Cassandra's Sister (11 page)

Henry had promised to “try and join them later”, and had arrived in time to do so. So why did he change his mind about entering the house when he saw her? If she had not been there, it was clear he would have continued up the steps. She could only conclude that he had expected the party to be over earlier. He had expected his sisters to be in bed, and the house in darkness.

Beside her Cassandra stirred, flailing an arm which struck Jenny's shoulder. Jenny gently returned the arm to her sister's side, thinking, thinking…

When Cassandra had settled again Jenny fumbled for the candle-holder by the bed. Feeling her way to the desk, she lit the candle. The flame showed her that Eliza's housemaid had tidied the desk that morning: the pen holder, the inkstand, the blotter were all in their places, and the pen-wipers had been replaced.

Elinor and Marianne
lay in her trunk. Stealthily she took the manuscript out and placed it before her on the desk. She chose a pen and loaded it with ink. A drip fell on the manuscript. She blotted it slowly, watching her fingers turn the page over and back again, frowning and thinking.

Her encounter with Henry had given her another glimpse into the complications of other people's lives. She was quite sure that he had been in pursuit of something when he alighted from the carriage. It could not be a woman – surely if he had wanted to meet women he would have attended the party. So what was it?

A new idea stabbed her heart, but she made herself consider it. What was the other thing men pursued endlessly, apart from women? Money. Always money, as Eliza had told her over another candle flame, on another sleepless night. Henry had no money, Eliza had a great deal. Could he be borrowing from her? Could her brother be in debt to his cousin?

Jenny tried to think.
Men's motives are many, and often obscure
, she told herself.
Mama always maintains that Henry would rather say anything than own the truth, and this is an excellent indication of how fathomless are the depths of his private business
.

Somewhere in this evening's events lay the resolution of
Elinor and Marianne
, for which she had been searching for weeks and weeks. It was hidden amid Henry's secretiveness and her own suspicion that his behaviour had its origin in financial concerns. She chewed the end of the pen, thinking, thinking…

Marianne and Elinor must both suffer from someone else's secrecy. The point of the story was, after all, to show the two sisters' different ways of braving the world's disappointments. Marianne's lover must marry someone else for money, and Elinor's must be separated from her by a youthful indiscretion.
Women and money, money and women
, she said to herself.
It is the way of the world
.

She found a fresh piece of paper and replenished her ink, which had dried by now. Slowly at first, then faster, she filled page, then another. Then she sat back and chewed the pen for a few moments, and began to write again.

“Jenny! What are you doing?”

Cassandra had awoken, alarmed. She began to get out of bed, her braided hair swinging. “Is something amiss?”

Elinor, Marianne and their lovers disappeared into the desk drawer. Jenny picked up the candle. “Do not stir yourself. I could not sleep, that is all.”

“Are you unwell?”

“Not at all.” Jenny got back into her side of the bed and pulled the covers up. “I could not stop thinking about my story. I had to get up and write down my thoughts before I forgot them. Now, let us both go to sleep, or I shall be fit for nothing in the morning.”

“You may sleep late,” said Cassandra, already drowsy again. “There are no chores to do at Eliza's.”

But neither sister was able to sleep late. The church clock at the corner of the street had barely struck six when Jenny awoke to find Eliza at the bedside. Looking gravely beautiful in a silk house-gown, with her hair still in curling papers, she shook Cassandra awake. Jenny hoisted herself up on her elbows. “Whatever has happened?”

“A letter has come by express post,” explained Eliza. “You are both to return to Godmersham at once. From there Henry will take you back to Steventon.”

“What is it?” whispered Cassandra.

“It is your sister-in-law.”

“Elizabeth?”
Cassandra put her hand to her throat.

“No – James's wife, Anne,” said Eliza. “Yesterday evening…” She caught her breath. Her voice began to shake; she would soon be in tears. “Suddenly she was struck by some sort of seizure, and died.”

Cassandra gave a small shriek and collapsed against her sister. Upon the foot of the bed lay the silk shawl Anne had embroidered for her only a few weeks ago.

“Our poor dear James witnessed it all,” said Eliza. She gripped Jenny's hand. “I cannot stop thinking of that precious child, Anna. To lose one's mother at two years old! Oh, my dears, how frivolous and stupid my little party seems now!”

“H
ere is a piece of news for you, Miss Jenny,” said Mama, looking meaningfully over the top of her spectacles. “His mother writes here that Charles Fowle has gone off to London, to study at the Inns of Court, after which he expects to be called to the Bar.”

It was December, the month in which Jenny's birthday fell. This year's, her twentieth, had been spent without Cassandra, who was spending Christmas at her future in-laws' house in Berkshire and would not be back until Tom had embarked on a new chapter in his life, a journey to the West Indies. The winter was as cold as the previous one, when they had been prevented from attending the Christmas ball at Manydown House. Mama had insisted Jenny quit the upstairs sitting-room and sit with her by the drawing-room fire.

“You are still not quite well from that little fever you had,” she had said briskly, “and if you start coughing, there will be no stopping you all winter. Anyway, with a two-year-old living in the house there is no time for writing. Come along, Aunt Jane.”

So Jenny had unwillingly laid down her pen, wrapped herself in her thickest shawl, and was now sitting in the inglenook, watching the fire.

“Mrs Fowle seems very pleased that Charles is going to be a lawyer,” said Mama. She consulted the letter again, then laid it in her lap. “Now, Jenny, what profession would you have predicted that he would follow? I must confess that when he was a boy I always rather saw him as a soldier.”

“I remember that he used to march around with a stick over his shoulder for a rifle,” said Jenny. “But then, if you recall, my own favourite pastime at that age was playing with model animals, yet now I have no inclination even to own a pet cat.”

Her mother was not listening. She had bent down to attend to Anna's latest request. “No, you cannot have my scissors, precious one, you are too little. Where is Baby? Did you leave her upstairs?”

Baby, a beloved doll, had been squashed behind a sofa cushion earlier that morning by an excited Anna, entranced by Kitty's cleaning of the drawing-room. Following the maid about with a hand-brush had amused her greatly, but only for half an hour.

“There is nothing for the child to do,” observed Mama, retrieving the doll. “You and Cass always had each other, and when Charles was a baby he and Frank were inseparable. But a child alone… No, Anna, you
can
not
have my scissors. Think of something, Jenny!”

“I looked after her all day yesterday and have no more ideas.”

“Is that so?” Mama was exasperated. “What is amiss with you this morning?”

“Nothing, except that I am not quite well, as you have already told me. I would like to rest.”

“So
I
am the one to run around after Anna today, am I?”

“Mama, I was with her all day—”

“Yesterday. So you said. Well, when you have your own child, you will be its mother
every
day. I only hope your future husband will have funds enough for a good nursemaid.”

With an effort Jenny retained her patience. “Mama, I did not mean to sound selfish. But with Cass away my reserves of invention are under strain. Much as I love Anna, and however good a child she is, sometimes I need my sister to help me with her.”

Jenny's mother took Anna on her lap. “Come, you sit up here with grandmama, and we shall nurse Baby. Shall you sing her a lullaby, to help her go to sleep?” Her eyes darted towards her daughter. “Speaking of future husbands, how much do you think a lawyer earns these days?”

“Oh, Mama,
please
!” pleaded Jenny, though she was relieved to see the mischief on her mother's face. Sometimes, and this morning seemed to be one of those times, she struggled to avoid losing Mama's favour, and however momentary the loss, she was always very glad to get it back. “May I speak of future husbands too?” she asked. “What do you suppose Tom is saying to Cassandra at this very minute?”

“That is not for our ears, Jenny.”

“But we know he is wishing her goodbye.”

“Very likely,” agreed Mama. Anna's head lay against her grandmama's breast. The child had dropped Baby onto the floor, and her chin had sunk onto her chest. Mama stroked her granddaughter's hair. “Very likely,” she repeated softly.

Jenny knew that Mama was picturing the scene as vividly as she herself could see it. There was Cass in her bonnet and cloak, smiling bravely in the icy wind as Tom threw his pack onto the roof of the coach. Jenny knew exactly how he would look, holding his hat on with one hand and clutching his pocket-book in the other. He would stoop from his lanky height and kiss Cass's cheek, and his mother's. Then he would shake his father's hand and climb up after his pack. Thrifty to the last, he would sit outside with the driver in all weathers.

“Tom will have left home by now,” observed Jenny. “He is on his way to Falmouth to wait for his ship to sail. Falmouth is in Cornwall, is it not?”

“It was the last time I looked at a map,” said Mama, still caressing her grandchild. The child's eyes were closing. “Mrs Fowle mentions in her letter that he has a hard few weeks ahead of him; but the Fowles are all very proud of him for volunteering like this. And so should we be.”

Cass had confided to Jenny the strongest reason for Tom's deciding to be an army chaplain and sail to the West Indies with his regiment. The colonel had offered Tom a better living when the expedition was over.
A large house and garden, with a stable and dairy
, Cassandra had written from the Reverend and Mrs Fowle's home.
It is
in Shropshire
,
a village parish within jaunting distance of Shrewsbury. What could be more perfect? Tom is apprehensive about going to the West Indies, but he is prepared to do it in order to secure our future together. Oh, Jenny, I wish I had your talent for writing, so that I could express on paper how dearly I love him!

But Jenny had not communicated Cassandra's words to Mama. With no sign of the war abating, she could not cause her mother further anxiety by telling her that the date of Cassandra's wedding, and indeed her future security, depended upon Tom Fowle's success with the regiment. But it was a commission he had little inclination for, and it might be dangerous into the bargain.

Instead, she drew the shawl closer around her shoulders and said, “We
are
proud, Mama. And we shall add him to the list of soldiers and sailors we pray for every night.”

Mama gathered the almost-sleeping Anna into her arms and rose carefully. “Jenny, my dear, you are not aware of this, since I take care to hide it so well. But I live on my nerves, wondering every day if bad news will come. And although Henry is safe at the University for the present, when he has finished his degree he will have to go back to the militia. Our dear Frank is still at sea, and Charles – dear God, Jenny, he is only sixteen! – will soon follow. Yes, we who are left behind can only ‘stand and wait', as the poet says.” She indicated with her head for Jenny to open the door. “And, by the way,” she added as Jenny did so, “the invitation from the Biggs came today. The Manydown ball is to take place two weeks after Christmas, while Cass is still at the Fowles'. But I take it
you
wish to go, snow permitting…”

It was strange, attending a ball without Cassandra. And it was cold in the carriage, clad in evening dress in January. Jenny grasped her fan and the little beaded evening bag Martha Lloyd had lent her, feeling nervous though she knew she should not. She would be among friends, and she was already among relatives. James sat opposite her in the carriage and Henry by her side.

James smiled indulgently whenever she caught his eye. “You look very well tonight,” he told her. “Does she not, Henry?”

Henry was always kind, but not always careful of his words. “Yes, indeed. And without Cassandra at her side, perhaps our youngest sister will be noticed rather more than usual?”

“I would rather Cass
were
here,” confessed Jenny.

Manydown looked glorious. On their latest visit to Steventon, Alethea and Catherine Bigg had described with great excitement how they had persuaded their father to decorate the house more extravagantly than usual. “You will be all astonishment,” Alethea had predicted. “Fairyland will be a very poor second!”

Jenny was not sure that the version of fairyland in
her
head could ever be a very poor second to anything, but when Henry handed her down from the carriage she gasped. The house blazed like a bonfire, with flickering chandeliers visible in the ballroom, and upstairs curtains draped back to reveal illuminations in all the windows. Flares bedecked the garden too, and even the greenhouse was lit so brightly it no longer looked like a greenhouse, but a transparent palace worthy of the grandest of princesses.

“Here are the Austens!”

A female voice, which turned out to belong to Elizabeth Bigg, and the scarcely less high-pitched one of her fifteen-year-old brother, mingled in greeting.