She had only brought her patchwork with her. Her eyes were no longer good enough for anything finer by lamplight. “Do you not have work, Isabella dear?” She slotted the paper behind the shape of sprigged cotton and started to stitch around. “Nothing with which you are busy?”
Isabella, staring into the fire, shook her head. “I was never terribly good at that sort of thing.”
Cassandra, who could patchwork with her eyes closed, looked up with some surprise. What an odd little creature Isabella was. She had known Isabella since birth—how the years blurred and fell away—and yet, she realized, she did not know her at all. She studied the woman before her: Her figure was neat, though ill served by her mourning; her features could pass as delicate, had sorrow not robbed them of prettiness. Isabella had neither the beauty of her mother nor the intellect of her father—though those arresting blue eyes were certainly his. And even after forty years of acquaintance, any sense of character or personality still seemed elusive. Cassandra could hardly stay here in the vicarage without establishing some sort of relationship, but it was as if she were in the dark, feeling around a thick blank wall in search of a secret doorway. It was hard to find a way in.
And then inspiration struck her: “I hope death was kind to your father when it finally came for him?”
For what else do the newly bereaved want to discuss but The End?
Isabella sighed. “It was clear about ten days before that his time was coming. He had a seizure after dinner, and when Dinah went in the next morning, he was too weak to rise…”
The lock had been sprung. The door to conversation now opened.
“The pain that afflicted him, with which he lived so bravely, was finally…”
Cassandra worked on, listening to stories of ice baths and poultices, and suddenly felt much more at home.
“On the fifth day, his spirits were so low that we were able to admit the doctor—”
“The doctor was not consulted before?” This smacked of negligence!
Isabella sighed. “Mr. Lidderdale is a fine surgeon, and we are lucky to have him. He is popular with everyone—everyone, that is, except Papa. My father had doubts on the very idea of a doctor in the village. He worried it could encourage illness in those who could least afford to be ill. But then, when he himself was past objecting…”
Cassandra reflected that dying must indeed have been a torment to the good reverend: to have to lie there mute and have his irascible demands ignored.
“… and I, of course, was so grateful to have Mr. Lidderdale there with me. Oh! The relief that I was no longer alone—”
“But your sisters, Isabella,” Cassandra interrupted. “Surely they both took their turns?”
“Well, Elizabeth is now so busy with her work with the babies in the village. And of course they must not suffer. We do not see much of her here.”
Elizabeth! Frankly, Cassandra expected no better. “But Mary-Jane? She lives just across the churchyard.”
“Mary-Jane of course has her own establishment to concern her.”
Ah, the tyranny of the married woman! thought Cassandra—even one now a childless widow.
“Then they should be grateful to you for shouldering that burden alone.”
“I did not mind it.” Isabella shrugged. “And did not mind it at all, once the doctor was with me. It is such an odd time, when someone is dying but you cannot tell when. Mr. Lidderdale says deaths are like births in that regard.”
Cassandra had had much experience of both and well knew their trials. She had run out of thread, and reached into her bag for a new length.
“… and then, just before the end, he said he was hungry, and I remembered we had a good raised pork pie. He does like a pork pie. And this one had an egg in the middle. He is quite unusually fond of an egg—”
“Fulwar was after pork pie even on his own deathbed?” Cassandra threaded her needle and shook her head: He really was the stuff of legend.
“Not my father! Mr. Lidderdale. Mr. Lidderdale is often hungry, even hungrier than Papa. He is not a tall man, but broad in the shoulder, and he does work so very hard.” For a moment her eyes caught the dance of the firelight. “Where was I? So, yes, there we were, sitting one on each side. He could not decide if he would prefer beer or tea. We were discussing it. The meals get so confused when one stays up all night. And he suddenly grasped my father’s hand and said, ‘Oh, Isabella!’ Those were his words. ‘Oh, Isabella.’ And I knew that was it. It was over. Never again would I sit by his side.”
Cassandra had already heard reports of Isabella’s distress at Fulwar’s passing. According to the family, she had been brave during his illness but quite beside herself when it came to the end. Even after the funeral she had had to be put to her bed. The evidence was still there—the tears in her eyes—but Cassandra found it a little surprising. Of course all parents should be mourned: That was the duty of all offspring. But were they all to be missed in the same way?
She began to pack away her work. Isabella’s newfound loquacity had quite seen off the evening. At last it was an hour at which they could respectably retire.
Isabella went first up the shallow oak staircase, holding the lamp for Cassandra, who took the steps slowly, one at a time. She had to stop for a rest on the half-landing and caught the draft coming in through the curtain at the north-facing window. What a trial it was going to be, staying in a bigger, higher house when she was so used to her cottage in Chawton. Might her progress be swift so that she did not have to stay here too long.
They made their way down the corridor. The door to Isabella’s mother’s chamber was ajar, and Cassandra glimpsed just enough to assure herself that it too had not yet been cleared: That was most promising. They passed what she still thought of as Tom’s room—what a relief not be put in there!—and at last came to the end. Cassandra knew this room. It had been for many years the only home to poor Miss Murden, that friendless, captious burden on the family. “All Contents Herein to Go to the Workhouse” said the sign pinned outside it. Any hopes Cassandra might have once had for her own comfort were adjusted at once.
Isabella ushered her in, lit the lamp by the bedside, and bade her good night. The significance of being put in here was not lost on Cassandra. It was chilly and unaired, the furniture basic. There was water in the washstand, but that too was cold. She passed a hand over the bedcover; there was no brick or bottle in there to warm it, and thought: There we are, then. I am their friendless burden now.
Her trunk stood unopened, but she would not yet unpack it. There was a flicker of life in her yet: No time like the present. She would begin her search for the letters. Cassandra moved back to the door, waited for the footsteps to fade and the house to fall silent, opened it, and slid back to the landing. Through the shadows she crept toward Isabella’s mother’s room; she had almost gained the threshold when a voice came from behind her.
“Can I help you, Miss Austen?” Dinah, lit from below by a weak tallow candle, stood at the foot of the stairs to the attic. “Lost are we, m’m?”
“Oh, Dinah. I am sorry.” Cassandra put on a show of confusion. “How strange. I cannot remember why I came out here.”
“It’s tiredness, I’m sure of it. Best get to bed, m’m. Over that way, we are.” Dinah watched her, unsmiling. “That’s it. Good night then, Miss Austen.” And stayed in position until Cassandra was back in her room.