to dwell on misfortune for long. And she thought: All this is just what I needed. Here, for a while, I might find some relief.
* * *
EDWARD LIVED IN A WHOLE other world from the rest of the Austens. Though not the most intelligent or talented member of the family—indeed, far from it—he was the luckiest by some considerable measure. Through the simple virtues of his charm and easy good nature, he had been adopted at the age of fourteen by their distant relations, the childless and wealthy Mr. and Mrs. Knight. His current home, Rowling—far beyond anything his siblings could dream of—was but a resting post on the route to his eventual destination: He would one day inherit three extensive estates—Steventon, Godmersham, and Chawton—and live the enviable life of the well-landed gentleman. In the meantime, Rowling would do.
To the blessings of a generous income and plenty of acres to manage, he could add three charming children and a beautiful wife who had wealth of her own. Why must money marry money, when the world would be so much happier were that not so?
Edward’s wife, Elizabeth, a woman of exquisite manners and breeding, was always unfailingly polite to her Austen relations—actual affection she reserved for the much richer Knights—but, Cassy well knew, she did not quite approve of them all. Jane she clearly found too clever and eccentric—somewhat satirical, always reading, and at Rowling that was thought to be a little bit odd. Mrs. George Austen: Well, Mrs. George Austen … Well-meaning and so good and kind, but of course she too was cleverer, and more outspoken, than good society required. But Cassy? Cassy had the great virtue of being unfailingly useful, and the comfort of knowing that—if Elizabeth must have a feminine in-law under her roof—then she was the one always preferred.
On this visit Cassy found in Elizabeth the perfect companion. Elizabeth cared little for much save her husband—whom she adored—her children—each, individually, a marvel—and her charming, well-appointed home. So all this fresh, raw grief did not seem to trouble her unduly. Cassy could sense it, and for that she was grateful.
One afternoon in late May, the two women sat alone in the sunny dressing room upstairs: Elizabeth gazing out at the park; Cassy knitting a shawl for the new baby.
“Oh, Cass, do look! Do look at Fanny out on her pony. There she goes. Oh, the cherub! I must say—do you not agree?—she is already developing the most exquisite seat.”
Cassy looked too, and complied: “She is an exquisite child in every respect. Already a lady, and only four years old.”
Elizabeth sighed with satisfaction and patted the baby inside her. “Perhaps this one will be a sister for her to play with. I think I should like that, after two little boys. Although husbands are—are they not?—always so delighted when one presents them with sons. Hmm.” She thought deeply. “No. I do not think I mind whatever it is, this time.” She shifted uncomfortably. “But I do dearly wish it would come.”
Cassy cast off and started another row: knit one, then purl one. “It cannot be much longer now.”
“Oh, indeed. And I am so grateful to have you here, after all. To think I was going to have to manage without you! I confess I had not come up with another arrangement to suit me.” She smiled, complacent. “It has worked out well.” Then had the grace to look, momentarily, ruffled. “Oh, forgive me—I did not mean—”
“But of course,” Cassy assured her, and loosened a stitch.
* * *
LITTLE HENRY ARRIVED SAFELY, his father was suitably delighted, and Cassy’s days were full from then on. It fell to her to keep the nursery happy while Elizabeth was confined. She oversaw Nanny and Nurse, played spillikins, taught cup and ball with an expert precision; consoled, controlled, and amused. There was the occasional skirmish with Fanny, who was deeply attached to her devoted mama and developing a rather strong character, but even that Cassy welcomed: Balm could be applied to those childish miseries; there was no sort of balm for herself. The danger times came when the children napped or took air. Cassy dared not sit idle, for then dark thoughts and grief might rear up and consume her. So she would relieve Nurse, and compulsively dry, press, and fold pile upon pile of muslin squares.
The great blessing of this interlude was that her evenings were easy. She and Edward dined alone, and in harmony; his company was never less than pleasing.