Cassandra had sharpened her wits, gathered everything of interest, and come up with a clear plan of action. She returned to her room and hid it all under the mattress. Her own correspondence could stay there until she had time to peruse it. First, and as soon as was possible, she would deal with the letters of Jane.
But now the moment was upon her, she found that her resolution was dwindling. Cassandra reached over the coverlet and picked up the packet. Surely this should be a joy, to spend hours basking once again in the company of her sister? And yet she quailed at the prospect. She fell back onto the tough bolster. How much easier it would be to spend her last years in the present, rather than to confront her whole life in the round. Oh, to be allowed to dwindle away in Chawton, worrying about nothing but the roses and the chickens and the church.
Alas, there was not that option. This, her last duty, was the very cost of her privilege. Cassandra steeled herself, prepared her mind to be carried back through that mist of forgetting to the world that had once been their own.
She unfolded the paper, and began to read.
3
Steventon Rectory
1 May 1795
My dear Eliza,
You must find it in your heart to forgive the tardiness of my reply to your letter. The truth is that our once peaceful Rectory has lately been consumed by such a riot of celebration, that it is hard to find a quiet place in which one can write. I have just now crawled into the corner of the dressing room, which—for the moment, at least—is mercifully free of members of my family, noisily embracing and shedding tears of pure happiness. And I have shut the door firmly, in the vain hope of keeping the rioters at bay. Really, Eliza: there is so much joy and delight about as to make me feel quite sick and wicked.
I cannot quite remember how I once passed my time in the days before my sister’s engagement. But it appears that, from now on, nothing more is required of me than to congratulate others, as often as my poor breath will allow—my mother and father on the perfection of the match; Cassy on the perfection of her future husband; Tom Fowle on the perfections of his bride. Then when I have finished, it seems, I have to start all over again … And it occurs to me that, before I die from the exhaustion of it all, I should be congratulating you, too, my dear Eliza.
After all, once this momentous wedding has finally taken place, then Cassy will be a Fowle, and you will share with me the honor of calling her your sister. And you cannot know what delights are in store! She is the best, the cleverest, the kindest and most caring sister on this earth. And, should you occasionally be minded to say something witty, I guarantee that she will laugh until she is spent.
Of course, our insufferably happy couple must suffer a long engagement. A curate must always be patient; a curate’s bride even more so. Economy is as ever at war with Romance. But one day, Tom’s luck must change and they will be wed. I shall be so pleased for them then—but more than a little sorry for myself. For if there is a drawback to this perfect arrangement—and I should not dare to mention such a possibility in the hearing of my triumphant family—it is that I now have somehow to live without her. So felicitations to you, Eliza, and to all the Fowle family. For you are the victors. Yes, we have the comfort of knowing that Cass will always be happy. But you will have her—and she is the best of us!—close by you, always.
Do look after her. She is so precious to me.
Yours affectionately,
J. Austen.
It was a deeply ordinary Wednesday afternoon in the Steventon Rectory. Cassy was intent on her embroidery, Jane on her letters at the table by the window, Mrs. Austen nodding off over a sock yet undarned, when Tom Fowle burst without notice into the parlor.
“My love, I have news!” he announced, breathless, to his astonished fiancée. “Great news! And I have come to tell you in person.” Tom grabbed Cassy’s hand, greeted her family, begged for their privacy, and pulled her through the house to the garden.
It was now September, the day brisk and brittle. Cassy had to skip to keep up with his stride.
“Well then, am I to hear it?” she asked of him, delighted and laughing. “Dearest? What is this great revelation?”
In truth she was not expecting to be told of any important development, but was merely indulging his mood. Her Tom she knew to be more tortoise than hare, not known for his shocks and surprises—or, at least, not hitherto.
“Wait just a moment.” Tom steered her farther up the Elm Walk. “Wait until we are under our tree.”
Six months had passed since he had proposed to her there: months that Cassy had spent at the peak of contentment. She had discovered that favor in the family and fame in the neighborhood which an engagement entailed, and was basking in it. She knew patience was required of her, and she delivered it without effort. There was no great imperative to rush on to the next stage, as far as she was concerned.
But Tom felt quite differently. The prospect of marriage had engendered within him the first stirrings of ambition. And it transpired that he did not, after all, share her appetite for waiting. He was suddenly keen to get on, get his hands on a living to which he could take his young bride.
They reached their spot. Tom stopped and turned to face Cassy.
“Last week I had an interview with Lord Craven”—Tom seemed to inflate as he spoke—“in which he agreed—oh, my dear love!—he agreed to act as my patron!”
His own family had nothing to offer him. Tom had, early on in life, committed the cardinal sin of being born second, and for that he was now keen to atone.
“Tom! That is great news indeed.”
Cassy had often heard talk of Lord Craven, a neighbor of the Fowles and some sort of relation. He was young, rich, and landed, with a powerful personality, or so it was said. Of course, she had not had the privilege of ever seeing him in person. But this she did know, for by now she had read a great many novels: Such august creatures, born so entitled, could not always be trusted.
“And has he made you an offer?”
“Yes! He has made me an offer.”
Cassy’s heart leaped. “A living?” Already! So soon! “We are to have our own vicarage?”
Tom smiled down at her. “My love, yes.” He then paused to gather his words. “In time. But first, he has asked me—and I have agreed—to accompany him on his next expedition.”
“Expedition?” Her mind conjured a few weeks’ stalking in Scotland, or sailing, perhaps, in the Solent.
“His lordship is leading a contingent of his regiment to the Windward Isles, shortly. I did not quite grasp his business down there. At the time, as you can imagine, I was quite overcome by the whole situation. Never before have I been alone with a man of such—”
“The Windward … But Tom”—fear gripped her—“they are in the West Indies.”
“So they tell me. I should not be gone more than a year.”
“Gone more than a year…” Cassy repeated, her voice trailing away.
“I will be paid very well; beyond anything I can make if I stay here. And he has promised an excellent position on our return. We shall be set! In just a year! Cassy, without this, we should have waited much longer.”
“Yes indeed. We had agreed, we were prepared to … It would have been hard, but at least we would have waited in safety. Surely there are risks involved in this scheme?” Had he promised all this without thinking? Simply because Lord Craven had asked it?