Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,26

back to her room. A maid had been in: Her pot was emptied; there was fresh water in her washstand. She rushed to the mattress and lifted it: Yes, the letters were still there, undisturbed. The one great indulgence that had been afforded Miss Murden was a rather threadbare armchair beneath the little window—perhaps the poor woman herself had worn it so thin? Cassandra settled herself down to return to her labors.

6

Steventon Rectory

4 October 1796

My dear Eliza,

I am so pleased to hear that you are much stronger in body—and sorry, but not surprised, that your spirits remain low. Of course, I have no experience of the sorrow you feel, but I do have deep sympathy and a rich imagination. And thus armed, I cannot agree with the rest of your family. You have suffered a loss as profound as any death, and have had not yet a year to recover. That your poor baby only lived for a day is quite immaterial. We do not calculate love by the hours spent with the loved one. Please know that you are in our thoughts and our prayers.

All that said, it seems I simply do not have it in me to write a letter that is all on one shady note of sadness and condolence. With my pen in my hand, I find there is nothing for it but to at least try and amuse you, and bring in a glimmer of light, if just for a moment. I am sorry. Forgive me. It is a failing I have. And there is so much going on here that I think will amuse you—it is all too hard to resist.

For lately our quiet little home has been transformed into the most industrious marriage market! For a connoisseur of domestic drama—such as myself—it is almost impossibly diverting. My eyes have quite left my head and now sit permanently on stalks. I need not tell you that I play no part in it at all, other than that of delighted observer. It is all the doing of my mother and sister, and each is enjoying herself hugely. That Mrs. Austen is up to her tricks will not surprise you—she prefers matching over any other form of employment. Cassy’s part in it all, though, is more unexpected. I can only put it down to her own elevated status as an engaged woman. She has a future husband, so everyone must have one—as when one is suffering from the coughs or the sneezes, it is a great comfort if others are similarly afflicted.

I must add that no attempts are being made to match me—or none of which I am aware. Perhaps I shall wake up one day and find myself ushered before an altar, but I rather suspect not. It pleases me to report that my own fortunes are being quite overlooked. In fact, dear Eliza, it is your two sisters who form the objects of all this activity. Now, please admit it—you do find this amusing! I knew that you would.

Let me start with the eldest. It has been decreed, by the Austen ladies, that your dear sister Martha shall marry my dear brother Frank. Yes, I know as well as you do that there are problems inherent in this arrangement. He is much Martha’s junior, far away at sea and years off being wed—all mere inconveniences, according to the plotters. There is also the small matter that Frank has never, as far as I am aware, expressed any opinion on Martha. That bothers me less, as who could fail to love such a kind and intelligent woman? I should marry her myself if I could. But putting all that aside, the marriage will happen, or so I have been firmly informed. And on Frank’s next shore leave—poor lamb, he cannot know what is about to hit him!—he too will be apprised of his own situation. I do hope he has the sense to comply.

But more immediately, the scheme to attach your sister Mary to my brother James is progressing at full pelt. Mary has been staying with us for a week, at my mother’s instigation, so that James cannot avoid her when he comes here. And, whether by coincidence or design, he happens to visit us every day! Mrs. Austen is in paroxysms of excitement and, for once, I do not think it is a case of her imagination getting the better of her. For all the time that James is conversing with us, he