Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,12

packets with a pale blue ribbon. On the top were all the letters from Eliza’s many children. Cassandra had rummaged beneath. She came, in passing, across those from her own mother, but was sure there would be nothing in there to detain her. She knew the detail without even looking: expert notes on animal husbandry, helpful tips for confinement, dramatic details of her many minor illnesses. She had leaned in further, hands delving deeper. A huge bundle from Martha—dear Martha!—formed an obstruction. She lifted it out, put it to the side; revealed was a hand that was both immediately familiar and yet hard to place. It was a long moment before the force of the truth hit her: that she was face to face with the evidence of her own happy, girlish self. She shook a little, and sighed. They must be examined at some point, but were not her main quarry. She took them out, and there below—a rich rush of love flooded through her—was the writing of Jane.

She had touched it and gasped. Her sister had been dead for so many years; in Chawton all her effects were cleared long ago. There had been a time when Cassandra—grief raw and still smarting—would stumble across some little trace, and the slow-healing wound would break open. Then, for hours, she could do nothing but cradle and weep over some inanimate object, as she had once cradled and wept over the corpse. But all that had passed. The pain had abated. The practical was here her concern.

Cassandra had sharpened her wits, gathered everything of interest, and come up with a clear plan of action. She returned to her room and hid it all under the mattress. Her own correspondence could stay there until she had time to peruse it. First, and as soon as was possible, she would deal with the letters of Jane.

But now the moment was upon her, she found that her resolution was dwindling. Cassandra reached over the coverlet and picked up the packet. Surely this should be a joy, to spend hours basking once again in the company of her sister? And yet she quailed at the prospect. She fell back onto the tough bolster. How much easier it would be to spend her last years in the present, rather than to confront her whole life in the round. Oh, to be allowed to dwindle away in Chawton, worrying about nothing but the roses and the chickens and the church.

Alas, there was not that option. This, her last duty, was the very cost of her privilege. Cassandra steeled herself, prepared her mind to be carried back through that mist of forgetting to the world that had once been their own.

She unfolded the paper, and began to read.

3

Steventon Rectory

1 May 1795

My dear Eliza,

You must find it in your heart to forgive the tardiness of my reply to your letter. The truth is that our once peaceful Rectory has lately been consumed by such a riot of celebration, that it is hard to find a quiet place in which one can write. I have just now crawled into the corner of the dressing room, which—for the moment, at least—is mercifully free of members of my family, noisily embracing and shedding tears of pure happiness. And I have shut the door firmly, in the vain hope of keeping the rioters at bay. Really, Eliza: there is so much joy and delight about as to make me feel quite sick and wicked.

I cannot quite remember how I once passed my time in the days before my sister’s engagement. But it appears that, from now on, nothing more is required of me than to congratulate others, as often as my poor breath will allow—my mother and father on the perfection of the match; Cassy on the perfection of her future husband; Tom Fowle on the perfections of his bride. Then when I have finished, it seems, I have to start all over again … And it occurs to me that, before I die from the exhaustion of it all, I should be congratulating you, too, my dear Eliza.

After all, once this momentous wedding has finally taken place, then Cassy will be a Fowle, and you will share with me the honor of calling her your sister. And you cannot know what delights are in store! She is the best, the cleverest, the kindest and most caring sister on this earth. And, should you occasionally be minded to say something witty, I guarantee