Cassandra's Sister (10 page)

“I assure you, men do.”

“Then what do you know of him?”

“He is rich, though not the inheritor of the estate. He is to take orders, I understand.”

“He already has.”

Henry shrugged. “I
have
met him at Eliza's, and from my own observation, he is attentive to the ladies.”

“So are you, but let that pass.”

“His understanding is good,” he declared, “and his manners are gentlemanly.”

“I agree. And his person?”

He shrugged again. “He rides well, and is a handsome devil, as I am sure you are well aware. Are you in love with him?”

“No!” said Jenny, knowing she was flushing, but not caring because Henry was treating the matter seriously. She asked him her most important question. “Do you think he will be invited to Orchard Street while we are there?”

He rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and leaned his chin on his hand, half hiding his face. When he spoke again, his voice was weary. “Do not quiz me any more, Jenny. I am sick of the man.”

“So if I
were
inclined to fall in love with him, you would counsel me against it?”

“No more quizzing!” he pleaded. “And since counsel will never defeat love – have you ever known anyone be
persuaded
out of their affection? – I will say nothing.”

Godmersham's beauty was quite different from that of Steventon, but the smoothness of the lawns, the grandeur of the chestnut trees holding up their white candles, the pleasant situation of the house and the glorious aspect from every window impressed Jenny profoundly. For the hundredth time, she marvelled at Edward's luck.

Of course, his luck was partly due to his own charm. He had not James's authority nor Henry's good looks; Frank was a formidably able officer, and Charles was the most light-hearted of all the Austen brothers. But Edward possessed qualities which had brought him wealth beyond anything his brothers could hope for. Generous and loving, as a child he had taken the fancy of Mr and Mrs Knight, distant relatives of his father. Having a large fortune but no children of their own, when Edward was still a young boy they had asked to adopt him legally, as their own son and heir. His parents, knowing that his alternative prospects were narrower than those the Knights were offering him, had readily agreed to this proposal. Upon Mr Thomas Knight's death, Mrs Knight had moved into a smaller house and left Edward and his wife Elizabeth installed at Godmersham Park.

“I am not sure I like our sister-in-law's practice of calling me ‘Aunt Jenny' in front of little Fanny,” said Jenny in a low voice. “The child is bound to do the same.”

They had been at Godmersham for three weeks. It was the first truly warm day of the year, and Jenny and Cass were walking in the park, preceded by Elizabeth, who was hand in hand with two-year-old Fanny. Behind them, talking animatedly, strolled Henry and Edward.

“I am resigned to ‘Jenny' from my elders,” continued Jenny, twirling her parasol, “but from small children it is an impertinence of the first order.”

“Tell Elizabeth she must refer to you as ‘Aunt Jane', then,” suggested Cassandra.

“
You
tell her.”

Cassandra laughed. “Whatever little Fanny, or little Anna for that matter, chooses to call you, you will accept,” said Cass. “You are as indulgent towards our nieces as I am.”

“Then shall I tell them to call you ‘Aunt Cassikins'?”

“Jenny, these stays are too tight to laugh in!”

“In that case you had better not wear them tomorrow. Eliza's parties are always full of jokers, and I do
not
mean on the card tables.”

Cassandra's face straightened. “Oh,
cards
, and the kind of dinner that takes half an hour to spread out, while the food gets cold. And elegant young ladies playing the piano. No, the harp.”

“And singing, but since Eliza is still in mourning, no dancing,” added Jenny. “However, if Eliza wants to invite us to those grown-up sort of parties, you know we must go, Cass.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Dear me, such a lot to complain about when one has a social whirl like ours! But it will be good to see Eliza again.”

“Whenever I feel nervous and stupid, which I often do before Eliza, you are always there to make me smile again,” said Cass warmly. “Who will perform this office when Tom and I are married, and you are far away?”

“No one will need to, because married women do not feel nervous and stupid, of course,” replied Jenny without hesitation.

A raised voice behind them made both sisters stop and turn. Edward and Henry were walking towards them. “Ladies, what do you say to a carriage ride?” asked Edward. “Henry has prevailed upon me to transport him to Canterbury this afternoon, from where he intends to take the public coach to Dover. ”

“Dover?”
Cassandra addressed Henry in surprise. “Why are you going there?”

“I have someone to meet.”

“Off a ship?” asked Jenny eagerly. “From France? Who is it?”

“Suffice it to say that Henry is going to Dover,” said Edward with finality. “Now, would you like to go with him as far as Canterbury, or shall our nonsensical brother complete his entire journey alone?”

“I would like to go,” said Jenny, “if we may travel in an open carriage. Is it a warm enough day for the barouche, do you think?”

“I believe so,” Edward told her, smiling. “It will be a pleasant outing for us all.”

“And I shall travel back from Dover tomorrow,” said Henry.

“Tomorrow!” echoed Jenny in dismay. “Have you forgotten that we are going to Eliza's tomorrow?”

“I shall try to join you at Orchard Street later in the evening.”

“But…” Cassandra was bewildered. “Mama said you were to escort us there.”

“My man Craven shall accompany you on the journey,” put in Edward, with a glance at Henry. “He is a good man; he has served at Godmersham for fifteen years.”

Much as Jenny loved Henry, she could not help but feel dissatisfied with this turn of events. “Are you not disappointed,” she asked, watching his face, “to be missing Eliza's party?”

Henry set off across the grass, walking more quickly than before. “No, I am not disappointed. I attend our cousin's parties whenever she invites me.”

“From Petersfield?”

“Petersfield is no distance from London. And Trident knows a good gallop when he sniffs it.”

“And he gallops back?”

“The next day, yes.”

Jenny wanted to ask more questions, but the familiar suspicion that some questions were unacceptable had descended upon her, and she remained silent. She wished she knew what was in Henry's head. But why should he tell her? Younger sisters were there to be taken for carriage rides, and be satisfied.

She was quiet at luncheon. But once they had left Fanny in the arms of her nurse and, with much waving and blowing of kisses, had climbed into the barouche, her spirits lifted. Four young horses, eager for the exercise, were driven by Edward's coachman at a fast pace towards the Canterbury road. Blossom-scented April air rushed past Jenny's cheeks, tearing her curls from beneath her bonnet and whisking them into her eyes. She blinked and gasped with exhilaration. Cassandra was laughing, full of the same excitement, and Henry laughed too, at the sight of his sisters enjoying themselves.

“You two will be the centre of attention tomorrow night,” he predicted.

“What excuse shall we make to Eliza for your absence?” Jenny asked him. “If you wish, I could say your regiment has been called to action at short notice, and that you sailed on the first packet out of Dover to join your men.”

“A romantic notion,” said Henry affectionately. “Make it into a story. But I have written to Eliza. I do not expect my sisters to make my excuses.”

William Heathcote was not there. The card players, the girl with the harp, and the array of carefully arranged dishes were all present, but once all the guests were assembled, and no black-clad clergyman had made an appearance, Jenny's nerves ceased to be jangled with every opening of the front door.

“Eliza must be the only woman in London who can make mourning look so glorious,” she whispered to her sister.

“When she leaves off her mourning clothes,” said Cassandra, “I predict her first gown will be gold. Look at all these ladies in gold. It must be this season's colour.”

“Do you think she has remembered her promise to take us to a ball?”

“I am confident she has,” said Cassandra. “But Tom and Charles are supposed to accompany us, if you recall. Eliza is determined to procure that double wedding.”

“Determined she may be,” said Jenny, “but once and for all, Cass, I do
not
intend to marry your future brother-in-law.”

Supper was over. The music was about to begin. Eliza gathered her guests in the most beautiful room in the house. Jenny, who had made only one previous visit to Orchard Street, several years ago when Hastings was a baby, remembered this room well. It was not as large as the drawing-room, but it was classically proportioned, with French windows giving onto a balcony. Its faultless decoration and highly polished floor reflected the efforts of a large staff dedicated to the comfort of their mistress.

As she sat down on an upholstered chair of the highest quality, Jenny pictured the drawing-room at Steventon: its casement windows and the inglenook Papa refused to dismantle despite its old-fashioned appearance.
I am lucky to sit amid luxury, here and at Godmersham
, she said to herself as the harpist prepared to begin,
but how many girls can go home and sit cosily in an inglenook as well?

During the applause which followed the first song, Eliza sat down on the empty chair next to Jenny. “I have not had a moment to speak to you, my dear,” she said. “Are you well? You look different. Older, I suppose. And wiser, do I detect?”

Jenny could only reply to this with a lowered gaze.

“But equally beautiful,” concluded Eliza.

“Cassandra is the beautiful one. But, yes, I am well.”

“Cassandra looks more careworn than I remember.”

“She wishes she could be married, I suspect.”

Eliza sighed. “If I were in her shoes I would have eloped long ago.”

“She and Tom would never elope!” Jenny was shocked. “Imagine what it would do to Papa!”

“I speak in jest, my dear,” Eliza assured her. “Though people
do
elope. Sometimes it is their only choice.”

“But does it ever result in happiness?”

“That depends on the participants and the circumstances. If a couple truly love each other, and there is no objection other than social, or financial, on the parents' part, why should love not triumph over prudence?”

“You sound like Henry,” laughed Jenny, flipping open her fan. It was becoming hot as more guests, attracted by the sound of music, strolled in and took seats.

“Henry?”
repeated Eliza blankly.

“Why, yes. He told me once that in his view, counsel never defeats love. Is that not exactly the same sentiment as you have just expressed?”

The harpist began; Eliza was not obliged to reply. Jenny listened to the song. The playing was brilliant, and the programme impressive in both taste and execution. Jenny's own efforts to sing were dismal by comparison. When it was over, she turned to ask Eliza the young lady's name, but the chair next to her was once more empty.

She did not see her cousin again until the company was dispersing. Eliza, a well-practised hostess, lingered in the hall with her guests. Jenny leaned over the banisters outside the drawing-room, watching her. The light from the chandelier fell on her jewels, subdued though they were, and her dark, brilliant eyes. Yes, Cassandra was right. Jenny could see Eliza dressed all in gold.

“
There
you are!” Cassandra came out of the drawing-room followed by an elderly couple. “Lord and Lady Portsmouth wish to take their leave of you.”

Jenny and Cass accompanied these old friends down the steps and spoke to them while their cloaks were being brought. Each sister received a compliment on her looks from Lady Portsmouth, who had not seen either of them for over a year. Lord Portsmouth, flushed from Eliza's plentiful wine, told Cass that he thought Mr Fowle was a lucky man, and that Miss Jane would also “catch a good 'un”. Amused, Jenny saw them to their waiting carriage, kissed Lady Portsmouth and promised to visit soon, then waved to them as the carriage pulled away.

It was when she had half ascended the flight of steps to Eliza's front door that Jenny heard the sound of another carriage stopping outside the house. A young man jumped down from the carriage without bothering with the step, as young men will. He was wearing his hat, and it was dark, but Jenny could see it was her brother Henry.

He paid the driver and started up the steps. He was about to take off his hat, but when he saw her he stopped, and left it on. In his eyes she saw an odd, almost feverish glow. She was about to greet him, but to her surprise he grasped her wrist and put his finger to his lips.

“Jenny, I beg you, be silent. Listen to me. Go back into the house now, and do not tell anyone that you have seen me.”

“Why?”

“Do not let Eliza, or Cass, or anyone else, know I was here. Will you promise?”

“Very well.” Jenny did not know what else to say. Though his face was shadowed she could see enough of it to be alarmed by the intensity of his expression, and the tightness of his grip on her arm.

“I am indebted to you,” he said. Then he spun on the ball of his foot as if ordered to do so by his commanding officer, bounded back down the steps and made off into the darkness of the street.

Jenny did not sleep that night. She lay in the dark for a long time, with Cassandra's regular breathing a background to the scenes which revolved in her wide-awake brain.