I PHONED the Bishop’s Palace.
Mrs McGurk was not impressed by my urgent request to see the Bishop. ‘Whatever are you thinking, Miss Cassandra? Isn’t it enough that your visit yesterday left him all in a pother? He’s been up half the night and now he’s insisted on having his breakfast in the library.’ Her words dripped with disapproval.
I managed to assume a braver tone than I’d ever achieved with the McGurk before. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs McGurk, but I really need to see him.’
‘I’m sure you can wait an hour or two,’ she replied waspishly.
‘Half an hour,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour. Thanks.’ And, before she could answer, I hung up the phone.
I SHOWERED and dressed quickly, grabbed my bag and headed out the door. I was halfway down the driveway when I heard a loud thwack, followed by an exasperated gasp. Miss Austen appeared beside me, her hair rumpled and her cap all askew. She said crossly, ‘Pray, what are you about, Cassandra? You dash off without a single word to me. It is most inconsiderate – if not rude.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘We are bound, Cassandra. Please try to remember it, for should you move too far from me, then, whether I wish it or no, I am pulled to your side.’ She straightened her muslin cap with dignity. ‘This being so, I would ask that you pay greater heed to my whereabouts so that I am no longer cast about like chaff in the wind.’
‘Sorry. I’ll try to remember, but to be honest, I’m still struggling to accept the idea that you and I – that we – are bound. It’s ridiculous.’
‘There is no point arguing with fate, Cassandra,’ replied Miss Austen sedately.
I stopped dead, suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the past few days. ‘Then fate’s got it wrong. You don’t understand, I’m not the sort of person to be tied to someone like you. You’re amazing. I’m a disaster. Which means this bonding thing has got to be some sort of gigantic cosmic error.’ I set off down the street again.
She wafted past me. ‘You do not look like a disaster, Cassandra.’
‘Looks can be deceiving,’ I muttered bitterly, pushing away thoughts of handsome Julian. ‘You don’t know me, Miss Austen.’ I tore a dead twig from a nearby bush and began breaking it into tiny pieces as I walked. There were words bubbling inside me – hard, uncomfortable words – that I didn’t want to speak aloud. But there was something about the way the ghost was looking at me, as if hiding the truth would kill the fledgling bond between us, that compelled me to give voice to the ugly words in my head.
‘Oh, I’m a disaster all right. I’m twenty-seven––twenty-eight––years old and a complete failure. I’ve had three awful boyfriends and even more awful jobs and I haven’t been able to keep any of them. I’m dull and pathetic and if it weren’t for Aunt Butters, I’d probably be homeless and destitute and sleeping in a dumpster. You don’t know—’ I couldn’t go on. The confession was like a rasp grating my insides raw. I flung the last piece of desiccated wood into the River Itchen and waited for Miss Austen to acknowledge my catalogue of failures.
But she surprised me. ‘Anne Elliot was twenty-seven.’
‘What?’
‘My dear Anne Elliot. At twenty-seven, she thought that all hope of happiness was lost to her. She was unloved and overlooked by her family, and her dear friend, Lady Russell, was the architect of her greatest unhappiness. Still worse, poor Anne was destined to spend years of her life in Bath. Bath,’ she repeated in bitter accents. ‘I know too well how much poor Anne dreaded her future in that city. How far removed from her own beloved countryside she would feel – not just in miles but in spirit and emotion. All of her finer feelings to be so distressed by the enforced separation from Kellynch and Uppercross and those familiar rural environs she loved.’
‘What are you talking about? What has a character in Persuasion got to do with me?’
‘Persuasion?’ Miss Austen looked puzzled.
‘It’s what they called your last novel. It was published after your—’ I stopped.
‘Persuasion,’ she repeated, her brow knitting. ‘I had not thought—but if that is what Cassandra and Henry decided—no, I quite see, now that I think of it.’ She smiled. ‘How clever of my dear sister and brother to make it so. After all, Anne is persuaded and Captain Wentworth is persuaded and even Lady Russell and the Elliots eventually come to see how it should be.’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘Persuasion. A very good title indeed, do not you agree?’
‘Sure, but again, what has Anne Elliot to do with me?’
‘Do not you see the resemblance? At twenty-seven, she too had given up all hope; you have done the same. And yet, Anne’s constancy, her morality, her true nature ultimately prevailed over all those who would neglect or ill use her. You cannot deny that this is so.’
Irritation buzzed at me like a mosquito. ‘There’s no connection,’ I said bluntly. ‘Persuasion’s not like real life. It’s a novel. A fiction, a fantasy – you made it up.’
For a moment her light dimmed, then it blazed forth so white and dazzling that I had to shield my eyes with my hand. ‘Hey, turn it off!’
Instantly the light faded. ‘I am sorry. I am afraid I forgot myself and once again allowed my characters to rule me.’
‘Is that what they do?’ I regarded her curiously. ‘I mean, is that how you wrote your novels? Believing your characters were real people?’
She pondered for a moment, her head on one side, as though my question were new to her. ‘I am not sure I have ever given the least thought as to how I write.’ She floated slowly over the bridge and down the street towards the Bishop’s Palace.
Intrigued, I followed her.
After a while, she said thoughtfully, ‘I suppose, if I had to explain it, I would tell you that my most successful method was to sit at a table with pen and ink and paper and think of the best words to describe my characters, their thoughts and ideas. I would then imagine them in their daily lives.’ She pointed to a graceful Georgian house visible through the trees. ‘I have always enjoyed observing people. Human nature is of perpetual interest to me. People’s habits, their faults, their virtues and their conversations are a constant source of amusement. Not,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘that I should have ever made my interest in such things generally known, but I took great pleasure in imagining my characters at home and going about their business – eating, talking, paying visits and the like. I would hear their voices in my mind, mark their spoken and unspoken words, and if they served to advance the story, I would be at pains to write them down.’
‘Wow.’ It seemed an inadequate response given that I was the only person living who’d ever heard Jane Austen explain her writing technique.
‘Wow?’ She raised her eyebrows.
‘Amazing, remarkable, astonishing – “Wow”.’
She looked surprised. ‘Is it so astonishing? Do other authors write differently? I wonder what were Miss Burney’s or Mr Richardson’s methods?’
‘No idea. I haven’t read their books.’
She looked at me in astonishment. ‘Not read their books—?’
‘You can’t read everything. Especially not now. There’s just way too much content.’
‘Too much—’
‘I’ll explain later.’ I could see where this was heading and I still wasn’t ready for the whole inevitable ‘welcome to the modern world’ conversation. As it was, I was still waiting for Miss Austen to comment on the things around us, but so far she seemed oblivious to the asphalt and concrete and metal that were part of every modern landscape – even a landscape as old and beautiful as College Street, Winchester. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t touched the structures, or perhaps they were not relevant to her right now. Or maybe she had some weird supernatural vision that hid the changes between her world and mine. I was about to ask her when she came to an abrupt halt.
‘Good God.’ She stared up at the cream-colored brick house before us.
I followed her gaze and realized with a nasty jolt that I should have prepared Miss Austen for this particular view. Absorbed by our conversation, we’d gone past the Bishop’s Palace and come too far down the street, to where a house with an oval plaque had caught Miss Austen’s eye. For any other visitor to Winchester the plaque would have been no more than a point of interest – something to see and admire, photograph, and check off a bucket list, but for my ghostly companion it had a unique personal meaning.
‘“In this house Jane Austen lived her last days and died 18th July 1817”.’ Miss Austen read the words aloud and I was dismayed to see her milky essence begin to fade.
‘Come away,’ I said urgently. ‘I am so sorry. We weren’t meant to come this far—’
‘Why is it there?’ Miss Austen glanced up and down the street as though seeing it for the first time. ‘I do not see other dwellings with similar mementos. Nor did I reside here long.’
‘I know, but you’re so famous and admired that people come from all over the world to see where you lived, and to pay their respects.’
‘Do they indeed? Well, that is very gratifying, to be sure.’ I was relieved to see her turning pearly-white once more. She gazed up at the building. ‘How strange it is to see this house again. It was here that I last saw my family and here that my dearest sister, my tender, watchful, indefatigable nurse cared for me with such anxious affection—’ She broke off and something rolled down her cheek and vanished in a puff of silver mist.
Pretending not to notice I pointed back up the street. ‘Come on. The Bishop should be ready for us by now. I really have to talk to him.’