“DINAH?” A CHASTENED CASSANDRA spoke softly from the armchair. “You are awake. Thank the Lord! Are you feeling a little better?”
“Bit sore, m’m.” Dinah wriggled and shifted, checking gingerly about her body for tenderness. She winced as her hand met her forehead. “Ouch. Still, not so bad considering. I think I got away with it, m’m.”
“You have been very lucky, from what I can see. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”
“Wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea, Miss Austen. ’Course, only if you’re going that way.”
Cassandra rose on command—“I shall make it at once”—withdrew to the kitchen, and struggled back with a heavily laden tray.
“Ah, the good china, I see.” Dinah sat up. Cassandra rearranged her pillows. “Naught but the best for the invalid.”
“It seemed a shame not to use it. You had not got around to packing it up, then?”
“Didn’t have the ’eart, m’m. Miss Isabella’s that fond of it.” She slurped her tea and sighed happily.
“Dinah, while we are alone”—Cassandra sat down—“I have a few questions for you. First of all—and this is simply to satisfy my own curiosity—might I be right in thinking that you have been listening to the reading in the drawing room of my sister’s novel Persuasion?”
“And what if I ’ave?” Dinah narrowed her eyes. “Law against it, is there? Servants hearing things thought too good for ’em?”
“Not at all,” Cassandra protested. “Indeed, the reverse. Nothing could delight me more! It just occurs to me that your fall from the stairs was not dissimilar to a scene in the story. You remember, it takes place in Lyme?”
“Can’t think what you mean, m’m,” Dinah rebuffed her. “I’ll take another cup of that tea, if you don’t mind.”
Cassandra took the china and poured. “Be that as it may, I would like to take the opportunity to applaud you for both your intelligence and your devotion to your mistress. You took quite a risk there, but it appears to have worked.”
Dinah looked smug and slurped loudly again.
Lowering her voice, Cassandra leaned over. “And now—well, this is a delicate matter. I hope you do not think me intrusive—about Miss Isabella and Mr. Lidderdale.”
“So we got there at last, did we?” Dinah gave one of her sniffs—signifying deep contempt, if Cassandra read it correctly—then visibly softened. “He loves ’er. She loves ’im. They been like it for years.”
“Yes. I understand that now. But why—?”
“The master wouldn’t ’ave any of it. You know how he got sometimes. Stubborn as a mule. No budging ’im. There’s not much wrong with Mr. Lidderdale, I tell you that for naught pence. The whole village loves ’im, but he’s not much in ’is origins, if you get what I mean. Not born a gentleman, and the reverend wouldn’t put up with it. Not good enough for Miss Isabella, and that was that. Not even better than nothing at all, which is what the poor lamb ended up with.”
“I am so shocked to hear that.” Cassandra had never heard whisper of any such drama! “As well as greatly saddened, on the poor couple’s behalf.”
“So when Mr. Fowle passed away, I of course got me hopes up. There! I thought to m’self, they’re free. There’s no one to bully them. And I kept saying all that to Miss Isabella, whispering in ’er ear. Then you turned up in the works with your spanner.”
“Yes, I am sorry. And if I had but known…” Cassandra was humble. “But what of Mrs. Fowle, and her feelings on the match? Surely she must have been most conflicted.”
“If she was, she never let on.” Dinah slurped her tea. “She was a perfect woman, my mistress—too perfect, as I see it. Perfection!” She sniffed and shook her head with disgust. “Perfection brings no end of trouble. Mrs. Fowle would keep ’er thoughts to ’erself, which is a daft way to go on, if anyone wants my opinion. She never argued with anyone, specially not with ’im—and he wasn’t always right on things, not by a long chalk. And nor was she one for meddling. Very strict on that, she was, even when meddling was just what was needed. Wouldn’t catch her at a meddle if the house was on fire.”
“So most unlike us, then: you, Dinah, and me.” Had she gone too far? Cassandra, covering her apprehension with a tentative smile, clung to Pyramus for some emotional support.
“The difference between you and me, madam,” Dinah said, archly, over her best cup and saucer, “is my meddling’s done all to the good.”
CASSANDRA FOUND ISABELLA out in the garden, down by the riverbank.
“You seem deep in contemplation, my dear.”
Together, they stood by the newly green willow. Two swans drifted past, heads high and tails up, arrogant in their conjugal felicity. Tall iris promised, with a slight hint of flag, the fulfillment of color to come.
“Today has left me with plenty to think about.” Isabella appeared dazed. She also, Cassandra noticed for the very first time, looked almost uncommonly pretty. Mourning had been replaced with a pale pink that lent a bloom to her face and revealed her fine, delicate form. The sun fingered gold strands in her hair. She appeared now as a woman of half her real age. All the marks and the wounds of those hard, long, lost years—how must she have suffered!—disappeared in the miracle of a morning.
“I have just now left Dinah, and can assure you that there is nothing to worry about on her account.”
“Dinah?” Isabella started, as if the matter of the accident was the last thing on her mind. “Oh, yes. That is good news indeed.”
“It seemed that the fall was never as bad as it looked, though we could never have presumed it would be so. I hope you are not unhappy that I called the surgeon?”
“Unhappy?” Isabella laughed. “Far from it, Cassandra.” She took her arm, and they started to walk back to the house. “Who knows what more Dinah might have done to herself if Mr. Lidderdale had not come out then? Chopped off her own head, more than likely. You did entirely the right thing, I assure you.”
At that, from the house, stomping across the lawn toward them in a most urgent manner, appeared the less-than-pretty sight of strange Mary-Jane.
“I came as soon as I heard.” Her boom pierced the tranquillity. “What is the upshot? Dead, I suppose. Terrible business. Stairs can be dangerous—wicked things—always said so. To be used at one’s peril. That is why I sleep downstairs.”
“Good afternoon, Sister.” Isabella kissed her without any real warmth. “Dinah is well, thank you, and recovering indoors. We were all very lucky. There is nothing to worry about.”
“Well, you can say that, but what is the extent of the damage? Is she to be well enough to help us move into this new place or not? If that is to happen soon, we cannot be down a maid.”
“On that,” Cassandra said calmly, “may I make a suggestion? Loath though I am to interfere.”
The two very different Fowle sisters both turned to look at her, with a shared sense of wariness, for which Cassandra could hardly blame them. Had she not already interfered quite enough?
“Contrary to my previous advice, I wonder now if it might not be better to wait a while before committing to a lease on a new property? After all, it may be foolish to rush into a new arrangement in a time of great crisis. Is there not a case for Isabella to find a more temporary arrangement, to bide her time and take a month or so to think about things in more detail?”
This new solution was, unsurprisingly, met with ready agreement by both, as neither had been much keen on the old one. And as the threat of it lifted, so the mood took an upturn. Happy in the knowledge that domestic intimacy would not be theirs; joyful that their futures might not ever be entangled; elated, indeed, that they need never meet again if they so chose it, they decided, together, to take a tour of the land.
“Strange to think that all this is shortly to leave the family,” said Mary-Jane as they walked toward the stables—once so busy and fragrant, now sadly deserted.
Isabella laughed. “You have hardly been down here for years!”
“Perhaps not. It is not a journey to embark upon lightly—what with the churchyard and so on. But I always had the comfort of knowing it was here.”
“It is the loveliest garden in England, in my opinion,” Cassandra said warmly. “The first time I came here, all those long years ago, it felt as if I were stepping into a storybook, of which I myself was the heroine.”
Isabella turned then and stared at her—astonished, perhaps, to hear such a romantic speech from one she no doubt saw as a dry, cold old lady. “And then your story turned into tragedy. I am sorry for that, Cassandra.”
“Oh, no, not exactly, my dear,” Cassandra replied. “Indeed, it was a terrible blow to lose your dear uncle Tom. His death brought enormous distress to us all. Your poor grandmother never recovered. But I— Please do not think me to have had a sad life, Isabella. After all, there are as many forms of love as there are moments in time.” She took Isabella’s arm again, and smiled. “Or as our good sage Dinah would have it: ‘Each to her own.’”
They skirted the coppice and headed down the slope and back to the riverbank.
“Your sister,” said Mary-Jane thoughtfully. “I remember her coming here for her very last visit—ailing quite badly; we all noticed that. She wandered about, too, just as we now are doing, with the air, I then fancied, of one who never expected to see this place again. Which year would it have been—1817?”
“It was the summer before,” Cassandra replied softly. “That was very astute of you, Mary-Jane, to read her actions like that. You were but a young woman, and I—so much older and wiser—yet refused all such evidence. You see, I could not but have hope. Even though my sister herself, I believe, knew even then that all hope was lost.”