days—take its own little holiday. It will not interfere with the enjoyment of our visit. I shall not permit it.
Yrs,
J.A.
Cassy stood with Eliza at the window, and looked out on the garden. The Kintbury drawing room was buttery with afternoon sun; the shadows were lengthening in the garden beyond.
“How is she now, do you think?” Eliza asked as they both studied Jane on her wander by the bulrush.
Cassy replied with great confidence: “Oh, there is a definite improvement that I can discern. I am most encouraged. Her back aches a lot less, and I am sure her skin settles down. What do you make of her?”
“Me? I am sure you are right. I was a little alarmed by the strange patches on her arm, but of course they would not vanish at once, and it would be foolish to expect it. It is just that I had not seen her for a while…”
“She is very thin.” Cassy bit her lip. “And those black marks are alarming, I agree.”
“We have fed you both up,” Eliza soothed. “And really the marks are nothing. I do not know why I mentioned them. What marks? I ask myself now. And indeed that was a few days ago. No trace remains, now that I think of it.” She moved back to her chair and picked up her embroidery. “We will send you both back to Chawton all pink and plump.”
“My dear.” Fulwar strode in. “I hope you have remembered that I am out this evening? The Tory Dinner in Newbury. Forgive me”—he bowed to Cassy—“for leaving you ladies all alone, and on your last night at our table. Too much to resist.”
“Please do not worry on our account, Fulwar.” Cassy bent her head deferentially. “We will, of course, be most quiet without you, but I am sure one of us, at least, will come up with something to talk of.”
“Quite so.” He marched to the window. “How goes your sister? I must say she is looking a pretty poor specimen. You will be out of your mind with the worry of it all.”
Eliza stitched on in silence.
“We were just saying, in fact, that Jane seems much better,” Cassy said firmly. “Well on the way to recovery.”
“Humph. Got the melancholy that I often see in my line of work—the air of the mortally ill. Still, I gather you have had a run of bad luck lately. Perhaps that is the cause. It cannot be easy.” He went to the fireplace, lifted his jacket, and rocked on his heels, even though there was no fire there to warm him.
Cassy sighed. “One or two of my brothers have had their financial difficulties, it is true. But you know the Austens as well as anyone: We have more than our fair share of blessings in general but—alas!—money will always elude us. No doubt we will survive.”
“And those books of hers are all come to nothing, I hear. Sort of petered out, did she not, after that one rather good one? Shame for her. Still not much to write about, I should not wonder.”
“Jane has had four novels published, and all to acclaim!”
“No profit in ’em, though, so Mary tells me. She reports that while the rest of you ladies work hard at your duties, your sister does nothing but write, and yet all for nothing. We did try that new one, that—er—um—”
“Emma?”
“Some lady’s name. Could not find much in it, could we, my dear? Read the first chapter, skipped to the last. Quite got the gist.”
“And that gist was what, in your view?” Cassy asked, with a chill of a smile.
“That nothing much happened. Who is going to part with their money for that sort of performance? Best not to bother. Now, Waverley—”
“In fact Jane is busy with a new work that I believe may be her best yet.” Cassy left the window to sit on the sofa, and prepared to expound. “It is—”
“Tell Eliza all about it. She is a great listener, are you not, my love? I must dash to get dressed. Cannot be late. Those Newbury Tories are the best company I know. Top conversation—quite sparkling.”
* * *
“DEAREST?” CASSY TOUCHED Jane’s face softly. “Can you hear me, my love? Are you there?”
No answer came. There was no sign of movement. She laid gentle fingers on a white, tiny wrist and felt the faint, fluttering pulse. Not yet, then, thank God: not quite yet awhile. They had been granted at least one more day.
Cassy pulled back her