2
Kintbury, March 1840
A WHITE SKY RUSHED PAST the windows; the bare branches of the big beech waved high in the wind. The two ladies watched it all from their table, at which Cassandra was enjoying her breakfast. This was always the meal to rely on when visiting; even the worst of kitchens found it hard to go wrong. And she needed all the strength she could muster for the day that lay ahead.
“This jam was made by my mother.” Isabella spooned out just enough for a scraping. “She was so productive right till the end. We are still, even now, enjoying her food.”
Cassandra took another bite, and Eliza was conjured up before her. She could taste her in the fruit, see her picking and stirring and laughing and pouring, and thought: These are the things by which most of us are remembered, these small acts of love, the only evidence that we, too, once lived on this earth. The preserves in the larder, the stitch on the kneeler. The mark of the pen on the page.
“Now, my dear. What are your plans for the day?” Cassandra put down her muffin, all appetite gone. “Am I right to hope that we might see your aunt Mary this morning? I know that now she lives so close by, she calls here quite often.”
Isabella, who had until that moment seemed almost relaxed and nearly cheerful, adopted again her woeful air. “Yes, really quite often. And I am sure it will be oftener still if she knows that you are here.”
“In fact…” Cassandra picked up her cup and, quite casually, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, said: “I do not know what is the matter with me. I am becoming so hopeless and forgetful. I do believe that I failed to write and tell her that I was.”
Isabella’s blue eyes met hers. “And I have not had a chance to mention it, either. Your letter arrived so late, there was not the time.”
“Then she does not yet know of my arrival.” Cassandra turned back to study the weather through the window. “That is a shame.”
“And we cannot hope that my aunt might call today.” Isabella reached back to the jam and took a hearty dollop. “On Tuesdays Aunt Mary always takes tea with Mrs. Bunbury.”
They smiled. There was a new sympathy between them. In the unlikely figure of Mary Austen—a woman not previously associated with the promotion of social harmony—they had found a common bond.
“Ah!” Cassandra felt a new lightness in her person. “Then we cannot hope to have the pleasure before tomorrow at the earliest.” That she might be left in peace was now all that was required. “While I am with you, I would dearly like to be of service. Having been in your position, I know how very much there is to do. Please. Let me be useful.”
There are women who offer to help, do everything required of them, and can be relied upon to do so well. Historically Cassandra was one of these. But there are also women—of whom she knew plenty—who appear to want to do everything for everyone, to put themselves in the center of all operations, but whose excellent intentions are always to be met with some obstruction particular only to them. They are generally to be found on a sofa doing nothing, while the rest of the household flurries about. And on this day only, though it might rub at every fiber of her makeup, for the purposes of her mission Miss Austen was determined to be one of those.
“There is so much to do that I know not how to begin it,” said Isabella with a sigh. “It is all organizing … arranging … sorting through. These are not the things that best suit my talents.”
Which were what, exactly? Cassandra wondered. They were thus far mysterious. But she had an unshakable belief in God’s design of humanity: We all have our uses. She looked forward to Isabella’s being revealed.
“Perhaps you might be so good as to help Dinah go through my mother’s clothing?” Isabella continued. “I confess I have not been able to touch any of her possessions, and nor could my father, from the day that she died.”
Dinah, who was at the sideboard with her back to the ladies, gave a loud sniff that was heavy with some sort of meaning.
“Of course!” Cassandra sat up in her chair, the picture of enthusiasm. “Although”—as if the thought had suddenly occurred—“I cannot be on my feet for too long. That would require so much standing and stretching.” She held out an arm, and then retracted it, wincing. It was quite the performance. Dinah turned and looked on with approval. “Let us think. What else can I do?”
And so breakfast continued. Isabella served out suggestions; she batted them all back—her knees would not bend, her hands could not hold, the very mention of dust made her break into sneezes—until their napkins were folded, the table was cleared, and the morning was set.
* * *
AS THE CHURCH BELL CHIMED ten, Cassandra was at repose in the yellow drawing room. Tucked up with her valise in the corner of the sofa, work in her lap, needle in hand. It was all most satisfactory except for one thing: She had not yet been afforded the privacy she craved. The household was flurrying, certainly; unfortunately, it seemed only to flurry about her.
First it was Fred come to lay a fire, a task to which he brought much resentment but no kindling. Cassandra watched him set a few logs smoking, gave generous thanks, and waited until he withdrew. Might she now put down her needle? Dared she get up and begin her investigations? The bureau in the corner must be the first object of her attention. It was where Eliza, Isabella’s mother and her own dear friend, had sat at her correspondence each morning. Surely anything of importance would be in there … She moved to the edge of her seat. And then Dinah came in.
“Are you quite comfortable then, Miss Austen?” Having been spared the fate of a morning in the closet and left to her own slovenly devices, Dinah was suddenly all friendliness. Cloth in hand, she flicked dust hither and thither—from candlestick to clock to ornamental vase—and chattered on. “It’s quiet enough in here.” She picked up the cushion on which Cassandra’s elbow rested and thumped it. “Nobody to disturb you in whatever it is you’re busy with.” Moving to the glass above the fireplace she added a smear to its impressive collection. “Quiet everywhere in this house, since Mr. Fowle departed, God rest his soul.”
Cassandra made noises of sympathy and reached for her thimble. She was clearly not to be left alone for a while.
“And we don’t get the visitors now, either. No parishioners coming here with their problems. No men from the Hunt or the Kennel traipsing through with mud on their boots.”
Dinah moved to the bureau and gave it an aimless rub. Would she now open it and reveal its contents? Cassandra sat up in anticipation.
“Oh, yes. Very quiet we are now. Quite filled the ’ouse with his presence, did the reverend. Those rages of his! You could hear them in the village.” She shook her head, smiling fondly, and polished on—though without any beeswax. Cassandra had to suppress the urge to go and find some herself. “Used to fair bellow at Miss Isabella. Bellow!” With a chuckle, Dinah turned her attention to the casement of the window. “It was throwing his stick at her head that brought on that seizure. The exertion of it did for ’im, they say.” She stopped and gazed around at the product of her labors. “Oh, yes, it’s a terrible loss, Miss Austen. A terrible loss for us all.”