The Watsons. Her mood was good, her industry estimable: The household was calm.

  But it was to turn out that this Mr. Crosby was a man of bad faith. Cassy did not approve of hatred in general, and had no previous experience of the emotion, but she now hated Mr. Crosby of London with the depth of passion that only sisterly devotion could bring. For although Jane watched out for her novel’s appearance, seized every periodical and notification from the circulating library, Susan failed to appear. The family chose not to mention the fact, not wanting to shine light on the humiliation. Instead they had watched on, with sadness and sympathy, and prayed.

  Almost two years had passed, and now Jane, vulnerable in her grief, sharp in her vulnerability, had at last, it seemed, accepted that it was but a false dawn. She lay in Cassy’s arms, weak and wounded as a mistreated animal: clinging reluctantly to life though in mortal pain.

  “Hush now,” Cassy urged. “Many a writer has known disappointment at some stage.” In truth, she knew nothing of the fortunes of writers, but the words had a plausible ring to them. “And as you certainly sold one book, then you have every chance of selling another. Anyway, may I remind you: You do not write only for profit. You write too, surely, for your own pleasure, and that of your family. To us it is priceless. Do pick up and continue with your new one. We were all enjoying it hugely, Papa—may God rest his soul—particularly so. And you must never forget, now he has left us, how sound his judgment was on these matters and how much he valued your work.”

  “You fail to understand, Cass—or you are refusing to do so. This ‘change in our circumstances’ of which you talk in such practical fashion. Can you not see? That window of time which allowed me to pursue my writing: It is closed now.”

  “I do not see why—”

  “With our father’s death, our mother has lost her true companion. It now falls to us to replace him.”

  “Of course.”

  “So we have lost the little independence we once enjoyed. We can no longer rely on being able to make visits together. You will still be invited on long stays to Godmersham, and I shall be in sole charge of Mama. You, no doubt, will take over our father’s duties to the household. I cannot permit you to bear the brunt of the housekeeping on top. Those afternoons I spent alone with my pen are gone now. I shall be paying calls with our mother, and dealing with Cook. The rest of our time will be spent as guests in other people’s homes, and there I can never work.” She drew a weak, tremulous breath.

  “You have protected me for so long, Cass. You have allowed me to be alone in my own head and”—she squeezed Cassy’s hand—“I thank you for it. But we embark on a new period in our lives, and I must face up to my own responsibilities at last. I have had my years of opportunity, and I have squandered them.” Jane sighed, turned her back to Cassy, returned her face to the wall. “Allow me to grieve for that, and our father. I beg you. Strength will return to me. Please just give me time.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT WEEKS WERE DESPERATE. While the immediacy of death throws up many distractions, the business of mourning outlawed any at all. Cassy and her mother stayed in their lodgings, going through the motions of life but hardly living, in any sense of the word. The four walls pressed in on them. Meals were discussed and then eaten, letters received and returned. Eliza wrote regularly, with remedies and receipts for potions. Cassy climbed the stairs six times a day with beef tea, arrowroot, and herbal infusions; Jane took them in, like a well-behaved, sickly infant. She did not, though, come down.

  Mrs. Austen was the first to recover her spirits. Cassy had always known her mother to be a woman of great personal strength, but still she was pleasantly surprised, and impressed, by the manner in which she accepted the challenge of widowhood and rose to it. Together they selected their next inferior lodgings and, when the time came to move, Jane seemed to take that as her signal. She left her bed and resumed her duties to both mother and sister.

  “So this is our new palace,” she said, looking around the dark, small apartments. Her eye caught the patch of damp, but she did not remark on it. “Twenty-five Gay Street. Such an exquisite name.” She was still frail, pale, and thin, but in her eyes was a return of that twinkle. “It will serve not only as an address but also an instruction. I promise to be only gay while we are here.”

  Cassandra’s whole being loosened. She let out her lungs and felt her shoulders descend. The depression was over. It had been misery, but now they could put it behind them. Together they had survived the worst blow that could strike. There was no reason to fear that it could come again.

  Southampton

  15 October 1806

  Dear Eliza,

  We are arrived in Southampton for the start of our new venture and with a whole different household: we three Austen ladies, your dear sister, Martha, plus Frank and his bride. One must hand it to our new straitened circumstances; they do bring with them all sorts of unexpected developments. We are certainly kept on our toes! It seems this is our future: to team up with the myriad others who share our limitations and try to make some sort of go of it. This is the first of no doubt many such combinations—what a curious concoction of a family we shall always appear to our new neighbors!—but I have every hope it will work happily enough, in time. It is certainly a great comfort to have a man about the house again—we cannot count on having that privilege very often, if ever again—and of all my brothers, Frank is the most practical and useful. The new Mrs. F. A. seems a mild, easy person and Martha is, of course, a delight and support to us all. She will always have a place with us, wherever we land. You must never worry on her account, I can promise you. Martha is one of us now.

  As a place, Southampton seems pleasant enough, though our current lodgings less so. We are a little cramped, which I do not mind so much while the weather remains mild and we can get out and about, and I am now so used to domestic imperfection that I hardly notice it. My only real concern is for my sister, who is struggling again. Jane finds change very difficult—which is unfortunate, as change comes at us so often and without the courtesy of warning us of its arrival—and I fear she may be on the brink of yet another bout of melancholy. Sadly, I have witnessed enough to read all the signs. I had hoped, in my foolish way, that they were brought on by Bath and its winters, and that by quitting that place, we could leave them behind us. I begin to despair of that now …

  * * *

  “LOOK AT THIS!” Martha’s broad, pockmarked face was alive with pleasure and slapped pink by the cold wind. “Are we not blessed, to have this on our doorstep? To think that we can come and look at the sea when so ever we wish! We are fortunate women, on that we can agree.”

  The three ladies walked arm in arm along the seafront, with Jane in the middle. No doubt, Cassy thought, they looked like happy friends, united in their afternoon excursion. In truth she and Martha were all but holding Jane up.

  “Oh, Martha.” Jane sighed and sagged between them. “Your gift for contentment, your stubborn cheerfulness, your relentless good humor—I confess that they all baffle me.”

  “I fear that is simply my nature.” Martha laughed, undeterred. She was the best possible partner for
Cassy at these moments. “And will continue to be so, whether you comprehend it or not, Jane. You must simply find, in that cruel heart of yours, the grace to forgive it. I can be only contented and cheerful wherever I am.”

  Cassy smiled fondly. Martha was blessed with far less than the Austens. Indeed, she really had nothing at all. The legacy on which she lived was so small as to be negligible. As the one spinster daughter, she had spent her good years nursing her mother, with much devotion and very little thanks. And when old Mrs. Lloyd was released from her suffering and called to a better place, this Miss Lloyd was then left in a highly precarious state. She was by then forty—a most dangerous age—and though her sisters were most welcoming when she was needed, neither had offered her a permanent home.

  Had the Austen ladies not stepped forward and taken her in—and when the time came they had done so with delighted alacrity—it was uncertain what might have become of her: a back bedroom somewhere, companionship to an elderly lady. Yet she had never shown fear, not once complained.

  “And to be with you two dear girls in this charming town brings most extraordinary pleasure. I marvel at it, truly. The fun we shall have!”

  Despite her refusal to acknowledge it, there was, in fact, one quite glaring imperfection inherent in the Southampton arrangement. Back in the past, there had been an Austen scheme to marry Martha to Frank. She had been most strongly in favor, and refused to think of any other gentleman during her critical, marriageable years. He, though, had not been tempted. It was a cruel disappointment, to which was now added one final indignity: Now here they both were—Frank, with a new bride, and Martha, obliged to help keep their house for them. Soon enough that bride would be bearing his children, with Martha, no doubt—who was to stop her?—acting as nurse. But if she was suffering, she suffered invisibly. And to the running of the house and the care of Mrs. Austen, she found enormous enjoyment in contributing more than her fair share.

  “Which way shall we take? I must not be out long. I promised your mother I would walk with her later. She wants, I believe, to watch and assess Southampton society.”

  “There. From the list of your previous faults, I forgot to add selflessness,” said Jane. “Southampton society? The very thought of it makes me want to take to my bed. Those endless acquaintances that can never be friends. What is the point of it all? This is like Bath all over again.”

  “Come now,” urged Cassy. “Our situation here is very different. We have Frank with us, for instance.”

  “Yes,” Jane conceded. “We do have Frank, and he is a joy.” She sighed. “Though we might all enjoy each other a little more in better accommodation. There is not really room for so many of us, and the walls are so thin! I swear I heard every twist and turn of each plum and dumpling on their progress through my mother, as I lay sleepless last night.”

  “You slept perfectly soundly.” Cassy was crisp. “And this place is not permanent. We shall find better soon.”

  “And when summer comes around,” Martha joined in, “you will no doubt be once again in residence with some grand relation.”

  “Ah, yes. And then I shall be happy once more!”

  Martha laughed. “You are all Lizzy Bennet—one glimpse of ‘beautiful grounds’ and everything changes.”

  “You flatter me twice, dearest.” Jane kissed Martha’s cheek. “Comparing me to Lizzy and quoting my words back at me. You know the way to a novelist’s heart.”

  “I wish you would compose something new for us.”

  “I cannot. Not here.” Jane sank again. “All that is behind me.”

  “Then let us start First Impressions again, after dinner.”

  Through all their journeys, as Jane traveled from visit to visit and from one temporary home to the next, her writing box had traveled faithfully with her, each treasured manuscript tight by her side.

  “Again? You both know it by heart!”

  “And yet it pleases us anew every time,” said Cassy. As they made their plans for the evening—a reading, followed perhaps by a game or two—Jane’s demeanor improved. They followed the river, chatting and laughing, and all was, for the moment, peace and harmony. But, still, Cassy could never quite stop feeling fearful. It was as if a monster were stalking their threshold. She was on permanent guard, her weight against the door, her eyes ever vigilant: desperate to keep it at bay.

  22

  Godmersham, Kent

  12 January 1807

  My dear Eliza,

  It has come again! Of course, I am in Kent, and Martha with you, so my only source of information is the tone of her letters, but—I have every reason to fear Jane has slipped into yet another bout of melancholy. This is now the fourth such occurrence and grieves me particularly, for I feel responsible. I should never have come away and left her alone.

  I had thought that, if she were surrounded by family, all would be well. It was so kind of James and Mary, offering to go and stay with my mother and sister while they were alone in their lodgings after Christmas, and I am sure that they both did their best to bring cheer to the season. Unfortunately—and I cannot think why, the reasons are not known to me—their visit seems to have sent Jane over the edge. I was too much the optimist.

  The worst of it this time—oh, Eliza! I am frantic!—is that I am so far away from her here and cannot see any way in which I can return. I am beholden to my brothers to deliver me back, and none is at present minded to do so. They are enjoying such good winter sport and—though I have not dared to ask—would be quite heartily sick if they had to leave now. So I can do nothing but sit here—in splendor, certainly, but such is my impotence I cannot enjoy it.

  I was wondering—and do forgive me for asking, you must know I would not were I less desperate—if you might be able to spare Martha soon? Should you still need her in Kintbury, then I quite understand, but if instead it would be easy for you to release her back to Southampton, I would be so grateful, Eliza. She is the only other person I can trust.

  With love,

  C. Austen.

  Cassy wrote the Kintbury address, sealed up the paper, and put down her pen. There was nothing she could do now but hope. That morning’s letter from Jane—an anguished cry from the darkness—had distressed her enormously. What would she give to be by her side now! She hid it away in the bosom of her dress, and rose from the writing table.

  Elizabeth Austen looked up from her place by the fireside. “All well, my dear?” she asked kindly.

  “Quite well, thank you,” Cassy replied. “Though I believe my mother and sister are missing me a little.”

  “Oh, do not worry yourself on their account, Cass, truly. You are too much in the service of others. No one can object to you enjoying yourself here for a while.”

  Elizabeth had, just before Christmas, been delivered of her tenth baby. With each new addition, her fondness for Cassy had grown incrementally: The more crowded the nursery, the greater occupation for the mother, the shorter lived the governess, then the more welcome the sister-in-law found herself to be. It was a simple enough formula, which Cassy well understood. It was also true, though, that through these epic years of heroic breeding, the two women had formed a genuine bond, and a deep affection had grown up between them. Each matched the other’s devotion to the children, both were patient and even of temper: They shared the same mood.

  “How goes it upstairs, do you suppose?” Elizabeth wondered aloud, without stirring.

  “You stay there, Elizabeth, and gather your strength. Allow me to go up and see.”

  Cassy left the warmth of the library and swished her way busily across the impressive hall and up the grand staircase. However sunken her heart, her artistic eye could never fail to catch and acknowledge the beauty of these surroundings.

  Edward and Elizabeth were ensconced now in Godmersham, a large, fine, winged house, seventy-five years old, which presided over its park with the grand manner of one sure of its own great importance. Each window framed a charming vista; every interior wall
was adorned with exquisite plasterwork. Cassandra was acutely aware both how fortunate she was to be staying here, and also how perverse it was that she wished she were not.

  What other woman of such limited resources would be so ungrateful? She crossed the landing and took the long corridor. Christmas here had been splendid, and joyful, the dear children delirious in their excitement. Cassy had eaten too much—more than was good for her; they had made merry and played games every evening; she had laughed fit to burst.

  Yet, throughout, her mind had been distracted by thoughts of Southampton: How was Jane coping with running the household in her own absence? Jane had lately had the whooping cough and by rights should still be convalescent. Could she get sufficient sleep to maintain her strength? Here, in her well-appointed chamber, alone in her stately comfort, Cassy lay awake each night, worrying. If only Edward had asked Jane here instead. She would gladly change places, for then she would at least know true peace of mind. But she herself was always the Godmersham favorite, particularly when there was a new baby around.

  She climbed the stairs up to the attic schoolroom, in which the governess was teaching the older children.

  “Bonjour, ma tante!” Fanny exclaimed at the sight of her.

  “Et bonjour, chérie,” Cassy returned. “Tout va bien?”

  “Très bien, merci.”

  Mrs. Morris clearly had them under control. Elizabeth took her children’s French very seriously; Cassandra would not disturb them. She moved on to the day nursery to check on the small ones—all was well—and, thus released, she decided to take the air.

  It was a fine winter’s day, after a long dry spell, but whatever the weather, there were always good walks to be had here. Mud did not trouble the Godmersham parkland: That was for other, less gracious places; mud would not dare. She returned to her room, collected her cloak, and, down in the hall, let herself out through the door to the garden. The sharp cold hit her face and banished the clouds from her brain.