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CHAPTER XXXIX

To watch a large, affectionate family at play is to gaze upon beauty, and by the summer of the year 1834, the Knights of Chawton were approaching peak glory. Mary had produced first two charming boys – Lewknor and Wyndham – and then two pretty girls – Annabella and Georgina. And on that July afternoon, they were all out on the lawn in the sunshine and thriving. Miss Cassandra Austen, from her favoured position in the shade of a cypress, looked on with great satisfaction.

After all, so deprived of her own happy childhood – growing up with no model to learn from – what Mary had achieved was close to miraculous. Having once had to skip to keep up with her husband, she now matched him in energy. Since arriving in Chawton, she had transformed the Great House into something it had not been for decades, and that was a home. On top of that, she had established a smallholding right there in the grounds; and her work with the local women and children was of such a standard as to merit even Cassandra’s approval. And all this Mary had accomplished while raising her offspring to be good, loving Christians. She had every right to feel proud.

And though she would say this to no one, so too did Cassandra. For if the Knights were a masterpiece, then could it not be said that she played the part of the master’s apprentice? The hours she spent picking up Spillikins or soothing tantrums seemed not unlike the work of those minor artists who toiled unheroically, filling in the deep background so vital to the whole. No doubt, her services would be required again at any moment – peace never reigned for too long. In the meantime, she was content to sit quietly, and enjoy the fetching tableau.

With one small child wrapped about his neck, Ned stood over Lewknor and guided his bat; the good Reverend William Knight, there for the day with a selection of his own seven fine offspring, was the bowler – though he played with the handicap of a tiny daughter attached to each leg.

‘Shot, sir!’ Ned cried as, by his force alone, the ball soared up into the infinite blue and away. ‘Now, run! Run for your life!’

Lewknor squinted into the sunlight – unsure whether he had indeed scored a hit – set off in a slow, gentle amble across the back lawn, then stopped to examine an ant hill.

‘Fielders!’ called William. ‘Where are my—? Dash it! Gertie, how many more times? There is no scientific value in testing a chin with a buttercup! And how can you catch, Dickie, when you’re cuddling a kitten?’ He flung out his arms in exasperation. ‘Brother, what is wrong with our children?’

‘I fear they’re all duds,’ Ned roared back, in laughter. ‘When we were that age, we were playing at Lords, if I remember correctly.’ Pausing the game, he strode towards the table beneath the rose arbour where the lemonade waited. ‘Is that not right, Aunt Cass? Were we not already feted as sporting heroes?’

From her wicker chair, Cassandra called out that they had both been the most horrible ruffians and the despair of all nurses; received a volley of cheerful abuse for her excellent memory. Then the riotous party returned to the pitch, and she fell back into contented reflection.

For was she not, in that period, the most fortunate creature? This family had been delivered unto her as a gift: a gift from the Lord, made even more precious by its time of arrival. She had once expected to spend the autumn of her life dwindling away in quiet solitude; thanks to the Knights, it was all busyness, amusement and constant diversion. Having once kept their distance, now all of her nieces and nephews flocked about Chawton – dear Ned drew everyone in. So their old aunt now saw them all often; knew every offspring. How many single ladies could boast of such a position at the centre of the great family whirligig? What she had possibly done to deserve such an honour, she could not quite say. But she would forever be grateful.

The arrival of a goose, swaggering on to the scene, leading a fine flock of bantams, was the sign that Mary approached. As Lord Byron had once been his master’s herald – the poor dog now snored by Miss Austen’s feet, too old even to run for the ball – so domestic fowl performed the same role for the mistress. They came with her everywhere.

‘My dear wife!’ Ned greeted her as she came round the corner. ‘Pray be so kind as to remove your menagerie from the pitch. How can we breed sportsmen in such conditions? Off with you!’

The goose turned and hissed, and continued.

‘Excuse me, but you are addressing our next Christmas feast,’ Mary scolded. ‘Show some respect, sir, or you will be dining on string.’

Would their parents have addressed each other in similar terms? Cassandra very much doubted it – their mothers were, typically, much more subservient. This amiable frankness struck her as progress.

‘But Mr Goose is my very best friend.’ Lewknor began then to wail, as he so often did. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks; the younger ones joined in and soon the entire crowd of children was consumed with despair.

Mary picked up each one in its turn, wiped every face, pledged to let the bird live in conditions of comfort into old age, before marching towards Cassandra, the calm and the shade.

‘The Lord give me strength!’ she exclaimed, fanning her face with a quick, pretty flick.

‘It seems He has already given you plenty,’ Miss Austen replied. ‘But perhaps it may be wise not to lift them all, in your condition? They are no longer babies, my dear, but sizeable children.’

‘I can hardly reach down, as I have no waist left to bend.’ Mary sat back complacently, and rubbed at the shape of the next baby, due in a matter of months. ‘And I refuse to leave them to cry! I know all too well what that is like for a little one.’

‘You must be the judge. Forgive me for fussing.’ Cassandra gave in at once, and chided herself. Mary had got off to a difficult start: Lewknor had been born prematurely and was still worryingly delicate; the next child born still. It had been a very dark time for them all and, though the fond aunt had issued her comfort, still she could not shake her concern.

But then had not Mary simply sailed through her past three confinements? She now presented as a strong and healthy young woman – as was so often the way. Look at Fanny, for example. Having endured nearly five years of misery, she was now the proud mother of seven, with one more on the way. The thought occurred that it was rather like a sailor getting his sea legs, and caused Miss Austen to chuckle.

‘It seems to be a pleasant enough afternoon.’ Mary caught her husband’s eye, sent over a sweet smile and a wave. When she turned back to Cassandra, she was all over pink – as if still in the first days of new love. ‘Dear Ned – never happier than when a brother is with him. Is not sibling affection a wonderful thing? I do hope my own children grow up to enjoy it.’

‘You sound wistful, my dear.’ Cassandra reached for Mary’s hand and took it into her lap, before daring to remark: ‘I am conscious that your life now is very much more Knight than Knatchbull …’ With Lady Banks dead, Mary had no visitors of her own. ‘Might there one day be an opportunity for your own brothers to visit?’

Mary turned her head towards the walled garden. ‘I should love it, of course. I miss them, quite horribly. They do write, at least!’ The boast came out as pathetic. ‘Ah, dear. The thought simply never occurred …’ Her narrow shoulders drooped as she sighed. ‘But my father …’

As ever, the very thought of Sir Edward cast its own pall. How Cassandra resented his corruption of this couple’s happiness.

‘It wounds me that none of my family has yet met my children. Who could have ever imagined such an estrangement would come to pass? I put all my trust in his fatherly love for me, but I fear that trust was misplaced. It appears that to disobey him is the ultimate sin.’

‘For which you have paid ample penance!’ Cassandra exclaimed in high passion. ‘And now he offends God by refusing forgiveness!’

But still, even after all these years of Sir Edward’s wilful mistreatment, Mary would not condemn him. Instead, she turned her head back towards the game on the lawn, and smiled. ‘Oh, do look at them, Aunt! Sinner I may be, but I can never repent, for how much have I gained?

She paused to applaud Wyndham’s first cartwheel. ‘I regret, very much, that my father forced me to into a choice. But I can never regret choosing Ned.’

That August, the family whirligig took on a new vigour, when – with no more than a day’s notice – Cassy Knight came to stay at the Great House.

Her presence was not, in itself, unusual. She and Mary had retained their deep friendship and, when one saw them together – witnessed their shared understanding and affection – it was easy to mistake them for sisters. But this time, she brought with her new drama. For Cassy was now in disgrace.

As they sat in the drawing room awaiting the visitor’s arrival – one eye on their stitching, the other on the drive – Mary caught her aunt up on all that she knew.

‘So it seems she has engaged herself to a Reverend Musgrave Harris …’ Mary fiddled with her thimble.

‘Then is that not excellent news?’ Having finished one shift to her own satisfaction, Miss Austen pressed on to the next.

‘No! For she still loves Lord George Hill!’

Cassandra thought back to that long ago day in London, when she had witnessed the two lovers meeting; remembered the conviction she had felt at the time: there was a match.

‘But she could not have Lord George Hill.’ Though more was the pity. ‘And if she has now found a replacement, then I am delighted to hear it.’

‘Well, no one else is,’ Mary said darkly. ‘Fanny, in particular, is set madly against and has turned all of Godmersham around to her view.’

And here we go, again: another poor woman to be forced out of her choice. ‘For any particular reason?’ Cassandra enquired, with more mildness than she felt on the subject.

‘She simply does not approve it.’ Mary shrugged as she snipped at her thread.

‘He is a man of the Church, though!’

‘And of a very good family,’ Mary agreed. ‘But he spent some years in India, where he fell sick with the cholera—’

‘Then he merits our sympathy,’ Cassandra replied firmly. ‘And that is not reason enough to bar him from matrimony.’

‘Apparently, it has left him rather weak . And on top of that, he is not, according to Fanny at least, one of the illuminé .’

‘Again, I see no obstruction. If a man comes from money , he can be as dull as he chooses. The world shall not mind it.’ After all, Cassy herself had always been higher in spirits than intellect. ‘Surely, if she has accepted him, then we must support her?’ Miss Austen was forced to stop and unpick a stitch. All this aggravation was making her sloppy.

‘It seems not. We have our instructions from Godmersham: we are to persuade her against it. The Lord only knows how, as she is so perfectly stubborn.’ Mary let her work fall into her lap. ‘Why do you laugh, Aunt?’ she asked sternly.

‘You do not see the irony? You, of all people, accusing another of stubbornness? You persuading her out of her choice? Now, let us cast our minds back …’

‘You make a fair point.’ Mary smiled too then, abashed. ‘I was not to be argued with. Still, there is no love there, or so they say, and we must do what we can. I shall not go against the Knights – the one family who has offered me acceptance. But, my dear, dearest Aunt, I beg that you help me.’ She screwed up her sweet face. ‘I cannot hope to succeed without your assistance.’

‘ My—? ’ Cassandra was aghast. ‘May I remind you that I am naught but a spinster, and one of some significant years? Hardly the best counsellor on matters matrimonial.’ She refused to be part of this. ‘I have nothing to say!’

‘Oh, Aunt !’ Mary scolded. ‘You are wise and all-knowing, and you shall do your – Hark!’ At the sound of wheels upon gravel, she leaped out of her seat. ‘She is here!’