Godmersham, Kent
12 January 1807
My dear Eliza,
It has come again! Of course, I am in Kent, and Martha with you, so my only source of information is the tone of her letters, but—I have every reason to fear Jane has slipped into yet another bout of melancholy. This is now the fourth such occurrence and grieves me particularly, for I feel responsible. I should never have come away and left her alone.
I had thought that, if she were surrounded by family, all would be well. It was so kind of James and Mary, offering to go and stay with my mother and sister while they were alone in their lodgings after Christmas, and I am sure that they both did their best to bring cheer to the season. Unfortunately—and I cannot think why, the reasons are not known to me—their visit seems to have sent Jane over the edge. I was too much the optimist.
The worst of it this time—oh, Eliza! I am frantic!—is that I am so far away from her here and cannot see any way in which I can return. I am beholden to my brothers to deliver me back, and none is at present minded to do so. They are enjoying such good winter sport and—though I have not dared to ask—would be quite heartily sick if they had to leave now. So I can do nothing but sit here—in splendor, certainly, but such is my impotence I cannot enjoy it.
I was wondering—and do forgive me for asking, you must know I would not were I less desperate—if you might be able to spare Martha soon? Should you still need her in Kintbury, then I quite understand, but if instead it would be easy for you to release her back to Southampton, I would be so grateful, Eliza. She is the only other person I can trust.
With love,
C. Austen.
Cassy wrote the Kintbury address, sealed up the paper, and put down her pen. There was nothing she could do now but hope. That morning’s letter from Jane—an anguished cry from the darkness—had distressed her enormously. What would she give to be by her side now! She hid it away in the bosom of her dress, and rose from the writing table.
Elizabeth Austen looked up from her place by the fireside. “All well, my dear?” she asked kindly.
“Quite well, thank you,” Cassy replied. “Though I believe my mother and sister are missing me a little.”
“Oh, do not worry yourself on their account, Cass, truly. You are too much in the service of others. No one can object to you enjoying yourself here for a while.”
Elizabeth had, just before Christmas, been delivered of her tenth baby. With each new addition, her fondness for Cassy had grown incrementally: The more crowded the nursery, the greater occupation for the mother, the shorter lived the governess, then the more welcome the sister-in-law found herself to be. It was a simple enough formula, which Cassy well understood. It was also true, though, that through these epic years of heroic breeding, the two women had formed a genuine bond, and a deep affection had grown up between them. Each matched the other’s devotion to the children, both were patient and even of temper: They shared the same mood.
“How goes it upstairs, do you suppose?” Elizabeth wondered aloud, without stirring.
“You stay there, Elizabeth, and gather your strength. Allow me to go up and see.”
Cassy left the warmth of the library and swished her way busily across the impressive hall and up the grand staircase. However sunken her heart, her artistic eye could never fail to catch and acknowledge the beauty of these surroundings.
Edward and Elizabeth were ensconced now in Godmersham, a large, fine, winged house, seventy-five years old, which presided over its park with the grand manner of one sure of its own great importance. Each window framed a charming vista; every interior wall was adorned with exquisite plasterwork. Cassandra was acutely aware both how fortunate she was to be staying here, and also how perverse it was that she wished she were not.
What other woman of such limited resources would be so ungrateful? She crossed the landing and took the long corridor. Christmas here had been splendid, and joyful, the dear children delirious in their excitement. Cassy had eaten too much—more than was good for her; they had made merry and played games every evening; she had laughed fit to burst.
Yet, throughout, her mind had been distracted by thoughts of Southampton: How was Jane coping with running the household in her own absence? Jane had lately had the whooping cough and by rights should still be convalescent. Could she get sufficient sleep to maintain her strength? Here, in her well-appointed chamber, alone in her stately comfort, Cassy lay awake each night, worrying. If only Edward had asked Jane here instead. She would gladly change places, for then she would at least know true peace of mind. But she herself was always the Godmersham favorite, particularly when there was a new baby around.
She climbed the stairs up to the attic schoolroom, in which the governess was teaching the older children.
“Bonjour, ma tante!” Fanny exclaimed at the sight of her.
“Et bonjour, chérie,” Cassy returned. “Tout va bien?”
“Très bien, merci.”
Mrs. Morris clearly had them under control. Elizabeth took her children’s French very seriously; Cassandra would not disturb them. She moved on to the day nursery to check on the small ones—all was well—and, thus released, she decided to take the air.
It was a fine winter’s day, after a long dry spell, but whatever the weather, there were always good walks to be had here. Mud did not trouble the Godmersham parkland: That was for other, less gracious places; mud would not dare. She returned to her room, collected her cloak, and, down in the hall, let herself out through the door to the garden. The sharp cold hit her face and banished the clouds from her brain.
Daytime solitude here was a rare and precious commodity—there was always someone demanding her time—and Cassy determined to use it. By nature she was a practical woman who did not enjoy feeling out of control. This issue of Jane’s melancholy was challenging all of her instincts. It tended to strike at the least convenient moment and refused to respond to rational argument. So far Cassy had treated it as any other illness—with nursing and potions and care. It was true that, after a few weeks, Jane had each time—so far—recovered. But was that due to Cassy’s own offices? Did she herself cure it? Or was it anyway of a limited period, like a phase of the moon, and it simply moved on with time?
She walked, eyes to the ground, ignoring the views, across the lawn in the direction of the river. Surely, rather than stand by waiting to physic, she should concentrate instead on prevention: establish what were the things that brought on the misery, deal with them, and then it might not reappear.
She made a list in her head. The first and most obvious cause was, of course, instability. They had moved house four times since the death of their father, and each had been difficult. Cassy, now in the coppice and out of the sunlight, shivered and sighed. There was nothing she or anyone could do to prevent more change in the future. They would not be long in Southampton, she was sure of it. Soon, no doubt, they would be off again, and who knew where next?
Then, there was lack of peace. Jane had been right on that count. It had all turned out as she feared. Cassy and Martha were often called away to help with their families, and Jane was left, as she was now, in charge of the household, shunted between mother and household and cook. It was true, too, that she had no time—or no inclination, certainly—to work on her writing. She had put down The Watsons in Bath and not once looked at it since.
Emerging from under the trees and into the clearing, Cassy saw that there was only one solution to all of these problems: a permanent home of their own. If only, if only, she had the power to provide one. The river shimmered before her, and there at its bank, was Edward.
“Cassy, my dear!” His face was ruddy with the morning’s excursions; a noble hound stood by his side. “A capital day, what?”
Linking arms, they walked along together.
“I could not resist it,” Cassy replied. “What have you been busy with this morning, Brother?”
“Been off seeing a couple of the farms, just checking up. With fifteen of ’em, there is always something to worry about.”
“You have so many responsibilities: I cannot imagine you ever know a quiet moment. The house, the estate, not to mention all those children. How many are there now? One hundred, two?”
“Ha! I lost track years ago. You jest, but we might make it to one hundred, you know, if Elizabeth gets her way.”
“I think you should. Not every couple can produce such perfect offspring. You owe it to the world to produce all that you can.”
“Well, we certainly have the space, in that we are fortunate. Indeed, we will soon have yet more of it. The lease is up on the Chawton estate, and I have decided not to let it for a while. We shall use it ourselves this year, for high days and holidays—a bit of Hampshire in the mix will be just the ticket.”
Cassy’s brain lit up. Chawton. Estate. Cottages—Edward owned cottages galore there, as she understood it. And all in their home county! This could be the solution to everything. Here was the answer to her prayers.
“Oh, how we miss Hampshire—your sister, your mother, and I.”
“But you are already there, surely. Southampton is within the county, is it not?”
“Of course, but not the country, Edward. It is the villages we miss, places like Chawton, for example, with hedgerows and pastures…”
“Then it will be a short hop for you to come and visit us there, on occasion.” Edward was expansive. “You will always be welcome as our guests, as you know.”
They both fell silent for a while as they followed the curve of the river.
“And have you heard from Southampton lately? How goes it?”
“I had a letter this morning, and I confess, it has left me a little concerned. I fear our mother is finding it hard to settle there.” In truth Mrs. Austen was quite splendidly robust, and took every decline on the chin. But surely the way to a man’s heart was through his mother …
“Mother! You astonish me. She can withstand anything. It is probably the post-Christmas lull. I expect she loved having James, Mary, and the family. What fun that must have been. And what a pleasure for her to share a house with young Frank again—and the bride and a baby on the way.”
“Oh, Frank is a treat,” Cassy conceded. “He is currently employed in fringing the curtains! Still, it cannot last long. He will go back to his ship, and mother and infant will go to her family. Then we shall be off again, no doubt.” She paused, to select her words. It would not do to push Edward too far. He was a man of business; he liked to make the decisions. This plan must be his idea, or it would not come to pass. “I think she mentioned Alton as our next stop.”
“Alton! But that is so close to Chawton, most convenient, and there are many good town houses there.”
“Oh, indeed.” Cassy spoke quietly, as if thinking aloud: “Not that we shall be able to take one, of course. Once Frank’s family is growing, we can no longer take money from him.”
“Quite so. Look there! A kingfisher.” Edward’s interest in the topic of poor ladies was waning. “That is the bliss of this river. Always something to catch the eye.” He threw a stick, and the dog leaped in to retrieve it. “I do look forward to Chawton. Change is as good as a rest, is it not?”
The dog emerged sleek from the water, and shook his wet coat.
“I say! I have had an idea. Why do you not take one of my cottages there?”
CASSY SAT IN THE LIBRARY in blissful reverie. Replete from her fine dinner, pleasantly exhausted by an afternoon outside with Fanny and her pony, now she could allow herself time to think of their Chawton cottage. How big would it be, she wondered, and with how many rooms? There must be space for Martha—oh, they would make space for Martha somehow. Then who could be as happy as they? She could not wait to write to Jane in the morning. The relief would surely bring her out of her bed, and give her some faith in the future.
“My love,” Edward said then, from his armchair, “I was thinking about the summer, when we go to stay at Chawton.”
“Ah,” sighed Elizabeth. “I forgot we had all that commotion ahead of us. Do you not pity me, Cass, having to live with this man and his taste for seemingly permanent revolution?”
Cassy could think of other, more deserving, objects of pity, but smiled back all the same.
“It has occurred to me to give one of the cottages to the Austen ladies.”
“To the ‘ladies’? Oh, Cass. Are men not funny? Ha-ha! So very amusing.” Elizabeth returned to her embroidery and adopted a voice of great patience: “The last thing the ladies want is a cottage, my dearest. Theirs is an enviable existence, to my mind. They can fetch up in any town which pleases them, enjoy endless changes of scenery. I cannot keep up with all their different addresses. A cottage, indeed! What on earth do you imagine they would do with themselves there?”
“Well.” Edward at once looked uncertain. “Live in it? Work in the garden? Whatever it is ladies do.”
“And die of boredom, I should not wonder. To whom should they talk? What company might they keep, in a village of all things? Oh, it might suit your mother, although she too has a strong appetite for good conversation. But your sisters need society, Edward. They require diversions. Assemblies. They need to meet people.” She looked over fondly to her sister-in-law. “It is never too late, my dear.”
“In truth, Elizabeth,” Cassy said gently, “it is too late, and we are perfectly at peace with it. I must confess, we have grown a little tired of dances and calling and so on.”
“Then you must pull yourselves together and simply resolve to get on with it,” she replied, rather sharply. “Believe me, Cassy, you have no idea of the trials of running a house of your own. For example, what would you put in it? You enjoy this footloose life, from one furnished lodging to the next. You have not your own furniture! You know nothing of the responsibility!”
“We could donate some furniture, my love,” Edward offered, but Cassy could sense his grand idea was already collapsed and in pieces all over the plush library rug.
“They do not require furniture, Edward, because they do not want a cottage, and there, I hope, is the end of it.” Elizabeth picked up her scissors and cut her thread with some violence. “You see, Cass, I have done you a great service. Your sister will be most grateful to hear of it, I am sure.”
Cassy was no stranger to Disappointment. He—Disappointment was surely a he—was a regular visitor, and she greeted this latest appearance in her customary manner: with a rebuke to herself for inviting him in. There was nobody else she could blame.
Elizabeth had spoken from genuine concern for the family, and was informed only by her life and experience—as were they all. Truly, how could a woman in her position be expected to understand their own, very different one? Of course Edward, who had been so generous to think of the scheme in the first place, would always accept his good wife’s opinion, which was in itself testament to his excellent nature. No, it was her fault, for being so selfish, ambitious, and demanding in the first place: her fault entirely. At least Jane had known nothing, and her hopes were not raised. Cassy vowed never to mention or think of it again.
Still, despite all that strength and resolution, Disappointment stayed with her, settled, weighty and immovable as a Sidmouth beach boulder. It rested somewhere in the region of her stomach, just below the anxiety that raged in her breast. The letters from and to Southampton came thick and fast—more often, certainly, than could be afforded—confiding the misery of one, begging the return of the other. Cassy could do nothing about either, beyond burning the evidence in her own fireplace every night.
However much she might long to leave Kent, she was powerless to do so. Her journey depended on the will of a brother to escort her, and it was inconvenient for any brother to do so before the spring. Martha did not return, nor did Eliza respond to the request that she should. So there was nothing to be done but occupy herself with the children, play games in the evening, make calls and receive them. Live well, dine well, and wait out her sentence: an unhappy prisoner in the happiest of homes.
In February, finally, Jane’s darkness lifted, and the chatty, merry tone returned to her letters. They had found better accommodation, larger, with a garden! She and her mother were busy with the planning of it. In March, Cassy was able to return there and look after them. She was done with the future, and designing and scheming. Instead, from now on, she would live in the present, whether it be easy or difficult, and deal with each day in its turn.