Chapter Nine
Cassandra
Bath, Somerset
‘Oh, Cassy, I expect you were wondering what had happened to me. I just ran downstairs to fetch my boots … Rebecca’s polished them beautifully, and didn’t even scold me for getting them muddy.’
I stare in complete shock, unable to speak.
It doesn’t matter because the girl who just ran in through the door chatters away without stopping, and from the way she’s moving, opening drawers and picking up a pile of books from her bedside, I know the room belongs to her.
The most curious thing is that she doesn’t react or ask what on earth I am doing there; it’s all very disconcerting.
When at last she stands still, my suspicions are confirmed.
I feel the strangest sense of déjà vu and an overwhelming feeling of affection for her that I cannot account for.
I realise she is the girl from my dreams, and the vision I saw in this room before - if a little older - the girl in the journal - Jane.
And, if I’m not mistaken, she’s no ordinary Jane, but Miss Jane Austen, an author who is yet to change the world with her writing.
A small fact, written down like that, but one I can hardly equate with the young girl looking directly into my eyes.
In a matter of moments I register the fact that I am not wearing my nightdress and that I’m wearing a kind of gown printed over with tiny flowers, one of many layers.
My body feels constricted as if the breath is being squeezed out of me - I gasp for air and because I think I might faint, I grip the window frame.
I feel my head turning though it isn’t me who moves it, and when I look into the dressing table mirror I have the biggest surprise of all.
I see two people reflected there - Jane who still keeps talking non-stop, as she dashes about the room, and another who is wearing the same clothes as I am, falling in folds down to the patterned carpet below.
Her hair is a deep chestnut colour with highlights of auburn glinting like flecks of gold, and though some of her curls are caught up on her head with a wide blue ribbon that wreathes in a circlet round her head, the rest has been allowed to fall onto her shoulders in generous waves.
I know in an instant that I’ve seen her before, and she looks so much like Jane’s sister of my imagination, I am sure I must be right.
Almost jumping out of my skin when she mimics my movements, I soon realise that the reflection I see belongs to me.
It is impossible to stop staring as she turns one way and then another, raising her hand to twirl a stray curl into place, or tucking the lace into her bodice until she is satisfied with the way it looks.
And then the realisation makes me feel winded again, my throat constricting until I can hardly breathe.
I know I am the girl in the mirror, trapped in another age and time.
‘What is it, Cassy?’ asks Jane. ‘You look half distracted … Mama said I should come and fetch you immediately. We are due at the Pump Rooms in ten minutes. Now, do you think I will be able to memorise all the conversations I hear? If only I could bring my journal and pencil I would be sure to record it all faithfully.’
‘But Mama would not allow it, you know full well, Jane. And I do not think you need boots on this morning. It is going to be a very warm day. Where are your leather slippers?’
My reflection is speaking, without any input from me.
It is as if she and I are completely separate, which we are, of course, though I am completely conscious of every movement and every thought.
I feel a part of Cassy, yet looking from the outside, seeing this strange world through her eyes.
A part of me wants to scream out loud it is so terrifying, but it seems that’s not possible.
If I try to direct Cassy’s thoughts and movements nothing happens.
I am imprisoned inside another body and there is no means of escape.
Will I ever be able to get back again? The thought crosses my mind that I am perhaps dreaming - albeit a nightmare of sorts, but I cannot wake myself up.
‘Yes, I’ll look for them … which bonnet are you going to wear?’ says Jane.
‘My new straw,’ I answer, ‘you should wear yours, and then people will think we’re sisters.’
Jane laughs. ‘Ha ha, you are the greatest comic of our age, my love. I shall wear my white straw because it is the only bonnet I have, though I’m not sure if the ribbon on it will match my dress.’
‘You must have another in one of those drawers you’ve stuffed full.’
‘I daresay there are one or two …’
Watching Jane pulling out one drawer after another I turn to the chair and pick up a white straw bonnet trimmed with ribbon and feathers.
I glance in the mirror once more and experience the strange sensation of not seeing myself, but a stranger reflected there.
She is very pretty, quite beautiful in fact, and I wonder how it must feel to be greeted by such a vision of loveliness every day.
I think I could get used to it very quickly.
At last we are ready and soon walking along the corridor and down the stairs that look little altered, but for the fact they appear almost brand new.
There is a lady waiting for us below, tapping her glove in her hand with an air of impatience, and as we reach the bottom Jane jumps off the last step, her ribbon sash flying out in a pink swirl behind her.
‘Jane, how many times have I told you not to do that,’ says a lady who I recognise from my journal dreams as Mrs Austen, the girls’ mother.
‘We are not rehearsing for a part in Mr Astley’s Amphitheatre.
You are too old to be running and jumping like a prancing pony …
take a leaf out of your sister’s book and learn to carry yourself like a lady. ’
Jane turns towards me and rolls her eyes, and I feel Cassy squirm inside trying very hard not to smile. Her sister is quite precocious but I can’t help really liking her.
‘Now, where is your father? I told him we were to meet our cousins this morning, and no doubt, he is still powdering his wig.’
‘I’m sure Papa will be down directly, Mama,’ I say, and she turns to me and smiles.
‘Cassy, you look perfectly charming this morning. Ah … to be your age again … what a delightful thought. You will be so admired, and requested at all the dances.’
‘Mama, may I go to the balls with Cassandra?’ asks Jane.
‘You are a little young, my dear, to be out just yet. In a couple of years, perhaps … your sister may be married by then, though with what sort of dowry I do not want to think. But, with her handsome looks I am certain all will turn out well.’
Cassy’s thoughts intrude on mine: I feel every emotion.
Please Mama, please do not make your feelings too plain in front of our cousins. I do not like Lucius and I am certain he does not admire me in the way that he ought. I wonder if our friends from Kintbury will be there … I do hope so.
I feel sure Lucius is the same young man mentioned in Jane’s journal, and my heart goes out to her.
A man hails us from the top of the stairs with a hearty hello, and Mr Austen bounds down the stairs. I can see he was once very handsome with his beribboned wig, generous smile, and the same hazel eyes as his youngest daughter.
‘Now, what are we all waiting for?’ he asks, which makes Mrs Austen groan, and Jane sniggers quietly. ‘Get along, you’ll make me late.’
We step out into the sunshine, and are met with the sight of Great Pulteney Street buzzing with people, carriages and carts.
The air is heavy, a sultry summer heat, even though the day is barely started, and already steeped in the smells of dust clouds, lavender scent and verbena pommade, mixed with the unmistakeable stench of fresh manure.
Carriages wheeling past filled with fragrant ladies and perspiring gentlemen, make the passers-by crane their necks for a sign of anyone they recognise.
The dirty carts and wagons piled high with sacks of flour or wooden barrels keep to their own side, shouting at the brightly dressed pedlars to keep out of the way with their trays of cheap jewellery, ribbons and quill pens.
A young girl, prettily dressed, in a hand-me-down flowered gown and clutching a basket filled with bunches of sweet lilac, narrowly escapes being run over as she dashes between the carriages running for the other side of the road.
Now the houses are emptying the housemaids appear, armed with besoms, to sweep down the steps and polish the brasses.
A girl with a grubby face wipes her forehead with a grimy cloth, before tucking it back inside the top of her bodice.
Standing with her hands on her hips surveying the scene for a moment, she resignedly takes up her broom once more.
Greetings ring out on the air, along with much bowing and scraping, and little groups of people stop here and there on the wide pavement to talk and exchange news. I’ve never experienced anything like it. Cassandra is a brisk walker and Jane skips at her side, sometimes hanging on to her arm.
‘Do you think your favourite curate will be there?’ asks Jane, her impish eyes sparkling as she gazes up at me.
‘I cannot think of whom you are talking,’ I say, and feel, once again, only conscious of Cassandra’s mind, her thoughts and ideas.
‘Cluck, cluck, you have no idea, how perfectly foul,’ Jane retorts, and then she laughs, throwing her head back as if she’s made a huge joke.
At the same time, an image comes into my mind of a good-looking young man, a good few years older than myself.
He is tall and dark-haired, with very intense eyes. I feel my heart flutter with pleasure.
‘If you are referring to Mr Fowle, as your poor attempt at a joke must hint, then I cannot tell you.’
‘But I thought Jemmy wrote to say his friend was coming to Bath.’
‘Our brother is in Oxford and cannot always be relied upon.’