dear Eliza,
I write to tell you that I have fulfilled my sad duties on behalf of the Kintbury family and must report that the afternoon has left me quite depleted in energies and spirit. You will be relieved to know that my dear Austen has been most solicitous to me, so that I now feel sufficiently restored to give my account, as per your request.
We left for Steventon as soon as your letter arrived. While my husband—shocked and fearful of the effect that the news would have upon his sister—was all for waiting and prevarication, I was insistent. Cass. must know as soon as possible. The deed could not be put off. We found the ladies where they are always to be found, alone in their sitting room with the door shut to the world—I must confess to finding this closeness of theirs most unnatural and very excluding of others. No good will come of it. But Austen forbids me from saying so to either parent. There we are. I am forced to keep my wise words to myself. That is what it is like here, I am sorry to tell you. There will be no criticism of The Girls. And I dare say that will be more so after the events of today.
As we mounted the stairs, I could hear their laughter—they do laugh an unusual amount, in my opinion. I used not to mind, but lately have found it a source of great irritation. My poor heart sank further at the prospect of that which lay before me but my courage did not falter. They were both at work of some sort—I got the impression it was an item for her trousseau that Cass. had about her as we entered—so it was as well that we came quickly and spared her more labors. For what use is a trousseau to the poor woman now?
I believe that as soon as C. saw my face, she knew the purpose of my visit—I was and still am quite pale with the shock of it—and when I asked that Jane leave, her air darkened considerably. I came to the point at once. Austen had thought that he might speak first but I feared he would only prolong the misery. When bad things must happen they must happen at once and we women—married women in particular—are so much more sensitive to that which is required in a difficult situation. As when Anna is up to her bad tricks—the child’s terrible behavior shows no signs of abating—why wait for her father to deliver one of his long sermons? I give her a good, short, sharp slap on the back of her legs and there is the end.
So as soon as the door closed upon Jane—and she was reluctant to leave us in privacy—I delivered my message, simply and directly—Tom was dead, of Yellow Fever, and these past two months had lain buried at sea. I regret to say that the ensuing scene was quite desperate. Cassandra fell to the floor and was beset with such a fit of grief that it was quite an agony to witness. In the midst of such a distressing situation, you must know that I did not miss a detail and conducted myself with aplomb. I passed on Lord Craven’s condolences, but even that did not seem to console her. And I remembered to add that His Lordship had no knowledge that there was such an engagement: he would never have taken a betrothed man aboard, but Tom had not thought to mention it. Well, Eliza! One might have hoped for an expression of sympathy for poor Lord Craven’s position. In its place, we had the hysterics.
I am so grateful to have had my own husband there to comfort me. He has been most solicitous ever since. He is conscious that it was the most terrible ordeal for me—especially now, in what should be my honeymoon period, when I have all the excitement and happiness of having become so lately Mrs. James Austen—it does still bring a small thrill to write those words—it is quite tragic that I of all people should have been the one to have to perform such an onerous task. Is it always to be my lot to have to deal with the dramas of my new sisters?
But, dear Eliza, there, ’tis done. You will be comforted to hear that I am now before a good fire with a tisane beside me and that James