Cassandra's Sister (5 page)

Jenny began to speak, then hesitated.

“What is it?” asked Eliza. “What were you about to say?”

“I was merely going to observe that even if suitors
do
make addresses, not every woman
can
be married. Fate deals differently with different people. And I sometimes think that if a woman is accomplished, and intelligent, will marriage sufficiently employ her talents?”

“But if you were an accomplished, intelligent
man
,” said Eliza, smiling, “do you not think you would like to marry a woman who could match you?”

“Of course,” Jenny acknowledged, “and I have my own parents' happiness as daily proof of that. But I cannot help noticing that if a woman without fortune does not marry, her only alternative is to rely for the rest of her life upon family or charity.”

Eliza pondered. “Not quite. She could be a governess. Many accomplished and intelligent women are, to be sure.”

“But is that not because it is the only employment open to them?” returned Jenny.

She could not contradict her cousin's well-meaning suggestion. But a governess! Could there be worse torture than living in a house not your own, teaching children whose treatment of you reflected their parents' low estimation of your worth? Rather be married to whoever would take you, and teach your own children, than be a slave to others' whims.

“No, it is not the only employment open to them,” continued Eliza. “Respectable women can become writers, whether they are married or not. Consider Miss Burney, the author of
Evelina
, a novel universally admired. And do not pretend the notion has never occurred to you that
you
might earn your living by your pen some day, Miss Jenny. You are always scribbling stories.”

Jenny did not ask aloud the questions she so often found herself asking in private. For all women's
story
-writing, where were the female philosophers, physicians, dramatists, scientists? Where were the women's public schools and universities where they could become scholars? Until such institutions existed, women had little choice but to accept their time-honoured lot. And at eighteen years old, with the irrefutable knowledge that she could equal any of her brothers in reasoning, was it truly a comfort to Jenny to be told she was not as plain as she thought she was?

“You see, my dear Jenny,” Eliza was saying, “happiness in life comes from many sources. Earning one's own bread may be a great accomplishment, but so is the bearing and raising of children. And the lifelong companionship of a beloved spouse is surely the most profound good fortune any of us can hope for.”

“Indeed,” agreed Jenny, mindful that Eliza must be thinking of her own cruelly-shortened marriage. “But how many women must marry a man they do
not
love, to secure financial protection and have the children they desire?
That
is my objection to the way of the world. I cannot imagine how unhappy such a situation must be, and yet it takes place every day. If a man
I
did not love…”

She stopped, feeling the blood come into her cheeks. Eliza swiftly took her hand.

“For many women, rather older than you are, it is a better choice than remaining single. And when there are few available men, they must shift for themselves. Why, even my dear late mama was obliged to travel all the way to India to find a husband. And of course she
did
meet my father, and my most excellent godfather.”

Eliza stroked Jenny's hand while she talked. In the candlelight the pallor of her face showed yellow; the shadow of her lashes lay upon her cheeks. “When I was young,” she went on, “I felt like you do. I hated –
hated
– the notion that a woman's life, body and soul, can be exchanged for money. I considered it another form of Indian trade, as much as that in silks or spices.”

Jenny's heart filled with compassion for the brave husband-seeker of forty years ago, and for the young Eliza, appalled that her mother had been driven to embark on such a journey. “Oh, Eliza!” she exclaimed with true sympathy.

“Yet when I was only one year older than you are now, I was myself married.” Eliza released Jenny's hand and drew her hand over her eyes. Her voice was not far above a whisper. “I had money of my own, and I used it to attract the kind of gentleman I sought. I realized what you too have understood, that women are dependent upon marriage for social status, which we cannot achieve for ourselves.”

Jenny pictured Eliza's introduction to her French aristocrat. Even in their first glance at each other, beneath the undoubted attraction there must also have been the understanding that a bargain was being made. His title was to be bestowed only on a woman who could bring him a fortune, and her fortune was to be bestowed only on a man who could give her a title.

“Dear Eliza,” she said softly, “ I am greatly indebted to you for these confidences. I shall remember your words for ever.”

Eliza lifted her eyelids, and Jenny saw that her eyes were full of tears. “Money conquers love, Jenny,” she said. “It is never the other way around.”

A
fter the departure of Henry and Eliza, life at the Rectory settled back into its routine. The only man in the house apart from Papa was Dick, who had served the family as manservant, ostler, coachman and gardener since before Jenny was born. The schoolboys had not yet returned from the long summer vacation. Papa fulfilled his church duties and worked in his study, emerging only in the afternoon, his whiskers brushed, to preside over the three o'clock dinner table. And even if Dick had had time to talk, he would not have said anything. He was the most taciturn man Jenny had ever met.

“Do you not feel the want of male company when all our brothers are from home?” she asked Cass. “At Deane Parsonage there are only Martha and Mary, and at Manydown House there are
three
girls.”

“Three girls and their brother,” corrected Cass.

“Harris Bigg?” retorted Jenny. “Why, he is only thirteen. Cannot you provide me with any grown-up men?”

“Sadly, no,” confessed Cassandra. “The only family in this district with more brothers than sisters is our own. But I believe you know that already.”

They had just arrived home from a morning spent with the Lloyds. It was a blustery September day, with restless clouds and an air of impending showers. Cassandra had been quiet during their visit. Jenny suspected she was thinking of Tom, whom she was to meet again in a few days' time at their brother Edward's house in Kent.

“Make haste, girls!” Mama came out of the dining room. “Company is expected within the hour, you know.”

“Who is coming?” asked Jenny.

Mama looked from one to the other of her daughters, exasperated by their blank looks. “I told you only yesterday that the Biggs are taking a late dinner with us.”

“No, you did—”

“We must have forgotten, Mama,” soothed Cass, suppressing her sister. “Are all the Biggs coming?”

“No, we expect Mr and Mrs Bigg and Elizabeth. Now, hurry yourselves!”

“You were lamenting a shortage of gentlemen, Jenny,” whispered Cass as they started up the stairs, “but this evening we are to have the pleasure of Mr Bigg's company.”

“And of his dull wit and sharp appetite,” whispered Jenny. Then, louder, to her mother, “But you know, Mama, it does not signify what we do to improve our appearance, for Elizabeth Bigg is far prettier than the two of us put together.”

Mama, halfway to the kitchen, gave Jenny an impatient look. “That may be so, but at least tidy your hair, child. And the skirt of your white gown has not seen a brush these half-dozen outings. Do not bother Kitty, she has enough to do.”

“I shall see to Jenny's skirt, ma'am,” offered Cass. “Your daughters' beauty may be surpassed by Elizabeth Bigg's, but you need have no fear that the cleanliness of their dresses will be.”

In the bedroom Jenny pinned up her hair anew, while Cass tried her best to remove several days' dust from the hem of her sister's best muslin.

“Such a fuss, and it is only the Biggs,” complained Jenny. “Mama does not need to impress a family who have been here a thousand times before, and are the most amiable and easily satisfied of guests anyway. The dining table is spread as extravagantly as if the King himself were visiting.”

“We must forgive our mother,” said Cass. “She loves acting as hostess, and when Eliza arrived so unexpectedly, there was no chance to preside over the preparations such a visit normally demands.” A thought struck her, and she gazed at Jenny with widened eyes. “Do you think the other Elizabeth, Edward's Elizabeth, is fussing as much over my visit to Godmersham?”

“Edward's Elizabeth!” echoed Jenny with affectionate contempt. “She has so many servants she will scarcely notice any disruption you and Tom make to her household.”

“I must confess,” said Cass, spreading Jenny's gown on the bed, “I would rather that were the case than to be fêted like royalty.”

“Elizabeth Bigg will wear any attentions Mama cares to give her as becomingly as she wears everything else,” said Jenny. “And confess it, Cass, she is such an amiable friend you would rather be in her company than anyone else's.”

Smiling, Cass began to unpin her own hair. “
Almost
anyone else's, Jenny.”

Jenny returned the smile. “Oh, very well. One Tom Fowle is equal to a hundred Elizabeth Biggs, however delightful every one of them would be.”

Cass did not reply. She dipped her head; her face was hidden by her loosened hair. When she did speak it was on a different subject. “How is
Lady Susan
progressing?”

“Oh, I have abandoned her.”

“No! Why?”

Jenny pondered, looking at her reflection in the glass. Her hair looked particularly well today, she thought. Deep brown, with a high sheen like the horse chestnuts Papa's boys gathered in the autumn. In Jenny's opinion Elizabeth Bigg's famous blonde curls were no more beautiful than her own brown ones. Or Cass's, for that matter.

“I decided the story was too frivolous,” she told her sister. “I am thinking of writing something much truer to life. A reflection of ourselves.” She bent nearer the mirror, arranging wisps at her temples. “A perfect reflection of ourselves.”

“Have you begun it?” asked Cassandra. “What is its title?”

“So many questions!”

“But you always tell me what you are writing.”

“I shall tell you when I have something to tell,” said Jenny. She smoothed her skirt. It did look better. “Thank you for doing this, Cass,” she said. “Now, are you ready? Let us go down and join Mama, or she will complain that waiting for us is bad for her nerves.”

“Jenny, have a care,” admonished Cassandra. “She does suffer with her nerves.”

“Yes, when she remembers to.”

Elizabeth Bigg was handed from her carriage by her corpulent father, followed by the bright-eyed Mrs Bigg, a woman whose elegance of figure belied the number of children she had borne. As ever when Jenny saw Elizabeth after a short separation, she detected in her countenance something of her cousin Eliza's looks. The same small mouth and large eyes; the same confident air. Slim and girlish, with light colouring, Elizabeth Bigg was neither so exotic nor so elegant as Eliza. But she possessed an air of sweet artlessness which Eliza could never, with all her skill, have achieved.

“Why, Jenny, who dressed your hair?” were Elizabeth's first words. “May I borrow her? Or has she returned to her post in the Queen's bedchamber already?”

Elizabeth's company was always pleasant. She and her younger sisters, Catherine and Alethea, were all in their twenties, all attractive, and near enough neighbours of the Austens and Lloyds for all seven girls to regard one another as solid friends. The Biggs' house, Manydown, was a carriage ride away, but Cass and Jenny had paid them enough visits – the Biggs were great givers of balls – to have long abandoned any need to stand on ceremony in their presence.

Jenny embraced Elizabeth with real affection, skewing the fashionably high crown of her friend's bonnet. “You know I dress my own hair, Elizabeth, so do not tease me.”

“How can I stop myself?” asked Elizabeth “Teasing my dearest friends is my favourite pastime.”

Mama greeted her guests with handshakes and curtseys. “The Reverend is gone to Winchester on church business, but he will return before dinner,” she explained as Kitty took their cloaks. “He will be delighted to see you all.”

“And to speak to Mr Bigg about the war, I have no doubt,” suggested Mrs Bigg.

“Oh, the war!” cried Mama, opening the door to an immaculately cleaned and tidied drawing-room. “The old men discuss it while the young men do it. I always say the same applies to women, though the subject is marriage!”

“My dear Mrs Austen,” said Mrs Bigg in admiration, “you really should write some of your clever thoughts down.”