And, at last, there they were, at the sacred moment of union: Cassy resplendent in white lace; Lord George a fine figure in uniform. The vows were spoken with proper solemnity; the families moved through to the vestry, whereupon the entire assembly seemed to burst open with joy.

CHAPTER XLI

The measles ripped through the Great House at Chawton in the spring of 1837 and, with now six children in the nursery – not to mention a household of twenty – it was a terrifying time. Indeed, it seemed to Miss Austen, as she ran between sick beds, not unlike a cramped, medieval city when hit by the plague. There were so many patients; no one was safe.

Cassandra did not fear for herself. Though it was half a century since her own bout, she must still be immune – and anyway, what mattered her health compared to that of the babies? She could vouch too, for Ned, as she had once been his nurse, decades before. But when it came to the facts of her own medical history, poor Mary was ignorant. No mother to ask; no father to speak to; in fact, precious little memory of her childhood at all. It was as if she had wiped it all from her mind to spare her own pain.

The mystery was solved in the third week of the outbreak, when Mary succumbed. By that time, the children were all – by God’s grace – on their way back to full health. Ned remained well; Nurse and Booker – that redoubtable workhorse – had the attic nursery under control, which left Cassandra in charge of Mary. But when the rash crept up from the limbs, spread to the face and so threatened her sight, the young mother’s state came quite close to perilous. And Cassandra had no other option but to send to Godmersham for assistance.

The following day, Mary was subdued with a tincture, and Cassandra dozing on a hard chair by her bedside, when there came a tap on the door.

‘Aunt Cass?’ It was only a whisper, but still clear enough.

Cassandra jumped to her feet, fixed the curtains against the glare of that May afternoon – Mary must not look upon light! – and went out on to the landing.

‘My dear.’ The aunt embraced her sweet niece with natural affection. The ancient oak floorboards squeaked out their protest. ‘They have sent you to nurse?’

‘That is my lot, it appears.’ Marianne shrugged, with no evident pleasure. She was now approaching her thirty-sixth year and still bore the traces of beauty, though the joyous spirit had flown.

‘There are worse!’ Cassandra adopted a brightness which she did not quite feel. ‘And with a family of our size, there must always be one good woman to rely on.’

Marianne raised one delicate eyebrow, said: ‘And I am now she.’ Adding: ‘Tell me, what can I do?’