“Papa?” Jane scoffed, a little too violently. “Fit as a flea! So fit as to put most fleas to shame.”
She led the march down the hill.
“And long may he remain so!” Martha plodded behind them. “Still, he will be wanting James to take over ere too long, I dare say.”
Cassy caught something in her tone: as if Martha knew more than they did. “He is not quite as agile as he was, that is true,” she said thoughtfully. “And Mama’s health is not all it should be. I wonder…”
“The weather is turning. We are in for some rain, girls.”
“What is rain to us, Martha?” Jane spun round, hands outstretched, her cloak dancing about her. “Come on! We have at least a whole hour yet before we have to be home.”
But Cassy opted to return alone, and help her mother prepare for their dinner.
* * *
BY THE TIME SHE WAS IN the back door, Cassy was wet through. She took off her cloak and her boots, put them to dry, and made for her room to change. Passing the parlor, she heard the sounds of conversation within. Her brother James and his wife, Mary, were early—there was a surprise! She reached for the doorknob, fully intending to go in and greet them. And then James’s voice drifted through to her.
“So, Father, I am—we are—keen now to advance. As I enter my thirty-sixth year, it is an appropriate time for me to assume greater responsibility and perform to the full my role as a Man of the Church. I hope you agree that my talents are more than equal to the task ahead of me.”
“Oh, my dear boy,” Mr. Austen proclaimed, “I need not assure you of that. You are an exemplary curate to me and you will make an exemplary rector to the parish.”
“Exemplary,” Mary repeated with fervor, adding quietly but urgently: “And then, Austen—the house. Remember: the house.”
“Ah, yes. The house. I—we, that is— It seems, with our growing family—”
“We now have a child.” Mary could not resist any opportunity to mention her triumph in that regard.
“You have two children, my dear,” said Mrs. Austen. “Let us not forget Anna.”
“Yes, of course. I mean to say that we do now have a son.”
“And it occurs to us—it occurs to me, rather—that perhaps the space here may be proving too much for you both, with only the girls. Slightly smaller accommodation, less tiring for you, Mother, might be appropriate to the diminishing needs of your household as it is presently arranged.”
She heard her father stand up and start pacing. “That you inherit the living has long been our agreement, and you have no need to doubt it. The question of timing that transfer, though … Perhaps I have caused some confusion by living too well and too long.”
“George, my dear! Please.”
“’Tis but the fact of it, my love. We might have presumed that the Lord would take the matter into His own hands before now, but it seems He has other plans for us. Thank you for raising this, James. I have no desire to stand in the path of a good man’s advancement. That cannot be God’s intention. Allow me to discuss it in detail with your mother in private and, with His guidance, I have confidence we will be led swiftly and easily to a judgment of benefit to us all.”
Cassy pulled away and ran up soundlessly up to their room. Heart thumping, she fell onto the bed and digested that which she should not have heard. It should come as no surprise. This was always meant to happen, sooner or later. It was simply that she had not been expecting it now. Where might they all go? She had no way of knowing, and did not expect to be consulted. This was their parents’ decision, and theirs alone. By failing to marry, the daughters had forfeited any say in that matter. Cassy could accept it. This was her new life: to live helpfully, invisibly. She now viewed her own fate with the greatest indifference. But Jane?
For Jane this would come as a terrible blow.
* * *
IN THE EVENING, AT GEORGE AUSTEN’S request, Jane read from Elinor and Marianne. Her parents sat each side of the fireplace, each mirroring the position of the other—hands folded in laps, the light of pleasure on their creased, worn, old faces—like a sweet pair of bookends. How they loved to listen to their Jane.
“Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! Worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed to be otherwise. Use those words again and you will not hear back from me.”
From time to time Mary leaned across to their mother, in an attempt to engage her in domestic conversation—“Is the pig back from the butcher?” “Now, your chutney receipt”—but Mrs. Austen firmly rebuffed her.
“Excuse me, and be assured that I meant no offense to you, by writing, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit…”
Cassy sat with her sewing and felt soothed. As ever, Jane’s words quelled her own troubled thoughts, and returned her to optimism. She might even have felt something approaching contentment, if only James would not fidget and smirk in that fashion. But jealousy in one—albeit a mild, silly jealousy that should not warrant notice—must always poison the mood of the whole company.
“… there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank.”
After half an hour, James could bear it no longer. He leaped to his feet, determined to make some interruption.
“Very clever, Jane. I must say. And so brave of you to even attempt that which has undone many a good writer: the epistolary form.”
“Indeed so!” Mary joined in, keen that the tedium be brought to an end. “‘The epistolary form’!” she repeated, obliging as a parrot, and with a parrot’s comprehension of the words she repeated. “Very challenging, I am sure.”
“There is an accolade.” Jane looked up and smiled. “I appreciate it, coming from a writer such as yourself.”
“Quite so. I wonder if we should not return home now, my dear?” He strode about the room, retaking command of it. “The weather and so on.”
“But we have only had reading, Austen. I do not feel as if we have yet had an evening here. Let us just talk among ourselves for a while. Or”—her eyes lit up—“perhaps you, my love, might read to us now?” She spoke to the room. “I know we would all enjoy that.”
“Oh, yes please, James.” Jane sat up, all enthusiasm. “Do show us all how it is done.”
“Only if you insist.” Insistence was provided. “Well then.” At once the journey home lost its urgency. “Perhaps my ‘Sonnet to Autumn’ is most appropriate.” James settled down and began.
“Nymph of the straw-crowned hat, & kirtle pale,
Mild Autumn come, and cheer thy longing Swain;
Whether thou pleased survey’st the yellow plain
Bend in light currents to the Western gale…”
And Cassy’s thoughts, so recently calmed, stirred again—rose up and overwhelmed her. What next? she asked herself as the sonnet trundled on. What came next in her tortuous journey? Where was life taking her now?