Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,38

hospitable thought intent,

Careful domestic blunders to prevent.”

She stopped again. “Oh, that is so like your grandmother, Isabella! Careful domestic blunders to prevent! So like her! So brilliantly put! So like all we married women, of course.” She looked around the room, took in, one by one, the single women gathered about her, and gazed at them with sympathy, then shrugged and went on: “‘While yet a gayer group, four manly boys’—He is writing of your father and his brothers, now. Where was I? Yes:

“While yet a gayer group, four manly boys,

Heightened with relish of domestic joys,

Of future happiness gave promise fair,

And eased with pleasing hopes a parent’s care…”

Caroline and Isabella both glanced over at Cassandra with fear in their eyes. The younger generation of her family took great care never to mention Tom in Cassandra’s presence. Until that moment she had never been quite sure whether this was a policy that they had agreed upon together, or whether it was merely because they had never known him and so he did not often come to their minds. She now understood—it was written on the younger women’s faces—that they were gripped by terror at the thought of her reaction.

This revelation quite bemused her. Surely, if they knew anything at all, they must know that her own stoicism on the subject was quite celebrated. Yet now here they were, looking for all the world as if she were on the brink of A Scene! It was preposterous. She arranged her features into a study of calm, and focused, with dignity, upon Mary.

“And one sleeps where Ocean ceaseless pours

His restless waves ’gainst West India’s shores:

Friend of my Soul and Brother of my heart!”

But—and it was most odd—this verse appeared to be new to Cassandra. Had she simply forgotten it? Or never before been made aware of it? Either way, she did fear that Mary was here straying into the region of tactlessness.

“For I had many a scene of pleasure planned

When safe returned to this dear native land…”

Of course the region of tactlessness was to Mary something like her natural habitat. But Isabella and Caroline, she could not but notice, were becoming most discomfited.

“Much did I hope (it was a vision fair

And pity it should melt into thin air)

Our friendship soon had known a dearer tie

Than friendship’s self could ever yet supply.”

Cassandra had now to own that she too was feeling discomfited—from the atmosphere in the room, of course. But also—she simply had to admit it, if only ever to herself—by the quite execrable standard of this verse.

“And I had lived with confidence to join

A much loved Sister’s trembling hand in—”

She rose to her feet to bring this nonsense to a close. Really, this was her brother’s writing at its worst. It was not worthy of being read aloud in a family circle; not worthy even of the paper upon which it was written: “Forgive me, all. I am really quite tired from our busy day. Do excuse me, my dears, if I go up a little before you.” To think that they might have enjoyed a few chapters of Persuasion! What a deadweight Mary was on an evening.

She bade them goodnight, and withdrew.

* * *

CASSANDRA FELL WITH RELIEF into the pure solitude of her room, but it took a few minutes of pacing and general, restless physical activity before she could restore her calm spirits. She retrieved the bundle of letters from under the mattress. She opened her valise, removed her patchwork pieces, checked the papers beneath them, closed it again. She brushed her hair, washed her face, gazed for a moment through the window at the gray, starless night. At last her heart returned to its old pattern; her limbs stopped their shaking. Closing the curtains, she settled into the armchair, reached for the letters, and thought how to best use this precious, short time.

She could certainly spare herself from reading the next one. Permitting herself just a glance at the date—18 April 1797—she then, carefully, put it aside.

But what was this? Next, in Jane’s pile, in Eliza’s compilation of Jane’s private correspondence, was a page in a quite different hand. She recognized it at once: This was from Mary. Cassandra was startled. What could it mean? Of course it had been filed in error … It would be criminal to read it … Her head and her heart told her to return it immediately … But her eyes—her poor, old, disobedient eyes—saw that same date. And read on:

Deane Rectory

18 April 1797

My