“MY ’EAD DOESN’T ’ALF HURT,” Dinah grumbled from her comfortable billet on the drawing-room sofa.
“I can believe it.” Isabella laughed. “Mine, too, is throbbing quite horribly. It is nothing to do with your injuries of yesterday, I can assure you of that. It is because we drank far too much wine.” She gave a comical moan, and clutched at her forehead. “That was a bright idea of yours, Cassandra, to liberate those few bottles from Papa’s cellar, but I fear we are now good for nothing.”
“The morning after is never easy, my dear.” Cassandra smiled. “We must just remember the fun of the evening before.”
The three women had spent it together in the spirit of happy celebration after the momentous events of the day. They finished Persuasion, drank slightly too much of Fulwar’s excellent claret, and talked, far too late, of the future.
All was set fair. Isabella was convinced now that love should prevail, and love’s enemies must simply get used to it. There was no better man than her John, and that he had waited so long for her was the proof of his worth. She would make an excellent doctor’s wife—on that they were all agreed. And Dinah expressed every ambition to be an excellent doctor’s wife’s excellent maid—but on that, Cassandra chose to reserve judgment. She did, though, hope it might prove to be true, as well as know it to be none of her business.
And now it was time for her to leave.
She sat in Eliza’s old armchair—cloak already on, bonnet tied around her chin, precious valise at her feet—and waited for the sound of her coach. There was, in the pit of her stomach, that familiar knot of anxiety that came with the threat of a journey. The driver had promised only that he would arrive by midmorning. No doubt Cassandra was, as usual, ready too early. They were now all in that moment of awkwardness, when farewells must be made, but one did not know quite how long one had for their making. There was so much to be said, but it should not all be said too soon.
“I shall miss you,” she said to Pyramus as he nuzzled her knee. “You have been a great friend to me while I was here and quite converted me to your species.” She looked up as an idea occurred. “I think I shall get myself a little dog when I am home.”
“That is an excellent idea, Cassandra!” cried Isabella. “I hate to think of you living all alone.”
“Oh, I do not mind it. Do not worry on my account. Those whom I wish to live with are no longer around, but their memories keep me good company. No, God has been most merciful, truly. He spared my dear mother until she reached an uncommonly great age—eighty-seven years was a miracle, for one so dogged with ill health. And your aunt Martha is not so very far away, still. I can go to her and Frank whenever I please.”
“Theirs is a busy household. I cannot imagine that you want to go there for too long. How she can find the energy for all those children at her time of life! It hardly bears thinking.”
“She is a stoical creature, and the best stepmother to them all that the family could wish for. It is never easy, when the fond, real mother is taken too soon, but we are all very pleased to see them married at last. You are right, though—my own visits do tend to be short.”
“Dear Aunt Martha.” Isabella smiled fondly. “I can never get used to the fact that she is now Lady Austen.”
“Nor can Mary,” Cassandra cautioned her. “She finds the elevation most trying. It is best not to use the title when she is around.”
They were interrupted by the sound of wheels upon gravel.
“Ah, there is my man.” Cassandra rose and embraced Isabella.
During the course of the visit, their relationship had grown from a wary acquaintance to the richness of friendship. They stood now together, in silent communion, each celebrating the worth of the other.
“Isabella.” Cassandra pulled back, took her hands, and began. “I cannot begin to—”
“Mrs. Austen, madam,” announced Fred from the doorway as Mrs. Austen barged past him and bustled through.
“Mary!” Cassandra exclaimed. “You have just caught me. My coach will arrive any minute.”
“And again, you travel without the courtesy of informing your sister,” Mary replied tartly.
“Forgive me. I was too keen to get home and leave the household in peace.”
“Not before time. What on earth are you doing lying down there, Dinah? Get up. Get up at once! There is not the time to malinger.”
Dinah rose and sniffed disobligingly.
“I hear”—Mary now faced Isabella—“that wretched man Dundas is throwing you all out prematurely. Unspeakable behavior, if you ask me, but not a surprise. Oh, dear, no. I have seen it all in my day, and enough to know this: There is no greater menace on this earth than the clergyman, newly appointed. Now then. Where do we start? I am aware that I have not yet addressed the matter of the letters, and I have been thinking on that. Unless there are items that you children want, Isabella, I suggest I take them all. Fred! Go straight to the mistress’s room, remove all correspondence, and bring it to me. There may well be something in there that is of interest.”
So she was right to have come here! Cassandra gave a breath of relief.
“Goodbye, my dear.” She stepped forward and took Isabella’s hand. It seemed that, after all, they were not to be afforded their proper farewell. “It only remains to thank you for having me here. It has meant a great deal, in a great many ways.” She leaned forward and whispered into her ear. “By the way—the best china of which you are so fond. Keep some for yourself. No one will notice. Enough for two settings, at least.”
Isabella smiled and planted a warm kiss on her cheek.
“There we are.” Mary put herself between them. “Best not to make too much fuss of it. You can wait on your own now, Cassandra, can you not? We are busy, and do have to get on.”
She propelled Isabella out but stopped then, and softened.
“So, this is the last time we will ever meet in this house. It is a profound moment. We have had so much history here, have we not? And now all is to be lost.” She looked suddenly pitiable. “No trace will remain.”
“Dear Mary.” Cassandra bent down to kiss her. “Surely our history is all in our minds, in our memories. We can do no more than pass it on to the next generation, with as much honesty as we can muster.” She smiled. “And only hope that what lives on is true.”
“As if there were any interest! Oh, the stories of men will live on, I am sure: Fulwar, of course. My good husband; my fine son in his turn. But our own? Not a bit of it. There will be no one to care about us.”
CASSANDRA LEFT AS SHE HAD arrived: alone and unwatched. She settled herself down in her carriage seat, braced against the difficulties of the journey ahead, and looked about her for the very last time. There, in the background, were gentle undulations; to the side were the brick-and-flint cottages. And behind her now, never to be looked at again, the parsonage: solid and square.
The coach pulled out into the lane and the direction of the Avenue, and before it had reached speed, Cassandra caught a short, broad figure walking up from the towpath. She leaned forward and signaled to the driver to stop.
“Mr. Lidderdale,” she called down to him. “Good morning. Are you on your way to the vicarage?”
The doctor removed his hat and observed all the niceties. “I’m not very sure, madam, if I am wanted. How fares Dinah today? Of course I’ll be there if I’m needed.”
“No, you are not needed at all. Dinah is perfectly well. But I have reason to believe that if you did find the time to call on Miss Fowle, you could be assured of a very warm welcome.”
“Thank you for that.” His broad face was lit by the broadest of smiles. “Thank you kindly, Miss Austen.” He straightened his shabby coat. “No time like the present, eh? I shall go there at once.”
The coach gave a lurch, trundled and swayed up to the turnpike, shaking Cassandra’s old bones apart. Oh, how she longed to be back home in Chawton! She would have that bonfire, as soon as was possible: feed the flames with those difficult letters; wait and watch until the ashes were cold. And then, only then, all her work here was done; no duties remained. At last she would be free to dwindle away, worrying for nothing but the roses, the chickens, and the church.
Still, the journey would take several hours. How best to distract herself from the discomfort and boredom? It was then that she remembered the letter from Jane, not yet looked at. Reaching into her valise, fumbling her fingers among the pieces of patchwork, she found and retrieved it, and read:
College St., Winchester
10 July 1817
My dear Eliza,
An attack of my sad complaint has seized me again—the most severe I ever had—and reduced me so low that I now feel recovery unlikely. You must not pity me, though—I will not hear of it. If I am to die now, I am convinced that I die as the luckiest of women. For how to do justice to the kindness of my family during this illness is quite beyond me! And as for Cassandra! Words must fail me in any attempt to describe what a Nurse she has been to me now, what a dearest, tender, watchful sister she has been through my life. As to what I owe to her, I can only cry over it and pray God to bless her more and yet more.
I cannot expect to have the strength to ever write to you again, but thank you now for your friendship, wish you and your family long health and happiness and beg you to please look after my dear, darling Cass. These next months and years will be hard. We have never borne separation easily, she and I. And, as I approach this final departure, I am selfishly grateful that it was never my fate to be the one who survived. For how could I? What sort of life would it be, if I did not have her by my side?
With my fondest affections,
J.A.
Cassandra raised the paper to her lips, closed her eyes and, as a pilgrim with a saint’s relic, kissed it.
The wheels ground and turned; the horses pulled and panted. Through her tears she looked out of the window. Berkshire started to fall away from her now, Hampshire was opening up: the soft contours of the country she had once thought her sure destiny yielding to the dear shape of home.