Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,41

sat with her embroidery in the circle around the fireside in the evenings. She and Jane still spent the afternoons in their dressing room. Work on her trousseau was abandoned, those lovingly sewn items packed away, carefully: Another, luckier bride might, perhaps, one day have use for them. For Cassy there would be nothing but black from here on.

All her free time was now spent on letters of condolence. Her post was quite overwhelming, more even than when she was newly engaged. Conscientious as ever, she committed to reply promptly to every one. Meanwhile, Jane still wrote. She was finishing First Impressions, and reviewing an earlier composition, Elinor and Marianne—all for Cassy’s own entertainment. She listened, even smiled, sometimes. But she could no longer laugh.

One such afternoon, perhaps a month after the collapse of her world, Cassy opened a letter and let out a gasp.

“What is it, dearest?” Jane jumped and ran to her. Her nerves, too, had been shattered to pieces by the news of Tom’s death. It would be a long time before either sister—so recently cheerful, untouched by tragedy—could find it within her to trust fortune again.

“This, from Eliza.” Cassy’s hand shook as she passed Jane the paper. “Tom’s will has been read.”

Jane took in the message and then looked at her sister. A young lady did not need a strong grasp of arithmetic to interpret the figure there on the page, and these two intelligent daughters of the parsonage understood it at once.

“One thousand pounds!”

“One thousand pounds.”

“Oh, how he loved you!”

“What a good and kind man.”

“Then good Lord Craven did pay Tom most handsomely for his short service. That must be on your account, dearest. Because he was soon to be married.”

“I think not,” said Cassy quietly. “It appears that Tom did not mention me to his patron.” Her throat tightened. “Or so I have been told.”

“Told by whom?” Jane demanded.

Cassy looked to her lap.

“Mary!” Jane set off on a furious pace about the room. “Well. She was most conscientious in her duties indeed, that she felt she must include even that manner of detail.”

“Please.” Cassy raised her hand to put a halt to Jane’s raging. “Let us not pick over it. It is not helpful.” Tom’s omission was certainly hurtful. But in the great scheme of her agonies, she found it provoked but a moderate pain.

Jane quietened and sat again. “So. One thousand pounds. It is still not very much—is it?—for a gentleman of nine-and-twenty and a sound education.”

“I fear life treated him ill.” Cassy winced as that hideous vision revisited her: Tom sick and dying; his young body slipping below the surface of the water; falling alone, unheard and unwitnessed, to that foreign seabed. She hid her hands under her skirts to conceal their shaking and looked out of the window. “But I shall be sure to always be grateful. I am now covered, at least, for any emergency that might strike.”

“Indeed. And yet…”

They sat, each in silent computation, both achieving the same, irrefutable, result. One thousand pounds, over a long life, used carefully, keeping enough in reserve to ward against calamity, came to this: Cassy could put her own pennies in the poor box, and trim her own caps.

Jane saw that she was shivering, wrapped a shawl round her shoulders, and tucked it tight. It was not, though, the cold that affected her, nor, just at that moment, the loss of her Tom. Rather it was the knowledge of her own vulnerability: the years she faced alone with minimal protection.

Of course Jane understood that. “Oh, Cass. What is to become of us? How do you think we will make it through, when Papa is gone and we have to leave Steventon?”

Cassy fixed on her brave face. “You will be established long before then, dearest.”

“I will not.” Jane’s voice was low. “I know that is not going to happen.”

“What about this Mr. Blackall, who is soon to be delivered to the county for your delectation? Everyone has high hopes of the match. He may well turn out to be perfect.”

“I very much doubt it. I could never, anyway, think of leaving you now.”

“That is silly. It is time for you to start making an effort, and not discount every man at first sight. And I shall survive—in great style, thanks to my one thousand pounds! Please look to your own future. There is no need to worry about me.”

Cassy wanted to scream, rage at the Furies who had conspired against her, but did not.