Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,107

think that all this is shortly to leave the family,” said Mary-Jane as they walked toward the stables—once so busy and fragrant, now sadly deserted.

Isabella laughed. “You have hardly been down here for years!”

“Perhaps not. It is not a journey to embark upon lightly—what with the churchyard and so on. But I always had the comfort of knowing it was here.”

“It is the loveliest garden in England, in my opinion,” Cassandra said warmly. “The first time I came here, all those long years ago, it felt as if I were stepping into a storybook, of which I myself was the heroine.”

Isabella turned then and stared at her—astonished, perhaps, to hear such a romantic speech from one she no doubt saw as a dry, cold old lady. “And then your story turned into tragedy. I am sorry for that, Cassandra.”

“Oh, no, not exactly, my dear,” Cassandra replied. “Indeed, it was a terrible blow to lose your dear uncle Tom. His death brought enormous distress to us all. Your poor grandmother never recovered. But I— Please do not think me to have had a sad life, Isabella. After all, there are as many forms of love as there are moments in time.” She took Isabella’s arm again, and smiled. “Or as our good sage Dinah would have it: ‘Each to her own.’”

They skirted the coppice and headed down the slope and back to the riverbank.

“Your sister,” said Mary-Jane thoughtfully. “I remember her coming here for her very last visit—ailing quite badly; we all noticed that. She wandered about, too, just as we now are doing, with the air, I then fancied, of one who never expected to see this place again. Which year would it have been—1817?”

“It was the summer before,” Cassandra replied softly. “That was very astute of you, Mary-Jane, to read her actions like that. You were but a young woman, and I—so much older and wiser—yet refused all such evidence. You see, I could not but have hope. Even though my sister herself, I believe, knew even then that all hope was lost.”

27

Cheltenham

1 June 1816

My dear Eliza,

Thank you for your note, and I am most gratified to hear that you so enjoyed Emma. Altogether, her passage into the world has gone as smoothly as I might ever have hoped. Though there has been some criticism—each word of it piercing, a dagger to the heart—it has been tempered by enough appreciation to leave me moderately cheerful. Of course, I would be more cheerful still were her sales to improve, but there: I shall never be quite as rich as I should like.

Nor as lucky. As fortune gives to me with one hand, it takes with the other. And in confidence, Eliza—I would swap all hope of wealth and success now just to feel well again. I wish I could say that the Cheltenham waters are working their magic but—alas!—it would not be true. And for all the medical men who bustle around here—each other one is a doctor, or at least claims to be—there is not one who can put a name to my ailment. You cannot wonder at that, of course. I have, as you know, always enjoyed being a Woman of Mystery.

None of this is enough to deter my dear Cassy. She delivers me to the Spa every morning, confident that each dose will bring a miracle. And though I try very hard, and pretend for her sake that my symptoms are lifting, I feel weaker now than when we arrived. It is not only the discomfort—my back aches, my skin is all over peculiar—but the fatigue that most plagues me. Today is a better one, but some mornings, it is too much to lift my head from the pillow. And more lowering still is the thought of being such a burden to my most excellent sister. Oh, she does not complain and is ever good-humored, even as she slaves in my interests. But she is so very determined on finding a cure for me, and I am ever more doubtful of her success. This poor, stubborn body of mine seems to be quite set on decline. What a miserable wretch I am become.

My spirits, though, rise at the prospect of calling on Kintbury on our return home to Chawton. We aim to be with you on Thursday, and that thought alone is enough to put a rose in my cheeks and return life to my legs. I hereby instruct my condition to ease off for a few