Miss Austen

by Gill Hornby

  Daytime solitude here was a rare and precious commodity—there was always someone demanding her time—and Cassy determined to use it. By nature she was a practical woman who did not enjoy feeling out of control. This issue of Jane’s melancholy was challenging all of her instincts. It tended to strike at the least convenient moment and refused to respond to rational argument. So far Cassy had treated it as any other illness—with nursing and potions and care. It was true that, after a few weeks, Jane had each time—so far—recovered. But was that due to Cassy’s own offices? Did she herself cure it? Or was it anyway of a limited period, like a phase of the moon, and it simply moved on with time?

  She walked, eyes to the ground, ignoring the views, across the lawn in the direction of the river. Surely, rather than stand by waiting to physic, she should concentrate instead on prevention: establish what were the things that brought on the misery, deal with them, and then it might not reappear.

  She made a list in her head. The first and most obvious cause was, of course, instability. They had moved house four times since the death of their father, and each had been difficult. Cassy, now in the coppice and out of the sunlight, shivered and sighed. There was nothing she or anyone could do to prevent more change in the future. They would not be long in Southampton, she was sure of it. Soon, no doubt, they would be off again, and who knew where next?

  Then, there was lack of peace. Jane had been right on that count. It had all turned out as she feared. Cassy and Martha were often called away to help with their families, and Jane was left, as she was now, in charge of the household, shunted between mother and household and cook. It was true, too, that she had no time—or no inclination, certainly—to work on her writing. She had put down The Watsons in Bath and not once looked at it since.

  Emerging from under the trees and into the clearing, Cassy saw that there was only one solution to all of these problems: a permanent home of their own. If only, if only, she had the power to provide one. The river shimmered before her, and there at its bank, was Edward.

  “Cassy, my dear!” His face was ruddy with the morning’s excursions; a noble hound stood by his side. “A capital day, what?”

  Linking arms, they walked along together.

  “I could not resist it,” Cassy replied. “What have you been busy with this morning, Brother?”

  “Been off seeing a couple of the farms, just checking up. With fifteen of ’em, there is always something to worry about.”

  “You have so many responsibilities: I cannot imagine you ever know a quiet moment. The house, the estate, not to mention all those children. How many are there now? One hundred, two?”

  “Ha! I lost track years ago. You jest, but we might make it to one hundred, you know, if Elizabeth gets her way.”

  “I think you should. Not every couple can produce such perfect offspring. You owe it to the world to produce all that you can.”

  “Well, we certainly have the space, in that we are fortunate. Indeed, we will soon have yet more of it. The lease is up on the Chawton estate, and I have decided not to let it for a while. We shall use it ourselves this year, for high days and holidays—a bit of Hampshire in the mix will be just the ticket.”

  Cassy’s brain lit up. Chawton. Estate. Cottages—Edward owned cottages galore there, as she understood it. And all in their home county! This could be the solution to everything. Here was the answer to her prayers.

  “Oh, how we miss Hampshire—your sister, your mother, and I.”

  “But you are already there, surely. Southampton is within the county, is it not?”

  “Of course, but not the country, Edward. It is the villages we miss, places like Chawton, for example, with hedgerows and pastures…”

  “Then it will be a short hop for you to come and visit us there, on occasion.” Edward was expansive. “You will always be welcome as our guests, as you know.”

  They both fell silent for a while as they followed the curve of the river.

  “And have you heard from Southampton lately? How goes it?”

  “I had a letter this morning, and I confess, it has left me a little concerned. I fear our mother is finding it hard to settle there.” In truth Mrs. Austen was quite splendidly robust, and took every decline on the chin. But surely the way to a man’s heart was through his mother …

  “Mother! You astonish me. She can withstand anything. It is probably the post-Christmas lull. I expect she loved having James, Mary, and the family. What fun that must have been. And what a pleasure for her to share a house with young Frank again—and the bride and a baby on the way.”

  “Oh, Frank is a treat,” Cassy conceded. “He is currently employed in fringing the curtains! Still, it cannot last long. He will go back to his ship, and mother and infant will go to her family. Then we shall be off again, no doubt.” She paused, to select her words. It would not do to push Edward too far. He was a man of business; he liked to make the decisions. This plan must be his idea, or it would not come to pass. “I think she mentioned Alton as our next stop.”

  “Alton! But that is so close to Chawton, most convenient, and there are many good town houses there.”

  “Oh, indeed.” Cassy spoke quietly, as if thinking aloud: “Not that we shall be able to take one, of course. Once Frank’s family is growing, we can no longer take money from him.”

  “Quite so. Look there! A kingfisher.” Edward’s interest in the topic of poor ladies was waning. “That is the bliss of this river. Always something to catch the eye.” He threw a stick, and the dog leaped in to retrieve it. “I do look forward to Chawton. Change is as good as a rest, is it not?”

  The dog emerged sleek from the water, and shook his wet coat.

  “I say! I have had an idea. Why do you not take one of my cottages there?”

  * * *

  CASSY SAT IN THE LIBRARY in blissful reverie. Replete from her fine dinner, pleasantly exhausted by an afternoon outside with Fanny and her pony, now she could allow herself time to think of their Chawton cottage. How big would it be, she wondered, and with how many rooms? There must be space for Martha—oh, they would make space for Martha somehow. Then who could be as happy as they? She could not wait to write to Jane in the morning. The relief would surely bring her out of her bed, and give her some faith in the future.

  “My love,” Edward said then, from his armchair, “I was thinking about the summer, when we go to stay at Chawton.”

  “Ah,” sighed Elizabeth. “I forgot we had all that commotion ahead of us. Do you not pity me, Cass, having to live with this man and his taste for seemingly permanent revolution?”

  Cassy could think of other, more deserving, objects of pity, but smiled back all the same.

  “It has occurred to me to give one of the cottages to the Austen ladies.”

  “To the ‘ladies’? Oh, Cass. Are men not funny? Ha-ha! So very amusing.” Elizabeth returned to her embroidery and adopted a voice of great patience: “The last thing the ladies want is a cottage, my dearest. Theirs is an enviable existence, to my mind. They can fetch up in any town which pleases them, enjoy endless changes of scenery. I cannot keep up with all their different addresses. A cottage, indeed! What on earth do you imagine they would do with themselves there?”

  “Well.” Edward at once looked uncertain. “Live in it? Work in the garden? Whatever it is ladies do.”

  “And die of boredom, I should not wonder. To whom should they talk? What company might they keep, in a village of all things? Oh, it might suit your mother, although she too has a strong appetite for good conversation. But your sisters need society, Edward. They require diversions. Assemblies. They need to meet people.” She looked over fondly to her sister-in-law. “It is never too late, my dear.”

  “In truth, Elizabeth,” Cassy said gently, “it is too late, and we are perfectly at peace with it. I must confess, we have grown a little tired of dances and calling and so on.”

  “Then you must pull yourselves together and simply resolve to get on with it,”
she replied, rather sharply. “Believe me, Cassy, you have no idea of the trials of running a house of your own. For example, what would you put in it? You enjoy this footloose life, from one furnished lodging to the next. You have not your own furniture! You know nothing of the responsibility!”

  “We could donate some furniture, my love,” Edward offered, but Cassy could sense his grand idea was already collapsed and in pieces all over the plush library rug.

  “They do not require furniture, Edward, because they do not want a cottage, and there, I hope, is the end of it.” Elizabeth picked up her scissors and cut her thread with some violence. “You see, Cass, I have done you a great service. Your sister will be most grateful to hear of it, I am sure.”

  Cassy was no stranger to Disappointment. He—Disappointment was surely a he—was a regular visitor, and she greeted this latest appearance in her customary manner: with a rebuke to herself for inviting him in. There was nobody else she could blame.

  Elizabeth had spoken from genuine concern for the family, and was informed only by her life and experience—as were they all. Truly, how could a woman in her position be expected to understand their own, very different one? Of course Edward, who had been so generous to think of the scheme in the first place, would always accept his good wife’s opinion, which was in itself testament to his excellent nature. No, it was her fault, for being so selfish, ambitious, and demanding in the first place: her fault entirely. At least Jane had known nothing, and her hopes were not raised. Cassy vowed never to mention or think of it again.

  Still, despite all that strength and resolution, Disappointment stayed with her, settled, weighty and immovable as a Sidmouth beach boulder. It rested somewhere in the region of her stomach, just below the anxiety that raged in her breast. The letters from and to Southampton came thick and fast—more often, certainly, than could be afforded—confiding the misery of one, begging the return of the other. Cassy could do nothing about either, beyond burning the evidence in her own fireplace every night.

  However much she might long to leave Kent, she was powerless to do so. Her journey depended on the will of a brother to escort her, and it was inconvenient for any brother to do so before the spring. Martha did not return, nor did Eliza respond to the request that she should. So there was nothing to be done but occupy herself with the children, play games in the evening, make calls and receive them. Live well, dine well, and wait out her sentence: an unhappy prisoner in the happiest of homes.

  In February, finally, Jane’s darkness lifted, and the chatty, merry tone returned to her letters. They had found better accommodation, larger, with a garden! She and her mother were busy with the planning of it. In March, Cassy was able to return there and look after them. She was done with the future, and designing and scheming. Instead, from now on, she would live in the present, whether it be easy or difficult, and deal with each day in its turn.

  23

  Kintbury, April 1840

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN, AND STILL Cassandra sat alone in her mean, narrow chamber, gazing down at the papers spread out on her bed. She had identified ten letters of danger, testifying to Jane’s distress and Cassy’s dismay. They were not so incriminating in themselves, perhaps, when put in the context of a lifetime. But Cassandra well understood the powers of the written word. She knew, too, that the powers of editing were yet greater still. One could influence the other, mangle and distort it: persuade it to alter its shape and its purpose.

  In isolation these documents could be taken as proof of a disturbance of mind. Even put together with all other evidence, they would point to a character most complex, fragile, and awkward, whose weakness and frailties battled against its strengths. Removed, though, destroyed—here Cassandra quickly checked once again that she had them all, folded them up—then they had no powers whatever, for no eyes could see them, nor could any such judgment be made. All that remained would speak, for eternity, of a sweetness of temper. What was that phrase about Jane she always used when talking to the nieces and nephews? “Few changes and no great crisis ever broke the smooth current of life’s course.” Ah yes. Very good. Extremely well put. She rose, stretched, concealed them in the depths of her trunk, and let out a sigh of immense satisfaction. Back in Chawton she would have an excellent bonfire—oh, she did love a bonfire. She could look forward to that.

  There still remained one final letter from Jane to Eliza—written from Winchester, in July 1817—but Cassandra could not yet find the strength to read it. That she slipped into her valise for safekeeping. Bundling together the rest of the correspondence—all happy nothings—she went to return it to its place in the settle.

  Silently Cassandra opened her door and moved out to the landing. It was now very late; all was quiet. Caroline had left, and Isabella was surely asleep. Eliza’s room was in darkness, but she groped her way across, put the bundle back where she had found it, and headed back to her room.

  There came a sniff.

  “All done, then, m’m?” Dinah, again, stood sentry at the bottom of the attic staircase. Did she spy all night? Cassandra wondered. Did she never go to bed?

  “Good night, Dinah. Sleep well.”

  “And you, m’m. You’ll be off soon, then, is it, now? Nothing left for you ’ere? That is a shame.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING CASSANDRA opened the curtains on a blue sky and sun that suggested it was already midmorning. She smiled, amused at her own indolence. That was not like her, not like her at all. Miss Austen, famously, rose with the lark. The strangely long sleep could only be put down to a clarity of conscience and deep sense of accomplishment, for those were two things she had not known in a while. Well, it was most restorative, certainly. Galvanized, with something quite close to energy, she dressed and went out. There was no need to bother the household with her breakfast. All this well-being could be put to good use and the service of others. She must see Mary-Jane, on Isabella’s behalf.

  The trees in the churchyard were heavy with blossom; its pale color and light scent made her heart sing. She had arrived here in winter, depleted and burdened with the problems ahead of her. Now, behold the change in the world! Behold, too, the change in herself. She wondered how her own garden was faring. What a pleasure it would be to sit in it again.

  A maid opened Mary-Jane’s door and pointed her into the parlor with no further comment. Cassandra stood in the doorway, and was also, at first, stuck for words.

  In the middle of the room, beneath the watchful gaze of her many exotic artifacts, Mary-Jane was floating around in circular motion, waving her arms: dancing, though not a dance Cassandra immediately recognized. Her body was swathed in a long, red, loose-fitting gown; an expression of rapture adorned her odd, square face.

  “Do not mind me, Cassandra. I am whirling.” She did not look across. “Come in, sit down. I will be with you shortly.” She continued to whirl.

  Cassandra perched on the skin of a tiger, not without some discomfort, and waited politely.

  “Have you heard of whirling, Cassandra?”

  Cassandra had not. Mary-Jane whirled a bit more.

  “Do you know of the dervishes?”

  “The Dervishes?” They were presumably some local family, though she could not quite place the name. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure of their acquaintance.”

  “Of the Sufi.” Mary-Jane stopped then and settled down cross-legged on the floor. “There, that is done for the day.” She reached for her pipe. “I came across them and their practice on my journeys—whirling dervishes, that is. Fascinating business. Decided to try it for myself and now simply cannot do without. Very spiritual, I find. You should try it. I shall teach you.”

  “Thank you. I think I would prefer not.” Cassandra shifted a little against the tiger skin’s bristles. “I have always found the established Church more than sufficient for my spiritual needs.”

  Mary-Jane lit her tobacco and drew on it. “It is only when you go out into the world that you see how small England
is, and how limited. Believe me, Cassandra, there are customs and religions and ideas out there that make…”

  Cassandra stifled her irritation. This visit threatened to be an unnecessary challenge, when her time was so short and—she felt a pang—her stomach so empty. Why travel was said to broaden the mind she could never quite fathom: The company of those whom travel had blessed was often so splendidly dull.

  Mary-Jane was now talking some nonsense about yogi, whatever they might be. Cassandra did not want to know. She must interrupt.

  “On the matter of traveling, or moving at least, I was wondering if you have had contact with your sisters of late?”

  “Are they to go away? Best thing for ’em. Isabella would love it. There is so much—”

  Cassandra stepped in and outlined her plan, cloaking it in the apparel of a suggestion.

  “What, leave my own house?” Mary-Jane shouted, puffing smoke in the manner of a very cross dragon.

  “You had given me to understand you enjoy new adventures?”

  “Well, yes. Abroad. What part of the village is this house in? I told you before, it can be dangerous around here.”

  “Perhaps not quite as dangerous as India, or the land of the Sufi?” Cassandra suggested. After all, what caused them to whirl in the first place? “And you would not be so much alone. There is safety in numbers.”

  Mary-Jane chomped on her pipe stick. “I could take my things with me?”

  Cassandra looked around at the trophies and swords—the venomous snake—allowed herself a moment to think of Dinah, obliged to dust them each morning: There was a sweet, small revenge. “Of course. I am sure of it. There will be plenty of space.”

  “Well, then. Perhaps the idea does have its merits. Those girls are vulnerable. I can protect them. I have my gun.”

  The matter was settled. Cassandra endured a short lecture on Middle Eastern food and its superiority, promised—in good faith—that she would certainly try it when the opportunity arose, and the two women parted cordially.