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CHAPTER XLI

The measles ripped through the Great House at Chawton in the spring of 1837 and, with now six children in the nursery – not to mention a household of twenty – it was a terrifying time. Indeed, it seemed to Miss Austen, as she ran between sick beds, not unlike a cramped, medieval city when hit by the plague. There were so many patients; no one was safe.

Cassandra did not fear for herself. Though it was half a century since her own bout, she must still be immune – and anyway, what mattered her health compared to that of the babies? She could vouch too, for Ned, as she had once been his nurse, decades before. But when it came to the facts of her own medical history, poor Mary was ignorant. No mother to ask; no father to speak to; in fact, precious little memory of her childhood at all. It was as if she had wiped it all from her mind to spare her own pain.

The mystery was solved in the third week of the outbreak, when Mary succumbed. By that time, the children were all – by God’s grace – on their way back to full health. Ned remained well; Nurse and Booker – that redoubtable workhorse – had the attic nursery under control, which left Cassandra in charge of Mary. But when the rash crept up from the limbs, spread to the face and so threatened her sight, the young mother’s state came quite close to perilous. And Cassandra had no other option but to send to Godmersham for assistance.

The following day, Mary was subdued with a tincture, and Cassandra dozing on a hard chair by her bedside, when there came a tap on the door.

‘Aunt Cass?’ It was only a whisper, but still clear enough.

Cassandra jumped to her feet, fixed the curtains against the glare of that May afternoon – Mary must not look upon light! – and went out on to the landing.

‘My dear.’ The aunt embraced her sweet niece with natural affection. The ancient oak floorboards squeaked out their protest. ‘They have sent you to nurse?’

‘That is my lot, it appears.’ Marianne shrugged, with no evident pleasure. She was now approaching her thirty-sixth year and still bore the traces of beauty, though the joyous spirit had flown.

‘There are worse!’ Cassandra adopted a brightness which she did not quite feel. ‘And with a family of our size, there must always be one good woman to rely on.’

Marianne raised one delicate eyebrow, said: ‘And I am now she .’ Adding: ‘Tell me, what can I do?’

For a full week, they shared the duties of care, together fought back the fever and at last returned the sad patient back to something like life. Still, Cassandra could not shake her concern. Mary’s eyes were restored, but her complexion had suffered and it seemed doubtful that she would ever recover her previous bloom. More than that though, her entire system had been weakened severely. She had little to no energy and the strength of a newly born lamb. It would be some time before she could return to the full duties of mother-of-six and mistress of the household. A long convalescence would be required. Cassandra would need to be firm.

And, throughout the month of June – as the sun bestowed a kind warmth and the grounds burst into splendour – the devoted nurse got her own way. It was not long before Mary could walk out unaided – fill her lungs with great draughts of green air – and take pleasure in her family again, though still she tired very easily. There was every hope of a full recovery, and Cassandra was able to return to her own bed at night now, catch up on missed sleep and find enjoyment at the Great House once more.

Serious illness is a trauma for every household; the blessed relief of its passing brings with it a new and sharp pleasure in the banality of the mere everyday. And so, on a glorious Thursday morning in the third week of July, it was a very cheerful Miss Austen who tripped down the drive to take tea with Mrs Knight in her chamber. As was their habit, they would sit for a while in the pink, airy bedroom – discuss the plans for the nursery; the news from the village – until Mary was ready to rise. There was no reason to suspect that day would be any different, and she approached it with pleasure.

‘Good morning, Booker,’ she chirruped as the maid opened the door.

‘Oh, no it’s not, madam,’ came the gruff reply. ‘See if you can knock some sense into that head. I give up.’ And she stomped out of the room.

Cassandra found Mary in a state of high agitation: sitting up straight against the bolster; wild curls springing out of her nightcap. The mahogany writing box was balanced on her lap and she was frantically engaged in the act of composition – like Beethoven at the height of his madness.

‘What on earth—?’

Mary looked up, almost unseeing. It was a moment before she registered the visitor. ‘Ah! Yes. There has been a development.’ Her scarred face was pink with excitement. ‘I have today heard from my mother.’ She rooted in the counterpane, found the letter in Fanny’s hand and tossed it across for Cassandra to read. ‘My father is sick and – oh, Aunt! – Fanny has seized upon that as her opportunity … My mother is so good … kinder than I ever deserved … And at last, he is persuaded to see me! I am writing to him now.’ She put down her pen. ‘Pray, listen and tell me what you think.’

She picked up the paper and started to read: ‘ Hearing of your illness and the possibility of you dying without me seeing you and you forgiving me, causes— ’

‘Dying, Mary?’ Cassandra cut in with alarm. ‘Sir Edward is in danger?’

Mary looked up from her writing. ‘My mother suggests that he feels he is in danger, hence him agreeing to meet. He has always harboured great fear for his own health, but somehow, from her words, I did not get the impression that she was over-concerned. Oh dear!’ She looked suddenly stricken. ‘ Could it be serious? I believe my mother said he was suffering something called trigeminal neuralgia ?’

Cassandra gritted her teeth. For was this not the great inequality? His daughter risks her own life with every confinement; Sir Edward gives every appearance of being entirely unmoved. And yet what was no doubt unpleasant but essentially trivial provokes a great, mortal terror. ‘I am sorry to hear it,’ she replied. ‘But Mary dear – though I am no physician – I do not think one dies from the face ache.’

‘That is a relief, and much as I suspected.’ Mary cheered up at once. ‘Still, if he feels at death’s door, then that is useful for me. Ned and I shall set off in the morning.’

‘My dear girl!’ Cassandra was horrified. ‘Do you not see? You are still convalescent! This comes too soon . The journey into Kent is long and, it seems, not at all urgent. I beg you put it off a few weeks at least.’

‘Oh, Aunt Cass. You do not know my father. When sick, he is vulnerable. But, once he is well again, he will go straight back to his old ways.

‘My mind is made up.’ Mary picked up her pen again. ‘This is my chance, and I must seize it.’

Cassandra left the room in surrender and found Booker waiting out on the gallery. ‘Madam?’

‘No luck, I fear,’ Cassandra said, simply. ‘Mrs Knight is determined.’

The maid let out all the breath she had been holding in. ‘Then mark my words: this is a calamity.’

‘Dear Booker,’ Cassandra said, soothing, ‘I cannot endorse the idea, but it should not prove dangerous . We can trust that her husband will take no unnecessary risks.’

The maid guided Miss Austen on to the window seat that looked over the park. Panelled in dark oak, cut deep into the stone wall, it had been a favourite hiding place of the Knight children for two generations. Oddly, Cassandra had never sat there before. She made herself comfortable among the crewel work, glanced out of the mullioned window and sensed the ghosts of the ages.

‘This is not un charming,’ she remarked in her dry way. ‘I can now see—’ But she was interrupted.

‘There is more to this than the measles,’ Booker whispered, fast. ‘I have no right to say it …’ She looked back, checked the gallery for spies. ‘Not sure if the mistress knows yet herself.’ She leaned in conspiratorially. ‘I have every reason to suspect that she’s back in the family way.’

Cassandra was stunned. The past months had been nothing but chaos and crisis. The thought that – well – how could? – and when? Seven in one decade! Still, it must be the truth. There could be no better informant on matters … biological … than a lady’s own maid.

‘And yet she is still feeble …’

‘All those hours in a coach …’

But the plans were all set. The couple set off early the next morning. And Miss Austen waited in Chawton, and fretted.

Of course, she kept herself busy. However heavy one’s burdens or troubled the mind, the fruit must be picked and preserved or what would become of us? So it was that Cassandra was selecting the best plums from the tree in her garden when, three weeks later, the coach sped past the cottage and turned right for the Great House. In the shock of relief, Cassandra dropped her basket, leaned against the bough to steady her old heart and watched as the late-summer dust settled back down on the road. Mary was safe; the couple was home: Chawton life could now resume. The thought set off within her the most curious sensation: blood flowing back in to a limb.

Having allowed sufficient time for the family’s joyful reunion, Miss Austen walked down the lane, past the shorn fields brown with stubble and up to the mansion. Ned was already out in the woods with his guns and his boys – a long journey for him was akin to a sentence in gaol. They could meet later. First, she must see Mary in order to settle her own mind.

With the grudging permission of Booker, Cassandra put her head round the door to the mistress’s chamber. ‘May I disturb?’

‘My dear aunt.’ Mary gave a wan smile from the pillow and lifted a pale hand. ‘Forgive me. I felt the need to lie down. The little darlings have left me quite spent!’

‘They have missed their mama.’ Cassandra moved to the bedside and planted a kiss. ‘Still, we have managed plenty of sport in your absence and, as you now see, all is well. I shall not stay long, but – pray! – do tell me your news. How did you find the Godmersham family?’ Though her curiosity was all for the subject of Sir Edward.

‘They are all well and our time there was as pleasant as ever,’ Mary replied flatly. ‘As for Hatch – it was a joy to see that dear place again, and Fanny – my mother – was exceedingly kind. My father, however …’ A tear dropped on to her cheek. ‘Sad to report, we were alone together for a very short time …’ She spoke through her sobs. ‘No more than ten minutes.’

Cassandra felt utter dismay. All the way into Kent, and for that ? She took Mary into her arms and let her weep on her shoulder. ‘Well, it is a beginning at least, is it not? You must try and take hope from it. Reconciliation is, in itself, a profound Christian act.’

Mary bit her lip, took back to the pillow and admitted defeat. ‘I fear we remain at some distance from being reconciled . My father wanted only to report that he still feels the offence of my actions, very deeply indeed.’

‘ Even now? ’ Cassandra could hardly believe it. ‘More than a whole decade on?’

‘From the way he behaved, you would think it all happened yesterday. The fury, the grief … It did not make for a comfortable interview, to that I can testify. There were moments when the distress became almost too much to bear …’ Again, Mary cried.

That he should put his daughter through such an ordeal, when she had been so lately unwell! Cassandra gathered Mary into her arms again and said, rather archly: ‘I am surprised that he should be so careless as to upset himself when so dangerously ill …’

‘Oh,’ Mary sniffed, ‘he is very much better. Almost himself.’

‘Then is that not a miracle?’ Cassandra raised a brow, pulled back, peered into Mary’s sweet face and thought: But you, my dear, are thoroughly spent.

‘Thank you, Aunt Cass.’ Mary gave a wan smile. ‘You are such a comfort to us in our various dramas. And, pray, do not worry yourself on my account. I now hold every hope that my father and I shall meet again. And something tells me that it will not be long till we do.’