Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,30
downstairs.”
She found herself being led away, feeling as befuddled as Dinah liked to imagine her. “But who is here, Dinah?”
By now they were on the main landing. There was some sort of commotion going on down in the hall.
“I was insistent that it could not be possible.” The shrill voice was quite unmistakable.
They moved toward the stairs.
“That no member of my family would come here without first informing me. It was a slur on my reputation to suggest it. I had no choice but to mount the strongest defense.” The speaker was clearly aggrieved.
They reached the turn at the window.
“Mrs. Bunbury and I had quite the falling-out on the matter. A falling-out that will not be easy to rectify. Things were said. There was a scene. It was really most unpleasant.”
They got to the foot, where the disturbance in the air was palpable.
“And not, with hindsight, my fault at all. Time will tell if she has the grace to apologize—”
Their presence was noticed.
“Ha! There. So it is true. You are here, Cassandra. Well. This is a surprise. And—if I may make myself plain, which I feel perfectly at liberty to do under the circumstances—not entirely a pleasant one.”
“Dear Mary.” Cassandra approached and bent to embrace her short, broad sister-in-law. “What a pleasure to see you. How good of you to come.”
Isabella, welcoming the protection, moved to her side. Pyramus stood with them and growled.
“And that dog is feral, as I have had cause to mention on many an occasion. Isabella, now your dear father is gone, it must hereon be banned from the house.”
Cassandra stroked Pyramus’s head, rubbed his ear with a new-sprung affection, and suggested they all might move through.
* * *
IT WAS NOT A COMFORTABLE VISIT for anyone. Mary Austen had come with a long list of grievances and an ungovernable impulse to air them forthwith.
“We are supposed to be sisters,” Mary chided Cassandra, “though I do know you never considered me quite good enough. Fred! Where is Fred? Where does that man hide himself? This is the most miserable fire.”
Isabella called for coffee, which Cassandra regretted: More stimulation was not what their visitor needed.
“And to think that you drove past the bottom of my lane without even telling me! Whatever crimes you imagine I have committed against you, I surely could never deserve such an insult as that.”
Dinah came in bearing a tray and an amused expression.
“Is that the best china you have left here? Then I suppose it must do.”
“I am very, very sorry, Mary, for my thoughtless behavior. I arrived only yesterday—” Cassandra began.
“According to Mrs. Bunbury’s coachman, who happened to speak to your man at the turnpike, who, mindful of his duties, reported it to her, who then took too much delight in telling me, you have been here two nights already. Can that possibly be true? Are you now to deny it?” She paused and for the first time looked around her. “Isabella, what have you been doing, dear? Why is this room not yet cleared?”
* * *
AFTER A SHORT LUNCHEON, which did not at all agree with her—Dinah must know by now that she was never quite right after cheese—it at last seemed that Mary might be persuaded to leave.
“You must excuse me, Aunt Mary,” Isabella was saying, leading her guest back through to the hall. “As you yourself have pointed out, I have much to be getting on with.”
“Well, that is certainly true,” Mary conceded. “I had simply no idea how badly you were managing.” Dinah was already waiting with her outdoor clothes, and dressed her at speed.
“I shall be back, though,” she promised over her shoulder. The dog was herding her to the doorstep. “In the morning. I shall bring Caroline with me.” She stopped there, turned and glared round at all of them. “And—yes, I am of course horribly busy but I believe, with some effort, I can somehow effect it—we shall stay the whole day.”
In her wake, the household fell back exhausted, drained—like a body that had battled with fever. Dinah returned to the scullery, Isabella slumped off into a corner. Cassandra went back up the stairs. She could not count on her own privacy from the morrow onward, and determined to make progress with this one free afternoon.
Steventon Rectory
13 February 1797
My dear Eliza,
We see from the Register that Tom Fowle’s ship has now left San Domingo and our house is returned to a pitch of excitement. I can hardly imagine the emotions in Kintbury. All those many,