Cassy wanted to scream, rage at the Furies who had conspired against her, but did not. She simply reminded herself to be grateful, and returned to her tasks. It would be wise to reply to Eliza later: The matter was too delicate to rush at. She moved on to the next in her pile.
“Ah! This is from Edward. He invites me to Kent. Henry can deliver me…” She read on.
“Yes, well, do remember that Elizabeth is approaching her confinement.” Jane sounded caution. “I am quite sure they would welcome you, but truly, Cass, you are not currently strong enough to take on all that work.”
“Strong!” The word flashed through her. “I am perfectly strong, Jane. And, anyway, they cannot be expecting to use me at this sort of notice. Elizabeth is bound to have her arrangements in place. After all, they knew that I could not be avail—” She stopped. She had not been asked to help with this baby because this was the month in which she was expected to wed. “I think you are being too cynical, Jane. Listen. He writes: I think of you often, dear Sister, and would do anything to be with you there, to offer you comfort. You must understand that this is not the right moment to leave my family. But if it would help you to come to us here … You see? Edward is simply being kind.”
Jane, though unconvinced, did not argue further but returned to her writing; Cassy sat and thought for a while. The fact was that she was finding her position at home in the rectory difficult. She had long ago become used to pleasing; she liked to look at her parents and see contentment, pride, a sense of satisfaction reflected back in their eyes. This new identity—the black-clad Tragedy Queen—compounded her misery. Her father looked across the silent dinner table and sighed; her mother burst into tears whenever she walked into a room. She was reduced now, subsumed: the symbol of loss.
There was even, for the first time in their lives, a new awkwardness with her sister. On that first afternoon after Mary and James had broken the news, Jane had been horribly shaken by the one, short, private outburst of grief that could not be contained. Since then Cassy had resolved never to expose her to it again, with the result that her nights were yet more uncomfortable. In their snug, little bedroom, she had to feign sleep until Jane herself slept. Only then could she turn on her side, gag her mouth with a handkerchief, and weep silently until she was spent.
They were, the four of them, now locked into this unhappy situation. All needed to break free of it. To Kent, Cassy decided, she must go.
* * *
“MY DEAR SISTER!” EDWARD AUSTEN stood in the elegant porch of his gracious home, sleek with contentment and acting for all the world as if nothing had changed since the last time they met. “I hope your journey was pleasant? You picked a fine day for it.” He guided her through to the ample hall. “I know you will want to gather yourself”—the footman saw to her luggage, a maid vanished her cloak away—“but, I must tell you, the children are quite wild with excitement. If you do not soon go to the nursery, they may be in danger of bursting!”
Cassy was on the stairs before she noticed that her brother had made no mention of her bereavement or her pallor or her now-skeletal frame. Of course Edward had already dealt with the matter in their earlier correspondence. He would feel no need to raise it again. With a sense of relief she followed the maid down the long corridor, past a sequence of doors opening onto sunny, south-facing bedrooms: There was space enough here to contain any number of heartbroken young ladies, where they could weep undisturbed. She was shown into her own room, tested the mattress on the pretty bed with its muslin hangings, and found it to her liking.
A wisteria bloom peeked through the window. She lifted the sash, drank in the scent, surveyed the Kentish countryside arranging itself fetchingly into the distance, and then looked down to the lawn, where her two brothers walked side by side. Resting her forehead on the cool glass, she watched and wondered if they—as everyone at Steventon did, constantly—were talking about her. But studying the set of their heads, catching the occasional outburst of carefree laughter, she deduced they were not. These men had more cheerful matters to concern them; neither was minded to dwell on misfortune for long. And she thought: All this is just what I needed. Here, for a while, I might find some relief.
* * *
EDWARD LIVED IN A WHOLE other world from the rest of the Austens. Though not the most intelligent or talented member of the family—indeed, far from it—he was the luckiest by some considerable measure. Through the simple virtues of his charm and easy good nature, he had been adopted at the age of fourteen by their distant relations, the childless and wealthy Mr. and Mrs. Knight. His current home, Rowling—far beyond anything his siblings could dream of—was but a resting post on the route to his eventual destination: He would one day inherit three extensive estates—Steventon, Godmersham, and Chawton—and live the enviable life of the well-landed gentleman. In the meantime, Rowling would do.
To the blessings of a generous income and plenty of acres to manage, he could add three charming children and a beautiful wife who had wealth of her own. Why must money marry money, when the world would be so much happier were that not so?
Edward’s wife, Elizabeth, a woman of exquisite manners and breeding, was always unfailingly polite to her Austen relations—actual affection she reserved for the much richer Knights—but, Cassy well knew, she did not quite approve of them all. Jane she clearly found too clever and eccentric—somewhat satirical, always reading, and at Rowling that was thought to be a little bit odd. Mrs. George Austen: Well, Mrs. George Austen … Well-meaning and so good and kind, but of course she too was cleverer, and more outspoken, than good society required. But Cassy? Cassy had the great virtue of being unfailingly useful, and the comfort of knowing that—if Elizabeth must have a feminine in-law under her roof—then she was the one always preferred.
On this visit Cassy found in Elizabeth the perfect companion. Elizabeth cared little for much save her husband—whom she adored—her children—each, individually, a marvel—and her charming, well-appointed home. So all this fresh, raw grief did not seem to trouble her unduly. Cassy could sense it, and for that she was grateful.
One afternoon in late May, the two women sat alone in the sunny dressing room upstairs: Elizabeth gazing out at the park; Cassy knitting a shawl for the new baby.
“Oh, Cass, do look! Do look at Fanny out on her pony. There she goes. Oh, the cherub! I must say—do you not agree?—she is already developing the most exquisite seat.”
Cassy looked too, and complied: “She is an exquisite child in every respect. Already a lady, and only four years old.”
Elizabeth sighed with satisfaction and patted the baby inside her. “Perhaps this one will be a sister for her to play with. I think I should like that, after two little boys. Although husbands are—are they not?—always so delighted when one presents them with sons. Hmm.” She thought deeply. “No. I do not think I mind whatever it is, this time.” She shifted uncomfortably. “But I do dearly wish it would come.”
Cassy cast off and started another row: knit one, then purl one. “It cannot be much longer now.”
“Oh, indeed. And I am so grateful to have you here, after all. To think I was going to have to manage without you! I confess I had not come up with another arrangement to suit me.” She smiled, complacent. “It has worked out well.” Then had the grace to look, momentarily, ruffled. “Oh, forgive me—I did not mean—”