Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,35

known to West Berkshire. “I sleep with my late husband’s gun under my pillow now.” She tilted her chin with defiance. “And—so help me—I will not hesitate to discharge it, if needs must.”

They moved into the parlor, and once her eyes were accustomed to the gloom, Cassandra took in her surroundings. Miss Austen was not a well-traveled woman. She had never been farther east than Kent—had certainly never been as far as Bengal. And standing in Mary-Jane’s quaint Tudor dwelling, she was amused to discover that she now did not need to: much of Bengal having, conveniently, come here.

Tigers bared their teeth at her, elephants their tusks. Under glass, a menacing snake—she chose to presume stuffed—was coiled, ready to strike. On every surface were enough swords to sever the heads from a multitude of rural workers impudent enough to ask for fair pay. A curious fragrance filled the room, which brought to mind some receipt of Martha’s. It must be her curry, though there was some other musklike ingredient in play. She looked around to find somewhere to settle. “What interesting things you have accumulated, dear.”

Mary-Jane picked up an animal skin and tossed it on the carpet. She watched, waited for the dust clouds to clear; then she indicated the bench: “Sit yourself down here.”

The guest did as bid, while her hostess lowered herself to the floor—with some effort as her limbs were not long—crossed her legs, and reached for her pipe.

Cassandra studied her for a moment. Again, like Isabella, Mary-Jane was not what one would expect to be the issue of Eliza. Her friend had been beautiful and gracious. These daughters must surely have come as something of a disappointment: None of them had been blessed with the mother’s many charms. Of course it could be a burden to a girl to be born of a perfect mother: to feel that she is making no contribution to humanity’s progress. Perhaps that had affected them. In that regard she and Jane had been lucky. Mrs. George Austen was of course splendid, too, in so many ways, but not least in her casual disregard for the concealment of her flaws.

“I had heard you were here, Cassandra. Forgive me for not visiting you,” Mary-Jane was now saying. “Dare not risk it at this time of year, when the days are so short. I could get trapped there! By darkness!” Her small brown eyes flared at the thought.

“Oh, I quite understand. And Isabella has been looking after me quite impeccably.”

Mary-Jane tamped down her pipe. “Brave little thing. Heart of an ox. No idea how she manages there alone.” She took a long draw. “Still, she will be coming to live with me when the old house is cleared out. Safe here. Away from the natives.”

“Ah, is that settled, then? She is to join you? I was not sure—”

“What else would she do?” Mary-Jane shot back, suddenly angry.

Cassandra was quite taken aback by her tone. “Well—”

“Do not tell me there is a return to that nonsense!” She was shouting. “My parents would not tolerate it! They would turn in their graves!”

“‘Nonsense’? What nonsense?” Cassandra was starting to feel nervous. It was as if Fulwar were miraculously resurrected and returned to them. “I am not sure I quite follow—”

Mary-Jane calmed down. “No? That is all right, then.” She puffed on her pipe. “No harm done.”

* * *

CASSANDRA STAYED ONLY AS LONG as was courteous, and not a minute more. With enormous relief she returned to the vicarage, more delighted than was usual to find the reassuring figure of her niece, Mary’s daughter Caroline, waiting in the hall.

“Aunt Cass, how good—” When she was able, Caroline drew back from the unexpected, untypical warmth of the greeting. “Heavens. Are you quite well? You seem not much yourself.”

Cassandra, who did not like to appear foolish, composed herself. “Yes, thank you. Never robust, as you know, but doing quite well enough. What a pleasure to have you here for the day.”

“Not all pleasure, Aunt.” Caroline lowered her voice and tipped her head to one side. “My mother is in there. We are come here to work.”

“Ah.” Cassandra shed cloak and bonnet, steeled herself, and made for the drawing room. All brightness, she said: “Mary. Good day.” Then: “Oh, dear!”

Mary was laid out on the sofa, with one leg balanced on a high pile of pillows and a collection of medicines by her side. “It is the most cursed luck, Cassandra. I woke up this morning, all happy anticipation of