Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,8
limp bow, left Cassandra alone with the chill.
She returned to the sofa, gathering her work and her wits about her. She must not despair. After all, what had Isabella said over breakfast? That they had not been able to touch any of Eliza’s possessions from the day she had died. Everything could still be here somewhere: She just needed more information before continuing her search.
There was not long to wait. Within minutes Isabella was back with her. “I have done it. I have finished most of the china. Well”—she twisted her hands in her lap—“some of the china. I have packed all the sauceboats—every single one.”
Cassandra had lived all her life with or around the country clergy. She was well aware how many sauceboats the average parsonage might hope to accumulate, and the answer was: few. “Ah. Well, that is indeed something.” This was rather like dealing with the children in the Godmersham nursery. “So that leaves only the dinner plates, the dessert plates, the bowls, all the dishes…?”
“And the tea and coffee sets and so on,” Isabella added, her shoulders sinking. “There is so much of all that, I thought it might wait for another day?” She paused, as if Cassandra—of all people—might endorse such procrastination. Then she confessed: “The truth is that I find, now I have arrived at the moment, it pains me to part with it.” Tears came to her eyes. “I have used this service every day of my life. It suddenly seemed so”—she sniffed—“so significant. And I know you must think me pathetic—I see myself as pathetic—I can hardly bear to think I will not see it again.”
Cassandra reached out her hand and grasped Isabella’s. Oh, the power of small things when the larger ones—the home or the family—proved fragile! She remembered Miss Murden polishing her little blue shepherdess, and Jane clutching her writing box, not wanting to let go.
“I do know, Isabella. Leave that till last and now, do sit and chat for a while. I have been feeling so guilty lounging here while you have been laboring. Is there nothing I can do for you that involves more sitting, less lifting? Anything in your father’s office, for example?” Though she did not want to be in his office at all.
“That is all in order, as far as I know. For the past year Papa was making his arrangements, and of course he had his curate to help him. Such a conscientious young man, so thorough in his work.” She looked wistful. “It is most useful to have a curate, Cassandra, is it not? Indeed, now I think of that too, I have never lived without a curate around.” The pallor returned. “I suppose I shall have to get used to it now.”
Cassandra again was all sympathy. For the family—and most especially for its single women—to leave a vicarage was to be cast out of Eden. There were only trial and privation ahead.
“And of course Papa had due warning. He knew the end was coming. Poor Mama just left us. It was the work of a moment.”
“So very sad.” Cassandra reached down for her sewing. “And her papers? Could I help you with those? It would not be an intrusion. We were such friends, and for so many years.”
“Thank you, but no. Aunt Mary has expressly requested that she do all that. Her son, James-Edward, is developing a keen interest in the family history, I gather. He talks even of one day writing a book on the subject!” She raised her eyes to the ceiling at such folly. “As if the world does not already have too many books in it.” She smiled, confident of finding total agreement. “And as if anyone would want to learn about Austens, indeed.”
Cassandra smiled back. “My dear, I could not agree more. As you know, I could not be more devoted to my family and its memories, but even I must admit we are a quite splendidly dull bunch, to whom nothing of interest occurred.” This was just as she feared. It was imperative that Mary did not get to those letters first.
Isabella continued: “My aunt feels very strongly that it should be her responsibility to go through the family papers and decide what to keep—her responsibility alone. She still grieves for my mother most deeply. She says it is infinitely more painful to lose a sister than a parent, but I would not know.”
Cassandra stabbed at her patchwork to release her irritation. No matter whose body