To the right, past the church, was the village, which would, of course, already be busy. There would be plenty of dear, familiar faces up there who would be more than happy to stop what they were doing and talk. But, huddling into her shawl, Cassandra at once turned left, her companion padding beside her, over the bridge and down onto the towpath beside the canal. She had villagers aplenty of her own back in Chawton. What there was not at home—the duck pond, though charming, could not help its own limitations—was the joy of a waterside walk.
How things had changed since that first Christmas when she was staying with Tom. Back then, there had been only a humble little river. This canal, now all boats and business, was but a plan and a controversy. She remembered the debates about it while sewing with Eliza in the drawing room every evening. Fulwar was, of course, loudly, in favor. He strode around, declaiming: The March of Progress! The Wonders of Communication! The new varieties of employment! While old Mr. Fowle sat in his chair and worried about the crime and corruption it would bring. And Tom?
Tom was greatly interested in the engineering of it, but otherwise unengaged. Though he liked to imagine their future together, he did not talk much of the future in general. Now that Cassandra thought about it, he never once showed any interest in the new century that was upon them or the changes, the revolutions, it might bring. How queer she had not noticed that before. A filthy, thin little lad rushed past her, jumped onto a coal boat, and got his ear clipped. She stopped and stood, watched the sunlight dapple the water, and looked over to the island, where a duck sat on eggs and her drake busied around with a beak full of twigs. A large sigh escaped her and, hearing herself—where did that come from?—she was suddenly reminded that she was now an old lady. With all this reminiscing, she had quite forgotten the fact. How foolish to hang about in the damp at this hour of the morning. If she did not keep moving she would doubtless catch a chill, and then where would she be? She pressed on toward the wharf, but that looked far too crowded at this time in the morning. Perhaps she would turn and go into the village after all.
She looked up at the bridge before her, and noticed a little black figure. Why, Isabella was out even before her! So not languishing in her room at all.
“Miss Fowle!” They could walk back home together, Cassandra thought. “Miss Fowle!”
Her thin voice could not carry above the canal noise. She tried waving, but Isabella did not seem to notice.
“Miss Fowle!” Pyramus barked, trying to be helpful.
Isabella ducked away as a gentleman approached her. Cassandra was closer now and could see them more clearly. This was not a person she immediately recognized. Indeed, was he even a gentleman? She could not quite tell. He was not a tall man, quite stocky. He and Isabella had fallen into what looked like deep conversation. Cassandra left the towpath and hurried up to the lane. Did Isabella need rescuing? If only her legs would move a bit faster.
“Miss Fowle!” She reached the bridge. “Isabella! I am here!”
But … how very odd: Isabella and the mysterious “gentleman” were no longer there.
* * *
BREAKFAST WAS SILENT. Isabella, forbearing to mention either meetings or gentlemen, seemed mournful and subdued. Her eyes were swollen; her complexion was mottled: She had clearly been crying. She must miss her father—and, lately, her oppressor?—more than anyone could understand. Dinah, unnaturally attentive that morning, fussed about. Isabella sipped the tea that was poured for her but did not touch any food, and when the clock chimed the hour, made her excuses and left. Cassandra wondered that the early-morning outing had not inspired an appetite in Isabella. She herself was quite hungry, and ate well, though alone. When finished, she went out into the hall.
The door was shut on Fulwar’s study, but the sound of voices came through it. That was odd. She had not heard any arrivals. Intrigued, Cassandra moved over and loitered a little.
“Six times seven is forty-two,” a small boy was chanting.
“And rise and shine?” Isabella seemed to have pulled herself together.
“Seven times seven is forty-nine!”
“Well done, Arthur. You have practiced well this week. I am pleased with you.”
Of course Isabella took in pupils. She had been raised by her mother to be a good daughter of the parsonage, and a good daughter of the parsonage she had turned out to be.
How the village would miss having this family at its center. To lose a much-loved vicar was one blow; to lose his womenfolk quite another. Fulwar was a popular preacher, an active and, on the whole, fair politician, but he had spent much of his week riding to hounds. It was the women who provided the vital care the parishioners needed: the broth for the sick, the clothes for the poor, the basic education. Cassandra smiled with satisfaction and thought again how the Fowles were like the Austens, in so many ways.
As it seemed the household would make no sort of claim on her this morning, Cassandra went once again back to her room. A maid had been in: Her pot was emptied; there was fresh water in her washstand. She rushed to the mattress and lifted it: Yes, the letters were still there, undisturbed. The one great indulgence that had been afforded Miss Murden was a rather threadbare armchair beneath the little window—perhaps the poor woman herself had worn it so thin? Cassandra settled herself down to return to her labors.
6
Steventon Rectory
4 October 1796
My dear Eliza,
I am so pleased to hear that you are much stronger in body—and sorry, but not surprised, that your spirits remain low. Of course, I have no experience of the sorrow you feel, but I do have deep sympathy and a rich imagination. And thus armed, I cannot agree with the rest of your family. You have suffered a loss as profound as any death, and have had not yet a year to recover. That your poor baby only lived for a day is quite immaterial. We do not calculate love by the hours spent with the loved one. Please know that you are in our thoughts and our prayers.
All that said, it seems I simply do not have it in me to write a letter that is all on one shady note of sadness and condolence. With my pen in my hand, I find there is nothing for it but to at least try and amuse you, and bring in a glimmer of light, if just for a moment. I am sorry. Forgive me. It is a failing I have. And there is so much going on here that I think will amuse you—it is all too hard to resist.
For lately our quiet little home has been transformed into the most industrious marriage market! For a connoisseur of domestic drama—such as myself—it is almost impossibly diverting. My eyes have quite left my head and now sit permanently on stalks. I need not tell you that I play no part in it at all, other than that of delighted observer. It is all the doing of my mother and sister, and each is enjoying herself hugely. That Mrs. Austen is up to her tricks will not surprise you—she prefers matching over any other form of employment. Cassy’s part in it all, though, is more unexpected. I can only put it down to her own elevated status as an engaged woman. She has a future husband, so everyone must have one—as when one is suffering from the coughs or the sneezes, it is a great comfort if others are similarly afflicted.
I must add that no attempts are being made to match me—or none of which I am aware. Perhaps I shall wake up one day and find myself ushered before an altar, but I rather suspect not. It pleases me to report that my own fortunes are being quite overlooked. In fact, dear Eliza, it is your two sisters who form the objects of all this activity. Now, please admit it—you do find this amusing! I knew that you would.