“Mr. Hobday enjoys the works of the Mesdames Burney and Edgeworth?” Cassy was startled. “I do not know why, but I had presumed he was of the more scientific persuasion.”
“Oh”—his proud mother smiled—“he is a scientist, an artist, a philosopher, an aficionado of the novel…” She flicked a hand at the universe. “I believe he could take over the world, if he did not insist on caring for his invalid mama.”
It was as if he had been created by some novelist to Jane’s own specifications. Cassy’s mind worked busily: One part was occupied with the practical matter of effecting a meeting, the other with the register of her own growing irritation. Was it possible that Mr. Hobday had in fact too many perfections? It could all quite get on one’s nerves.
“We are very close. I think, sometimes, too close. You see”—she turned to Mrs. Austen, with an instinct that this fact might be of interest—“we lost his father five years ago.”
She was right. “I am so sorry to hear that.” Her mother leaned forward, alert: a dog in the hope of a bone. “Was it anything particularly—”
“A tumor.”
This met with great gratification. “A tumor!”
“We saw the best men, but there was nothing to be done.” Mrs. Hobday gave a sad smile. “It has left me with a certain distrust of the medical profession.”
“Indeed. However, I would recommend the local apothecary here. I do not know if you have tried him since being in Sidmouth?”
“I fear it is too late for that.”
“Oh! Mrs. Hobday! I am so very sorry!”
She laughed. “Do not worry, Mrs. Austen. I am not dying, or not yet awhile. No, we depart first thing in the morning, taking the diligence to Exeter. My son despairs of Devon curing me. He has already arranged for us to head off to Europe.” Here she looked at Cassy. “Though I suspect he is regretting that now.”
“To Europe?” Mrs. Austen was aghast. “But, my dear lady, there is a war on! You cannot possibly—”
“Yes, we are aware, thank you, Mrs. Austen. And let me reassure you, we do not intend to travel through France. Though, should it be necessary, my son is not the sort of man to let a wretch like Napoleon get in his way.” There was more than a hint of self-satisfaction in Mrs. Hobday’s smile.
“I do not doubt it. Well then: That is a pity,” said Mrs. Austen, with feeling. “When we have only now made your acquaintance.”
“Quite so. It seems a little previous to us, too. But perhaps your family might be here next summer?”
“Sadly, not. Oh, it is indeed remarkably pleasant. We are very much enjoying ourselves. But it is our retirement, you see, and we mean to travel quite widely. Dawlish is the top of our list.”
* * *
SOON AFTER THAT, CASSY FOUND she was tiring of Sidmouth. The pleasures of the beach were exhausted; society brittle, empty-headed, and too fashionable; she had no desire to revisit the cliffs. Even the weekly assembly did not seem worth her while. What, after all, was the purpose of dancing? She could not remember. So she stayed home with Anna, and read.
The weather caught on to the mood of disappointment and reflected it back at her. The clouds rolled in; the rain poured down; the blue vista was consigned to history. The wind that whipped off the sea brought a chill with it. Yellow muslin was now quite inappropriate. Cassy went back with relief to her hot, heavy black.
15
Kintbury, April 1840
Cassandra needed air. Frail she might be since her illness, shaken she surely was, but she could endure that small room, these letters, those memories no longer. Society would offer distraction; some small act of usefulness would restore her spirits. She resolved to go up into the village and help Isabella.
As soon as she alighted in the hall, Pyramus put on a show of welcome so exuberant as to be almost demented. Cassandra was disquieted to find how much this moved her. It had been years, decades even, since she had elicited such a response from any living being. She patted him fondly and rubbed at his ear. Of course he was still but a dog. Yet, within the limitations of the species—for which he could be held in no way accountable—he was clearly exceptionally fine. This time she made a point of inviting him to accompany her, and was delighted when he chose to accept.
Together they walked out of the vicarage and onto the lane. Cassandra’s hope was to catch Isabella at the Winterbournes’. The family lived in the warren of mean dwellings behind the shops, near the cliff that hung over the canal. Her progress was not easy—this hill was a lot steeper than she remembered—but it was not an unpleasant outing. There was sun on her back and the happy sound of birdsong. Pyramus matched her pace in the fashion of a gentleman, and her mind cleared with every slow step.
Up on the street now, she exchanged greetings with the blacksmith and asked after his boy—the inevitably full answer allowed her to take a discreet rest—then she turned onto the rambling path through the cottages. Here, families were squashed, haphazardly, into every free inch so that an outsider could not hope to find his way through. Miss Austen, though, knew exactly where she was going. She always made a point of visiting when she was here.
William Winterbourne had been a ringleader of the agricultural riots ten years before. Cassandra had not known him personally, but he was said to have been a mild-mannered, hard-working fellow, and she chose to believe it. The fact that he swung at the magistrate with a hammer in the heat of the moment was clearly unfortunate, and it was hard to blame Fulwar for rounding him up and handing him in. No one could have anticipated that he should be hanged for his crime. But such was his fate, and he had ever since been a source of unease on the collective familial conscience.
She reached the dark corner that housed what was left of the family. The door was open, and she let herself in.
“Hello?”
She peered through the gloom, across the bedding laid out on the mud floor. There was no sign of Isabella or any children, just Mrs. Winterbourne slumped a-heap by the damp wall with the calf’s-foot jelly beside her. Cassandra looked upon this sad remnant of a person and felt a cold anger. What sort of justice was this, that a good woman should be sentenced to a lifetime of misery for her husband’s one thoughtless crime?
There came a sudden disturbance. A square, solid shape loomed at the threshold. A gentleman—or a man, at least—came into the room.
“Madam.” He acknowledged her with no more than a quick flick of the head and crossed the floor with a sure, firm step. He gained on her position. In the half-light, she could not quite see his face and began to feel apprehensive.
But then he dropped to his knees at Mrs. Winterbourne’s side.
“So now, me pet.” His accent was the broadest of Berkshire. He put down something that appeared to be a medical bag, and took her hand tenderly. “How are we now, then? Bin up at all since morning?”
Was this the doctor of whom Isabella had spoken, he who had nursed Fulwar so well at his deathbed? Ordinarily Cassandra would endeavor some conversation: perform that ritualistic exchange of social connection that we all do when meeting a stranger, in the hope of imposing some order on this vast, difficult world.