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CHAPTER XXXVII

On the 25th day of May 1826, Miss Cassandra Austen swept in from the sun into the gloam of the wood-panelled drawing room of the Great House, crying, ‘Good day, Mrs Knight,’ and ‘Welcome to Chawton!’ with a blithe and carefree good cheer.

On the whole, Cassandra was not much given to sweeping in anywhere – those days were behind her, if, indeed, they had ever been known. Now perching somewhere between her fiftieth and sixtieth year (she had dispensed with precision. It was no longer of interest), she was naturally inclined to conserve her own energies. And as for a carefree, cheerful demeanour, well … Though there certainly was such a side to her character, it had been a while since she had known cause to display it, nor did she feel entirely at home while so doing.

So this was hardly her typical method of entry and it left both parties equally taken aback.

‘Miss Austen?’ The words emerged as more question than greeting. Their speaker – flushed, nervous, self-conscious – dared not meet her guest’s eye.

On instinct, Cassandra crossed the carpet, stepped forward, took the young hands in her own and pecked the pink, downy cheek. ‘My dear, I cannot tell you with what eagerness I have been awaiting your arrival.’ She was all too aware that she was starting to gabble, but sensed that the situation demanded it. ‘There are so many blessings to my situation, living as I do in the dear cottage up there, on the corner.’ Idle chatter was, in her view, the very best sort of weapon in the face of great awkwardness. ‘There are windows on both sides – I do not know if you have ever noticed that charming feature? – thus putting me in a position of enormous advantage. I am always the first to know who comes into the village and I was determined to be the first to call upon you.’

She finished with a flash of the social smile of the everyday morning visitor; she received a disarming, level and serious gaze. In the silence which accompanied it, Cassandra studied her hostess.

The last time she had laid eyes upon Mary Dorothea Knatchbull, which was not so long ago, she had been a sweet, pretty girl of quite obvious innocence who seemed ever eager to please. So that when the shock news of the elopement first reached her, Cassandra had struggled to believe it to be true.

The creature before her now was quite different: much closer to being a woman and, of course, at the peak of her beauty. A lilac silk gown, cut low at the bosom, showed off her figure: that tiny waist was close to unnatural; rich, chestnut curls were piled high on her head; the chiselled little chin – said to come from her mother – was sharp as a bevel on a fine diamond. So her attractions were manifest. But though her clear, hazel eyes had not lost their shine, grey shadows had moved in beneath them. And while she blushed in the manner befitting a newlywed, her still lovely countenance was pinched in with pain.

This was no gay, light-hearted bride, then; more one riven with contradiction and conflict, and, it was clear, in no sort of mood to join in her visitor’s mindless prattle. Instead, Mary responded with frankness. ‘Miss Austen, you are most kind to call when, as I understand it, many condemn me. This is an honour which I, a pariah, had not dared to expect.’ She then shied like a miscreant under threat of a whipping. ‘Unless you are come to express your great disapproval …’

Surely the girl had never known any mistreatment? In her surprise, Cassandra did raise a brow then – that could not be helped; it had seemingly lifted entirely of its own accord – before responding to the question in appropriate terms: meet like with like, as was her way. ‘May I?’ She signalled the sofa – a deep, red damask, worn with the neglect of long generations. It could do with replacing.

‘Miss Austen, forgive me,’ Mary gasped. She was clearly unused to the position of hostess. How could it be otherwise? She was still only eighteen years of age. ‘Pray, do.’ Mary lowered herself to the edge of a chair, as might an unwelcome visitor who could not hope to belong.

‘My dear Mrs Knight.’ Cassandra made herself comfortable and adopted a new, firmer tone. ‘No doubt I appear to you as a relic of some bygone age. Indeed, no doubt I am such a thing.’ Despite her best efforts, a weary sigh escaped. ‘But I do like to think – and very much hope that your dear husband will testify – that I try to tend not to the pompous . And though I may be that stock comic creation, an aunt of significant years , we do not all disapprove just for the sake of it. I certainly feel no sort of disapproval towards you, my dear.’

Mary was all relief and surprise. ‘Then I thank you for saying so.’ Though that sadness still lingered. ‘But I fear the rest of the world feels very differently.’

‘The world ?’ Cassandra gave a small laugh, as if at the follies of youth. ‘I regret to inform you that the world does not think of any of us as much as we all like to think.’ It was at least true that at her own time of life, it did not give a jot. ‘As for the minuscule circles in which we both live … It may be true that you have created a minor diversion. But for what do we live but to create sport for our neighbours?’

Mary gave a tight smile to acknowledge the Jane Austen reference and Cassandra was pleased.

‘I assure you, it will not last for long.’

This was a severe understatement of recent events. In the two weeks since the couple’s elopement, they had been roundly condemned and abused by all the usual, more prurient suspects – tricoteuses at the guillotine. Each age has its own. Cassandra found it distasteful and quickly determined to set up in opposition. She would act as the young lovers’ ally.

‘People move on, Mrs Knight! Indeed, I suspect that process is already begun.’ Though there was still, inevitably, the odd sister-in-law who was enjoying it too much to let go in a hurry. ‘I have lived long enough to witness many such – well – little disruptions .’ She refused the word scandal, though others did insist upon using it. ‘Of course, opprobrium might flare up in the moment , but it cannot be sustained. Soon enough, you will find it has dimmed to mere ember and, before you expect it, is turned unto ashes.’ Cassandra issued an encouraging smile. ‘This too shall pass, my dear. This too shall pass.’

‘Oh, Miss Austen.’ Mary twisted her hands in her lap, gazed down at the new, narrow gold band on her finger. ‘You cannot know my father.’

In fact, Cassandra had had that misfortune, but chose not to mention it. ‘I do have some knowledge of fathers in general, and in particular those who abide within the strictures of good, Christian values. Though the Lord may allow us to give vent to the darker emotions – even towards the members of our own families! – He has blessed us with the gift of unwavering love and the capacity for forgiveness. And in the end, we must trust in Him to steer us all back to our one, rightful path.’

Still, Mary did not seem convinced. ‘I do hope you are right.’

‘I can assure you, I am,’ Cassandra replied happily, before it occurred to her that she might be coming across as, well, rather pompous. Slightly alarmed, she moved on. ‘It is a warm day, is it not? I confess I developed a thirst on my walk up the long drive. You may not yet have had the pleasure, but the Cook here – a good enough soul and no need to fear her – is famed for her ginger beer. Might …?’

Mary leaped up in agitation. ‘Pray, forgive me again . I fear I am not yet used to—’ She looked wildly about her.

‘You will find the bell just there, by the fireplace,’ Cassandra pointed out, ever useful, while thinking: the girl is nowhere near prepared for all this, and already at a loss. To find herself suddenly the mistress of an estate such as Chawton, with no mother or sister of her own to support her, was a burden indeed. So how very fortunate that she, Miss Austen, would be ever close by to assist her. The thought brought with it a thrill.

The door opened at once and, as well as a servant, Lord Byron – that famous stranger to discipline – bounded in and over to Mary, the herald of his master.

‘Aunt Cass!’ Ned did come in with a sweep, but then he was naturally one of life’s sweepers. ‘You are here!’

He took her up and into his arms – the only person left on this earth who still chose so to do.

‘But of course.’ Cassandra spoke into his frock coat and feared she might have turned pink. This nephew always did have that effect on her, though it seemed almost unseemly now, in front of his wife.

‘You are not appalled then?’ He pulled back to study her, with a very faint touch of nerves. ‘I should hate—’

‘My dear boy.’ She smoothed down her dark dress and corrected her plain, simple bonnet. ‘I was a little surprised, I confess. But there, ’tis done and, once a couple has been joined before God, it behoves all of society to respect and support them. I wish you both every happiness.’

‘By heavens, you’re splendid!’ Ned kissed her again, laughed, ran a hand through his hair until it stood on its ends and spoke over her shoulder: ‘Did I not say my aunt is quite splendid? I do believe she will be our particular friend.’

‘I should like that, very much.’ Now with her husband – the muzzle of his dog deep in her lap – Mary’s demeanour was utterly transformed. ‘Miss Austen has been very kind.’ For the first time she smiled. Her dimples appeared. And at last, she looked like a bride.

The ginger beer was delivered and the unlikely threesome settled down to discuss the intricacies of the journey to Scotland. Miss Austen was not much entertained – the travels of others could only ever be of limited interest – but preferred it to tales of the behaviour of Sir Edward Knatchbull. She had read more than enough in her many letters from Kent.

Within a half-hour, Cassandra began to sense that she might be a little de trop . What did a young couple on the first day in their new home – and so obviously wildly in love – want with a dusty old relative? She prepared to return to her quiet cottage; rose, took her leave. And was surprised and delighted to be invited to dine that very night.

‘My wife’s aunt, Lady Banks, is to join us,’ said Ned.

‘She meets with my father this morning,’ Mary said quietly, ‘and will bring her report.’

Tension returned to the room; Ned chose to ignore it.

‘And I cannot think of a finer first party, can you, my love? Two of our favourite people!’ His enthusiasm seemed entirely genuine. ‘What is the collective term for aunts, do you suppose?’

Cassandra braced herself for a joke that might feel to her more like an insult.

But at once, Mary – cheerful again – leaped in with: ‘An excellence ?’

And Miss Austen felt happier – more necessary somehow – than she had felt for some months.