“… I do feel for poor Isabella. As a vicarage wife myself, then—alas!—a vicarage widow, I know better than anyone what has to be done and the emotions entailed. I shall never, never forget your brother Henry’s glee when it was his turn to take over Steventon. It is not pleasant to witness the elation of your successor in gaining what you have lost. Not a thought for us or our feelings! No respect for our home or possessions! Naught but a rapacious—rapacious!—desire to get all that he could.”
The pain had now eased, yet Cassandra still begged for a strong dose of laudanum. She felt an overwhelming desire for a very deep sleep.
* * *
THERE WAS, THOUGH, ONE POSITIVE aspect to this brush with her Maker, and for that Cassandra was grateful. Even before the crisis she had started to develop an affection for dear Isabella, that strange little romantic who had never felt a breath of romance. To that she could now add respect.
She had already discounted Isabella’s lack of domestic abilities. After all, Cassandra told herself, running a house—though important, and someone did have to do it—was not the only indicator of personal depth. On her first full day here, she had hoped that the true talent of her hostess would be revealed. And now, thanks to this unfortunate business, it had been.
Isabella was born to physic the sick: That much was clear. Her potions were equal to those of the highest apothecary; she applied them with wisdom as if properly trained. Her manner was all kindness but, on top of that, sensible—one might even call it professional. What a comfort she must have been to her ailing parents. What a comfort she was now to Cassandra.
“You know, my dear, I owe my life to you,” she proclaimed. This was, by her own standards, a rare outburst of the highest emotion, though her voice was so weak it took the force from her words.
“Nonsense.” Isabella lifted her, straightened the bed linen. “Even at the crisis, I could feel that stubborn determination within you.” She smiled with approval. “Your strength is extraordinary. It will take more than a fever to undo you, Cassandra. That I can see.” She settled down in the armchair. “Now, would you like me to read, or are you fit for conversing today?”
“Please, the latter. Tell me, how passed your morning? What goes on in the world of the well?”
“My best pupil was in with me earlier. Poor Winterbourne’s boy. Such a good head for numbers.”
Cassandra was now in the calm, tedious process of convalescence. Not yet well enough for downstairs, she was at least less of a nuisance to the household. Dinah left her alone, and a meek daily maid came in her place.
But each afternoon Isabella sat with her, and that was always the best part of her day. Through her life, Cassandra’s happiest moments had been passed in the company of excellent women. They had all, of course, sadly departed. Oh, she missed and thought of them constantly, and of one above all.
“His poor mother has never recovered herself, but he, I believe, could have a future. My scheme is to bring him on as well as I am able and then introduce him to my good friend at the Hungerford Apothecary. An apprenticeship like that will make all the difference to the unfortunate family…”
Now, here, in this vicarage, Cassandra had found another, most unexpected, excellent woman. She had quite forgotten the feeling—that deep, joyful, and satisfying feeling brought by good feminine companionship. What a blessing to enjoy it once more.
* * *
WITHIN DAYS CASSANDRA WAS WELL enough to rise from her bed for just a few hours, and sit in the armchair with the sun on her face. Soon, she thought, she might have the strength to not only hold a novel but also to read it herself. Isabella rushed off to select something and was gone for some time.
“I do apologize. You must think us terribly wanting.” Isabella’s mouth twisted with shame. “I fear this is all I could find.”
“Ah. Peveril of the Peak.” Cassandra’s arms drooped at the weight of it. “Well, I have certainly not read this one and am slightly surprised that you, as my doctor, might think of suggesting it. Should you soon find me in horrible relapse, you know what to blame.”
Isabella, laughing, left her alone, and Cassandra did, at least, try to start reading. But it seemed she was in no sort of mood for Sir Walter. That must be a positive sign. As she had never before known the mood required for that overblown nonsense, her old spirits were surely returning.
She dropped the book onto the table beside her. Perhaps, at last, she was well enough to return to her project? So much time had been lost; she could not impose on them here for much longer. Pulling herself to her feet, she waited for the dizziness to pass and then moved over to the bed, slipped her hand under the mattress, felt about, felt again … And soon was searching most frantically through the length of the bedding. Under the pillows. Between the sheets. All over the room. There was nothing. She gasped, clutching at the bedpost to stop herself falling. Import coursed through her.
The letters were gone.
11
Kintbury, April 1840
FOR THREE DAYS CASSANDRA WAS powerless. All she could do was stay in her bedroom and fret at the impossibility of her situation. It was unthinkable that she might ask for any sort of explanation. After all, the letters were not her property. She had no business keeping them. But was their removal simply a matter of innocent housekeeping, or was there a more sinister motive in play?
At last the afternoon came when she felt almost well again. Isabella came in and exclaimed at the sight of her visitor, dressed.
“Well, you are better. Look at you! Quite back to life.” She placed a hand on a forehead and declared it temperate; she examined an eye and announced it was clear.
“Thank you, my dear Isabella. And may I apologize again for all the disruption I have caused you? I am very aware that maintaining my sickroom proved an onerous burden on your already stretched household.”
“Not at all.” Isabella looked around and assessed the state of the chamber. The process did not take her long. “I wish now that we had given you more comfortable quarters. It is I who should say sorry to you. It must not have been pleasant, spending so long in here. We thought— Well, we were wrong.” She ran a finger along the chest top. “And I cannot pretend that much energy has been spent on cleaning while you were ailing. I fear the daily maid has never been known to perform above or beyond.”
Cassandra pondered. So that left her with two possible suspects: Mary, who certainly had been given the opportunity. Oh, why had she begged for that laudanum? It was pure self-indulgence! And Dinah. Difficult Dinah—who knew both what was hidden and where.
“There is no need to sit with me now, Isabella. Why not go off into the village? I am quite sure you have some good work or other to be getting on with.”
“Well, there is some calf’s-foot jelly I must take to the Winterbournes. You will not mind being deserted?”
Indeed, Cassandra would very much welcome it. She insisted. There were things she must do.
* * *
AFTER A SUITABLE HIATUS Cassandra rose and, for the first time in weeks, reentered the world. She stood on the landing, and sensed the particular sort of silence that prevailed only in an empty household. How different it felt, sounded, and smelled with its family away. The personality altered. It sank back into its shell. She wondered how it would behave when the Fowles had left the new man in charge. It was pleasing that Steventon had stayed in her family, and she never had to witness a stranger treating their rectory as his home.