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Prologue

On the morning of the 25th day of May, in the year 1826, Miss Cassandra Austen settled herself down at the corner window of her dear Chawton cottage, and waited. Though the light was just so – such pretty, spring weather they were blessed with this year! – her mind was too full for work. And, as this promised to be a significant day in her own personal history, she should preserve all her energies for later. So instead, she simply sat – this was quite out of character – with empty hands clasped in an empty lap, and eyes firmly trained on the Winchester Road. But rather like a watched kettle, the longer she stared, the sleepier it seemed to become.

The new lad from the farm, White’s youngest boy, brought up her milk; Cassandra waved, mouthed her thanks and signalled to leave the pail at the kitchen so that she did not have to move. Ten minutes later, there came the sound of hooves; the first stirrings of dust. She stiffened, alert. But it was only a humble pony-and-trap and, of course, that could hardly be them .

At last, she lost patience. Really, she chided herself, what on earth was the matter with her? Miss Austen was, famously, never known to be idle, and there was a mound of darning yet to be done. She rose to retrieve it, caught the sight of her latest letters piled up on the table, and smiled.

These past two weeks, Cassandra had received more correspondence than she had in her youth! Even the post boy, by nature so sullen, had been provoked into raising a brow. Dear brother Edward, her many prurient sisters-in-law and Fanny, of course – poor girl, how she suffered – they had all taken the trouble to write often, at length. And though she should rightly be touched to be kept so closely informed – after all, she was hardly a principal in this particular drama – instead, Cassandra suspected their motives.

For were they not, in fact, trying to set the agenda? After an event such as this, a narrative quickly takes hold and turns into popular legend. Some wanted to see tragedy; a few preferred scandal, though was that not typical? The more sensible took the view that the best should be made of it. Well, she had no need of their guidance, though she thanked them very much. Cassandra Austen was perfectly able to make up her own mind. Indeed, she already had.

She marched to the work basket, took it back to the window, and let out a chuckle. Oh – was there ever a family such as her own! Though her life had not been without its misfortunes, in that particular moment Cassandra could see only the privileges. She held a stocking to the light, decreed it past saving, set it aside – it was bound to come in for some other purpose – and reached for the next. Certainly, her seat at the edge of this great, never-ending saga was never known to be boring: this was merely the latest instalment. The things this new generation got up to! One could scarcely have imagined it, back in that closed little world of the Steventon Rectory in which the Austens began …

As she chose the best thread for a jerkin, there came a sudden commotion. Cassandra tightened her grip; leaned forward: face pressed to the window. And yes! The coach-and-four in its unmistakeable livery. She must leave now – at once!

First, of course, she packed up the basket – any mess was abhorrent – then she went up the stairs to check on her mother. As ever, the poor lady was sleeping, but peaceful. Her moments of clarity were increasingly rare, but she knew no discomfort, which was a blessing, and the maid could be trusted to keep an eye. Those duties dispatched, Cassandra headed back down to the front door, grabbed a shawl and a bonnet and only then thought to remember her cane. She selected a good stick. One did not need a fall, on that day of all days. With a quick firm stride, she went out into the sunshine, turned right and set off for the Great House.

The route did have its challenges. There were significant hills to be taken both down and up and, lately, Cassandra found it a struggle. Of course, she could always find some good man in the village willing to take her by cart, but, on the whole, she preferred to stretch her old legs while she still could.

When her sister was alive, they had together been the most desperate walkers – that was their phrase. She passed the thatched cottages, crossed the lane, came to the top of the long drive – the first view of the mansion – and then paused. The blossom was heavy; the air purest green. The glorious vistas of Chawton, particularly at this time of the year – the cusp of the seasons – always brought Jane back to life in her mind.

And how she missed the dear one in that moment! They would have so much to discuss and would no doubt have done so late into the night. Feeling again the sharp pain of her absence – the loss was a wound that could never quite heal – Cassandra could not help but wonder: what would Jane have made of it all?