had not yet any gray, she was otherwise a naturally monochrome creature. Caroline, though, would demand the use of her colors—the stronger, the redder, the better—for she flushed at the merest suggestion of attention. A casual “Good morning” could provoke the deepest of hues.
Caroline was reddening now as she asked Isabella a question. Her voice was low, but the room was all ears: “So have you seen the good doctor since the funeral?”
“Doctor?” Mary’s voice cut in from the sofa. “Are you, too, unwell, Isabella?”
“Quite well, thank you, Aunt Mary. Other than the stress of my current situation.” Isabella rattled the cups as she passed round the tea.
“Ah. This must be the doctor Caroline speaks of, who attended your father?” Mary turned to Cassandra: “You may not know that Caroline offered an incalculable support to the family when Fulwar was dying. The poor girl was quite wrung out by it, here all the time.”
“I did not know,” Cassandra replied warmly. “But am most pleased to hear that someone helped carry the burden.”
“Oh, but I only came for a few afternoons, Mama! It was Isabella, truly, who did everything. She never left my uncle’s side.”
“Nonsense, my dear. It is my clear recollection that you were almost permanently absent over that trying period. Caroline is”—she addressed the room—“like her mother, too prone to give.”
“Shall we read?” Isabella asked brightly. “Cassandra and I have started your aunt Jane’s Persuasion. You will know it well, of course. I did not. It really is most entertaining!”
“If you happen to appreciate novels,” countered Mary. “Poetry, to me, offers a more profound experience. Poetry and more lyrical prose. Caroline, pass my bag. It so happens that I have with me my husband’s journal. While a great deal of fuss is made of your aunt Jane, it is most useful to remind ourselves that she was not the only writer in the family. Indeed, nor the best, I have heard some people say. And I do believe my James-Edward to be the greatest of all. He has his father’s talent and then some. Mark my words: He will write something someday and astonish the world with it. Then the Austen name shall be made.”
Cassandra felt a dull ache—first in her back, then creeping round to her groin—which she ascribed to nothing beyond deep irritation. Why must she refer to it as a “journal” when quite clearly it was nothing of the sort? This red leather album that Mary was now opening with reverence was no more than a scrapbook, filled with fragments of James’s writing. The woman’s ignorance in all matters of literature was so profound and far-reaching that she did not know enough even to know she was wrong.
“I think we should hear his Kintbury poem now. Do not you agree? I presume you know it already, Isabella? No doubt you, like me, can recite it almost word for word. No? You do not know it? What were my sister and brother-in-law doing with their time and their children? I often wonder. It is not every family that has such words, such exceptional poetry, written for and about them! Why, if such a thing had been composed in honor of me and my kin I should make sure to celebrate it! Well, thank goodness I brought it—that is all I can say. This may, after all, be the last time we ever sit together in this very drawing room, and this very drawing room is above all the best place in which to hear it. But prepare yourself, Isabella dear. Do prepare yourself. I warn you, it is moving”—she dabbed her nose with her handkerchief—“so very, very, quite exceptionally moving. I do not believe there has ever been a writer like my Austen for moving a person.” She cleared her throat, and began in her flat, lackluster tones:
“Amid the temperate hours of evening grave
Oft was I wont in thoughtful mood to stray
Where Kennet’s crystal stream with limpid wave
Through Kintbury’s meadows takes its winding way…”
Mary was forced to stop for a moment, overcome. “Limpid wave—is that not wondrous? Limpid wave.” She looked about, shook her head. “Only Austen. Only my dearest Austen.” She collected herself and went on:
“And still in my mind’s eye, methinks, I see
The village pastor’s cheerful family …
“So that’s the Fowles, dear! Yes. Your family! In a poem!
“The father grave, yet oft with humor dry
Producing the quaint jest or shrewd reply;
The busy bustling mother who like Eve
Would ever and anon the circle leave,
Her mind on