Steventon Rectory
4 October 1796
My dear Eliza,
I am so pleased to hear that you are much stronger in body—and sorry, but not surprised, that your spirits remain low. Of course, I have no experience of the sorrow you feel, but I do have deep sympathy and a rich imagination. And thus armed, I cannot agree with the rest of your family. You have suffered a loss as profound as any death, and have had not yet a year to recover. That your poor baby only lived for a day is quite immaterial. We do not calculate love by the hours spent with the loved one. Please know that you are in our thoughts and our prayers.
All that said, it seems I simply do not have it in me to write a letter that is all on one shady note of sadness and condolence. With my pen in my hand, I find there is nothing for it but to at least try and amuse you, and bring in a glimmer of light, if just for a moment. I am sorry. Forgive me. It is a failing I have. And there is so much going on here that I think will amuse you—it is all too hard to resist.
For lately our quiet little home has been transformed into the most industrious marriage market! For a connoisseur of domestic drama—such as myself—it is almost impossibly diverting. My eyes have quite left my head and now sit permanently on stalks. I need not tell you that I play no part in it at all, other than that of delighted observer. It is all the doing of my mother and sister, and each is enjoying herself hugely. That Mrs. Austen is up to her tricks will not surprise you—she prefers matching over any other form of employment. Cassy’s part in it all, though, is more unexpected. I can only put it down to her own elevated status as an engaged woman. She has a future husband, so everyone must have one—as when one is suffering from the coughs or the sneezes, it is a great comfort if others are similarly afflicted.
I must add that no attempts are being made to match me—or none of which I am aware. Perhaps I shall wake up one day and find myself ushered before an altar, but I rather suspect not. It pleases me to report that my own fortunes are being quite overlooked. In fact, dear Eliza, it is your two sisters who form the objects of all this activity. Now, please admit it—you do find this amusing! I knew that you would.
Let me start with the eldest. It has been decreed, by the Austen ladies, that your dear sister Martha shall marry my dear brother Frank. Yes, I know as well as you do that there are problems inherent in this arrangement. He is much Martha’s junior, far away at sea and years off being wed—all mere inconveniences, according to the plotters. There is also the small matter that Frank has never, as far as I am aware, expressed any opinion on Martha. That bothers me less, as who could fail to love such a kind and intelligent woman? I should marry her myself if I could. But putting all that aside, the marriage will happen, or so I have been firmly informed. And on Frank’s next shore leave—poor lamb, he cannot know what is about to hit him!—he too will be apprised of his own situation. I do hope he has the sense to comply.
But more immediately, the scheme to attach your sister Mary to my brother James is progressing at full pelt. Mary has been staying with us for a week, at my mother’s instigation, so that James cannot avoid her when he comes here. And, whether by coincidence or design, he happens to visit us every day! Mrs. Austen is in paroxysms of excitement and, for once, I do not think it is a case of her imagination getting the better of her. For all the time that James is conversing with us, he is studying Mary discreetly. His eyes follow her about; when she leaves, his gaze lingers on the door. It is not yet love, as far as I can gauge it—do not hope for that—but it is a profound interest. He is assessing her, considering her, in that slow and serious way of his.
I must warn you that there are other young ladies in the county who have their sights on him. Is it not interesting that a widower in indifferent humor should have so much choice, when your cheerful sisters have so little? But do not worry. My mother has decided that your Mary shall triumph and, as we well know, when Mrs. Austen has decided then the fates must abandon their designs and bend to her shape. And for all our sakes—not least that poor motherless child of his—James must marry again soon.
Tomorrow night, we are all to go to the Basingstoke Assembly—Martha is joining us!—and I have a feeling that, there, the situation may reach its conclusion. And if so, I shall be as delighted as my whole family. For I shall have had my revenge on you then, Eliza: you will have my own darling sister, but I shall have one of yours!
As ever,
J. Austen.
The Assembly Rooms were humming, the dance floor was filling, and over by the wall, the four ladies—Cassy and Jane, Martha and Mary Lloyd—stood alone in a cloud of anxiety.
“There. I knew it. I feared this would happen.” Mary Lloyd dropped, with a dejected thump, onto a chair. With a little more grace, the other three took their seats beside her. “He has not looked at me, not once, since the moment of our arrival.”
All relevant feminine eyes searched the crowds to find the figure of James Austen. He was over on the far side with his back to them, in animated conversation with friends—as if they alone were the party; as if there were no others at all in the room.
“I am sure he is merely greeting the Terrys,” Cassy was swift to reassure her.
“It is not entirely unreasonable of James to be sociable,” Jane cut in briskly, “at what is, after all, a social event.” She flicked open her fan. The evening was only beginning, but Cassy could see that Jane’s patience had already worn dangerously thin.
Martha patted Mary’s knee—the pat of a kindly, consoling, concerned elder sister.
Mary remained unconsoled. “I should never have got my hopes up,” she moaned. “Why would a man like James look at me? Oh, Cassy,” she sighed dramatically. “Would that I were as handsome and elegant as you.”
Martha looked down at her hands. Jane raised an eyebrow.
“I have never seen you look as elegant as you look this evening,” said Cassy warmly. The ladies had spent hours on Mary’s preparations. A new paste had been purchased from the apothecary, the very latest method for concealing the smallpox scars with which she was so horribly afflicted. Its application had proved a little trying. “I would go so far as to say that you are glowing.” In fact the paste was now starting to flake in a manner that was rather alarming. Cassy worried that the heat of the room might be having an adverse effect.
“And that pale blue does become you so,” Martha added. “I wish I could alight on a color that served my complexion so well. I fear this pink might be a mistake.”
Mary, encouraged, smoothed her own muslin with quiet satisfaction, but issued no compliment in return.
The band struck up a cotillion, and the dancers arranged themselves. Jane stood up. “Well, I, for one, do not intend to spend the whole evening staring at the back of my brother. Come, let us take to the floor.”
Cassy longed to dance, but was torn. Mary was clearly not quite in the mood, and she felt more than a little responsible. But before there was time to decide, the door opened. A new party blew from the night into the brightly lit hall. And she turned and saw there, on the threshold, a new—much discussed, deeply dreaded—threat to the evening. Cassy’s heart fell with a thud.
She leaped up and blocked Mary’s vision. “Instead, why do we not take a turn about the room?”
But it was too late. “No! She has come!” Mary wailed, her neck flushed and mottled. “Cassy, you said she was out of the country! That is it. I am sunk.”
“Nonsense,” Cassy retorted firmly. She pulled Mary out of her chair, and signaled to the others that they too must help her. “There is no evidence whatsoever that James has even noticed Miss Harrison. He has never before mentioned her to me.”
The ladies began what was hoped to be a dignified parade through the hall, the Lloyd sisters in front, the Austens, arms linked, following behind. Cassy sighed heavily.
Jane leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper. “This scheme of yours, Cassy, to bring Mary into our family … You are quite convinced it is sound?”
“Why, of course!” Cassy replied. “Mama believes—”
“Oh, Mama!” Jane interrupted. “Do not talk of Mama. She merely favors marriage in general. She cannot help herself. But what of you, Cass? What of us, indeed? Do we truly want Mary as our future sister?”
“Jane!” Cassy laughed. “The Lloyds are our greatest friends, are they not? And the sisters of Eliza. We will be all of one clan. There never was a more perfect arrangement.”
They sidestepped the dancers, and were forced back into the wall.
“I would say that Martha is our great friend, certainly,” said Jane. “And Eliza, of course. But Mary … would you not say Mary is of a more difficult nature?”
“Oh, Jane. Why must you be always the pessimist? Any character flaws on display at the moment are due entirely, in my view, to the fragility of her confidence. Once settled, Mary will bloom. Mama and I are in one accord on it. My only concern now”—they had reached the top of the room, and Cassy looked about her—“is that this evening is shaping into a perfect disaster. I must salvage it. Where is James?”
She studied the dance floor. James was on it, in partnership with Miss Harrison—now smiling, now laughing, his poor widower’s spirits seemingly banished. She glanced over at Mary, and watched as a tear—ill advised and regrettable—cut a livid, red path down a white pasty cheek.
“I have a new idea,” she called, brightly, over the noise. “We should withdraw for a while. It is not long till supper. I hate to be last and deprived of a good seat.”
They were the first there by at least twenty minutes, which three of them spent in false animation, while Mary sat blowing her nose. At last James came through. Mercifully, he was alone. Cassy jumped up and took him to one side.
“Rather a good evening, much to my surprise.” He was quite uncommonly cheerful. “I hope you are enjoying yourselves. I have not seen you since the coach!”
“It does seem a success,” she began, with some caution. “Though I am surprised that you have not yet asked Mary to dance.”
“Mary?” The very fact of her existence seemed to have slipped James’s mind.
“Miss Mary Lloyd.” Cassy smiled. “It looks a little strange, Brother, when she is staying as our guest and you have spent so much time together lately. I think it would be in order for you to pay some attention to her now.” She paused, breath bated. It was not in her character—and had never before been necessary—to tell her eldest brother how to behave, and she was not sure quite how she would now be received.
Fortunately his new good humor was robust and undentable. “If you say so, dear Cass. Of course.” He took her arm and led her over to the small, feminine party. “Is there space at this delicate table for one hungry man? Might I join you?”
In the moment it took for James to pull out a chair and be seated upon it, Mary’s countenance altered. While he stood, she was the picture of Tragedy; when he sat, the embodiment of Joy. Only a man with no vanity could fail to notice the difference between the two Marys, or believe that difference was not down to him. And for all his many excellent qualities—he was intelligent, articulate, loyal, and godly—James Austen was not a man without vanity. He did notice, and was visibly pleased.
“I hope you ladies are enjoying your soup. I am not sure that I can quite take any at the moment. I am warm enough from the dance floor, and it is—as ever—too hot in here.”
Mary put down her cup and nodded earnestly. “How right you are, Mr. Austen, and how pleased am I to hear you say so. My sister was earlier remarking about the draft in here. Fancy! ‘Draft?’ said I. ‘What draft?’ And do you know what I said then? I said: ‘It is—as ever—too hot in here!’ Is that not the most remarkable coincidence, Mr. Austen? We both used the very same phrase.”
Jane’s face lit up with amusement. Cassy—who had not witnessed any discussion of a draft—was surprised to see how gratified her brother was by this support. He followed it up with a discourse on the music that evening: “I am quite sure it is an improvement on the last time I was here.”
“Why, how right you are again!” Mary seemed quite taken aback by the force of this insight. “I do not believe I even noticed until you said so. I am quite staggered it did not strike me at once. But it is—to be sure—a vast improvement on the last assembly. I could not agree more.”
Jane gave a loud snort. James’s mood expanded yet further. “And how pleasant it is to be agreed with, Miss Lloyd. As soon as we arrived, I struck up a conversation with young Terry about this season’s hunting. I merely said I hoped for better than last year, as to my mind last year was quite dull. So imagine my surprise when I found that we were in something of a dispute. Mr. Terry has memories of a blistering campaign against the fauna of Hampshire that I simply cannot recognize. So forceful was he I began even to doubt myself!”
“Oh, but it is your memory that is the correct one, sir!” Mary insisted. “Of course, I know nothing of hunting, but I have listened attentively to all your conversations on the subject. Well, all those I have been lucky enough to hear. And your reports were certainly of a general disappointment. I do hope,” she added earnestly, “that you enjoy better sport this year.”
“WELL, I MUST CONGRATULATE YOU, my dear sister,” Jane whispered to Cassy as they returned to the ballroom. “Victory is yours.”
“Do you think so?” For some reason, Cassy was suffering from a momentary loss of faith in her own plan.
“Oh, very much so.” Jane chuckled. “Mary played her best hand. We need no longer worry about her lack of a fortune, or flaking complexion. For a gentleman like our brother, there is no greater proof of superiority—in charm, wisdom, and intelligence—than agreement with his every word.”
Dancing resumed, and this time James led Mary onto the floor, and at last the other ladies were free to enjoy themselves—while keeping their eyes on the situation, like anxious aunts over a debutante charge. As the couple danced again—and again—they began to relax, began even to feel something like confidence.
The crowd was thinning by the time Mary finally came back to them. She was flushed now: flushed with exertion; flushed with her own natural high color since the paste had dropped and scattered all over the dance floor. And, on top of that, flushed with success.
“Well,” Martha cooed at her, patting her hair back. “You have a conquest there, Mary. Of that there is no doubt.”
“Oh, Martha.” Mary flicked her hand away. “I shall take wisdom from Cassy if I have to—she is betrothed. But you, my poor sister? What could you possibly know?”