by Lucy Worsley
‘Come on, everyone,’ said Fanny. ‘Let’s just go down, shall we? And Henry? Can you run, as fast as you can, to the stable, and find James, and tell him to go to town to fetch the doctor? At once, Henry, at once! And Henry, if James isn’t there, run down the road to Mr Drummer. Yes, you can. Stop crying, look at me, I’m not crying, am I? Yes, off you go.’
Fanny herded the smaller children into the drawing room, and fetched the hobbyhorse, and the top and whip, a game that wasn’t normally allowed in that particular room, and soon they were all playing, in an echo of their normal life. Fanny kept asking them questions, and telling them that their mother would be well just as soon as the doctor came, and that he was coming very soon.
In her heart, though, a black feeling was gathering.
The sound of a vehicle on the gravel drew them all to the window. But it wasn’t Doctor Jackson’s high gig with its enormous wheels. It was just the farm wagon, bringing back the servants who’d been into town for their holiday.
Even so, Fanny was consumed with a huge flooding feeling of relief.
‘Just wait here,’ she commanded her siblings. ‘Mrs Sackree’s coming. Look, there she is, getting out of the wagon!’
She darted out of the room and hared up the staircase. Now, at last, she could see her mother.
The corridor was growing dim as the afternoon was nearly over, and at first Fanny didn’t see the strange huddled shape against the wall.
She lurched forward, trying to make it out.
It was two people, sitting on the floor.
Aunt Jane had her arm round Lizzie’s shoulders, and Lizzie’s face was white and her eyes had an odd stare. She lifted her finger to her lips.
‘Quiet, Fanny,’ she hissed. ‘Mama is sleeping at last. We were just about to creep downstairs to tell you. We didn’t want to make a noise. Be very quiet, don’t disturb her.’
Fanny moved towards the door.
‘No!’ said Lizzie, almost crossly. ‘Don’t go in. She’s sleeping, I tell you!’
Something wasn’t right.
Fanny looked at Aunt Jane, who was sadly shaking her head and hugging Lizzie. Aunt Jane’s sleeves were still rolled up so that her long pale forearms glimmered in the half-light as she moved.
‘Your mama will be sleeping, Fanny,’ Aunt Jane said quietly, ‘for a very long time indeed.’
Chapter 35
The library, Godmersham Park
Although they still lived in exactly the same house, everything was different. Godmersham Park had become a dark, sombre, quiet place. A place where, if the children made a noise, Fanny’s father shouted so angrily they shrank into frightened silence.
Although he was present, he seemed to have travelled a long, long way away from them. It was weeks, it seemed, before Fanny even found herself in the same room as her father.
And the clockwork mechanism which had once seemed to run Godmersham Park had completely fallen apart. After her mother’s death, Fanny simply had no time to feel sorrow. She and Aunt Jane were just too busy looking after her nine brothers and sisters, and the new one, the tiny baby John whose birth had hurt Fanny’s mother so much.
Some of the maids had left, one of them saying that she didn’t want the bad luck of living in a house where the mistress had died. The rest were demoralised. Fires went unlit, bathwater was cold, the meals were inedible.
Mrs Sackree and Aunt Jane and Fanny herself were in charge now.
So this is why my mother never had any time, Fanny thought, running from room to room. And how much of it I used to have! How I used to waste it.
Fanny had always wanted to be one of the grown-ups, she remembered, as she got up once more in the early hours to comfort little wailing John. And now, she told herself bitterly, she’d got her heart’s desire.
The little children were sad and lost, the big children sullen and angry. Fanny tried to organise them into shuttlecock, or bowls. They would play for a while, absorbed in their toys for a few minutes, then someone would fall over, someone would start crying, someone else would call for Mama, and it would all begin again.
The next day following the disaster, Mr Drummer of course came to the house. He was, after all, their parson, and couldn’t stay away, Fanny told herself. But she didn’t want to see him and stayed upstairs. It was all too much to have to think about what he’d asked her.
But after a while, Aunt Jane’s head on its long neck poked itself round the door of Fanny’s room.
‘Mr Dominic Drummer,’ she said, ‘insisted on coming upstairs. He’s right here in the passage. Fanny! Have you got anything to say to him?’
As the door was open, Fanny knew that he could hear. She spoke clearly and loudly.
‘Aunt Jane,’ she said, ‘please tell Mr Drummer that I … have to think of my brothers and sisters now. Much as I may want to, I can’t … I can’t …’
Fanny’s voice petered out and she couldn’t say anything more. A wave of pain seemed to break over her head.
Aunt Jane and Fanny looked at each other, silent, aghast. Then there was the sound of someone walking away from the door, and very quietly, very gently, going down the stairs.
‘I think he understands,’ said Aunt Jane, sadly. ‘He was a nice young man.’
Fanny went into her mother’s room, and smushed her face into the cold mattress that was the only thing left behind on Elizabeth’s stripped bed, and cried.
All this time Fanny’s father was horrifically busy, dealing with the coffin maker, and going into town to report the death, and also trying to get together the cash to pay for the farm workers and the fees and the funeral.
But finally, one evening, Fanny was sitting stiff as a wooden doll on a chair in the library. She was too tired to go upstairs to bed, although she knew that she ought to. It was late when her father came in.
He was carrying a candle and looked like he was on his own way to bed.
‘Fanny,’ he said expressionlessly, going to his desk and starting to search for something there.
Fanny said nothing. She hadn’t the heart.
Perhaps if she’d said ‘Good evening, Papa’ in her normal polite manner, he would have just gone on his way. But she didn’t.
He stopped, and looked at her, and it was as if he was recognising an old friend he’d once known.
‘Fanny!’ he said, again, and put down his candle. Fanny came back to life, and stood up to give him the sort of hug she hadn’t had since she’d been a tiny girl. Since the time when she’d been the only Austen in the nursery, not just the first of eleven.
‘You must be their mother now, Fanny,’ Edward said.
Fanny mutely nodded. She knew it. Yes, she had responsibilities now, and oh, how heavily they weighed. There wasn’t a single second now to think about balls, or beaux.
Perhaps this was what it was like for Anna’s stepmother, Mary, trying to run a house on what seemed like not enough money.
‘Jane says,’ her father mumbled into Fanny’s hair, ‘that you are the best mother the children could have.’
‘Really?’
Fanny’s heart grew lighter, a little more luminous, at the thought Aunt Jane had said such a thing about her.
His big body gave a great heave, and Fanny could feel that he was letting out a sob. Of course, her father would go to pieces without his wife to nag him and console him, even though he’d complained about her – or so it had seemed – every single day of their life. Fanny realised that she could have predicted that he would.
After all, they had loved each other.
‘My dearest Elizabeth and I were wrong,’ her father said, ‘to make it seem like we wanted to get rid of you, to get you married off. We must have been mad.’
Fanny nodded, feeling about a million years old.
The idea that she and Anna had been completely obsessed with themselves and their future lives during her mother’s last few months pained Fanny almost more than anything else.
She remembered how desperate
she had been to leave her mother behind. When all the time, Fanny thought, I didn’t know that she was going to be leaving me.
A great gush of grief ran through her, then drained away.
‘That’s right,’ she agreed out loud with her father. ‘It wasn’t so important after all.’ She felt a tiny bit better.
Her brothers and sisters must never be allowed to feel, like Anna, that they didn’t have a mother. And what might happen to her father as a widower? He needed so much, company, reassurance, bustle all around him.
But she would worry about that tomorrow. Tonight, at least, she knew what her future held. Tonight, at last, she’d be able to sleep peacefully.
Chapter 36
Return to Godmersham Park
It had not been possible for Anna to come to Kent in time for her aunt Elizabeth’s funeral. But within the month, the entire Hampshire Austen family from Steventon were expected at Godmersham for a visit.
Fanny was feeling strange, oh, so strange, at the thought of seeing Anna.
Before her mother’s death she would have sworn that she and Anna could never, ever have made it up. Not after what Anna had said.
But now everything was changed. Fanny was longing to see her cousin again more than almost anything in the world.
Fanny felt different, and she was aware that even Godmersham itself was different. Shabbier, perhaps. Sadder, definitely.
She wiped her hands on the apron that she now wore practically all the time, scarcely ever taking it off. Her brothers and sisters were so messy. And she’d had to work out all the different charities her mother gave money to, all the workers the house employed, all the responsibilities.
And yet, as she lined her siblings up on the gravel to greet their uncle and aunt and cousin, Fanny felt a certain glow of pride. Their faces were clean, they were dressed mainly in clean clothes, and they were all present and correct – except for tiny baby John. She had done that.
She imagined their mama looking down on all the children from the window of her bedroom above, and saying, ‘Well done, Fan. You’ve worked hard and organised everything. I knew you’d be good at this.’
But when she remembered once again who was about to arrive, the pinpricks of anxiety returned.
There wasn’t time to get any more nervous, though, for here was the rumble of the carriage wheels. To Fanny’s horror, Louie had started crying, spoiling the scrubbed-face, clean-clothed line-up. But then, after all, it didn’t matter a jot because her uncle James, and Anna, and Aunt Mary were unpacking themselves from the carriage.
Within two seconds, Anna was giving Fanny a hug. Tears were spilling down her cheeks, almost like a river, almost as if Elizabeth had only just died.
Anna felt like the one person on earth who might truly understand Fanny’s loss.
‘I’m sorry, Fanny,’ Anna was saying, holding Fanny in a strong grip, as strong as a lion of the desert. ‘I’m sorry for everything.’
Fanny understood that Anna wasn’t just talking about her aunt Elizabeth. She was also apologising for the quarrel.
Half an hour later, Anna, Fanny and Aunt Jane were having a quiet, grown-up tea party in Aunt Jane’s room. Anna’s stepmother had taken charge of the younger children so that Mrs Sackree could have a rest.
‘So?’ asked Aunt Jane, as the cups were filled for the second time. ‘It’s all right for us to talk about something else than Aunt Elizabeth, you know. We have talked about her for a long time. And I think that you, Anna, have something to tell us.’
Fanny looked at Anna.
Yes, it must be true. Anna’s cheeks were smeary, as they’d all been crying, but there was something a bit different about her. Her face seemed thinner and paler, but she was perhaps calmer, more sure of herself than before.
She’s become a heroine, just like Aunt Jane said, Fanny thought.
It was so funny not to have seen Anna for such a long time that she’d physically changed. Perhaps Fanny should have noticed it sooner.
‘You know, Anna,’ she said in a rush, ‘I never really thought before what it was like for you not having a mother of your own.’
Anna looked down at the floor.
She didn’t smile, but she did look … content.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s difficult. But I’ve found a way. And my way is this. I want to tell you, Fanny, what Aunt Jane already knows.’
Fanny frowned. Had Anna written to Aunt Jane instead of herself with news, something from which Fanny had been excluded?
Fanny realised, suddenly, that her own stupid pride had prevented her from writing to Anna with the news of her mother’s death. She’d left it to her father to inform Uncle James. She couldn’t complain.
‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘I am engaged.’
Fanny’s hands flew to her cheeks and her mouth formed an O of surprise.
‘Good Lord, I hope not to Mr Terry!’ she said at once, before clapping her hand over her open mouth.
What had she said? If Mr Terry was inexplicably back in favour – and Anna was capable of anything, really – then she’d made a terrible error in expressing her thoughts so clearly.
‘No, no,’ said Anna, half laughing, half crying, ‘not Mr Terry. Good Lord! No, that was a very silly mistake. I’m to be the wife of another clergyman, though. Mr Lefroy.’
Fanny had heard the name before. Yes, there was a family of that name near Steventon. Anna had spoken of them previously. Fanny knew at once what her duty required.
‘Anna,’ she said at once, sternly, bracing herself to do it immediately, ‘do you love him? Will you die if you don’t marry him? Do you know what you are doing, this time?’
Anna smiled again, but sadly.
‘I do love him,’ she said quietly, but firmly. ‘Perhaps not passionately, but I do. Also, Fanny, he will give me a future. I need to leave home,’ she said. ‘I can’t bear it there any longer.’
The quiet desperation in her voice nearly broke Fanny’s heart.
Fanny suddenly realised that Aunt Jane was standing with her hand on Anna’s shoulder.
‘Nobody is right and nobody is wrong,’ Aunt Jane said authoritatively. ‘For Anna, the best thing is to marry this man who seems honourable, and who can give her a better life. But Fanny will be like a mother to her brothers and sisters. I’m very proud of my nieces, who are both heroines.’
Fanny turned to Anna, and just like old times, gave her a shy little smile.
Chapter 37
The library, Godmersham Park
It had been an afternoon of snow, then the clouds had parted and the late low sun had come out and turned the park a pale pink. And now fat snowflakes were falling again, out of what looked like a clear sky.
All through tea, the great topic of conversation had been whether the snow would prevent the carriages from getting to tonight’s ball at Hurstbourne House.
Anna and her parents had gone back to Steventon, and the evening had arrived when Lizzie was to be the belle of a ball her new family were holding to celebrate her engagement to their son.
Although Marianne had begged and begged to be allowed to go, Fanny had held firm.
‘But it’s nearly Christmas,’ Marianne had wailed, dredging up yet one more excuse.
‘It makes no difference, Marianne,’ Fanny said. ‘You haven’t gained a year in age, have you, since we last discussed this ten minutes ago? The fact remains that you are too young. Too young to go out to balls!’
‘Too young to go husband-hunting,’ added Aunt Jane.
‘Mother says it’s never too young to begin planning if you want to make a good marriage,’ Marianne replied, smartly.
Silence fell in the room. Marianne, aghast, clapped her hands over her mouth.
‘Oh,’ she wailed. ‘For one minute I forgot.’
She stormed out of the room, tears flowing. Lizzie sighed, got to her feet, and followed.
‘I need to go up and dress anyway,’ she said. ‘I’ll get her to help me with my gown. She’ll lik
e that. Unless you’d rather, Fanny?’
Fanny did rather want the fun of dressing up Lizzie like a doll, but she realised that the little girls would enjoy it even more. She smiled and shook her head.
There was a noisy exodus from the library, all the children storming upstairs either to comfort Marianne or to ‘help’ Lizzie, or possibly just to get in the way.
After a short pause, the door opened once again, and Lizzie’s face popped back into view.
‘Fanny,’ she said, ‘it’s not too late for you to decide that you do want to come after all. Change your mind?’
Fanny sighed, and smiled.
‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘You know that all your friends will be there. I think you’ll have a fine time.’
‘I know I will,’ Lizzie declared, but she sounded doubtful. ‘It’s just that there’s that first agonising bit of going into the ballroom and everyone looking at you, you know. Just that very first moment.’
‘If he’s worth anything at all, Christopher will look after you,’ Fanny said. She remembered her own first ball at the Star Inn, and how it hadn’t been that awful after all. And then Lizzie was grinning, and gone, flying off back upstairs.
Fanny and Aunt Jane were left in sudden silence, sitting either side of the fire, looking across it at each other and each holding an empty teacup.
‘Well,’ said Fanny. ‘We are the old folk of the household now, Aunt Jane, aren’t we?’
Over on her side, in the half-light of the flames, her aunt gave a smug smile.
‘You will find, dear Fanny,’ she said, ‘that one of the pleasures of getting older is that one is left in peace on the sofa by the fire and can drink as much wine as one likes. But, Fanny, seriously, why not go? Why not go and just enjoy the dancing? You should, you know. It’s been long enough since poor Elizabeth’s death.’
‘I don’t want to go looking for a husband,’ Fanny explained.
‘But balls aren’t just about that,’ Aunt Jane said. ‘There’s also the fun of dancing.’
‘Oh, not for the younger ladies,’ Fanny insisted. ‘Underneath, they’re all about finding husbands. Don’t you remember that you yourself taught me that?’