“What would you like to know?” It was not a friendly question, but it had not been a friendly remark.
“Cass,” Edward said, soft but decisive. I don’t know what would have happened then if Jane and someone I had never seen before had not walked into the room, midconversation. He was an older gentleman, who, with his grave expression, old-fashioned black suit, distinctive wig, and silver-headed walking stick, could only be Dr. Baillie. He looked exactly like a physician, in short—unlike Liam, who after meeting Jane had stopped wearing his frizzy doctor’s wig and started growing sideburns.
“It will be an honor,” Jane was saying, her face pinker than usual. “Please tell Mr. Clarke I am home most days. But he will write, I expect, before he appears.”
“You will find him a man who stands upon ceremony.” Dr. Baillie smiled a little and nodded to the rest of us.
“Will you sit awhile, Doctor?” Jane asked. “Perhaps you would like some tea?”
“You are kind, but the press of my business, madam—perhaps another time.” He bowed, looked around. “I am glad your brother is feeling better. Good day to you all, then.”
And he was gone, leaving silence in his wake. “Well,” Jane said, sitting down next to me and looking around at all our faces. “It seems I am to be invited to tour the royal library at Carlton House.” She laughed her wicked little chuckle. “Not when His Majesty is at home, fortunately. It emerges that he is an admirer of my work—”
“Perhaps we should discuss all this later,” Cassandra said with a glance at me.
“Oh, Miss Ravenswood knows,” Jane said; I could have hugged her. “She is quite one of the family by now. Certainly more than Dr. Baillie, to whom Henry managed to reveal I am an authoress. Then, when Dr. Baillie told the prince that his new patient was the brother of the lady who wrote Pride and Prejudice, the prince said—” She shrugged and smiled. “His librarian will call on me soon, I am told, to arrange the visit.”
“Most condescending!” James said, looking more cheerful. “Truly a mark of favor.” I remembered learning that he had once been considered the genius writer of the family, penning verse for all occasions and starting a magazine with Henry at Oxford.
“But you must be polite to him, Jane, and not reveal what you think of the prince,” Edward said.
“She would not be so foolish as that,” Cassandra said, not sounding convinced.
“It is an honor,” I said, “but no more than you deserve. Your work has given great pleasure to many people, and will to even more in the future, I am confident. And the prince has aesthetic discernment, whatever else we might regret about him.” The prince regent, later George IV, was notoriously gluttonous and debauched, by 1815 a monument to excess of every kind.
Into the little silence that followed my speech, which I feared had been too earnest, there came the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, and Liam walked in and sat down next to me. My rush of relief surprised me; facing all these Austens by myself had been unnerving. His eyes traveled over everyone and came to rest on Jane.
“We were just discussing my coming visit to Carlton House,” she said to him. “I mention this only so you understand what sort of exalted company you find yourself among, to what manner of rank and consequence you must grow accustomed.”
I glanced at Cassandra, whose face was impassive; only a slight narrowing of her eyes hinted at feeling.
Liam bowed his head. “You will be an ornament to that establishment, madam,” he said, his tone of gentle mockery matching hers.
After a pause, Cassandra said: “Since we are so openly airing your private affairs, Jane, may I ask what has happened with Mr. Murray since you wrote him last?” As far as I knew, John Murray and Jane Austen were still trying to come to terms on publishing Emma, a negotiation that had been interrupted by the drama of Henry’s illness.
“Oh! A rogue, as I have said. But a civil one. He has agreed to call in two days’ time, and I hope we can settle the matter then. Henry insists he will rise from his bed and help me talk to him.” She paused. “But I do not think that is necessary. I feel quite equal to Mr. Murray.”
“I can help,” Edward said. “Can selling a book be different than selling barley or pigs? We must insist on a fair price and hold to it. I am a man of business, Jane; I understand these things. Let me treat with him.”
“I am not entirely persuaded that selling a book is like selling a pig,” said James. “For one thing—”
“Perhaps we can conclude this discussion at another time,” Cassandra said. “It must be vastly tedious to our guests.”
It wasn’t, but her meaning was clear. Liam and I exchanged a glance and stood up at the same moment. As we made our goodbyes, Jane looked worried, but she made no effort to stop us.
“I ALWAYS SAW CASSANDRA AS JANE’S DEFENDER,” LIAM SAID. IT was late; the din of London outside was subdued by a cold, steady rain. After a depressing dinner of pigeon pie and boiled potatoes, we were sitting over the claret, discouraged and slightly drunk, talking in tones so hushed we had to lean across the table to hear each other. “She stood between her and their mother, whatever was going on there. Not just their mother. The world. Everything. Cassandra’s the one with influence with Edward—she got him to let them use the house in Chawton, so Jane could live in one place and work on writing. She runs the household, so Jane doesn’t have to. But now—” He stopped.
“Now?” The wine had made Liam more talkative than usual; it was making me logy.
“Jane doesn’t need her anymore. She has something all her own, doesn’t she? Her books, her London life with Henry. Can Cassandra feel unappreciated, left behind? Envious, even?”
“You think?”
“Her own sense of right and wrong, her love for her sister, won’t let her resent Jane, so she resents everything else. What takes Jane away, what distracts her. London. Henry and his worldly friends. Random people one knows nothing about.”
“Like us?”
“Exactly.”
I refilled our glasses. “What did she run after you to tell you?” Liam looked at me. “You left Edward and Jane and me in the drawing room to go see Henry. Then she hurried out of the room, I assume after you. Did she say something?”
“Oh.” He rested his chin on his hand. “Not to be afraid of Cassandra. Not in so many words, but that was the sense of it. That she would take care of Cassandra.”
“Meaning what?”
He shrugged. “When I got to the sickroom—she did not join me, she went as far as the door and then went somewhere else—Cassandra and James were standing in one corner, whispering. They gave me the most disapproving stare and kept on whispering.”
“Awkward.”
“Henry at least seemed happy to see me.” He was silent for a moment. “But no. They don’t scare me. James doesn’t matter. Cassandra could be an obstacle. But we’ll think of something.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself of this.
“The worst is,” I began. “No, it sounds ridiculous.”
“What?”