Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,5

she would not yet unpack it. There was a flicker of life in her yet: No time like the present. She would begin her search for the letters. Cassandra moved back to the door, waited for the footsteps to fade and the house to fall silent, opened it, and slid back to the landing. Through the shadows she crept toward Isabella’s mother’s room; she had almost gained the threshold when a voice came from behind her.

“Can I help you, Miss Austen?” Dinah, lit from below by a weak tallow candle, stood at the foot of the stairs to the attic. “Lost are we, m’m?”

“Oh, Dinah. I am sorry.” Cassandra put on a show of confusion. “How strange. I cannot remember why I came out here.”

“It’s tiredness, I’m sure of it. Best get to bed, m’m. Over that way, we are.” Dinah watched her, unsmiling. “That’s it. Good night then, Miss Austen.” And stayed in position until Cassandra was back in her room.

2

Kintbury, March 1840

A WHITE SKY RUSHED PAST the windows; the bare branches of the big beech waved high in the wind. The two ladies watched it all from their table, at which Cassandra was enjoying her breakfast. This was always the meal to rely on when visiting; even the worst of kitchens found it hard to go wrong. And she needed all the strength she could muster for the day that lay ahead.

“This jam was made by my mother.” Isabella spooned out just enough for a scraping. “She was so productive right till the end. We are still, even now, enjoying her food.”

Cassandra took another bite, and Eliza was conjured up before her. She could taste her in the fruit, see her picking and stirring and laughing and pouring, and thought: These are the things by which most of us are remembered, these small acts of love, the only evidence that we, too, once lived on this earth. The preserves in the larder, the stitch on the kneeler. The mark of the pen on the page.

“Now, my dear. What are your plans for the day?” Cassandra put down her muffin, all appetite gone. “Am I right to hope that we might see your aunt Mary this morning? I know that now she lives so close by, she calls here quite often.”

Isabella, who had until that moment seemed almost relaxed and nearly cheerful, adopted again her woeful air. “Yes, really quite often. And I am sure it will be oftener still if she knows that you are here.”

“In fact…” Cassandra picked up her cup and, quite casually, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary, said: “I do not know what is the matter with me. I am becoming so hopeless and forgetful. I do believe that I failed to write and tell her that I was.”

Isabella’s blue eyes met hers. “And I have not had a chance to mention it, either. Your letter arrived so late, there was not the time.”

“Then she does not yet know of my arrival.” Cassandra turned back to study the weather through the window. “That is a shame.”

“And we cannot hope that my aunt might call today.” Isabella reached back to the jam and took a hearty dollop. “On Tuesdays Aunt Mary always takes tea with Mrs. Bunbury.”

They smiled. There was a new sympathy between them. In the unlikely figure of Mary Austen—a woman not previously associated with the promotion of social harmony—they had found a common bond.

“Ah!” Cassandra felt a new lightness in her person. “Then we cannot hope to have the pleasure before tomorrow at the earliest.” That she might be left in peace was now all that was required. “While I am with you, I would dearly like to be of service. Having been in your position, I know how very much there is to do. Please. Let me be useful.”

There are women who offer to help, do everything required of them, and can be relied upon to do so well. Historically Cassandra was one of these. But there are also women—of whom she knew plenty—who appear to want to do everything for everyone, to put themselves in the center of all operations, but whose excellent intentions are always to be met with some obstruction particular only to them. They are generally to be found on a sofa doing nothing, while the rest of the household flurries about. And on this day only, though it might rub at every fiber of her makeup, for the purposes of her mission Miss