WE’D just left Steventon when Oliver called.
‘Where are you?’ he asked, after the usual pleasantries had been exchanged.
‘On the road to Cuckoo’s Knob.’
He laughed. ‘That’s near Wootton Rivers, isn’t it?’
I was surprised he knew. ‘Yes. I’m having lunch at my parents’ house.’
‘Bishop Stiles said you were on the trail of some Austenalia. He said you thought we might need some things for the counter-curse.’ The question in his voice was unmissable and I knew he was wondering how I’d reached that conclusion. I scrambled for an answer, since I couldn’t tell Oliver about Oscar Wilde’s ghost or about St Swithun, and I definitely couldn’t tell him about Aunty B’s ectoplasm-inspired advice. ‘Courslin Kerber.’ The words shot down the phone.
‘Sorry?’ Oliver sounded confused, as well he might.
‘He was a famous medium. Aunty B has all his books. I checked and Kerber says that spells usually need physical things to work. Things that have the subject’s… essence in them. So I thought… I figured maybe I should try to… to…’
‘Find something of Jane Austen’s,’ finished Oliver.
‘You probably think that’s nuts.’
‘No, I think it’s practically impossible, but I also think it’s a really good idea.’ Oliver’s voice was warm and I flushed with pleasure at the compliment.
‘Well, I’m not sure it’ll help,’ I said honestly. ‘But I do think it might be necessary if we’re going to cast some kind of counter-curse. My father’s the only major Austenite I know, so I’m hoping he might help me locate something of hers. He might even own something himself. Trouble is, he’s not easy and we… we don’t always get along.’
‘Sounds like my mother.’ Oliver paused. ‘Actually, Cass, there’s something I need to tell you.’
‘Oh?’ My heart sank. Of course there was something: a girlfriend, a wife, a child – two children––Don’t be ridiculous. And stop thinking about him as a potential boyfriend! You’re done with men. Oliver’s here to help free Jane and save Aunt Butters. That’s all!
I tried to sound casual. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’d rather tell you in person.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘From Oxford it’s only an hour to Cuckoo’s Knob. Maybe I could meet you?’
I thought for a moment – of my father’s face when I turned up with an unexpected friend. It was too good to pass up. Besides, I didn’t think Mum would mind me bringing someone to lunch. She liked meeting people, when she was feeling up to it, and always made plenty of food. ‘Meet me at my parents’ place. Meryton House. Just the other side of the village. Big grey two-storey place with the name on the gate. You can drive up to the house.’
‘Great. See you there.’
OLIVER’S car was definitely faster than Dexter. He pulled up in the drive just as I rang the front doorbell.
‘His… car… is very different from yours, Cassandra,’ observed Miss Austen, looking with interest at the gleaming silver Mercedes.
‘Sure is,’ I murmured, as the door opened and my mother appeared.
‘Cassandra. You’re here at last! How lovely. Happy birthday for yesterday.’ She kissed my cheek.
It really was one of her good days. ‘Thanks, Mum. Great to see you.’ That was true. It was my father I dreaded seeing.
‘And who is this?’ Mum asked, as Oliver came forward. Her face lit up. ‘Why, you must be Cassandra’s young man, Ju––’
‘Oliver Carling,’ I interjected hastily as my cheeks burned. God, I hadn’t thought of Julian in days. It was actually kind of hard to remember how heartbroken I’d been over his betrayal—was it really only three days ago? ‘He’s a friend. Oliver, this is my mother, Mary Austin.’
Oliver held out his hand. ‘How do you do, Mrs Austin.’
My mother smiled and shook his hand. ‘Have you come down from London? But you’re in two cars––’ She seemed suddenly aware of Dexter and her brows lifted. ‘Isn’t that Dexter, Cassandra?’
‘Yes, Aunt Butters let me borrow him.’
She sighed. ‘Well, I think you’re wise to come in your own car, Oliver. Dexter has never seemed to me very reliable.’
‘Actually, Mum, Dexter’s very re––’ I stopped. I’d just remembered that faint knock in the engine. ‘Dexter’s okay. Aunty B says––’
‘Please don’t call Aunt Amelia by that vulgar name, Cassandra,’ said a clipped voice, and my father emerged from the gloom of the vestibule. ‘It’s past lunchtime, Mary. Is Cassandra joining us or not?’
‘Of course she is, George, and Oliver, too.’ But my father had already walked away. Unperturbed, my mother smiled at Oliver. ‘You will stay for lunch, won’t you?’
‘That’d be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘No trouble at all, we’re having roast lamb.’ replied my mother graciously. ‘Take Oliver into the dining room, Cassie.’
As we made our way there I laid a tentative hand on Oliver’s arm.
He looked at me in surprise. ‘You okay?’
Yes––no––not exactly––it’s just that…’ I broke off.
‘What is it, Cassie?’
I took a breath. ‘I’m sorry my father was rude. As I said, he can be… difficult. I’d hate you to feel—’
Oliver held up his hand. ‘It’s okay, Cassie. I’m sure your dad isn’t nearly as terrifying as my mum. Besides,’ His mouth set in a firm line. ‘This is Jane Austen we’re talking about, Cassie. If you think he can help—’
‘Jane Austen? What’s that about Jane Austen?’ My father stomped into the room. ‘Cassandra, who is this?’ He stared at Oliver.
‘Oliver Carling, sir.’ Oliver stepped forward, hand outstretched. ‘I’m a friend of Cassie’s.’
‘A friend of Cassandra’s?’ There was no mistaking the incredulity in his voice.
I do have friends, you know! I wanted to shout the words at him. Instead, I said mildly, ‘Oliver has also come to lunch. Did Mum tell you?’
‘She did not, but no doubt your belated arrival is why lunch is late.’ My father scowled. ‘Lateness is a form of discourtesy which, as you know perfectly well, I have always held in abhorrence. Do not let it happen again.’ He sat in his usual place at the head of the table.
His rudeness almost took my breath away, but as usual I let it go. I didn’t want to start an argument. Not when I was here to ask him for help.
And especially not in front of Oliver.
‘No, Father.’ I dropped into my chair and bowed my head, wishing I could be anywhere else. I hated that I was always such a coward in his presence.
My mother entered, bearing a silver salver on which sat a perfectly-cooked leg of lamb. ‘Do sit down, Oliver,’ she said as he moved to help her with the dish.
‘I’ll get the vegetables.’ I jumped up and practically ran to the kitchen, glad of even a minute’s respite from my father’s disapproving presence. I took the dishes from the warming oven, loaded them onto a tray and carried them back to the dining room.
‘So, Cassandra.’ My father picked up the carving knife and began vigorously sharpening it. ‘You have finally decided to grace us with your presence. We did not see you on your birthday yesterday.’
Trying not to wince at his tone, I resumed my seat and reminded myself for the hundredth time why I was there: I just needed some ideas about how to find four of Jane Austen’s possessions. It was probably a pointless errand, given the scarcity of such things, but I had to try. Besides, for all I knew, my father might have something of hers locked up in his study. I’d only ever been admitted to that holy of holies twice in my life, and each time had been for a scolding I preferred to forget. This whole visit was probably a total waste of time but I didn’t know who else to ask. I drew a deep breath, straightened my spine and made a mental vow to stay away from the personal. Keep it businesslike.
‘I couldn’t come on my birthday, Father. Remember, Aunt Butters was ill––’
He cut me off. ‘That woman. I don’t know what you––’
‘Now, George,’ interjected my mother gently. ‘It was very good of Cassie to take time off work to look after Amelia.’ She ran a hand through curls that were a little greyer than on my last visit. She put a tiny slice of lamb on her plate and two spoons of vegetables.
My mother had never been robust. She was a small, slight woman with classical features and a quiet elegance that gave her a certain air. Even at her most worn down, people still turned to look at her in the street. She’d always been a gentle mother, but too often ill with migraine or dizzy spells. When I was small, my happiest moments were when Mum would take my hand or hold me on her lap while she read aloud to me. Unfortunately, my father had always seemed to resent my intrusion into their life and he’d made those occasions far less common than I’d have liked. I believed Mum loved me – though I always took second place to her husband – but my father never gave me the impression he cared for me at all.
The truth was, he didn’t. When I was young, I’d tried desperately to please him and win his approval. It wasn’t until my ninth birthday that I’d finally understood I never could.
I pushed the dispiriting thought away.
My mother, always able to soothe my father’s irritation, said, ‘I suppose you’ll be back in London next week, Cassandra? Your young man will be expecting you. Perhaps you might bring him for a visit next Bank Holiday? We’d like that, wouldn’t we, George?’
I blushed. Oliver shot me a look, but I kept my eyes on Mum.
I thought miserably of Julian and of my foolish vision of a birthday dinner spent at Meryton House, basking in the glow of his love and my father’s approval, and forced myself to speak. ‘Um… actually, Mum, the thing is … Julian and I … we decided to go our separate ways—’
‘Dumped you, did he? Expected as much.’ My father applied the carving knife to the steel with unusual ferocity.
‘Now, George.’ My mother glanced at me, an apology in her deep blue eyes. ‘Cassie probably doesn’t want to talk about it. Besides, she’s here now, and she’s brought her… friend, Oliver. She’s come all the way from Winchester and I’m sure you’d like news of Amelia. How is Aunt Butters, Cassie? Getting better, I hope.’
‘Yes. At least—’ I had a vision of Aunty B lying pale and still in her hospital bed. The reason was impossible to explain. Besides, she wouldn’t want my father’s sympathy – she’d been clear about that. I shot a warning glance at Oliver and said, ‘She’s fine.’
But my father was not to be diverted from his favourite pastime of making me feel small.
‘So, yet another failed relationship, Cassandra?’ His words came at me like bullets from a gun. ‘I trust you managed to be civil to Julian despite him breaking it off. The last thing you need is to lose your job at the gallery. Or your place in his flat.’
‘Too late,’ I muttered.
His lip curled. ‘You’re unemployed.’ It wasn’t a question.
I nodded reluctantly.
‘And homeless, too.’
‘Yes.’ This time I avoided Oliver’s gaze. What kind of father did I have, that he would talk to me this way in front of a stranger? It sent waves of nausea crashing through me.
‘Oh, Cassie.’ My mother was distressed. ‘That’s too bad. And just when we thought you’d finally settled to something worthwhile.’
‘Terrible time to be out of work.’ I saw the familiar gleam come into my father’s eye and braced myself. I could practically see the words ‘You can move back in to your old room’ forming on his lips. He’d always had a twisted satisfaction in having me under his roof. In his power. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘No!’ The word burst from me. There was no way I’d ever live under my father’s roof again. I saw his face darken at my abruptness and hastily changed the subject. ’Actually, Father, I wanted to ask you about Jane Austen.’
He looked at me sceptically. ‘Since when have you been interested in her?’
I longed to say: Ever since a curse bound me to her until we can figure out how to free her from our world. In fact, she’s right here in this room. I glanced across the table to where Miss Austen was looking at me with such an expression of sympathy on her face that I almost cried. Fabulous. I was so pathetic that even a ghost was sorry for me.
Well, to hell with that. I straightened my shoulders and met my father’s critical stare. ‘Since I… read her books last summer. I wondered—’
‘Which ones did you read?’ His voice cut like a whip across my words.
‘Uh …’ I tried to think, but my brain went completely blank.
He gave a contemptuous snort. ‘I thought so.’
Miss Austen’s ghost spoke. ‘Emma. Pride and Prejudice. Mansfield Park.’
‘Emma,’ I repeated thankfully. ‘Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park and—and Sense and Sensibility.’ I added, pleased that, despite my father’s aggression, I’d remembered that one myself. I drew a calming breath and forced myself to think. I knew this.
‘But you didn’t read—’ began my father, but this time I refused to let him throw me. Besides, the floodgates of my memory had opened.
‘I thought Northanger Abbey was a little light on.’ I shot an apologetic glance at Miss Austen, but she shook her head and smiled. ‘I liked Persuasion best, although Emma is—’ I paused, trying to think of what to say to convince him of my interest.
‘My finest novel,’ whispered Miss Austen.
‘Her finest novel.’
‘Well, I certainly cannot argue with you there.’ My father actually looked pleased. ‘Given that Emma is the greatest novel ever written.’
‘Good gracious.’ Miss Austen’s brows shot up. ‘Is he serious? Cassandra, has not your father read Mr Fielding? Or Mr Defoe? Or—or Mr Richardson’s Sir Charles Grandison?’
I ignored her. ‘You know a lot about Jane Austen, don’t you, Father?’
‘Been reading her novels since I was a boy. She was my mother’s favourite author.’
‘Was she? I didn’t know that.’ It was the first positive image I’d ever had of my hateful, sharp-tongued grandmother.
‘Mother used to read an Austen novel aloud to me every Christmas.’ My father’s eyes softened at the memory. ‘We’d begin on December first and finish at midnight on New Year’s Eve. It was a wonderful way to see in the New Year.’ He was silent for a minute, then recollecting himself, said briskly. ‘I’d have liked to maintain the tradition with my own child, but someone,’ he looked pointedly at me, ‘never seemed inclined for the treat.’
I flinched, because for once my father’s negative perception of me was justified. Not that I hadn’t liked reading; I’d grown up in a house full of wonderful books and had worked my way through many of them over the years. But I’d read in secret, squirreling books away in my hidey-hole in the attic because I’d been too intimidated to ever let on that I read every chance I got. My parents talked about books in ways that, as a child, had often made me feel stupid. I could still remember them at the dinner table having lofty discussions about authorial intent and the subjective nature of content while I sat there praying neither of them would ask me impossible questions about Narnia or Harry Potter. I’d learned early that to confess any form of ignorance meant enduring yet another of my father’s lectures, so I’d kept my reading to myself and let him think I didn’t care for it.
There didn’t seem any point in correcting his misconception at this late date.
‘Yes,’ he added with a mournful sigh. ‘I always thought it unfortunate that your taste was more for stray animals than for the exquisite words of Miss Austen’s genius.’
I made a small attempt to stand up for myself. ‘Maybe my tastes have changed.’
‘If I thought that were true, Cassandra, I might allow you to read my monograph. As it is—’
‘A monograph, sir?’ interjected Oliver, joining the conversation for the first time. My father looked at him, shocked, as if he’d forgotten Oliver was there. ‘What’s the topic?’
My father coughed diffidently. ‘I’m thinking of calling it “Jane Austen through a Hermeneutical Lens”.’ Beside me, Miss Austen laughed; fortunately, only I heard her.
‘Sounds fascinating,’ said Oliver cheerfully. ‘I’d love to hear about it after lunch.’