Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,85

a modicum of fame and success! Still, she thought as she gathered her things, she would not contest that legend, if that was what they chose to send out to posterity. The moodless Jane Austen. What a splendid image. She rose from her chair. Now it only remained to destroy all evidence to the contrary. She did hope those letters had been returned.

“I must leave you, my dears. I trust Caroline to give you a full picture, Isabella. Your interest is safe in her hands. I shall turn in now.”

“Oh, but I was hoping we might read more of Persuasion,” Isabella protested. “We have just got to Lyme.”

“And you will enjoy it enormously,” Cassandra said smoothly. “Do read on with your cousin. I know it too well.”

She opened the door, strode into the hall, and into violent collision with the crouching form of a human.

“Oh!” Cassandra gasped, then: “It is you! What on earth—?”

Dinah drew herself up but made no excuses.

“Yet more dusting?” Cassandra smiled. “Please do not overdo it. Good night.”

* * *

ON THE LONG, STEEP RETURN UP the stairs, Cassandra pondered the value of duty. She had given years in service to Caroline and her family, as she had given years to all Austens. That it counted for so little came as no surprise, and provoked no self-pity or rancor. She had never acted in the pursuit of fame or appreciation, but only in the interests of her own conscience. Cassandra was dutiful, had possibly been born dutiful, certainly could only be dutiful: She knew of no other way. In her own—for want of a better word—virtue, she had found an endless reward.

She was not unique in this. The world, she well knew, was full of good women like her, who dedicated their time, their bodies, their thoughts, and their hearts to the service of others. And if they, and she, were rendered invisible: Well then, what of it? Let us just pity those who had not eyes to see.

Back in her room, she put down her valise and looked about her: Nothing was altered. She shut the door and, with a quiet confidence, lifted the corner of the mattress. What a surprise! The letters were there. Now for her service to the one whom she loved above all other people, who had loved her in return and never failed to acknowledge her worth. She settled down, determined to make quick, sharp work of it.

It was not an uncomplicated process. They spent eight years without an address of any real permanence—or, as Jane would refer to it, “out in the wilderness”—but they were not all unhappiness. Far from it, indeed. Cassandra leafed through the papers, caught passages detailing short, happy stays in Manydown and Kintbury, long weeks of luxury in Kent with dear Edward. She revisited the great news of April 1803, when Jane sold her novel, Susan, for a princely ten pounds—Oh! The excitement of that! She stumbled across references to Jane’s high spirits, remembered, and smiled. That those spirits were, sometimes, perhaps too high; that the happiness had an almost hysterical edge to it; that this tended to happen when they were in the comfort of the stable, established homes of their family and friends: These were not observations that Cassandra had shared with Eliza. She had chosen to keep them to herself.

But the other extreme of Jane’s temperament, the seemingly endless days in the darkness: These she had written of, for she had to tell someone. Cassandra licked a finger and flicked through, searching for the letters of danger. There. January 1805. That was when it all began. She pulled out several, put down the rest of the pile, and began.

Green Park Buildings, Bath

24 January 1805

My dear Eliza,

Your expressions of sympathy and respect were all that we might have hoped for from you, and brought us much comfort. Yes, we have lost an excellent father and are still almost numb with the shock of it. But, though his sudden death has been hard on those who loved him so dearly, it was at least peaceful for himself. He did not suffer unduly, he did not linger in pain, he was not given the time to reflect upon those he was leaving, and for that mercy we give thanks to God.

Of course, it is with some trepidation that we all now must embark on a life without him, his wisdom, his tenderness, and his humor. You ask after my mother, and she bears it bravely, though