by Gill Hornby
As the door closed behind her and she emerged, blinking, into the sunlight, it occurred to Cassandra that she might never see Mary-Jane again. She could not know how many years, months or weeks, even, were left to her. Still, not every experience must be tinged with regret.
She made her way home, thinking with some amusement of this new Fowle establishment. Were there ever three such different sisters? But then, they had spent too long apart, each let herself stray into eccentricity. Mary-Jane, in particular, had gone really quite mad. It would be good for them, in the long run. No birthing was easy; no change came without some discomfort or difficulty; even when—especially when—it was all for the best. As she passed through the gravestones, each daffodil seemed to nod its agreement.
* * *
IT HAD BEEN LATE SEPTEMBER, in the year 1808, when the eleventh child of Edward and Elizabeth arrived in Godmersham—just a few hours before his most useful of aunts. Having missed the event, Cassy was left with little to do but peer into the cradle, pronounce him an Austen in both bounce and vigor, settle his proud mother, and take over the nursery.
She went to her room, repaired herself, and took a moment to look out at the park, exquisite in autumn. This time Cassy was delighted to be here and determined to enjoy it. All was easy back in Southampton: Her mother was healthy, Jane’s spirits were good, and Martha was with them to ward off disaster. No worries tugged at her; there was no reason not to look forward to the few months ahead.
Truly, she must be, of all single women, among the most fortunate. At least once a year she could come here to Godmersham and pretend to the life of a privileged gentlewoman, enjoy the gift of important employment—a large and gracious household to run, a host of young children to teach and amuse—and the pleasure of a gentleman’s company every evening. And all without the trials of regular confinement. Eleven babies—imagine! Elizabeth was the most remarkable specimen, but her plight was not one to be envied. Cassy had the better deal of the two: She could playact the role regularly and then walk away free, back to those she loved above all.
“Aunt Cass!” Fanny burst through the door with excitement. “You are here! Have you seen the new baby? Is he not fine?”
“My dear child. Come here at once.” Cassy folded her niece into her arms and squeezed tightly. “He is most fine indeed, but you are still my finest. Let me look at you.” She pulled back. “No, I am sorry. You have grown up too much for my tastes. What are you thinking of, becoming such a young lady so soon?”
Now fifteen years of age, Fanny had a fresh and pure beauty: a hothouse lily on the cusp of its bloom. But for all her new height and refinements, she still giggled, and sat down to bounce on the bed. Cassy smiled, listening to the chatter of news as she arranged her things and made herself quite at home. Of all the joys to be found here, Fanny was surely the greatest. She had charm, a quickness of mind, and of course a happy disposition—for how could this particular Miss Austen fail to be happy? Hers was the most enviable lot.
“Aunt, I am reading Mrs. Burney’s Camilla.” She was become almost another sister.
“And enjoying, I hope?” Cassy closed the last drawer and looked about her with satisfaction.
“Oh, indeed. Later, when the little ones are asleep, shall we read it together? I have only just begun.”
“Of course, I should love it. There. I am done here. Shall we go?”
Holding hands, they went up to the schoolroom. Each enjoyed nursery duties as much as the other, as well as reading and needlework and family business.
How very pleasant it was all going to be.
* * *
FOR A FULL ELEVEN DAYS all was indeed as busy and cheerful as had been hoped for. Disaster then struck on the twelfth.
It was the evening, and Cassy was in the library, with Edward and young Fanny. The daughter was keen that they should read aloud from Camilla; the father was keen they did not.
“I must say, I am looking forward to having your mama back with us downstairs,” Edward was saying. “Thankfully, she and I are in total accord on what makes for an evening. Alone with you two bookish ladies, I feel as a stranger in my own home.”
“It will not be long, Papa,” Fanny soothed him. “Mama is quickly regaining her strength. She has tonight eaten a most hearty dinner.”
Suddenly Cassandra sat upright, her ear cocked. “What is that?” she cried out with urgency. Sounds of running feet, shouting voices came down from above. At once she was up and rushing for the stairs. Halfway up, a maid flew toward her.
“The doctor! It is the mistress! We must have the doctor!”
Cassandra lifted her skirts and ran to the chamber. There, lying halfway out of the bed, was Elizabeth in the most hideous contortion. Her color was high, her eyes were bulging, that once-pretty face polluted by a look of pure, mortal terror.
“It’s a seizure!” cried the nurse. “From nowhere! I never saw anything like it!” She was jabbering, all professional competence seemingly vanished.
Cassy grabbed a wrist and felt a pulse: It was wild. “How long?” she asked urgently. “How long has she been like this? When did this start?”
“I cannot be sure, m’m … Five minutes at least.”
Five minutes? What had the woman been doing all that time? “Give me the laudanum,” Cassy demanded. “Then help me to get her back on the bed.” And in a gentle voice now: “There is no need to panic, Elizabeth. My dear, calm yourself. I am with you. Listen to me. I am going to open your mouth now.” But the tongue was so enormous, the neck horribly swollen; Elizabeth was writhing. Cassy had to struggle and fight to get the drops in. It took all of her strength. There! At once Elizabeth slumped, her head lolled. Had Cassy succeeded? Had the drug worked its magic? Desperately she searched for the pulse again.
Her search was in vain.
* * *
GODMERSHAM PLUNGED INTO DARKNESS. The dearest of wives, most devoted of mothers—the radiant center of this huge, happy household—was wrenched away, and replaced by a torment of suffering.
Edward was stunned by his grief, restless in his misery; the poor motherless infants bewildered and lost. Cassy worked tirelessly to comfort and see to them. So all-consuming was the present that she did not have time to stop and think of the problematic future. Until the night after the funeral, when Fanny appeared in her room.
“Oh, Aunt Cass.” Fanny climbed up into bed and the arms of her aunt. “What is to become of us? How can we cope? I cannot do it. I am no equal for Mama.” She wept violently.
“My dear, hush now,” Cassy comforted, her heart bursting with pity. Oh, how she remembered this feeling. To have the one life you know torn away from you; to be forced into another against your will: That was bitter, indeed. “You are an excellent daughter, a great solace to your poor, dear papa. And as an eldest sister, you are remarkable. You understand those children better than anyone. My love, you will manage. It will be hard, but you will. The Lord sends us these challenges in order that we rise to them and become stronger and better as a result.” She took the sweet, wet face in her hands. “It is what your mother would expect of you.”
“But I am not properly prepared!”
“You are more prepared than you know. Elizabeth was a fine wife and mother, and she raised you, with her own impeccable standards, to be exactly the same.”
“Yes, in five years or ten … Not now, though, not yet. I fear I shall fail. It is too much for me. Please, Aunt Cass, I beg of you. Please, will you stay?”
“I shall stay for a few months, until you are all settled.”
“No. Stay forever. It is you who should be my father’s companion; you who must bring up the children. You must live here, with us. We cannot do it without.”
Fanny slept then, the shallow sleep of a soul in deep turmoil. Cassy held her close, awake and in thought. Long ago she had seen Kent as her only solution. When she was here after Tom Fowle died—which baby was that? Number four, number five?—and searching for some means of survival, thi
s was the one she had hoped for: to live on the edges of a young family as an invaluable, invisible appendage. How different she was now, how very altered. Ten years, it seemed, was enough to change every pore of one’s being and corner of one’s heart.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING EDWARD called her into his study.
“I believe Fanny came to you last night.”
“She did, the poor darling.” Cassy sat down in the leather armchair. “She was a little overwhelmed by the situation but will rally in time, I am sure.”
“It is her suggestion … She would like … Well, we would both like it if…” Poor Edward. He was as lost as the children; all that easy confidence vanished. “Well, if it would suit you … to come and live among us here.”
“Oh, my dear brother. I feel for you all so deeply, and will do anything in my powers to help you all.”
“Yes?” He looked up, blue eyes encircled with shadows.
“And I shall come to stay with you as often as you would like. With great reluctance, though, I must refuse the kind offer of making this my permanent home. My true place is with my mother and sister.” She did not add that it was the place she preferred above all. “My duty is there.” Duty was a good word to use here; no one could argue with duty.
“Ah, of course.” He cleared his throat gruffly. “Yes. I do see.”
“In the next few months we face yet another upheaval. Oh, please!” she exclaimed suddenly. “Please do not think that I am belittling your own situation! Of course your troubles are greater than ours and you have all our hearts and our minds and sympathies, truly. But…”
She paused. Suddenly, in all that blackness, her eye caught a light: the glimmer of a golden opportunity. It flashed, as if signaling. Seize me, it said to her: Seize me now!
“We have to move again shortly.” She gave a deep sigh. “Southampton is becoming too dear, and too much for my mother. It is time to find somewhere else and settle—yet again. It looks to be Alton. We have word of a place of some indifference that may be within our means. I hope it will work out, but it will not be without its difficulties. Our mother needs my support.”
“Indeed.” Edward hunched over his desk.
Cassy stayed silent, allowing time for his stolid mind to make its pedestrian progress. She had to wait a good while. Eventually he spoke.
“Perhaps I could do something to help both you and my family at the same time? There is a small house on the estate here, in Godmersham, that comes empty shortly. Then you would be close by, and on hand for the children.”
Oh, Edward, she thought fondly, come, come. Your situation is very sad, but not exactly impossible. We all know you can do better than that.
“What a charming idea! That is too kind of you.” She pretended to consider it. “But no—our mother is determined on Hampshire, talks only of living her last years upon her home soil. I can try, but do fear that she could not be persuaded away from it.”
He was crushed, forced to think yet again. “Then, might you consider Chawton?” His voice was beginning to sound almost desperate. “There is a cottage, opposite the duck pond—not so very large, I fear, and it does require work. But it is close to the Great House, and then when I and my family are in residence, we could, I hope, see much of you? If our mother did not need you more…”
“Chawton?” she repeated in a cool, measured tone, and pondered. “Hmm … Let me think … Hmm … That might be a more promising plan … A cottage in Chawton … I do believe we could entice her to that … Yes!” She jumped up, moved over to Edward, and kissed him. “What a clever and most generous brother you are. You may just have come up with the perfect solution!”
And, before he could think any further, she headed fast for the door, calling over her shoulder: “I shall write straight away and suggest it.”
* * *
AT LAST, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1809, the Austen ladies achieved their ultimate happiness, and moved into a home of their own. The cottage had once been the bailiff’s, and was even more spacious than Cassy had hoped. Downstairs they had not just one sitting room, but two, as well as six bedrooms in all. On top of that, it sat prettily in their ideal situation: in the middle of the village, close to the road, so that their mother could watch all the comings and goings and remark upon them from a position of warm comfort.
“Oh, this is perfection!” exclaimed Jane, going from one bedroom to the next.
“If we give this to Mama,” said Cassy, pointing to the best, “and this here is Martha’s, then”—she led her sister to the small pretty room at the end of the corridor—“we can be quite comfortable in here, can we not?”
Jane went in and looked about her with great satisfaction. She peered out of the window, down onto the yard and the promise of garden beyond, clapped her hands, then turned and took Cassy into a tender embrace. For a moment they stood in the sunlight, holding each other. “It is over,” Jane whispered. “The worst is behind us.”
“And there is no reason to think of it again.” Cassy pulled away, took her hand, and continued the tour. “That leaves this little apartment for our brothers and their children.”
“I wonder how often they will choose to visit?” Jane looked through the doorway. “It will be so lovely when they do.” She turned then, and smiled. “And so lovely when they do not!”
They walked down the stairs, taking a moment to stop by the window and admire the exterior again. At the foot Martha stood, solid and smiling.
“Well?” she asked, eager.
“My poor Martha, I fear it will not suit you,” said Jane.
“No?” As if the air was punched out of her. Martha’s experience of disappointment was deeper even than their own, and she must always fear its return at any moment.
“It is nowhere near grand enough for a lady of your expectations. You are bound to find fault with the house as well as everything in it. We know your troublesome ways.”
Martha beamed with relief. “I have already been in to assess the kitchen. It truly has all we can possibly need. I have to keep pinching myself and cannot wait to get started.”
“We are so good to you, Martha”—Jane took her arm, and they all walked through to the drawing room—“that we are willing to give you total control of it and the cook. Are you not lucky? You have nothing to concern you but our taste buds, and how best to satisfy them.”
“Do not fear, my book of receipts is already unpacked and next to the range.”
“And I,” Cassy announced, settling herself down on the sofa next to her mother, “shall be running the house.”
“That is good,” said Mrs. Austen, “for I am taking the garden as my own private fiefdom. That vegetable patch is demanding attention. It is a very sorry affair at the moment.”
“Which leaves me with what?” Jane protested. “Am I to have no employment at all? I demand some sort of equality.”
“You can be our entertainment.” This was Martha’s suggestion.
“The Cottage Fool! There is a prospect to wake up to each morning. ‘How shall I amuse them today?’ And suppose you did not laugh at my jokes? It might sound ridiculous—after all, I am a very fine comic—but you are a particularly harsh audience. I fear I should find the pressure of it quite insupportable.”
“We could put you in charge of our breakfast?”
“Aha! There is real power. Add to that the sugar stores—and perhaps the wine—and then we have a deal. I shall be all but an emperor.”
“Agreed. We shall all be at our work, of course, in the mornings, and no doubt people will call on us. But after that you still have plenty of time left to dedicate to our entertainment.” Cassy had been waiting for this moment. “Those manuscripts you have been carrying around for so long can come out of their hiding place. The little table is sitting there, calling to you. The afternoons will be free. And so…” She paused, then burst out, “You will write again! After all, what is there to stop you?”
“Splendid!” Mrs. Austen exclaime
d. “You can read it back to us every evening, Jane. It is to be just like the old days.”
“And make our fortunes!”
“Martha!” Jane cried. “Can you think of nothing but money? So tawdry in a lady. Your venality lowers you.”
They all laughed; Mrs. Austen said, chuckling: “You dear girls will be very happy here, I am sure. Of course I cannot expect to be around for much longer. I have already exceeded my allotted time, and my troubles get worse every day. What God is thinking of, leaving me down here to get in the way, I simply cannot understand. But may you all, at least, be blessed with long years to enjoy it.”
“Oh, Ma-ma,” Cassy and Jane said at once.
24
Kintbury, April 1840
“THERE YOU ARE!” ISABELLA EXCLAIMED.
“Good morning.” Cassandra came into the vicarage hall and set about peeling off her gloves.
“We wondered what had become of you, did we not, Dinah?”
Dinah, who was on the half-landing with a bucket and mop, turned and looked at her. “We are always wondering about you, Miss Austen. Quite the law unto herself, isn’t she, m’m?”
“I am sorry. I do try to disturb you as little as possible.” Cassandra heard a sniff that was dripping with satire. “I have been to call on Mary-Jane, and I have some good news. She is willing to give up her cottage—”
And suddenly all was noise and horrific commotion. Dinah was plummeting, head over heels over bucket and mop, down the whole length of the stairs. Cassandra gasped; Isabella screamed. Dinah fell to the floor, where she lay lifeless.
They ran to her.
“What happened?” Isabella grabbed a wrist and felt for a pulse. “She must have fainted. Did you see it, Cassandra? Did she faint?”