Miss Austen

by Gill Hornby

  Cassy felt for her hand. “I have let the nurse go. No, do not waste your breath! She was nowhere near good enough. I could not trust her. But help is on its way.”

  “Martha? She is coming?” Jane gave a low flicker of pleasure. “Then we shall all three be together.”

  “I did ask for Martha,” Cassy said gently. “But apparently it was decided—and we cannot know what is happening back there in Chawton—that Martha should stay with our mother. So Mary is now on her way.”

  “She is to attend me? Oh, Cass. Mother is perfectly well, I am sure. Did I not always say she would outlive us all? I fear it is I who am now the main spectacle, and here is the proof of it. I can admit now to having harbored faint hopes of recovery. But if Mary is coming, I must face it: Death cannot be far behind.” She turned and winced as her back touched the soft mattress.

  “Hush now. Keep calm. Try and take in some water.” Cassy knelt on the bed, cradled her sister—no more than a skeleton—and held a cup to her mouth while she sipped. “There. Sleep for a few more hours yet. The doctor will call at around noon. Let us be quiet until then.”

  * * *

  “I CAME AS SOON AS I COULD.” Mary untied her bonnet. “How fares she now? What can I do?”

  “Thank you, Mary.” Cassandra kissed her. It was such a relief to see someone from the family—such a relief to receive an envoy from the world of the well, even if it was only Mary. “Her spirits are good. Her body, though, less so. The doctor was with us this morning. I now fear—well—he suggested … there is not long to go.”

  Mary prepared herself for duty, and took up position by Jane’s side. Thus released, Cassy went into the bedroom and lay down to rest. She would not sleep, she could not let herself … Just a short nap, perhaps …

  It was late afternoon when she rushed back into the sickroom, heart in her mouth, appearance all in disarray. Had she missed it? She could not, surely, have missed it. She heard low conversation, weak laughter. Mary and Jane were each enjoying the company of the other.

  “This is a pretty sight,” said Cassy, much pleased.

  “We were remembering when we were young,” replied Mary. “When you were at Steventon, and we were at Ibthorpe. Oh, we did have such fun then. Before I was married.”

  Jane agreed. “I have been so very fortunate in my family, and my friends. If I live to be an old woman, I am sure I would wish then to have died now: blessed in that tenderness, and before I survived either you all, or your affections.” She touched Mary’s hand. “You have always been a kind sister to me, Mary. Why do you not rest now, and let Cass take her turn?”

  Cassy waited until they were alone, before speaking: “That was touching, to see you two so cheerful together.”

  “She is being really most pleasant, genuinely so,” Jane admitted.

  “Mary is a very good nurse, like her sisters.” Cassy tucked in the blankets and made the bed tidy.

  “It is not so much that, and she is no equal to you, dearest, or Martha.” Jane sank a bit deeper, her face white as her pillow. “Disaster often brings out the best in her. It is success that disturbs her good nature.”

  * * *

  DURING THE COURSE OF THE NEXT eight hours and forty, Jane was more asleep than awake. Her looks altered, and she started upon the process of slowly falling away. On the Thursday evening of 17 July, there came some sort of attack: a faintness, an oppression; the sign of the end.

  “Tell me what you are feeling. What is it now, my love?” Cassy held a cool sponge to her face, blotted the papery skin. “What can I do for you? Anything. Do you want anything?”

  “Nothing but Death.” Jane’s eyes were closed, her suffering immense but her words still intelligible. “God grant me patience. Pray for me, Cass. Oh, pray for me, dearest. Pray for me, please.”

  Throughout the following night—their last one together—Cassy sat with her sister’s head in her lap, stroking her, whispering comfort. Until just before dawn, when she lost her.

  And, grateful to be alone, thankful there was no other to share in this most private of moments, Cassy performed her last services. She placed the dear corpse back on the bed, closed each eye and kissed it, and then stood, in deep contemplation at the enormity of that which she had witnessed. Jane had been the sun of her life, the gilder of every pleasure, the soother of any sorrow. Not a thought had one ever concealed from the other. Cassy fell to her knees, and prayed fervently for the deliverance of this most precious of souls. Such a sister, such a friend, as could never be surpassed.

  It was as if she had lost a part of herself.

  28

  Kintbury, April 1840

  “MY ’EAD DOESN’T ’ALF HURT,” Dinah grumbled from her comfortable billet on the drawing-room sofa.

  “I can believe it.” Isabella laughed. “Mine, too, is throbbing quite horribly. It is nothing to do with your injuries of yesterday, I can assure you of that. It is because we drank far too much wine.” She gave a comical moan, and clutched at her forehead. “That was a bright idea of yours, Cassandra, to liberate those few bottles from Papa’s cellar, but I fear we are now good for nothing.”

  “The morning after is never easy, my dear.” Cassandra smiled. “We must just remember the fun of the evening before.”

  The three women had spent it together in the spirit of happy celebration after the momentous events of the day. They finished Persuasion, drank slightly too much of Fulwar’s excellent claret, and talked, far too late, of the future.

  All was set fair. Isabella was convinced now that love should prevail, and love’s enemies must simply get used to it. There was no better man than her John, and that he had waited so long for her was the proof of his worth. She would make an excellent doctor’s wife—on that they were all agreed. And Dinah expressed every ambition to be an excellent doctor’s wife’s excellent maid—but on that, Cassandra chose to reserve judgment. She did, though, hope it might prove to be true, as well as know it to be none of her business.

  And now it was time for her to leave.

  She sat in Eliza’s old armchair—cloak already on, bonnet tied around her chin, precious valise at her feet—and waited for the sound of her coach. There was, in the pit of her stomach, that familiar knot of anxiety that came with the threat of a journey. The driver had promised only that he would arrive by midmorning. No doubt Cassandra was, as usual, ready too early. They were now all in that moment of awkwardness, when farewells must be made, but one did not know quite how long one had for their making. There was so much to be said, but it should not all be said too soon.

  “I shall miss you,” she said to Pyramus as he nuzzled her knee. “You have been a great friend to me while I was here and quite converted me to your species.” She looked up as an idea occurred. “I think I shall get myself a little dog when I am home.”

  “That is an excellent idea, Cassandra!” cried Isabella. “I hate to think of you living all alone.”

  “Oh, I do not mind it. Do not worry on my account. Those whom I wish to live with are no longer around, but their memories keep me good company. No, God has been most merciful, truly. He spared my dear mother until she reached an uncommonly great age—eighty-seven years was a miracle, for one so dogged with ill health. And your aunt Martha is not so very far away, still. I can go to her and Frank whenever I please.”

  “Theirs is a busy household. I cannot imagine that you want to go there for too long. How she can find the energy for all those children at her time of life! It hardly bears thinking.”

  “She is a stoical creature, and the best stepmother to them all that the family could wish for. It is never easy, when the fond, real mother is taken too soon, but we are all very pleased to see them married at last. You are right, though—my own visits do tend to be short.”

  “Dear Aunt Martha.” Isabella smiled fondly. “I can never get used to the fact that she is now Lady Austen.”

  “Nor can Mary,” Cassandra cautioned her. “She finds the elevation most trying. It is best
not to use the title when she is around.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of wheels upon gravel.

  “Ah, there is my man.” Cassandra rose and embraced Isabella.

  During the course of the visit, their relationship had grown from a wary acquaintance to the richness of friendship. They stood now together, in silent communion, each celebrating the worth of the other.

  “Isabella.” Cassandra pulled back, took her hands, and began. “I cannot begin to—”

  “Mrs. Austen, madam,” announced Fred from the doorway as Mrs. Austen barged past him and bustled through.

  “Mary!” Cassandra exclaimed. “You have just caught me. My coach will arrive any minute.”

  “And again, you travel without the courtesy of informing your sister,” Mary replied tartly.

  “Forgive me. I was too keen to get home and leave the household in peace.”

  “Not before time. What on earth are you doing lying down there, Dinah? Get up. Get up at once! There is not the time to malinger.”

  Dinah rose and sniffed disobligingly.

  “I hear”—Mary now faced Isabella—“that wretched man Dundas is throwing you all out prematurely. Unspeakable behavior, if you ask me, but not a surprise. Oh, dear, no. I have seen it all in my day, and enough to know this: There is no greater menace on this earth than the clergyman, newly appointed. Now then. Where do we start? I am aware that I have not yet addressed the matter of the letters, and I have been thinking on that. Unless there are items that you children want, Isabella, I suggest I take them all. Fred! Go straight to the mistress’s room, remove all correspondence, and bring it to me. There may well be something in there that is of interest.”

  So she was right to have come here! Cassandra gave a breath of relief.

  “Goodbye, my dear.” She stepped forward and took Isabella’s hand. It seemed that, after all, they were not to be afforded their proper farewell. “It only remains to thank you for having me here. It has meant a great deal, in a great many ways.” She leaned forward and whispered into her ear. “By the way—the best china of which you are so fond. Keep some for yourself. No one will notice. Enough for two settings, at least.”

  Isabella smiled and planted a warm kiss on her cheek.

  “There we are.” Mary put herself between them. “Best not to make too much fuss of it. You can wait on your own now, Cassandra, can you not? We are busy, and do have to get on.”

  She propelled Isabella out but stopped then, and softened.

  “So, this is the last time we will ever meet in this house. It is a profound moment. We have had so much history here, have we not? And now all is to be lost.” She looked suddenly pitiable. “No trace will remain.”

  “Dear Mary.” Cassandra bent down to kiss her. “Surely our history is all in our minds, in our memories. We can do no more than pass it on to the next generation, with as much honesty as we can muster.” She smiled. “And only hope that what lives on is true.”

  “As if there were any interest! Oh, the stories of men will live on, I am sure: Fulwar, of course. My good husband; my fine son in his turn. But our own? Not a bit of it. There will be no one to care about us.”

  * * *

  CASSANDRA LEFT AS SHE HAD arrived: alone and unwatched. She settled herself down in her carriage seat, braced against the difficulties of the journey ahead, and looked about her for the very last time. There, in the background, were gentle undulations; to the side were the brick-and-flint cottages. And behind her now, never to be looked at again, the parsonage: solid and square.

  The coach pulled out into the lane and the direction of the Avenue, and before it had reached speed, Cassandra caught a short, broad figure walking up from the towpath. She leaned forward and signaled to the driver to stop.

  “Mr. Lidderdale,” she called down to him. “Good morning. Are you on your way to the vicarage?”

  The doctor removed his hat and observed all the niceties. “I’m not very sure, madam, if I am wanted. How fares Dinah today? Of course I’ll be there if I’m needed.”

  “No, you are not needed at all. Dinah is perfectly well. But I have reason to believe that if you did find the time to call on Miss Fowle, you could be assured of a very warm welcome.”

  “Thank you for that.” His broad face was lit by the broadest of smiles. “Thank you kindly, Miss Austen.” He straightened his shabby coat. “No time like the present, eh? I shall go there at once.”

  The coach gave a lurch, trundled and swayed up to the turnpike, shaking Cassandra’s old bones apart. Oh, how she longed to be back home in Chawton! She would have that bonfire, as soon as was possible: feed the flames with those difficult letters; wait and watch until the ashes were cold. And then, only then, all her work here was done; no duties remained. At last she would be free to dwindle away, worrying for nothing but the roses, the chickens, and the church.

  Still, the journey would take several hours. How best to distract herself from the discomfort and boredom? It was then that she remembered the letter from Jane, not yet looked at. Reaching into her valise, fumbling her fingers among the pieces of patchwork, she found and retrieved it, and read:

  College St., Winchester

  10 July 1817

  My dear Eliza,

  An attack of my sad complaint has seized me again—the most severe I ever had—and reduced me so low that I now feel recovery unlikely. You must not pity me, though—I will not hear of it. If I am to die now, I am convinced that I die as the luckiest of women. For how to do justice to the kindness of my family during this illness is quite beyond me! And as for Cassandra! Words must fail me in any attempt to describe what a Nurse she has been to me now, what a dearest, tender, watchful sister she has been through my life. As to what I owe to her, I can only cry over it and pray God to bless her more and yet more.

  I cannot expect to have the strength to ever write to you again, but thank you now for your friendship, wish you and your family long health and happiness and beg you to please look after my dear, darling Cass. These next months and years will be hard. We have never borne separation easily, she and I. And, as I approach this final departure, I am selfishly grateful that it was never my fate to be the one who survived. For how could I? What sort of life would it be, if I did not have her by my side?

  With my fondest affections,

  J.A.

  Cassandra raised the paper to her lips, closed her eyes and, as a pilgrim with a saint’s relic, kissed it.

  The wheels ground and turned; the horses pulled and panted. Through her tears she looked out of the window. Berkshire started to fall away from her now, Hampshire was opening up: the soft contours of the country she had once thought her sure destiny yielding to the dear shape of home.

  Author’s Note

  It is a matter of family record that, in the last years of her life, Cassandra Austen looked over the letters that she and her sister had exchanged. All those she found open and confidential—the majority of them, then—she burned. We cannot doubt that there would also have been a long and deep correspondence between both Cassandra and Jane, and the Fowle family at Kintbury. None of this has, as yet, come to light. The letters in this novel are entirely imagined. The poetry is all by James Austen.

  Of the favorite nieces: Anna did marry Ben Lefroy in 1814 but was widowed fifteen years later and left with seven children, a narrow income, and indifferent health. In contrast Fanny enjoyed a life of great comfort, becoming the second wife of the wealthy Sir Edward Knatchbull. She took on a host of stepchildren and had nine more of her own. In later life she wrote dismissively of her aunt Jane as “not so refined as she ought to have been.” Nevertheless her eldest son, Lord Brabourne, was the first to take the opportunity to collect and publish Jane Austen’s letters.

  In her last years Cassandra enjoyed having a dog of her own, called Link. He would go with her manservant to the Great House to collect her milk, and carry the pail home in his mouth. Cassandra died of a stroke in March 1845, while staying with her
brother Frank near Portsmouth. She is buried in the churchyard at Chawton, next to her mother. Among the beneficiaries of her will were the Fowle daughters. To Isabella, by then Mrs. John Lidderdale, she left forty-five pounds. And to Elizabeth, the only one left unmarried, she bequeathed the extraordinary sum of one thousand pounds—presumably in reparation of that bequest she herself had received so many years before.

  Acknowledgments

  Jane Austen may not have enjoyed enough luck in life, but she has been most fortunate with the quality of scholars and historians who have studied her since. This novel would not exist without the brilliant work of David Cecil, Kathryn Sutherland, Claire Tomalin, and all those who have contributed to the Jane Austen Society. Deirdre Le Faye’s extraordinary A Chronology of Jane Austen and Her Family was my bible and those who wish to know more about the Austens, the Fowles, and the Lloyds, should seek out her Jane Austen: A Family Record at once.

  Janeites are also, I have discovered, very generous with their time. I would like to thank Deirdre Le Faye, Helena Kelly, Maggie Lane, and Hazel Jones, who were all kind enough to read Miss Austen in manuscript and point out its many historical errors. Any mistakes that have made it through to the published book are entirely my own.

  When writing about Kintbury, I was lucky that so much work had already been done for me by fine, dedicated, local historians: the late Thora Morrish, Penny Fletcher, and Margaret Yates. Penny Stokes shared her precious copy of “Four Manly Boys,” an excellent history of the Fowle family by G. Sawtell. Jacqueline Cooper and Judith Turner at the Newbury Library were extremely helpful in tracking down various documents and unearthing small but colourful detail.

  My agent, Caroline Wood, has been steadfast, patient, encouraging, and wise from the beginning. Without her, Miss Austen would still be but an idea and an ambition. Selina Walker, with forensic skill, clear vision, and passion, turned a flawed manuscript into a finished book. Caroline Bleeke came aboard with her intelligence, knowledge, huge energy, and an infectious confidence. Thank you to everyone at Cornerstone (particularly Susan Sandon, Jess Balance, Emma Grey Gelder, and Laura Brooke) and Flatiron Books (particularly Nancy Trypuc, Katherine Turro, and Claire McLaughlin). It has been such a pleasure to work with you all.