by Gill Hornby
Cassandra had indeed watched it all happen, though found it hard to believe her own eyes. It was as if Dinah had thrown herself, plunged down deliberately: pitched as one pitches only when confident that one will be caught. And yet they could never have caught her. She had endangered herself, and done so deliberately. What could possibly provoke such peculiar behavior?
Pyramus barked, loud and urgent. Fred came at once to the door. Cassandra went to him, quietly commanded that he run—run quickly!—for the surgeon, then helped Isabella turn Dinah onto her side. She was unconscious, motionless, her face white as death.
“Oh, dear Lord!”
“There is a pulse,” said Isabella. “She lives, but I have no doubt has sustained serious injury. Oh, Dinah,” she whispered, stroking her forehead. “Oh, Dinah. Stay with us. Stay with us, please.”
“We must not move her until the surgeon is here.”
“Mr. Lidderdale?” Isabella looked up, eyes wild.
“I have sent for him. This is serious. We need him here with us.”
Isabella looked over at Dinah. “You are right, Cassandra. She cannot be put at risk on account of my own … While we are waiting, could you get me a cold, damp cloth, and the witch hazel?”
Cassandra did as she was bid and went through the servants’ door. She had certainly seen more efficient sculleries in her time—here chaos had control of every surface and corner—but with her homemaker’s instincts found her way around soon enough. She rushed back to the hall, cloth and bottle in hand, just as Mr. Lidderdale made his own entrance.
“G’day to you, ladies. What we got ’ere, then?” This was indeed the doctor she had encountered the previous day. “Come on then, me pet. Let’s be having a look at you.” He took off his overcoat, which was stained on the front, rolled up the frayed cuffs of his shirt, and began his examination. With strong, sure hands he tested for broken bones, while Cassandra watched on, intrigued.
Now, in broad daylight, there was something familiar about this Mr. Lidderdale. She fancied she had seen him on some other occasion, but could not quite place where. Average height, or below, but with broad shoulders that gave him the presence of one more— Was this the gentleman whom she had seen on the bridge with Isabella, back in the early days of her visit? That morning when Isabella seemed to return in distress? Possibly, though she could not be sure …
“Naught fractured, as I can see.”
“Just concussion?”
“About the size of it. We needs to get her to a more comfortable place, Isa—Miss Fowle. The bedroom be too far.”
“The sofa,” said Isabella. “In the drawing room.”
“You take one side, me the other. Gently does it.”
Together, in partnership, they maneuvered the deadweight and laid her down, tenderly.
“The witch hazel,” Isabella commanded, holding her arm out behind.
Cassandra stepped forward and made her small contribution.
“That’s it. Nicely done,” said the doctor with approval. “A good bump coming up there.”
“Salts?”
“Salts might help bring her round.”
They stood close, one next to the other, and—what was that?—did Isabella lean against him for a moment, or had Cassandra imagined it? There certainly seemed to be some sort of unity, a sense of partnership, between the two, no doubt provoked by a shared worry and concern for poor Dinah. It was indeed very terrible. Suppose, just suppose, she did not make it through?
A long-standing servant, suffering grave—possibly the gravest of—injuries in the line of one’s service was too awful to contemplate. Cassandra knew nothing of Dinah’s family, but there must be a person to call upon, a relative who was possibly dependent on her income. For someone out in the village—for Dinah, certainly, and poor Isabella—this was one of those days that were not to be forgotten, when life twisted its shape and sheared off into another dimension. Feeling powerless and useless, Cassandra sat down on the edge of the armchair, clasped her hands in her lap, and silently prayed that the outcome be less grave than she feared.
“Thank you for coming to us,” Isabella said quietly.
“You’s c’n always count on me. Yer know that.” He laid a hand on her arm.
Cassandra felt, suddenly, as an intruder. They seemed to think themselves alone, and at liberty to speak freely. She kept very still.
“That is kind of you to say. But after—well—after all that has passed between us, you could be forgiven for refusing.”
“First I’m a doctor. I shall not turn me back on a patient who needs me.” His hand moved to Isabella’s, and took it. “But I am also a man. And I shall never—not ever, me pet—turn me back upon you.”
“Oh, John.” Isabella turned to him; Cassandra caught her sweet face in half-profile. She was no longer monochrome but pink, as if lit from within.
A low murmur came from the sofa.
“Her eyes are opening! She is back with us!” Isabella fell to her knees. “For delivering her, Lord, I thank you.”
“Oof, my ’ead.” Dinah’s voice was muffled and uncharacteristically soft. Cassandra could not quite hear her, precisely. The next words sounded something like: “You came then. It worked. That’s good.” But of course that made no sense. Was it the concussion talking?
Mr. Lidderdale performed tests on Dinah’s eyes and speech and was soon able to pronounce that, apart from severe bruising, the accident had left the patient unscathed.
“It’d take more than a topple, sir, to undo me.”
“Even so, best if you di’n’t make a regular thing of it.” He closed up his medical case. “Falls be nasty, Dinah. You bin very lucky.”
Dinah begged that she be allowed to rest, and all energies were then directed toward her maximum comfort. She lay on the sofa with a self-satisfied air while the rest of the household flurried about her. Pillows were brought, and a blanket; brandy was found, served, and appreciated. She was instructed, in the sternest of terms, to stay there for the rest of the day and forbidden from all further work. Strangely compliant, Dinah issued one final demand—that Miss Fowle take the good doctor back to the kitchen and feed him; they would find the pork pie in the pantry—and then settled herself down for a snooze.
Cassandra stayed to watch over her, in case of relapse, and sat quietly. Pyramus came to stand guard at her feet and rubbed his head against her legs, while she pondered. Was it possible—she hesitated, tried not to let the thought in, but such was its power it could not be held back—was it possible that she had misread Isabella’s life story?
Suddenly she felt sick to her stomach; her neck prickled with heat; soon her whole face was aflame. For as she read it again, in the fresh light of the morning’s events, she could not deny its new meaning. Memories of past conversations flooded her brain: of a father’s last wishes; of a daughter’s persuasion; of parents threatening to spin in their graves. This was not, after all, the age-old tale of a spinster who needed her family. There was a whole other hidden plot—of love, and obstruction.
And she had missed it. Cassandra had missed it completely.
Then how great was her own arrogance! How great, now, was her shame! She had taken the lessons of her own life and imposed them on the life of another. She had interpreted her own happiness and promoted it, relentlessly, as the only true happiness. Misled by an old woman’s blind faith in “experience” and “wisdom,” she had strayed onto the path of true love. And then—the horror of this part!—she had joined forces with those who sought to obstruct it and placed herself in love’s way.
“Oh, Pyramus!” The dog’s liquid brown eyes seemed to peer into her soul. She buried her face in the thick, reddish-brown fur at his neck and implored him: “Oh, Pyramus, what have I done?”
25
Chawton, July 1813
IT WAS AN ENGLISH SUMMER’S afternoon of middling perfection in Chawton, and Mrs. Austen was alone in the garden. Eccentrically dressed in old clothes—although these days, even her best clothes we
re old, for what did it matter?—she knelt at her strawberries, attacking insurgent weeds with a trowel. Within the cottage the three other residents were to be found, as was their habit, in the drawing room.
Jane was at the little writing table, showing the same ferocious intensity in intellectual battle that her mother brought to the physical. Martha was copying receipts into her notebook. Cassy, in the armchair beneath the open window, sat in a wafting cloud of rose scent, and read that morning’s letter again. It was the fourth such missive that she had received since living in Chawton, and she still did not know why they were written. What was the purpose of this communication? How could it change things? What is done is done. Was the hope to inspire some sense of regret?
Their peace was disturbed.
“I am at the very end of my tether, and hanging on by no more than my fingernails.” Mary Austen appeared on the threshold. Anna, taller and lovelier than her stepmother but sharing the same cross demeanor, stood hangdog beside her.
“Good afternoon, Mary.” Jane slipped her page under the blotter and looked up. “What is it now?”
“I have reason to believe that your niece, my stepdaughter, is about to embark on another engagement! And this time with Ben Lefroy, of all people.”
The aunts offered cautious congratulation, and Anna returned an equally cautious smile. It was true that, as a match, Mr. Lefroy was less than ideal, but he was at least better than the last one.
“Of course obviously one does not want her to end up an old maid, but it is hard to have faith in her after what she has put us through. Honestly, I believe she does it only to vex us.”
It was Cassy’s belief that Anna was simply desperate to leave home and would do anything in her powers to effect it. Poor child, there was only ever one means of escape. She certainly did not have the air of a young woman in love. In fact she was a study in misery.
Mary bustled into the middle of the room and, as was her wont—her mind buzzing like a bluebottle from one unpleasantness to the next—alighted upon a new subject: “Each time I visit, I am struck by the same thought: Your brother Edward could have done so much better for you, had he so wished. Does it not peeve you, living here, when he has so many better properties in his gift? You have been too good-natured, and he has exploited that. It is my long experience that the undemanding single woman never gets her due.”
“And it is mine”—Jane rose—“that the demanding gets nothing at all. Truly, Mary, do not worry yourself on our account. We are as comfortable as can be, and endlessly grateful. Can I offer you a cool drink?”
“Certainly not. It is very cold in here.” Mary shivered theatrically. “Very cold and extremely dark.”
“Perhaps you are sickening, Sister?” Martha asked, worried.
“I never sicken. There must be a draft. Is there a draft? I fancy there is a draft. You should call out Edward’s man to make him take a look.”
“We would never trouble him for such a thing,” Martha replied. “And when work does need doing, then well: We can pay for it ourselves now. Jane is, after all, a very rich woman!”
Jane’s new “wealth” was much talked about in Chawton that summer, and dear Martha went to great lengths to drop it into any conversation. Since the week they moved in here, Jane had, as her sister had hoped, returned to her manuscripts. First she revised Elinor and Marianne, which became Sense and Sensibility, and—oh, joy!—found a publisher and had sold really quite well. At the urging of the household, First Impressions was next to receive her attentions. With its new title of Pride and Prejudice, that was doing even better. It was the fashionable novel of 1813, and its anonymous author at the top of her tree. She was set to make more than a staggering one hundred wonderful pounds. They all fell on the reviews as they came out, exclaimed at the sales as they heard them. Jane was toiling, with enormous pleasure and absolute satisfaction, on something quite new: the adventures of a young heroine, rich in morals and low in income. There was nothing anyone could do to burst her bubble of delight. Nevertheless, Mary must try.
“Rich? Oh, Martha, you are so sweet and so foolish. Jane has had a little windfall this year, and we are all very pleased for her. But, as I was saying to Austen only last evening, popularity is no measure of quality—or longevity, indeed. Novels are a fad, nothing more, nothing less. Austen says so, and who can know better than him? When I think of his poetry—oh, well, there I shall stop, for I do not wish to offend. Please bear in mind, my dears, that this wealth is, most likely, no more than a onetime occurrence and spread over a lifetime of seven years and thirty, what does it amount to? More or less, nothing.”
Again the bluebottle took flight, landing this time on Anna. “Now then. To return to more pressing matters, I have brought Anna to see her grandmother, in the hope of some old sense being talked into a silly young head. Come with me, child, and confess all.”
Off they went to the garden.
“Ignore it,” Cassandra said mildly, returning to her letter.
“Oh, I do.” Jane flicked her hand. “But I cannot help but find what she says interesting. You know, she really, genuinely, in her deep heart of hearts, pities all three of us. Here am I, England’s Happiest Woman—self-appointed, perhaps, but official nonetheless; the crown is secure on my head—and in comes Mary, assesses my lot, and can only see Tragedy.”
“She approaches the subject of Life with quite different criteria.”
“Yes, but is she alone?” Jane wanted to know. “Does everyone feel that way? Do they all look at us and see three creatures as joyless and stiff as”—she looked around and her eye caught the cold fireplace—“that poker? The fire screen? Some plank of dry wood? We took the sow’s ear that fate offered us, and fashioned from that something quite wonderful. And I do wonder at it, truly. Yet perhaps, despite all that luck and conniving and ultimate triumph, we are still as old, poor, and laughed-at as we always had feared.”
“Perhaps.” Cassy thought of an incident of the previous week. She and Jane had been walking through the village together, in matching bonnets. Their wardrobes had merged lately, and their middle-aged garb was, more often than not, almost identical: like strange, superannuated twins. They were clearly a comical sight, for a group of young laborers had laughed when they passed them. Jane had not noticed—she was too busy talking. Cassy had, though—and not cared. For what do we live but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn? “And what does it matter?”
“It does not matter in the slightest. I was merely curious. We novelists are curious creatures. We can never cease in our examinations of character and situation.”
“Oh, Martha.” Cassy laughed. “I think we are to be pitied, after all, are we not?”
“And on the subject of my curiosity and its insatiable nature,” Jane continued, “who is your letter from, may I ask? And do not say ‘Nobody,’ for you have read it one hundred times this afternoon, and ‘Nobody’ rarely warrants that level of scrutiny.”
“It is from a Mrs. Hobday. I do not know if you remember: We—”
“Hobday?” Jane exclaimed. “Why, yes: Curiously, the name does ring a bell. It deafens me, in fact. What does she want, after all these years?”
“She writes to inform me that her son—”
“Your Mr. Hobday.”
“The seaside gentleman?” Martha sat up.
Cassy shot a glance at Jane, who looked sheepish. “Mr. Hobday,” she continued, “has been recently presented with his third child. Very pleasant news, I am sure you agree.”
“We are all very happy for him,” Jane said drily. “And why does she imagine that you might want to know that?”
Cassy sighed. “That, I agree, is something of a puzzle, which I have been failing to solve. I could do with an astute lady novelist to shed light on the matter. If only I knew one…”
“At your service.” Jane walked to the window, looked into the garden, and thought. “Of course the pride of any fond mother—and she was the fondest, if
I remember correctly—would chafe at the notion of another woman rejecting her darling. Perhaps she is still smarting, even after the passage of so many years.”
“But if that darling is now settled, and blessed with a growing family,” Martha put in, “that would be more than a little churlish.”
“Ah, you speak as one who is a stranger to churl.” Jane turned. “If only the whole world had your talent for resilience and forgiving, my dear friend.”
The room fell silent. Cassy was thinking, and had no doubt that they too were thinking—for all three now had the power to read the minds of the others—of Martha and Frank Austen. She had loved him for so long and so deeply, and yet never once had that love refused her permission to rejoice in his happiness at finding love with another. She possessed quite the purest of souls.
“It is also possible,” Jane then went on, “that the senior Mrs. Hobday is less churlish, more calculating. Perhaps she worries that the young Mrs. Hobday might not survive all this childbearing. She wants to ensure that the next Mrs. Hobday is there waiting in the wings, preparing to take center stage.”
“Heavens!” Cassy exclaimed. “What a dark, strange place is your mind, Sister.” She folded up the letter and put it away. “I cannot accept that theory. It is too sinister for words. And if you are right, then she can only be disappointed again.”
“Truthfully?” Jane moved to her side, and put a hand on her shoulder. “You do not regret it? You would never go back to him? Even now, that you no longer have the worry of me and our mother? I do wonder sometimes. Both of you were made, surely, to be married ladies. I never was, of course. But you two: You would have been such excellent wives. Is there not, deep within you, some small, closed, secret chamber of disappointment?”
Martha smiled. “I, for one, was never presented with a choice.”
“And I”—Cassy squeezed the hand that now held hers—“regret nothing. Look at us. We have found our Utopia! I can imagine no better life than the one we have here.”