Cheltenham
1 June 1816
My dear Eliza,
Thank you for your note, and I am most gratified to hear that you so enjoyed Emma. Altogether, her passage into the world has gone as smoothly as I might ever have hoped. Though there has been some criticism—each word of it piercing, a dagger to the heart—it has been tempered by enough appreciation to leave me moderately cheerful. Of course, I would be more cheerful still were her sales to improve, but there: I shall never be quite as rich as I should like.
Nor as lucky. As fortune gives to me with one hand, it takes with the other. And in confidence, Eliza—I would swap all hope of wealth and success now just to feel well again. I wish I could say that the Cheltenham waters are working their magic but—alas!—it would not be true. And for all the medical men who bustle around here—each other one is a doctor, or at least claims to be—there is not one who can put a name to my ailment. You cannot wonder at that, of course. I have, as you know, always enjoyed being a Woman of Mystery.
None of this is enough to deter my dear Cassy. She delivers me to the Spa every morning, confident that each dose will bring a miracle. And though I try very hard, and pretend for her sake that my symptoms are lifting, I feel weaker now than when we arrived. It is not only the discomfort—my back aches, my skin is all over peculiar—but the fatigue that most plagues me. Today is a better one, but some mornings, it is too much to lift my head from the pillow. And more lowering still is the thought of being such a burden to my most excellent sister. Oh, she does not complain and is ever good-humored, even as she slaves in my interests. But she is so very determined on finding a cure for me, and I am ever more doubtful of her success. This poor, stubborn body of mine seems to be quite set on decline. What a miserable wretch I am become.
My spirits, though, rise at the prospect of calling on Kintbury on our return home to Chawton. We aim to be with you on Thursday, and that thought alone is enough to put a rose in my cheeks and return life to my legs. I hereby instruct my condition to ease off for a few days—take its own little holiday. It will not interfere with the enjoyment of our visit. I shall not permit it.
Yrs,
J.A.
Cassy stood with Eliza at the window, and looked out on the garden. The Kintbury drawing room was buttery with afternoon sun; the shadows were lengthening in the garden beyond.
“How is she now, do you think?” Eliza asked as they both studied Jane on her wander by the bulrush.
Cassy replied with great confidence: “Oh, there is a definite improvement that I can discern. I am most encouraged. Her back aches a lot less, and I am sure her skin settles down. What do you make of her?”
“Me? I am sure you are right. I was a little alarmed by the strange patches on her arm, but of course they would not vanish at once, and it would be foolish to expect it. It is just that I had not seen her for a while…”
“She is very thin.” Cassy bit her lip. “And those black marks are alarming, I agree.”
“We have fed you both up,” Eliza soothed. “And really the marks are nothing. I do not know why I mentioned them. What marks? I ask myself now. And indeed that was a few days ago. No trace remains, now that I think of it.” She moved back to her chair and picked up her embroidery. “We will send you both back to Chawton all pink and plump.”
“My dear.” Fulwar strode in. “I hope you have remembered that I am out this evening? The Tory Dinner in Newbury. Forgive me”—he bowed to Cassy—“for leaving you ladies all alone, and on your last night at our table. Too much to resist.”
“Please do not worry on our account, Fulwar.” Cassy bent her head deferentially. “We will, of course, be most quiet without you, but I am sure one of us, at least, will come up with something to talk of.”
“Quite so.” He marched to the window. “How goes your sister? I must say she is looking a pretty poor specimen. You will be out of your mind with the worry of it all.”
Eliza stitched on in silence.
“We were just saying, in fact, that Jane seems much better,” Cassy said firmly. “Well on the way to recovery.”
“Humph. Got the melancholy that I often see in my line of work—the air of the mortally ill. Still, I gather you have had a run of bad luck lately. Perhaps that is the cause. It cannot be easy.” He went to the fireplace, lifted his jacket, and rocked on his heels, even though there was no fire there to warm him.
Cassy sighed. “One or two of my brothers have had their financial difficulties, it is true. But you know the Austens as well as anyone: We have more than our fair share of blessings in general but—alas!—money will always elude us. No doubt we will survive.”
“And those books of hers are all come to nothing, I hear. Sort of petered out, did she not, after that one rather good one? Shame for her. Still not much to write about, I should not wonder.”
“Jane has had four novels published, and all to acclaim!”
“No profit in ’em, though, so Mary tells me. She reports that while the rest of you ladies work hard at your duties, your sister does nothing but write, and yet all for nothing. We did try that new one, that—er—um—”
“Emma?”
“Some lady’s name. Could not find much in it, could we, my dear? Read the first chapter, skipped to the last. Quite got the gist.”
“And that gist was what, in your view?” Cassy asked, with a chill of a smile.
“That nothing much happened. Who is going to part with their money for that sort of performance? Best not to bother. Now, Waverley—”
“In fact Jane is busy with a new work that I believe may be her best yet.” Cassy left the window to sit on the sofa, and prepared to expound. “It is—”
“Tell Eliza all about it. She is a great listener, are you not, my love? I must dash to get dressed. Cannot be late. Those Newbury Tories are the best company I know. Top conversation—quite sparkling.”
“DEAREST?” CASSY TOUCHED Jane’s face softly. “Can you hear me, my love? Are you there?”
No answer came. There was no sign of movement. She laid gentle fingers on a white, tiny wrist and felt the faint, fluttering pulse. Not yet, then, thank God: not quite yet awhile. They had been granted at least one more day.
Cassy pulled back her shoulders, stretched, and condemned her own weakness. What was she thinking of, falling asleep at the bedside? So she had not slept for days, so fatigue overwhelmed her: What of it? From now on she would do all in her power—stick pins in her eyes—to stay awake until the end that she knew must come.
She walked to the window, parted the curtains, and watched the summer dawn rush in and flood College Street, Winchester: the final address they would share. How very strange it was that they should find themselves here, all alone in these alien, insignificant rooms. How very poignant that such a dear homebody should be called to her Maker when she was anywhere other than home. Perhaps Jane no longer noticed; perhaps she was too ill to care anything for place and its meaning. Cassy cared, though. She cared very deeply. For forty-one years now, she had acted as staunch defender of her sister’s interests. And in the forty-second year she had failed.
A full twelve months had passed since they took the waters in Cheltenham, and enjoyed that brief stay with Eliza. It was now July of 1817; they were in Winchester, and had been brought here by hope. Cassy had found a new doctor, who had promised, if not quite a cure, then at least an improvement. That, surely, was something to reach for: something that had to be tried? But then hope had abandoned them, soon after their arrival. And at once it was too late to get back to Chawton. Cassy sighed heavily, burying her head in her hands. She must reach acceptance. This was the last trick life could play on them in these the last moments of its mischievous game. There was nothing to be done now but accept themselves beaten. And wait for the Good Lord to come.
“You have been here all night?” Jane whispered from the depths of her pillow.
Cassy ran back to her side.
“Cass, you do look exhausted. I am aware that my own beauty is not at its height, but you, my love…” She tried a weak smile, her neat little teeth rendered enormous—almost bestial—by the emaciation of her face. “Why will you not let the nurse do the worst of it? I promise not to leave without you by my side.”
Cassy felt for her hand. “I have let the nurse go. No, do not waste your breath! She was nowhere near good enough. I could not trust her. But help is on its way.”
“Martha? She is coming?” Jane gave a low flicker of pleasure. “Then we shall all three be together.”
“I did ask for Martha,” Cassy said gently. “But apparently it was decided—and we cannot know what is happening back there in Chawton—that Martha should stay with our mother. So Mary is now on her way.”
“She is to attend me? Oh, Cass. Mother is perfectly well, I am sure. Did I not always say she would outlive us all? I fear it is I who am now the main spectacle, and here is the proof of it. I can admit now to having harbored faint hopes of recovery. But if Mary is coming, I must face it: Death cannot be far behind.” She turned and winced as her back touched the soft mattress.
“Hush now. Keep calm. Try and take in some water.” Cassy knelt on the bed, cradled her sister—no more than a skeleton—and held a cup to her mouth while she sipped. “There. Sleep for a few more hours yet. The doctor will call at around noon. Let us be quiet until then.”
“I CAME AS SOON AS I COULD.” Mary untied her bonnet. “How fares she now? What can I do?”
“Thank you, Mary.” Cassandra kissed her. It was such a relief to see someone from the family—such a relief to receive an envoy from the world of the well, even if it was only Mary. “Her spirits are good. Her body, though, less so. The doctor was with us this morning. I now fear—well—he suggested … there is not long to go.”
Mary prepared herself for duty, and took up position by Jane’s side. Thus released, Cassy went into the bedroom and lay down to rest. She would not sleep, she could not let herself … Just a short nap, perhaps …
It was late afternoon when she rushed back into the sickroom, heart in her mouth, appearance all in disarray. Had she missed it? She could not, surely, have missed it. She heard low conversation, weak laughter. Mary and Jane were each enjoying the company of the other.
“This is a pretty sight,” said Cassy, much pleased.
“We were remembering when we were young,” replied Mary. “When you were at Steventon, and we were at Ibthorpe. Oh, we did have such fun then. Before I was married.”
Jane agreed. “I have been so very fortunate in my family, and my friends. If I live to be an old woman, I am sure I would wish then to have died now: blessed in that tenderness, and before I survived either you all, or your affections.” She touched Mary’s hand. “You have always been a kind sister to me, Mary. Why do you not rest now, and let Cass take her turn?”
Cassy waited until they were alone, before speaking: “That was touching, to see you two so cheerful together.”
“She is being really most pleasant, genuinely so,” Jane admitted.
“Mary is a very good nurse, like her sisters.” Cassy tucked in the blankets and made the bed tidy.
“It is not so much that, and she is no equal to you, dearest, or Martha.” Jane sank a bit deeper, her face white as her pillow. “Disaster often brings out the best in her. It is success that disturbs her good nature.”
DURING THE COURSE OF THE NEXT eight hours and forty, Jane was more asleep than awake. Her looks altered, and she started upon the process of slowly falling away. On the Thursday evening of 17 July, there came some sort of attack: a faintness, an oppression; the sign of the end.
“Tell me what you are feeling. What is it now, my love?” Cassy held a cool sponge to her face, blotted the papery skin. “What can I do for you? Anything. Do you want anything?”
“Nothing but Death.” Jane’s eyes were closed, her suffering immense but her words still intelligible. “God grant me patience. Pray for me, Cass. Oh, pray for me, dearest. Pray for me, please.”
Throughout the following night—their last one together—Cassy sat with her sister’s head in her lap, stroking her, whispering comfort. Until just before dawn, when she lost her.
And, grateful to be alone, thankful there was no other to share in this most private of moments, Cassy performed her last services. She placed the dear corpse back on the bed, closed each eye and kissed it, and then stood, in deep contemplation at the enormity of that which she had witnessed. Jane had been the sun of her life, the gilder of every pleasure, the soother of any sorrow. Not a thought had one ever concealed from the other. Cassy fell to her knees, and prayed fervently for the deliverance of this most precious of souls. Such a sister, such a friend, as could never be surpassed.
It was as if she had lost a part of herself.