rain; and how her mother survived such a cruel mistake, I shall never comprehend.”
“I assure you, madam, that everything will be done to sustain Cassandra's comfort,” I replied, stemming my impatience with difficulty. Having heard of the untimely ends of a score of young ladies among the Austen acquaintance, my tolerance for my mother was at its close. “Do you seek the chamber Mr. Sidmouth has provided for you, and rest easy in the knowledge that should we require you, you shall be summoned direcdy.”
Though all benevolence in her distress, my mother is overcome by such tender emotions in gazing at her dearest daughter, that I fear she should prove of little aid to Cassandra, in any hour of extremity. Better that I should sit watch by my sister alone, and my mother find some comfort in sleep's oblivion. But it required a full quarter-hour, and the recollection of the fates of both young Master and Miss Holder, who met their ends some three years past, before she would at last seek her bed.
Cassandra is stirring now, and calls my name; I set aside my pen and journal and reach for her hand. A touch alone suffices; we two are so familiar to each other, from the happy intimacy of our minds and hearts, that at the pressure of my fingertips upon her brow, her troubled mind relaxes. A moment more, and she slumbers deep, the pain of injury forgotten. I regain my seat, and take up my pen and modest book—formed, according to my habit, from a sheaf of paper sewn quite through and trimmed to manageable size. A stout book, for the stoutest of thoughts; and of considerable comfort, in serving as confidante when no living mind may answer.
All around us the eaves of the old farmhouse creak with the violence of the wind, but the intimates of High Down Grange are lost in storm-filled slumber—no sound emanates from the shuttered rooms, so that I might be the last soul alive, left here at the edge of the world. Beyond is darkness, and cliffs, and the depthless sea; England is to my back as 1 sit by Cassandra's bed. And so I cross the room to peer out at the unknown, stretching before me like all the days I have yet to live; and can discern nothing beyond my own wavering reflection in the window's glass. A shiver—of foreboding, perhaps—at the hidden landscape, and I would turn away to find comfort in candlelight. But a sudden flare in the darkness below seizes my gaze; I peer more closely, my eyes narrowing, and discern the bob of a lanthorn. A lanthorn just come up over the cliffs edge in the distance, and toiling even now towards the Grange itself. A curiously-shaped lanthorn, perhaps, with a protuberant spout, of a utility unknown to me? Clutched in an angel's ethereal hand, while the other flutters at the nape of a flowing red cloak?
1 The Austens had visited Ramsgate during the spring or summer of 1803, prior to their first visit to Lyme that September. Jane disliked Ramsgate intensely; and when she wished to place a fictional charac ter in a compromising position, she often sent her to Ramsgate. Georgiana Darcy was nearly seduced by Wickham there, in Pride and Prejudice, while in Mansfield Park, Maria Bertram endured a loveless Ramsgate honeymoon before her adulterous affair with Henry Crawford. —Editm's note.
2 Jane refers here to Lyme's Marine Parade, known in her day sim ply as The Walk; it ran along the beach fronting Lyme's harbor, and out along the ancient stone breakwater, both of which are called the Cobb. —Editor's note.
3 Paterson's British Itinerary was the road bible of the traveling gentry from 1785 to 1832. Written by Daniel Paterson and running to seventeen editions, it detailed stage and mail routes between major cities, as well as their tolls, bridges, landmarks, and notable country houses. —Editor's note.
4 In Austen's rime, traveling on Sunday was considered disrespectful to the Sabbath.—Editor's note.
5 We may presume Geoffrey Sidmouth to be referring, here, to Chaucer's CarUerimry Tales, in which the character of the Wife of Bath figures. Jane's mention of the town must have sparked the allusion. —Editors note.
6 Austen's childhood home, the parsonage at Steventon where she lived until May 1801, would be regretted and missed for most of her life. —Editor's note.
5 September 1804
Lyme
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AND SO WE ARE AT LAST COME TO LYME, AND TO OUR VERY OWN Wings cottage—a smallish affair of a house