Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,75

could see that the promise had proved a gift, provided an alibi: It gave her the power to refuse good Mr. Hobday. It led her, through a serpentine route, down many dark and blind alleys, to her own eventual happy ending. So, one could argue, it never had been the willful act of a foolish young woman, but instead the centerpiece of her whole life’s design.

Cassandra rose, left the church, and made her slow return to the vicarage, pondering the mysteries of events and their outcomes. The ambiguity of it all made her head hurt. She felt weak and depleted and longed to sit down. But when they came to the gate, her faithful canine friend did not lead her into the house, but instead set off for the bridge.

“Pyramus!” She could not walk any farther. “Here, Pyramus!” Nor could she leave him out here alone, unattended. No doubt he knew his way around—he was blessed with more sense than most humans—but still, he was too precious a creature to lose. She took a deep breath and followed.

Beyond the bridge was the Avenue, a long, straight lane, lined with good horse chestnuts, that led to the Manor. And there, halfway down it, was the small figure of Isabella in deep conversation with a tall man in black. Pyramus must have heard his mistress’s voice. As they drew nearer, Cassandra divined this to be a conversation of some awkwardness. Pyramus must have sensed her distress. At last she came upon them.

“Oh, Cassandra.” Isabella was trembling, almost tearful. “I am pleased to see you.”

Not more Kintbury dramas! Cassandra did not have the energy.

“May I present to you Mr. Dundas, who is to take over from my father as the new vicar of Kintbury. Mr. Dundas has just informed me that he would like us to remove ourselves from the house within the next fortnight.”

“‘Within the next fortnight’?” Cassandra repeated. “But that is too soon. Two months, Mr. Dundas. The retiring family is always granted two months. That is a custom as old as the Church.”

“With a family, yes, I can see that is appropriate. But in this case there is no family left to speak of.” Mr. Dundas spoke with the confidence of one all too aware of his own winning charm. “There is only Miss Fowle, so I foresee no difficulty. I am keen to get on and do the best for the parish, Miss…?”

“Miss Austen.” Cassandra had learned to be wary of charm. Too often had she seen it abused by the charmer in the ruthless pursuit of his own advantage.

“Miss Austen?” Mr. Dundas bowed. “You are perhaps some relation of the actual Miss Austen—the great lady novelist?”

She agreed that she must be.

“Oh, but then this is a coincidence! For I am her greatest admirer.”

Cassandra proceeded to revise her opinion of the gentleman. There was clearly more to him than manners.

“Allow me, please, to kiss the hand that must once have touched our dear Jane. There. It as close as I will ever get to the real, proper thing.”

She rerevised it, immediately, and placed it back, firmly, into its original position.

“You cannot imagine my despair when she was taken from us so early. I was quite sunk for days when I heard.”

“Then it only leaves me to say how sorry I am for your great personal loss,” Cassandra said calmly.

“Thank you—most kind. I have read all of her works. Well, perhaps, most of her works. What is the one with the clergyman?”

“Well, it is hard to say which you mean. She rather went in for clergymen … They all—”

“Mansfield House! Yes, that is the one. My favorite above all. I read it and read it again. The thing about your sister, and so few people grasp this, is that her understanding of people, and a certain milieu, was so profound as to be almost unique.”

“Is that so?” Cassandra started to walk back in the direction of the house. Mr. Dundas fell into step beside her. Isabella lagged behind.

“And it seems to me that she must have somehow been the beneficiary of the great education that is ordinarily the preserve of the English gentleman. Perhaps she was lucky enough to have a master, and not just a governess?” Cassandra could sense this was more of a muse than a question. “I also feel—indeed, I am certain—that she traveled considerably and was the all-seeing guest in a great many drawing rooms of all the best people. I can tell you, definitely, that