Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,6
Austen was determined to be one of those.
“There is so much to do that I know not how to begin it,” said Isabella with a sigh. “It is all organizing … arranging … sorting through. These are not the things that best suit my talents.”
Which were what, exactly? Cassandra wondered. They were thus far mysterious. But she had an unshakable belief in God’s design of humanity: We all have our uses. She looked forward to Isabella’s being revealed.
“Perhaps you might be so good as to help Dinah go through my mother’s clothing?” Isabella continued. “I confess I have not been able to touch any of her possessions, and nor could my father, from the day that she died.”
Dinah, who was at the sideboard with her back to the ladies, gave a loud sniff that was heavy with some sort of meaning.
“Of course!” Cassandra sat up in her chair, the picture of enthusiasm. “Although”—as if the thought had suddenly occurred—“I cannot be on my feet for too long. That would require so much standing and stretching.” She held out an arm, and then retracted it, wincing. It was quite the performance. Dinah turned and looked on with approval. “Let us think. What else can I do?”
And so breakfast continued. Isabella served out suggestions; she batted them all back—her knees would not bend, her hands could not hold, the very mention of dust made her break into sneezes—until their napkins were folded, the table was cleared, and the morning was set.
* * *
AS THE CHURCH BELL CHIMED ten, Cassandra was at repose in the yellow drawing room. Tucked up with her valise in the corner of the sofa, work in her lap, needle in hand. It was all most satisfactory except for one thing: She had not yet been afforded the privacy she craved. The household was flurrying, certainly; unfortunately, it seemed only to flurry about her.
First it was Fred come to lay a fire, a task to which he brought much resentment but no kindling. Cassandra watched him set a few logs smoking, gave generous thanks, and waited until he withdrew. Might she now put down her needle? Dared she get up and begin her investigations? The bureau in the corner must be the first object of her attention. It was where Eliza, Isabella’s mother and her own dear friend, had sat at her correspondence each morning. Surely anything of importance would be in there … She moved to the edge of her seat. And then Dinah came in.
“Are you quite comfortable then, Miss Austen?” Having been spared the fate of a morning in the closet and left to her own slovenly devices, Dinah was suddenly all friendliness. Cloth in hand, she flicked dust hither and thither—from candlestick to clock to ornamental vase—and chattered on. “It’s quiet enough in here.” She picked up the cushion on which Cassandra’s elbow rested and thumped it. “Nobody to disturb you in whatever it is you’re busy with.” Moving to the glass above the fireplace she added a smear to its impressive collection. “Quiet everywhere in this house, since Mr. Fowle departed, God rest his soul.”
Cassandra made noises of sympathy and reached for her thimble. She was clearly not to be left alone for a while.
“And we don’t get the visitors now, either. No parishioners coming here with their problems. No men from the Hunt or the Kennel traipsing through with mud on their boots.”
Dinah moved to the bureau and gave it an aimless rub. Would she now open it and reveal its contents? Cassandra sat up in anticipation.
“Oh, yes. Very quiet we are now. Quite filled the ’ouse with his presence, did the reverend. Those rages of his! You could hear them in the village.” She shook her head, smiling fondly, and polished on—though without any beeswax. Cassandra had to suppress the urge to go and find some herself. “Used to fair bellow at Miss Isabella. Bellow!” With a chuckle, Dinah turned her attention to the casement of the window. “It was throwing his stick at her head that brought on that seizure. The exertion of it did for ’im, they say.” She stopped and gazed around at the product of her labors. “Oh, yes, it’s a terrible loss, Miss Austen. A terrible loss for us all.”
With her work there done, her standards met, Dinah departed. But before Cassandra could begin to reflect on the horrors she had heard—that a man so fond of his dogs could mete out such treatment to his daughter!—Isabella