Page 9 of Searching for Mr Tilney

‘Our second cousins from Lamberhurst are to dine with us the day after - indeed, Lucius and Thomas have been invited to stay whilst we are here, as G-U-F is keen for us all to become well acquainted. Mama says they’re exceedingly rich. You know she cannot help herself, but she said I should behave most prettily in their company.’

‘Lord, Cassandra - is she to marry you off already? I know she wants what is best for us, but truly, you are too young to be thinking of matrimony just yet. You’ve scarcely been to a dance or looked at a young man.’

‘I saw a miniature painting of Lucius … if his portrait is a true likeness, he is quite handsome,’ she went on.

I looked at her in disbelief. ‘And everyone knows a portrait cannot be reliable.’

Cassy smiled. ‘Perhaps this one will prove that its owner is even more handsome, though looks are not the most important attribute.’

‘No, we all know what is considered important, and that’s the size of his …’ I paused for dramatic effect, and even my strait-laced sister burst out laughing. ‘His pocketbook, of course, and how much money he has in it.’

‘Well, he will inherit all this one day, and much more besides. His father is ambitious too, and is amassing his own wealth. And all may not be lost where you’re concerned. There is also a brother for you, just your age.’

‘Oh, do not threaten me with affection from any quarter - I cannot think of another thing more abhorrent to me. How in the world does anyone ever marry, when men and boys are such hideous creatures, our brothers being an exception, of course … along with my particular favourite Mr Cowper, and I would permit such love-making as his poetry could allow.’

Cassy smiled, and shook her head with mock disapproval as the afternoon breeze stirred her curls. Suddenly, I saw her as others must, and as any young man does who spends time in her company. She is so beautiful, I thought, as I examined her sweet face, and dark eyes. I suddenly felt afraid, as if she might be taken from me. I knew it would not be long before she allowed herself to fall in love. It was clear she was thinking of nothing else.

‘Jenny, everyone must marry sometime. And the sooner you meet your spouse and get to know him, the sooner you will have independence, your own home, and a family to call your own.

‘You call it independence, Cass, to be shackled at such an early age? You will have no freedom, and your life will change beyond everything you know. You’ve been reading too many novels, I think.’

My sister looked back at me with the sweet serene expression she always wears when she’s trying to convince me of her argument. ‘If I met the right man I would be prepared to give up some freedoms and surely, I would gain others. To have my own home, my own rooms and space - to furnish a house in my own style, and fill it with the laughter of children would be a life I would enjoy … if he was handsome and rich.’

I caught my sister’s expression, and laughed. She really was teasing me now.

‘So be it, Cassandra,’ I replied. ‘I shall flirt outrageously, and fall in love with my cousin before nuncheon, though I am certain it will all be for naught. You, on the other hand will, no doubt, be engaged before the tea things appear!’

‘Perhaps love is not like it is in books, but I’m curious. Don’t you wish to know what it is to be in love? What it would be like to be kissed and adored?’

‘Oh, absolutely horrid, I am certain. I would not want any gentleman, handsome or not, slobbering over me like a great dog. And then there’s the thought of giving birth - so many good women die in the process - and I have never met one who has not been changed by child-bearing … irrevocably. I am curious, but not so much that I’d be prepared to die for the case.’

‘Not all women die.’

I knew what she was thinking. Mama had given birth to eight children, and she’d been strong enough to survive.

‘And, if we all thought like you, Jenny, the human race would die out. We’ll see … in a year or so I have a feeling you may not feel quite so vehemently against the subject as you do now. Besides, it is our duty to marry. Think how it would help Mama and Papa in their old age if they did not have to worry about money. Our father will be considerably poorer when he eventually retires, you know, and though it is not a pleasant subject to think on, it is one we must contemplate.’

That was a sobering thought, indeed.

Chapter Six

Caroline

Bath, Somerset

November 1975

When I woke up I realised I must have dropped off with the journal still in my hand. It’s a sad fact that my illness still seems to make me very sleepy and sometimes I drift off without being aware that I’m really doing it. For a moment I didn’t know where I was and felt so disorientated I could have sworn that the room I woke up in was completely changed. I saw a canopy of fabric above my head; four posts on my bed dressed in flowered chintz, but as soon as I blinked it all disappeared.

I’ve decided I must have been half asleep - I’ve had the strangest dreams, and feel as if I’ve lived another life in another time. Perhaps it’s reading Jenny’s journal so late at night, but I know I must record it - dreams have such a way of disappearing into thin air, and so I’m writing it all down as rapidly as I can. As I write, I have the strangest feelings as I recall everything. I can’t explain it, but I know I’ve experienced vivid visions of all that I’ve read in Jenny’s journal. But, it’s more than that, and I sense it isn’t just my imagination working overtime - it’s as if I’m seeing life through her eyes. I can visualise everything - the house she is staying in, the gardens where she walks, and even her sister. My senses are heightened - I can smell the bowls of overblown summer roses in every room, feel the sun on my face beaming through the window, and I’m aware of the soft folds of muslin clinging against my legs as I walk downstairs in my best black slippers. There is a very strong image of a dining table set in a room where the lowering sun sparkles on fine china, and where everyone seated round it are chatting happily. I know as I look at the scene as the observer, I am not feeling the same as everyone else. And I know it has to do with the girl sitting opposite me - the girl called Philly who wears rouge on her cheeks and has her hair piled in a towering powdered confection on top of her head, with ribbons and lace running through her curls.

I write it all down, as fast as I can, but even as I do so the dream is fading. The images are disappearing from my head, but strongest of all are the emotions. I know that I don’t like the girl who stares with contempt in her eyes, and that her undisguised dislike of me is showing on her features. All I can feel is sympathy for Jenny - I sense it can only be her feelings, and her thoughts I am experiencing, and I know it is making her behave differently, as if she wants to prove that she couldn’t care less that she is being despised across the table.

That’s all I can remember, and though I know there must be more, I just can’t bring it back. I am left with the same feelings of being just a little put out for being disliked, but with a steely determination not to mind. Picking up Jenny’s journal, I read the paragraph she devoted to the dinner with their relations, and discover I was right.

Philly looked at me as if she’d just discovered a piece of old cheese, and was unable to look at me without sneering. It made me very bold at dinner as I tried to prove how sophisticated her country cousins are, but I fear everything I said just came out in such a way as to have quite the opposite effect. She and my cousin Eliza are as thick as thieves, and when the latter receives a report, as she will undoubtedly do so, it will not be in my favour, and I cannot bear the thought of being laughed at.

I feel the hairs on my arms prickle as if I’ve been touched by a ghostly presence, then realise just how stupid I’m being. I probably read it before I dropped off to sleep, and my mind has conjured up everything in my dreams. And it’s no wonder I think I can feel Jenny’s emotions - I’ve been reading them, after all. She’s writing in the first person, and has a way with words that makes it possible to picture her world with very little description.