Elizabeth put down one baby to pick up another and lay him down to change.
“She reminds me, in that one regard, of my own dear sister,” Cassandra continued. “We had many years, as you know—with your aunt Martha, too, of course—in which we went from pillar to post without ever settling properly. None of us enjoyed them, but they damaged Jane particularly and possibly profoundly. The memory of it all haunts me today. I do sometimes wonder whether, if we had had the chance to settle down sooner, she might not have—well, we might have had a few more years with her. The stress, I believe, took its toll.” She paused again to gather herself. “I could not help Jane—we had little money and no power—but I would like to help Isabella. Her contentment is there in our grasp. As long as you, my dear, consent to take a house with her, then she can stay here in the village. I can see that you are fully consumed here, but surely she will find some occupation for herself. She has her pupils and her good works, I have noticed. So,” she concluded, brightly, “then all will be well.”
“I am happy to do that,” said Elizabeth, with more than a hint of reluctance. “If that is indeed what my sister desires. But I will not be put in the position of forcing such an arrangement upon her, nor am I able to be very much help. I am, as you say, very busy. Now—if you do not mind—we are coming up to the children’s tea and…”
All at once Cassandra and Pyramus were out of the door.
* * *
THE DOG LED HER BACK TOWARD the vicarage. Cassandra knew not by which route, took no notice of landmarks: There was too much to think about, and too much that was troubling. She would have liked to decipher the cryptic messages about Isabella’s wishes, but it was all too mysterious and, frankly, incredible. She had never heard whisper of any dramas before, and was quite sure that Eliza would have shared them. Elizabeth Fowle, she concluded, was a somewhat hysterical woman—no doubt provoked by too much exposure to the works of Sir Walter Scott. The only fact to hold on to was that she had agreed to live with her sister. So there Cassandra’s work had been done.
Which left the unsettling memories of her own sister, stirred up first by her letters and then the stuff of that interview. The exodus from the vicarage, the uncertainty ahead … For the first time Cassandra realized why she was so affected by the predicament of the Fowle ladies. What was happening in Kintbury was so redolent of what had happened in Steventon. It took her back to those turbulent first years of the century.
Jane had been shocked by their father’s retirement and removal to Bath, but had seemed to rally in Sidmouth. Decline set in, though, that following winter. Their father was still alive then; they still had his pension to keep them. There was no sign of the financial privations that were soon to assault them; they were not then forced upon the goodwill of their brothers: Their caps were not yet in their hands. But still, Jane could not settle and found no comfort in society or tranquillity at home.
By the following summer she was beginning to show signs—even to Cassy, who watched through a prism of unqualified sympathy—of becoming that most unwelcome of creatures: the unhappy woman who refused to pretend to be anything but.
16
Dawlish, July 1802
THE LAST BELL HAD CHIMED, and in the small village church the service was already under way as they hurried in and found a back pew.
“After you, my dear.” Mr. Austen ushered his wife into her seat, but his courtesy did nothing to please her.
“This is most unsatisfactory.” Mrs. Austen sat down, red faced from her exertions and quite out of breath. “I shall not see anyone poked away here.”
Cassy and Jane took their places, found their psalmbooks, and each silently prayed that their mother might be quiet for the rest of the service.
“Nor can I hear. Can you hear him, Mr. Austen?” It was always a wonder of science that a whisper could travel so far and so clearly. “Is this man any good?”
A year had passed, and the family had once again chosen to take summer lodgings close to the sea. The ancient church, though, was set back in the country and could only be approached through gardens and fields. No one had expected Mrs. Austen to make the effort that morning—the distance was such that God might excuse her—but she was determined.
For Dawlish, it turned out, was no Sidmouth when it came to society. Its fresh air and beautiful bay were certainly enough to attract visitors. It was ambitious to be an elegant watering place and not just a fishing village, but its transformation was not quite complete. So while it could boast of plenty of bathing machines and doctors for those preoccupied by their own ill disposition, it as yet had no assembly or other entertainments to amuse those who were well.
“I was hoping to see some new faces. I only have view of the back of their hats.”
It was only their first week there, but already Mrs. Austen was worried by the resort’s limitations. This was, of course, not on her own account. She would be perfectly content to spend a quiet summer in the company of her beloved husband and pursuit of their better health. But for her daughters she felt that a pitiful prospect. The girls must make new acquaintances—perhaps (she would never give up hope) some even deeper alliance. With so little else on offer here, it would clearly be foolish to pass up the social opportunities of a full Sunday service. And once she got word that the parson was a bachelor, well: The walk of a mile suddenly seemed no distance at all.
The unmarried man began his sermon for the morning.
Mrs. Austen leaned across: “How does he look?”
Cassy studied him. She too would dearly like the season to yield some person of interest, although he would have to be very interesting indeed to wake Jane out of her doldrums. Could this be such a man? It was not easy to tell from an ordinary face coming over a pulpit. But then he got into his stride.
And Jane turned to her, rolling her eyes to the conventional Anglican heavens. Another evangelist! Must they be everywhere? There was the end of it. Cassy sighed. He would not do.
In time, and it passed slowly, they were able to brush away the brimstone and walk into the sunshine. Out there in the churchyard they would at last get their chance to evaluate the company. Mrs. Austen moved slowly, stopping all the while to look around, keen to see and be seen by as many as possible. Cassy and Jane drifted a few paces ahead, pretending at patience and warming away the cold damp of the church.
“Mrs. Hobday!” Their mother’s voice rang out over the crowd. “I do believe you have followed us!”
“Mama!” Cassy spun round. “Please.”
He was there.
“Oh, dear heavens. It was only my little joke. Why must our offspring be so alarmed every time we dare speak? I am sure your son is not so hard on you, Mrs. Hobday.” Mrs. Austen looked at the gentleman before her. “And is this he? How do you do, Mr. Hobday. Well, I believe I did see you in Sidmouth, eh? I thought I had not, but I remember it clearly. On the Mall, with my eldest daughter.” She reached out and grabbed Cassy, pushing her forward with force. “One evening it was.”
Mr. Hobday bowed. “I could not forget.”
“And may I present my younger daughter,” Mrs. Austen added—covering all options, just in case, should the age difference of three years be an issue—and all the remaining introductions were made.