Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,24
marriage, railed at the thought of leaving her family. That moment was a stain on her personal history. Her sense of guilt over it was, even now, enormous, overwhelming; it could still quite crush the air out of her. Though—for once trying to be kind, as if she were talking to a niece and not just herself—had she not, all her life, been but the victim of events?
For had they taken the other turn, those dark thoughts she had harbored could have been classified as doubts, pure and simple: the doubts that any soon-to-be-married young woman might respectably have. She would have been able to tell herself then, in that life, that it was perfectly natural. We women worry, all of us, about everything—especially marriage. After all, what was there more important than that? She could have looked back—from the comfort of their fireside with her husband beside her, from a nursery filled by their own, dear children—and seen that moment as a nothing. As one small, private stumble on the rosy path to conjugal felicity.
But life had not done that. It had robbed her and, in so doing, snatched away any presumption of innocence. And whenever she thought of that morning—which was not often; she tried to suppress it—she saw only her own apostasy, could only believe that her doubts had been heard and taken as curses. And was covered in shame.
She walked into the plain, simple bedroom. It had been home to so many Fowle boys since that one; a whole generation had grown there, then flown. There was no trace of Tom now. Although—she moved past the heavy oak bedstead and peered up—yes! The very same indifferent hunting print. Perhaps he never would have brought it with him to their vicarage near Ludlow. She should not, after all, have worried about living with that.
The cheval glass in the alcove by the fireplace was a later addition: a testament to the vanity of the younger generation. Her Tom would certainly never have had need of it. She peered in. Her old face was reflected back at her. And there, over her shoulder, were Dinah’s narrowed, knowing eyes.
Cassandra jumped. “Dinah! Goodness.” She turned round, faced the maid. “You took me quite by surprise!”
“Miss Austen.” The negligible bob, a curt sniff. “Is there something I can do for you, m’m? Lost your bearings again, is it?”
Another suggestion of her incipient senility. “Not at all. I…” It was simply easier to pretend it was so. “Yes. I am sorry. I cannot remember why it was I came in here.”
Dinah looked satisfied. “Been looking for you, m’m. Was quite worried when you weren’t in your room.” Her room! The letters—unhidden! “So I cannot help you at all?”
“No. Thank you, Dinah. I am quite well. In fact, I think I may have a walk before breakfast.”
“As you wish, m’m.” Dinah creaked a knee before vanishing down the back stairs.
Cassandra retreated back to her chamber and, though she feared that particular horse had already bolted, collected the papers and hid them under the mattress. And she realized it was true: Some fresh air was just what she needed. A good walk would always buck one up.
An encouraging smell drifted across from the bakehouse, but otherwise the household was quiet. Isabella, no doubt, still languished in bed. Cassandra met no one on the landing, took the stairs as quietly as possible, and stepped around Pyramus, who was stretched, luxuriously, out on the rug. The dog struggled to his feet. She did not greet him, certainly did not invite him, and yet, it seemed, he would be coming. They carefully negotiated the chaos of the hall and together set off into the morning.
To the right, past the church, was the village, which would, of course, already be busy. There would be plenty of dear, familiar faces up there who would be more than happy to stop what they were doing and talk. But, huddling into her shawl, Cassandra at once turned left, her companion padding beside her, over the bridge and down onto the towpath beside the canal. She had villagers aplenty of her own back in Chawton. What there was not at home—the duck pond, though charming, could not help its own limitations—was the joy of a waterside walk.
How things had changed since that first Christmas when she was staying with Tom. Back then, there had been only a humble little river. This canal, now all boats and business, was but a plan and a