THERE was an awkward silence as Oliver and I headed for our cars.
‘So, I’ll see you at the Bishop’s later?’ I asked stiffly. ‘You’ve brought the X-ray machine?’
‘Yes, I have it. But Cassie, I need to explain––’
‘––why you didn’t mention that your mother is Olive Trewell? Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.’ I couldn’t keep the bitter note from my voice.
He came closer. ‘My mother’s not easy to deal with, Cassie. I’d have thought you of all people would understand that.’
‘Yeah, right,’ I scoffed. ‘The only flaw in that argument is that you didn’t know anything about my father until today. But yesterday, when the Bishop told you about the curse on Jane Austen and that we needed something of hers to free her from it, you didn’t think to mention that your mother is this mega-famous Jane Austen expert?’ I gazed up into his wide grey eyes and suddenly my own filled with tears. ‘I trusted you, Oliver!’ I forced back the tears and turned away.
He caught my arm and gently pulled me towards him. ‘I am so sorry, Cass. You’re totally right. I should have told you straight away, only––’ He paused.
‘Only?’
‘Only it’s difficult to explain.’ He sighed. ‘My mother is an amazing woman, but she’s tough and opinionated and sometimes she can be kind of… obsessive. Once she knows what she wants, she won’t let anyone or anything stand in her way. If I told her about Jane Austen’s ghost and the curse and everything she’d want to take over. Trust me, you don’t want that.’
A huge surge of relief rose in me. ‘You mean you haven’t told her about the curse?’
‘I promised, didn’t I?’ Oliver pulled me closer. ‘We’re in this together, aren’t we?’
I stared up into his solemn grey eyes and tried to read him.
But I really was no judge of men and so far bad ones had been my kryptonite. Was Oliver just another liar? Another guy to suck me in, get what he wanted, and then cast me aside? He knew the stakes, he knew Aunt Butters’s life was on the line, that Jane Austen’s ghost needed to be freed. And yet he’d kept his mother a secret. He’d charmed me and misled me.
Maybe he was Wickham.
Oliver brushed a curl from my forehead and leaned forward slightly. A tiny smile lit his face. ‘From now on, nothing but the truth,’ he whispered. ‘I want to help you, Cassie. I promise we’ll figure out how save Lady Butters together. You can trust me.’
Or maybe he was Darcy. And maybe I was Lizzie, misjudging him.
He bent his head and for a moment I was tempted to let him kiss me.
For a moment.
Because there was still a chance he was William Elliot.
I pulled back a second before his lips touched mine – before Miss Austen snapped, ‘Pray, what are you about, Cassandra? I hope you are not intending to kiss Mr Carling!’ She frowned. ‘Why, your acquaintance with him has been of the shortest duration – a mere three days! Are you already so certain of your feelings for him? Have you now determined that he is Darcy, not Wickham?’
Even if I’d known the answer I couldn’t speak to her. Instead I met Oliver’s startled gaze. ‘I think we––I should go.’ I wrenched open Dexter’s door and slid into the driver’s seat.
‘Cassie––’
‘It’s all right, Oliver.’ I wound down the window and forced myself to meet his eyes. ‘I can see how having Olive Trewell for your mother might be––’ I broke off, struck by a sudden thought. ‘Hey, did your mum name you after herself?’
Oliver coloured. ‘’Fraid so. My father died before I was born. It’s always been just me and her.’
Weird. His mum must have a pretty big ego. The words came unbidden to my mind, but all I said was, ‘Right.’ An awkward silence hung between us. I made an effort. ‘Well, I’m going to see Aunt Butters.’
Oliver nodded and the tension eased a little.
‘See you at the Bishop’s later?’ I asked. ‘We can use your X-ray machine to search the Chronicles.’
He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, touched my shoulder and murmured, ‘Okay.’
I resolutely ignored the sudden rush of heat his touch aroused in me and stamped down on the pang of regret over the rejected kiss. I was not into Oliver! I’d made the right decision! I hit the starter button, threw him a fleeting smile, and Miss Austen and I drove away.
TEN minutes out of Cuckoo’s Knob I heard the knock in Dexter’s engine again. There was no way I was going back home to endure more of my father’s criticism, so I pulled over and googled the nearest mechanic. Fifteen minutes later we were in Burbage and I’d left Dexter with Mahmoud, the cheerful proprietor of All-Star Car Repairs.
‘I’m afraid we’re here for the night,’ I told Miss Austen as we left the garage. ‘Mahmoud thinks we can have Dexter back by lunchtime tomorrow and he’s recommended a B&B just down the road.’ I began walking towards the whitewashed cottage.
‘A bee and bee?’ queried Miss Austen floating along beside me.
‘Bed and Breakfast,’ I explained. ‘It’s like an inn. That serves breakfast.’
‘Ah.’
Primrose Cottage proved pleasant and homely – if a little twee with its bright floral wallpaper, over-stuffed chintz chairs and fat velvet cushions. Betty, the landlady, showed me to my room and pointed at the large television. ‘It’s got internet,’ she told me proudly. ‘My son installed it. Said I needed to be “State of the Heart”.’ She handed me the remote control. ‘Lovely it is. Even had the neighbours in to watch Netflix.’
‘It looks great. Thank you very much.’
She smiled happily. ‘Breakfast any time before ten. I’ve got some nice homemade sausages.’
She left and I immediately pulled out my phone and called the hospital. The nurse reported no change in Aunty B so I hung up and texted Oliver to let him know why I wouldn’t be at the Bishop’s that evening. Part of me wanted to call him, but it felt too soon after the revelations of the day – not to mention the near kiss. Near miss more like it. Miss Austen was right. No kissing Oliver until you know if he’s Darcy or Wickham, Cassandra Austin!
I sighed and phoned the Bishop. He assured me he’d been wading through the Chronicles. ‘But I have found nothing so far. Do you know if Oliver has the X-ray machine?’
‘He’s on his way with it now. But you’ll need to start without me.’ I briefly explained my trouble with Dexter.
I hung up and Miss Austen floated across from the well-stocked bookcase. ‘I fear we have made little progress in our quest to break the curse, Cassandra. I confess I had hoped your father would be more obliging.’
‘Obliging is not how I would ever describe my father.’
‘He does seem easily vexed,’ agreed Miss Austen. ‘There were moments today when I felt his remarks to you to be altogether too unkind. Indeed, he put me in mind of Sir Walter Elliott, for he too disdained his daughter. Do you know, Cassandra, I think your father is not always very wise where you are concerned. There is a conceit in him which—’ She broke off, her cheeks flushing. ‘I beg your pardon. I should not speak so.’
‘It’s okay. It actually helps to know you think that.’
She regarded me thoughtfully. ‘May I ask why it is that he values you so little?’
I winced. Miss Austen was too perceptive. I was still a child when my Grandmother Cordelia had told me that my father hated me. She’d held nothing back and for years I’d struggled to deal with the memory of her vitriol. I was twenty before I’d finally grown enough emotional scar tissue over that deep inner-wound, and I didn’t want it touched.
So I shrugged. ‘The truth is, Father’s never really taken to me. I’m sort of… excess to requirements.’
‘Excess to—’ The ghost was shocked. ‘Indeed, you are no such thing. How can you speak so?’
‘Because it’s true. He never wanted me. He still doesn’t…’ I blinked back tears. ‘It’s okay. I’ve known the truth for ages. It doesn’t matter anymore.’ But the vision of my grandmother, her eyes ice-cold and vicious, rose up in my mind, and before I could prevent it the memory of that awful day roared back into life, as fresh and as sharp as though it had just happened. The old pain shot through me, twisting my gut and sending hot, unhappy tears spilling down my cheeks.
Miss Austen soared forward, her face distressed. She touched my cheek, somehow gathering my tears and turning them to silver mist. ‘Tell me, Cassandra.’ It was a gentle command, and without quite knowing why, I obeyed.
‘It was my ninth birthday, and Grandmother Cordelia was dying. She was my father’s mother and she adored him. I think she’d have liked to keep him all to herself but he fell madly in love with my mum and they got married.’ I drew a ragged breath. ‘Mum’s never been strong, and she was told not to have children, so my father took steps to ensure she never became pregnant.’
‘Do you mean––’ Miss Austen turned faintly pink and I realised too late that this probably wasn’t the sort of conversation she was used to. I was about to change the subject when she said abruptly, ‘What steps?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You said your father “took steps” to prevent your mother from breeding. I assume that is what you meant?’
I nodded.
‘What did he do? I should very much like to know.’
I thought rapidly. How to explain modern contraception to a two-hundred-year-old ghost? I took a deep breath. ‘These days people don’t have to have children if they don’t want them. There are medicines you can take and operations – medical operations – that doctors can perform on a man or a woman to prevent conception.’
‘Are there indeed?’ To my surprise, the ghostly Miss Austen seemed pleased. ‘That is excellent news. Truly every generation has its improvements. Would that such operations had been attainable when my brothers’ poor wives were alive. But tell me, Cassandra, what has this to do with you?’
‘My father had one of those operations, but my mum got pregnant anyway. He tried to persuade her to… end the pregnancy, but she refused. She nearly died giving birth to me.’ The words were like bile burning my insides. ‘He’s never forgiven me.’
‘But how do you know all this?’ demanded Miss Austen. Her hazel eyes hardened. ‘Did your father tell you?’
‘No.’ I wrapped my arms protectively around myself. ‘Grandmother Cordelia was dying, and my father took me to the hospital to say goodbye. She asked to see me alone. She was lying in the bed and her hair was spread across the pillow. I’d never seen it that way, all red and curly like mine and… for the first time I felt a link to her. And I thought… maybe this time she’d be kind to me.’
‘But she was not kind, was she?’
‘No.’ The tears came again, only this time they were the silent tears of futile hope remembered. Life's lessons could be hard, and my grandmother had not tempered her last to me in the slightest. ‘At first I thought she was asleep, but then she began mumbling, so I crept closer and said I’d come to see her as she’d asked. I could hear her saying her husband John’s name over and over and something about her sister, Amelia – Aunt Butters – and betrayal.’
‘Betrayal? What did she mean?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t hear any more, because she opened her eyes and saw me. I said “hello” but she…’ I broke off.
‘What? What did she do?’ Miss Austen reached out and touched my hand.
Instantly that extraordinary sensation of knowing suffused me and I could see the world with incredible clarity. I straightened. I’d never told anyone what had happened that day, but I knew I could tell Jane Austen’s ghost. ‘She told me why my father hated me.’
Ripples of scarlet disturbed her ghostly essence. Her forehead knit. ‘I do not believe your father hates you, Cassandra. Why would his mother tell you so?’ She spoke with such quiet authority that hope flared for an instant, before the memory of my grandmother’s words, and a lifetime of my father’s slights, crushed it again.
I sighed. ‘My father was an obsession with her. Maybe she was angry that I’d ruined his perfect life… I don’t know.’
‘What did she say to you?’
‘Her exact words were: “Your father never wanted you. He tried to stop you being born. He didn’t want you then and he doesn’t want you now. He will never want you! You were a mistake.”’ I forced back a sob.
Angry red flared in the ghostly face. ‘Your grandmother was ill and no doubt confused.’
‘I wish that were true, but she took pleasure in telling me in minute detail about my father never wanting children and my mother nearly dying because of having me and how after I was born my father wouldn’t hold me or even look at me. She also told me that she had never wanted me either. Because I was an… an affliction! That’s what she called me. A stupid, worthless affliction.’
Miss Austen’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘Infamous! Such a wicked thing to tell a child. Would that I had been there. I should have had something to say to that abominable woman. I hope you know it was all nonsense, Cassandra.’
‘But it wasn’t nonsense. That was the hardest thing. For the longest time I believed that one day my father would come to care for me… because I don’t think you’re ever too old to want your parents’ love—’ My lip quivered and I bit down on it. ‘But he doesn’t love me. He’s never loved me. But I still can’t help wishing he would.’
‘Do you truly believe he does not? Tell me, Cassandra, what did your father say when you recounted your grandmother’s words?’
The answer caught in my throat. I couldn’t look at her. I wanted to run and hide and never have to face the world again.
‘Cassandra?’
I shook my head and gripped my hands together to stop them shaking. I didn’t want to talk about this anymore.
Her eyes widened. ‘You did not tell him?’
I shrugged and turned my face away. I couldn’t confess my shame. I couldn’t tell her the awful thing I’d done that day.
Her ghostly hand gently touched my face. ‘Something else happened in that room. Won’t you tell me what it was, Cassandra?’
Perhaps it was her touch or the compassion in her eyes or the understanding in her voice, but the words burst from me. ‘Grandmother Cordelia died and it was all my fault!’ I caught another sob. ‘All the time she was telling me my father didn’t want me, I kept hoping she would die and when she… told me it would’ve been better if I’d never been born and that I was an affliction, I… I…’
‘What, Cassandra? What did you do?’
‘I told her I wished she were dead – that she would die right then. I screamed the words at her. And a minute later she died. She… she had so much hatred in her eyes.’
‘Oh, Cassandra. You poor little girl.’
The tenderness in her voice broke me.
Tears rose up as though from some deep inner wellspring of poison and my sobs wracked my body with their intensity. I cried as I had never cried before. I cried for my lost childhood and for all the years of longing for my father’s love, for the countless hurts and hard words, for the three emotionally stunted men I’d been so desperate to make love me. As I tried to smother the gulping, gasping tears, I heard Julian’s voice in my head: his last taunt before my phone sailed over his head and smashed on the wall behind him: ‘Who would love you? Who the hell would ever love you?’
Good question.
Perhaps Jane Austen answered it. She calmed and comforted me. Her ghostly fingers somehow smoothed my rumpled curls and tiny currents of ectoplasmic energy eased my distress. Gradually my sobs lessened and I was able to speak.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you. I’ve never told anyone about that day.’
‘It is quite all right, Cassandra. Such burdens are not meant to be borne alone, and you have suffered greatly in feeling that your father does not care for you. But I must assure you that your grandmother’s death had no more to do with you than my own passing, for you were but a child and cruelly used by one who ought to have loved and protected you.’
‘I’m still trying to believe that.’
‘You must continue to do so. I cannot express to you what I have felt in hearing your history, how full of pity and concern and admiration I have been. You have endured much and, though you have given up all thought of your father ever loving you, yet I believe there is reason to hope.’
‘Do you really?’ I eyed her doubtfully.
‘Yes, for though your grandmother was a cold-hearted, bitter woman, there is much that is good in your father. He has his faults to be sure, for to be always firm must be to be often obstinate, but I do not think him irredeemable. He has received ideas which have ill-disposed him towards you, but he does not know you, Cassandra, and must be brought to question the justness of his previous opinion.’
‘I wish that were true.’
‘You are worthy of his love, Cassandra. You must believe that.’
‘It’s not easy, Miss Austen––’ I broke off and stared unhappily into the distance.
‘Do you know, Cassandra, I wish you will call me Jane.’
‘W—what?’ I stuttered, taken aback.
‘You called me Jane in the churchyard at Steventon, did not you? I liked it very well.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Um, okay.’
‘Do but consider, we are bound together until we can undo this curse imposed upon me, and so I think… if you should not dislike it… we should be friends.’ She cast me a surprisingly anxious glance.
I gazed at her open-mouthed. Jane Austen wanted to be friends. With me. Jane Austen. I struggled to take it in and not – despite what my father might think – because I didn’t have friends. But this was like having the most popular girl in school sitting with you at lunchtime. Hell, it was way more incredible than that.
This was like the most popular girl in history asking to be your friend.
‘Cassandra?’
‘You, Jane Austen, the world-famous author, want to be friends with me?’
She smiled kindly. ‘I do, but it is not that imagined person who wishes to befriend you, Cassandra. It is the ordinary person here in front of you.’ The ghostly Miss Austen came closer, her hazel eyes warm. ‘Please remember that I have no personal experience of my great literary success, and did not benefit from it while living. In life I had few means and, though well-enough born, had only moderate social standing. I believe I am a woman of sense and integrity, perhaps best known to my intimates for my humour – for I dearly love to laugh – and for my inclination for making honest observations about my fellow men. I am not always kind, and I frequently find the world and its inhabitants foolish beyond permission, but there is nothing I would not do for those who are truly my friends.’ She held out her hand to me. ‘It is not Jane Austen the author who offers you friendship, Cassandra, but just Jane, a woman like yourself who has known both happiness and pain in unequal measure. Shall not we be friends?’