Tigers bared their teeth at her, elephants their tusks. Under glass, a menacing snake—she chose to presume stuffed—was coiled, ready to strike. On every surface were enough swords to sever the heads from a multitude of rural workers impudent enough to ask for fair pay. A curious fragrance filled the room, which brought to mind some receipt of Martha’s. It must be her curry, though there was some other musklike ingredient in play. She looked around to find somewhere to settle. “What interesting things you have accumulated, dear.”
Mary-Jane picked up an animal skin and tossed it on the carpet. She watched, waited for the dust clouds to clear; then she indicated the bench: “Sit yourself down here.”
The guest did as bid, while her hostess lowered herself to the floor—with some effort as her limbs were not long—crossed her legs, and reached for her pipe.
Cassandra studied her for a moment. Again, like Isabella, Mary-Jane was not what one would expect to be the issue of Eliza. Her friend had been beautiful and gracious. These daughters must surely have come as something of a disappointment: None of them had been blessed with the mother’s many charms. Of course it could be a burden to a girl to be born of a perfect mother: to feel that she is making no contribution to humanity’s progress. Perhaps that had affected them. In that regard she and Jane had been lucky. Mrs. George Austen was of course splendid, too, in so many ways, but not least in her casual disregard for the concealment of her flaws.
“I had heard you were here, Cassandra. Forgive me for not visiting you,” Mary-Jane was now saying. “Dare not risk it at this time of year, when the days are so short. I could get trapped there! By darkness!” Her small brown eyes flared at the thought.
“Oh, I quite understand. And Isabella has been looking after me quite impeccably.”
Mary-Jane tamped down her pipe. “Brave little thing. Heart of an ox. No idea how she manages there alone.” She took a long draw. “Still, she will be coming to live with me when the old house is cleared out. Safe here. Away from the natives.”
“Ah, is that settled, then? She is to join you? I was not sure—”
“What else would she do?” Mary-Jane shot back, suddenly angry.
Cassandra was quite taken aback by her tone. “Well—”
“Do not tell me there is a return to that nonsense!” She was shouting. “My parents would not tolerate it! They would turn in their graves!”
“‘Nonsense’? What nonsense?” Cassandra was starting to feel nervous. It was as if Fulwar were miraculously resurrected and returned to them. “I am not sure I quite follow—”
Mary-Jane calmed down. “No? That is all right, then.” She puffed on her pipe. “No harm done.”
* * *
CASSANDRA STAYED ONLY AS LONG as was courteous, and not a minute more. With enormous relief she returned to the vicarage, more delighted than was usual to find the reassuring figure of her niece, Mary’s daughter Caroline, waiting in the hall.
“Aunt Cass, how good—” When she was able, Caroline drew back from the unexpected, untypical warmth of the greeting. “Heavens. Are you quite well? You seem not much yourself.”
Cassandra, who did not like to appear foolish, composed herself. “Yes, thank you. Never robust, as you know, but doing quite well enough. What a pleasure to have you here for the day.”
“Not all pleasure, Aunt.” Caroline lowered her voice and tipped her head to one side. “My mother is in there. We are come here to work.”
“Ah.” Cassandra shed cloak and bonnet, steeled herself, and made for the drawing room. All brightness, she said: “Mary. Good day.” Then: “Oh, dear!”
Mary was laid out on the sofa, with one leg balanced on a high pile of pillows and a collection of medicines by her side. “It is the most cursed luck, Cassandra. I woke up this morning, all happy anticipation of a solid day’s labor, only to find that while I slept my foot had become most horribly afflicted.”
“Your foot?” Cassandra moved to the patient, examined her, but could find no obvious external symptoms. “How strange.”
“Well, indeed. As you know, I have always been unusually lucky in the foot department. Mrs. Bunbury suffers with hers most particularly. Never stops moaning, to the extent that it is hard to find sympathy. One does value bravery in others, above all. And of course, though I am no stranger to suffering, my feet are among the best parts of me. I had no idea of the agony they can cause one, till now.” She lifted a limb, gasped, and fell back. “The upshot of it—and this distresses me greatly—is that I cannot do anything but lie here today. Nevertheless, while suffering, I have come up with a table of tasks that the rest of you might accomplish, under my guidance.” She passed the paper to Cassandra, made herself yet more comfortable on the sofa, and added: “Oh, and please tell Dinah we shall, after all, be staying for dinner. I know that none of you would want me to hurry home in this sorry state.”
* * *
THE DAY DID, AT LEAST, pass quickly. The house was moved further toward some sort of order. And Mary’s mysterious condition kept her downstairs and away from the letters. It also forced her away from the dinner table. She took her meal on the sofa, while the three mild-mannered women dined contentedly alone.
It was with some reluctance that they rose and moved through to the drawing room. Caroline—the most hardened by battle with her mother—led the way; Cassandra brought up the rear. At the doorway, she thought to thank Dinah.
“Yes, m’m.” Dinah nodded, heaping plates on a tray. “And how passed your morning? I ’ope you found a pleasant welcome from Mrs. Dexter?”
“Very pleasant, yes, thank you,” Cassandra replied properly. “I was interested to see her—er—fascinating house at last.”
Dinah put down her tray and came close to Miss Austen. “You didn’t say anything did you, m’m? Nothing to suggest we might think of going there?”
Cassandra had always been the kindest of employers. A certain warmth, a dash of intimacy between servant and mistress were, over time, unavoidable and also, managed correctly, promoted efficiency. However, insubordination at this level was not only outrageous—astonishing!—but bound to create difficulties. It must be stamped out at once.
“Thank you for your interest, Dinah. Naturally I could not disclose that which was said in a private conversation. We would like tea, now, please, by the fire.”
* * *
CASSANDRA WATCHED THE TWO cousins busy themselves with pouring and serving, and was struck—and touched—by the familial connection between them. Isabella and Caroline were close in age, and similar in build—trim-enough figures, average sort of height. There was nothing in the appearance of either woman to which an onlooker could reasonably object.
And yet they shared the same destiny—or rather, the lack of one: a spinsterhood spent in long-suffering service to parent and siblings. Not that there was anything wrong with spinsterhood—far from it! But when the spinster herself was so reluctant about it as these two women were: Well, that was a shame.
Isabella, she suspected, was, in some measure, the victim of parental neglect. Fulwar and Eliza had put considerable energy into their eldest daughter Mary-Jane’s match, and when the only candidate insisted on removing her to India, were conspicuously brave in containing their grief. By contrast, the prospects of their younger daughters, who had the virtue of being much easier characters, were not blessed with such keen attention.