IT WAS NOW LATE IN THE AFTERNOON. Pyramus guided her down the path through the graveyard to the porch of the church, and sat down as if to wait. Feeling herself to have been delivered for a reason, Cassandra opened the heavy oak door, entered—and was at once overcome.
The House of God, when empty, behaved in a quite different fashion from the houses of men. This was not sunken; this was no shell dependent upon people for its personality and atmosphere: Quite the opposite. Free of worshippers and busyness, it stood solid in its own splendor; confident in its own purpose: cold, damp, and simple, yet rich with magnificence.
Cassandra walked down the aisle, alone with her God, and lowered herself onto a pew, to keep His company for a while. She studied the altar, bleak in its Lenten attire, and thought back to that winter’s night long ago, when it was dressed up for Epiphany and she had stood there with Tom. Her mind’s eye conjured up that Cassy—slim and handsome—making that promise she had no need to make. How rash she had been—impulsive, intemperate—to play games with fortune; it was quite out of character. There had been moments—in Dawlish, and after—when she had railed at God for letting her act so. He had been there as her witness: Could not He have stepped in and held her younger self back?
But sitting there now, Cassandra had her own small epiphany. On reflection she could see that the promise had proved a gift, provided an alibi: It gave her the power to refuse good Mr. Hobday. It led her, through a serpentine route, down many dark and blind alleys, to her own eventual happy ending. So, one could argue, it never had been the willful act of a foolish young woman, but instead the centerpiece of her whole life’s design.
Cassandra rose, left the church, and made her slow return to the vicarage, pondering the mysteries of events and their outcomes. The ambiguity of it all made her head hurt. She felt weak and depleted and longed to sit down. But when they came to the gate, her faithful canine friend did not lead her into the house, but instead set off for the bridge.
“Pyramus!” She could not walk any farther. “Here, Pyramus!” Nor could she leave him out here alone, unattended. No doubt he knew his way around—he was blessed with more sense than most humans—but still, he was too precious a creature to lose. She took a deep breath and followed.
Beyond the bridge was the Avenue, a long, straight lane, lined with good horse chestnuts, that led to the Manor. And there, halfway down it, was the small figure of Isabella in deep conversation with a tall man in black. Pyramus must have heard his mistress’s voice. As they drew nearer, Cassandra divined this to be a conversation of some awkwardness. Pyramus must have sensed her distress. At last she came upon them.
“Oh, Cassandra.” Isabella was trembling, almost tearful. “I am pleased to see you.”
Not more Kintbury dramas! Cassandra did not have the energy.
“May I present to you Mr. Dundas, who is to take over from my father as the new vicar of Kintbury. Mr. Dundas has just informed me that he would like us to remove ourselves from the house within the next fortnight.”
“‘Within the next fortnight’?” Cassandra repeated. “But that is too soon. Two months, Mr. Dundas. The retiring family is always granted two months. That is a custom as old as the Church.”
“With a family, yes, I can see that is appropriate. But in this case there is no family left to speak of.” Mr. Dundas spoke with the confidence of one all too aware of his own winning charm. “There is only Miss Fowle, so I foresee no difficulty. I am keen to get on and do the best for the parish, Miss…?”
“Miss Austen.” Cassandra had learned to be wary of charm. Too often had she seen it abused by the charmer in the ruthless pursuit of his own advantage.
“Miss Austen?” Mr. Dundas bowed. “You are perhaps some relation of the actual Miss Austen—the great lady novelist?”
She agreed that she must be.
“Oh, but then this is a coincidence! For I am her greatest admirer.”
Cassandra proceeded to revise her opinion of the gentleman. There was clearly more to him than manners.
“Allow me, please, to kiss the hand that must once have touched our dear Jane. There. It as close as I will ever get to the real, proper thing.”
She rerevised it, immediately, and placed it back, firmly, into its original position.
“You cannot imagine my despair when she was taken from us so early. I was quite sunk for days when I heard.”
“Then it only leaves me to say how sorry I am for your great personal loss,” Cassandra said calmly.
“Thank you—most kind. I have read all of her works. Well, perhaps, most of her works. What is the one with the clergyman?”
“Well, it is hard to say which you mean. She rather went in for clergymen … They all—”
“Mansfield House! Yes, that is the one. My favorite above all. I read it and read it again. The thing about your sister, and so few people grasp this, is that her understanding of people, and a certain milieu, was so profound as to be almost unique.”
“Is that so?” Cassandra started to walk back in the direction of the house. Mr. Dundas fell into step beside her. Isabella lagged behind.
“And it seems to me that she must have somehow been the beneficiary of the great education that is ordinarily the preserve of the English gentleman. Perhaps she was lucky enough to have a master, and not just a governess?” Cassandra could sense this was more of a muse than a question. “I also feel—indeed, I am certain—that she traveled considerably and was the all-seeing guest in a great many drawing rooms of all the best people. I can tell you, definitely, that she was once in Bath, for my brother was fortunate enough to meet her there.”
“Was he indeed?” Cassandra remembered the occasion with clarity. She had gone to the Pump Room alone with her parents; Jane could not be persuaded to come out that day. The senior Mr. Dundas had met only this other Miss Austen. As so often, poor, weak truth must lay down its life for the triumph of anecdote.
“He reported that she was the most sparkling creature he ever did meet!”
Well, that was most gratifying. She did recall, thinking about it, that she had been on rather good form.
“Your situation interests me. It must rub, does it not? I often find myself pondering on the random way in which blessings are scattered in families. There is your sister, a woman of genius, who, if there is any justice, should be the subject of interest for future generations. And there beside her is you, madam, whom, by the vagaries of fate…” He paused, and for the first time showed a little uncertainty.
“… am rendered of interest to no one at all?” she finished for him, helpfully. “I think we are going this way, are we not, Miss Fowle? If you are off to your church and the very great importance of its ministry, Mr. Dundas, please do not let us detain you.”
They made their farewells, and he swaggered off into the distance.
“Isabella,” Cassandra said gently, once they were alone, “do you intend to comply with this outrageous demand?”
“I do not feel I have a choice.” Isabella sniffed as she walked. “He spoke as one most sympathetic to my predicament, and of course the parish must always come first. Mr. Dundas is a man never less than impeccable in all matters. He was very flattering about your sister, was he not?”
“Indeed. I was quite charmed. But, my dear, have you yet found a place to which you might go?”
They had arrived at the drive of the vicarage.
“No, not at all.” Isabella sighed and sniffed again. “Oh, it is all my own fault, I dare say. It generally is. That is what my sisters would tell me. I have been too happy to let others decide on my behalf. I am a wretched creature, all abject and prone.”
They were met at the door by Dinah, who stood waiting to take their outer garments.
“Surely there must be somewhere to suit in the village.” Cassandra untied her bonnet. “You have some money, Isabella: the means of providing some sort of roof for your head. My dear, do remember that. All is not lost.”
Isabella unfastened her cloak. “Yes, of course. A place. I shall find a place.” Her self-pity resurfaced as she looked around the gracious hall. “Though I may never again have a home.” She retrieved her handkerchief from a pocket, dabbed at her nose, and brightened a little. “Indeed, I did hear yesterday of a house here in the village.” Her face fell again. “No, that will not do. It is beyond my slender means. I could only take it if both my sisters came with me. Thank you, Dinah. That will be all.”
Dinah stayed where she was.
Cassandra’s heart lifted. A house of three women, and all deeply connected: This was the best possible outcome, the one she had hoped for since her arrival: the Holy Trinity of Domestic Perfection. And now she could share her own intelligence.
“I spoke to your sister Elizabeth only this afternoon!” she declared with great satisfaction. “She is willing to share with you if you would like it.”
They moved through to the drawing room. Dinah followed them.
“And I am quite sure Mary-Jane, too, can be persuaded. She seems to feel a little insecure in that cottage.”
Dinah fled from the room, Cassandra hoped to make their tea.
“Oh, I do envy you. A new place is always a matter of tremendous excitement, and this will be the first of your own,” Cassandra went on. “Think of that, my dear. So many women end up perched on the edge of their extended families, trying not to get in the way. You will have a parlor! Possibly even a garden. We have so loved our garden in Chawton. A patch of earth of one’s own, to tend as one wishes; one small corner of the glory that is an English country village: It is the most we can wish for in this life of ours.”
She was subsumed with joy at the future to which Isabella could now look forward. Living alone, for the first time, these women would discover the true bonds of sisterhood and learn that this was, in fact, the happiest of all possible happy endings. After all, mere men were no requisite to contented—
A loud crash came from the pantry. Isabella rose and rushed through. Cassandra sat alone for a while, mildly curious as to what was going on in there now. Dinah was certainly not one of those servants who made life easier for the household, and Isabella’s apparent devotion was hard to explain. Still, there was no reason to get involved in any backstairs business. She had more serious matters to concern her.
She returned to her room, reached into her valise, and retrieved that extraordinary note from Jane: My sister is deeply in love! Once again the words leaped out from the page, and struck her right to the core. What was Jane thinking of, to write in such terms? Cassandra was horrified anew, and yet quick to comfort herself. Surely this was scrawled out in the mood of a moment. Of course there would be no further assault on her privacy.
Steeling herself, Cassandra reached for the next in the pile.
Teignmouth
10 July 1802
My dear Eliza,
You begged to be informed of the next stage in the saga, and it is with a heavy heart that I comply. For the news is that—despite all previous excitement and optimism—it seems, once again, we are to be left disappointed.
I hasten to tell you that the gentleman himself was by no means the agent of this disappointment—indeed, the reverse. Over the length of our stay, he proved himself as good a man as those who love her could wish for; on our last day, he declared himself, just as we hoped. It was already clear that the attraction was mutual and that it was almost too good to be true. Yet Cassy refused him! The sheer madness of it drives me to distraction.
As you well know, I am no advocate of marriage for its own sake, but I am all for a good match and this would be—could have been—a splendid one. Imagine, Eliza! My sister had the offer of a comfortable future—wealth, stability, love and respect—and she opted for more insecurity. I must say that I struggle to comprehend it. Bereaved fiancée, dutiful daughter, caring aunt—these are the roles she embraces. Esteemed object of a gentleman’s heart, though? That she would rather reject.
I know that we—my parents and I—weigh on her. She fears we cannot manage without her and though that is true—I am guilty of an overdependence, as is our mother—I shall endeavor to persuade her it is not. But she speaks, too, of a whole other reason—if my sister has one fault it is that of a wanton appetite for the denial of self—and it is for this that I write to you now.
It appears she feels beholden to Tom—some business of A Promise, though I suspect it is also connected to the fact of the bequest that he made her—and to your family. We have been so grateful that you have continued to treat her as one of your own, and the warmth, the kindness, the inclusion that you have shown to her in these dark times has been exemplary. But I am sure you would be happy to see her build a new life for herself, as would we all. Should the occasion arise, might you see your way to offering some Fowle absolution?
If we both play our part, then I am sure he will need but the slightest encouragement to ask her again. He is a man of some pride, but not too proud to be malleable. Some of the very best marriages require at least two proposals—do they not?—to get them onto the right foot.
And if that does not work, well then: I shall be forced to do something drastic. I would sooner sacrifice my own happiness than watch Cassy martyr herself so.
With fondest wishes,
J. Austen.