Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,46

calm, all turmoil within. “Please do.”

“So,” Caroline began. “This is the sum of it and all that I know. It came out—when was it? About ’28, I think it must have been. You were staying with us near here, at Newtown. Or perhaps you do not recall Newtown, even? Where we lived with my brother?”

“Thank you, Caroline,” Cassandra replied, tartly. “My memories of Newtown are perfectly clear.”

Caroline turned back to Isabella. “My brother had a friend, a Mr. Henry Edridge—a quite unusually good-looking and charming gentleman.”

Isabella sat up; this piqued her feminine interest.

“At that time he was with the Engineers.”

“Ah, the Engineers.” Isabella sighed.

“And he happened to call on us when my aunt Cassandra was staying. Well, she was very much struck with him. Could not take her eyes away! And really quite altered in the young gentleman’s presence. Almost kittenish, I am inclined to describe it.”

The cousins laughed; Cassandra squirmed.

“And I was very much struck by her admiration of him. For Aunt Cass rarely admires anyone, as you well know.”

Why, Cassandra wondered and not for the first time, did Caroline find it so hard to like her? The issue had long puzzled her, for she had always endeavored to be the kindest of aunts.

“It was quite soon after that visit that we heard Mr. Edridge had died.”

“No!” Isabella gasped. “Poor Mr. Edridge!”

“And when I related this fact to my aunt here she behaved in the most astonishing manner. She jumped up at once, then—legs too weak to hold her—sank back in her chair.” Caroline acted this out to add to the drama. In fact there was more of the melodrama in her performance. If only she, too, had chosen forgetfulness. “Her hands flew to her heart. She was completely beside herself, quite close to tears. And as you know no one has ever witnessed her crying—save my mother, of course.”

“Well, indeed.”

“And then the words just poured out of her: Mr. Edridge had struck her as one unusually gifted with all that was agreeable.”

“Dear Mr. Edridge.”

“And that he reminded her strongly of another gentleman from the past, whom they had met one summer when they were by the sea. I think, Aunt Cass, you indicated this was in Devonshire?”

Had she indeed? That was unfortunate. “As this did not happen,” Cassandra found the presence to reply, “I strongly doubt that I indicated any such thing.”

“You did not name the place, that I do know,” Caroline persisted. “Though I am sure you did not say Lyme, for that I should have remembered.”

“Nothing ever happened in Lyme, to that I shall testify.” Cassandra cleared her throat. “Though there was that fire when my family was staying—”

“Yes, yes.” With a flick of her hand, Caroline extinguished that tired anecdote before it could find life, and resumed. “And this gentleman seemed greatly attracted to my dearest aunt Jane. Imagine, Isabella, meeting a gentleman by the seaside. And falling in love.”

“Oh, imagine.”

“I gathered that this was an intercourse of a few weeks. And then it came to that point that all lovers dread: the moment of parting.”

“The worst, the very worst moment of all,” Isabella said, with some feeling.

“And he was urgent to know where the family might be next summer, implying—I think—that he should be there also, wherever it might be.”

“Yes?”

“And soon after they heard of his death!”

On that tragic note Isabella was struck dumb, as was Cassandra, for quite different reasons. Half of Caroline’s story was plainly ridiculous. The girl had always had a strong imagination, as well as a talent for embroidery, and was employing both quite liberally here. But how now to proceed? It was not easy to dismiss as complete fabrication that which held the kernel of truth. She paused. It was vital to choose her words carefully.

“Well, what a lovely confection of nothing at all that was, my dear,” she began, sounding, she hoped, characteristically firm. “Most charming, indeed; so charming I almost wish it had happened. How amused your aunt Jane would be to hear of herself as its heroine.” With some effort, she drew herself to her feet. “I remember your Mr. Edridge quite clearly, now you remind me, and I do agree I was most moved by the news of his death.” She reached down for her valise. “As one is when any young person of promise is taken too early.” She went to leave the room. “I can only think that the sadness of it all promoted some strange episode within me.” The very act of