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CHAPTER XLII

Autumn at the Great House was hardly conducive to proper recovery. Like the beat in a fast-moving melody – a polka, say, or a jig – the rhythm of annual events propelled the family along. From the excitement of Harvest Supper, then nutting and shoots; through Rent Day, the great lunch for the tenants, and so on to Christmas. And all the while, Mary – the fond wife and mother – performed all her duties with charm, while growing greater with child. But to Cassandra’s sharp eyes, she appeared thinner, more depleted in energy.

Though the confinement approached, neither Mary nor Ned were parents who would countenance any stinting on the Christmas festivities. Equal in their devotion to their children – determined to satisfy the excitement engulfing the household – they threw themselves in. And Cassandra was delighted to see how they followed deep family traditions at every stage. The games that the Austens had once played in their rectory all those long years ago were brought out again – enjoyed anew by this young generation. And the Masquerade on Twelfth Night – the King, the Queen; costumes and processions – was quite à la Godmersham . Such continuity came as a balm to Cassandra’s soul. Her beloved, large family now had its own folk memory.

And whatever fate might have in store, she could have faith that the indomitable spirit of the Austens of Steventon would live on through the ages.

Miss Cassandra Austen could not remember a January as harsh in all her long days. Snow fell day after day, frosted then froze, and she was trapped in her cottage. The poor of the village would, of course, be in the most dreadful distress, but such were the drifts, how could she go out? For an always capable woman, impotence at a time of great community crisis was a trial indeed. At last, she and her maid hit upon something useful to do: producing vats of good broth, which a few able menfolk – shod in their old pattens as had not been seen for some years – came daily to collect and then distribute. To be so useful and busy was, at least, of some comfort. Still, Cassandra could not shake her feelings of foreboding for dear Mary.

Towards the end of that long January, the skies finally cleared, and though there was still ice on the roads, a few hardy souls now passed by her windows in wagons. And on the 28th day of that month, when Daniel appeared, without prior notice, at the door of her cottage to take her down to the mansion, Cassandra presumed the hour of Mary’s confinement had come.

Only to find the couple both preparing to dine.

‘This is to be our last evening in Chawton for a while, Aunt,’ Ned explained as he led her to table. ‘And we wanted you with us.’

Cassandra noticed at once that his demeanour was altered. That breezy optimism upon which her nephew had floated through life had suddenly flown. Having so often counselled against an ever-cheerful approach – was it quite wise to expect only the best when the worst could so easily happen? – she now found that she missed it acutely.

Ned sat, recited the grace and charged his wife’s plate with the beef he had grown.

Mary paled, averted her eyes from the rich food and rested her hands on her stomach. ‘My dear husband has got himself into a lather.’ She smiled. ‘He is insisting we go off to London tomorrow. It seems I am now grown so grand that only some fashionable surgeon will do.’

‘Dr Stone comes with high recommendations,’ he insisted.

‘And with so much expense that I do not deserve!’ Mary declared. ‘I must confess to feeling quite mortified by all this attention. Still, I shall argue no longer. And when we are home again, it will be for Mr Knight to be embarrassed for having made such a fuss.’

Cassandra felt numb. She cast her eyes down to her dinner plate – blood oozed out of rare meat; formed a thick, dark pool – while her head thrummed with the sad echoes of history.

‘Ned, dear.’ Somehow she managed to speak. ‘Are you quite confident that—?’

‘Ah, madam!’ Mary cut in. ‘Surely you must know by now that confidence is my dear husband’s greatest strength. It is one of the many reasons to love him.’ She reached out her hand across the starched linen.

He took it – planted a kiss on her fingers – and pressed it into his cheek. The affection between them had never once dimmed. The couple still seemed like newly-weds. While his eyes locked on his wife’s, Ned addressed his aunt. ‘Only the best …’

And what could Cassandra say to dissuade them? Only that she had once thought the same, twenty-odd years ago. With every faith, she had carried her ailing sister away from this very village and into a city. She too had hoped to find superior methods – was promised that Jane would be cured! Instead, she denied that dear home-bird of life’s ultimate comfort: a peaceful death, with her loving family about her, and in her own bed.

‘You must trust your instincts, and I know all will be well,’ she said now, as if calm. ‘Pray, do not worry about the children. I shall keep an eye.’

‘I thank you for that.’ Ned turned to face her. ‘But – I almost hesitate to ask it, for the journey is arduous and this winter is cruel – you will come to us, should we feel need of you?’

Cassandra smiled. ‘But of course. Just send the word.’

Miss Austen arrived, as bidden, at the rented house in South Audley Street, Mayfair, on the 4th day of February, bringing the fresh blizzard with her into the dark, narrow hallway.

‘I came as soon as I could,’ she told Booker as she peeled off her gloves. ‘The weather …’

The maid took her cloak and bonnet – iced in the time it had taken to run from coach to door – and, with sudden emotion, flung her arms around Cassandra.

This was so out of character that Miss Austen’s first thought was that she was already too late. ‘Tell me.’ She pulled back and spoke urgently.

‘The mistress was delivered this morning.’ Booker blinked back the tears. ‘Dr Stone was by her side all the while. She is tired but – thanks be to God – entirely herself.’

‘Then what fools we have been.’ Cassandra smiled out her happiness, turned and took to the stairs. ‘Might I be allowed just a peek?’

Booker followed behind her. ‘She has been asking for you …’

‘And the baby?’ She paused at the half-landing and looked back at the maid.

‘A fine specimen.’ Booker held out her hands in amazement at this unexpected development, before adding: ‘Though of course they’ve only gone and given him one of their funny names again. William Brodnax, if you’ve yet heard the like? Poor little mite.’

Miss Austen stopped, stared at Booker and raised an eyebrow. Had they not already used William for Wyndham? Then he must be known only as Brodnax … The two shared their amusement – they were of the same mind on most matters – and pressed on to the chamber.

The next week passed perfectly peacefully. The nanny had charge of the baby; Nurse and Booker each took their turn to tend to the mother. Cassandra read aloud at Mary’s bedside – Pride and Prejudice , naturally. What better restorative? – each afternoon. And every night, as she tried to get comfortable on the narrow bed on the top floor, Cassandra longed for her cottage, where she hoped soon to be.

But on 15th February, Mary started a fever. Dr Stone came at once, administered potions – saw no cause for concern. Mary rallied at once, to great, general rejoicing. By the 20th, though, it returned with some force. And the following day, relieved from her stint in the chamber where she had passed some long troubled hours, Cassandra went slowly – sorrowfully – down to the drawing room, and Ned in his misery.

At the sight of his aunt, he leaped out of his chair. Ran a hand through his hair. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

Suddenly aware of a bone-crunching weariness, Cassandra fell into a chair and felt shame at her weakness. ‘My dear.’ She spoke carefully. ‘Might I suggest that you now send for her father? Of course, he may well refuse … and one could reasonably argue that such a privilege is beyond his deserts … Yet we both know that Mary would – would have – hoped … nay, expected …’

For one long, quiet moment, Ned sat with his face in his hands. Then he sprang into action, and out of the room.

At eight o clock in the evening, Sir Edward Knatchbull arrived, was met by the son-in-law whom he had sworn never to meet, and ushered into the bedroom, alone. It was the concession that Mary had longed for: the occasion of intimacy – demonstration of love from a parent – for which she had yearned. But by then she was beyond any knowing that her prayers had been answered; or that, at the bell’s final toll, she had at last been forgiven.

And at two o clock in the morning of the 22nd day of the month – with only her beloved husband beside her – Mary Dorothea Knight née Knatchbull drew her last breath.

Throughout the dark hours, Cassandra issued comfort to Ned. Then, as dawn broke, she stole one last, private visit with the dearly departed.

A strange magic occurs, soon after death. Cassandra had seen it before, with her own dear Jane. When the contortions of pain are no more – the cruel symptoms of sickness no longer required – so then the face of the corpse seems to settle and recover the beauty of the once-living self. It must be counted as but one of God’s many blessings. He does it that we may be spared the memory of the suffering, and reminded of the one we have lost.

But Cassandra had no need of such kindness. She had never once lost the image of Jane in her prime. How could she? Every day since her death, her sister had walked – she walked still – beside her: whispered in her ear, shared her best thoughts. Still her favourite company; still the greatest of friends.

And so it would be again. In the faces of her children – the perfect, enclosed world of Chawton built by her love – Cassandra would see Mary always.

And miss the dear lady for the rest of her days.