Cassandra's Sister Read Free

aristocrat. The heroism shown by the husband of “Miss Eliza” in remaining in France during the appalling events of the Revolution had provided the household – and the village – with gossip enough for every inquisitive ear.
    When Kitty had gone Papa walked around the room, sighing. Jenny knew he was praying. “I shall make a sermon on Sunday about the ineffable mystery of God,” he announced at last. “We must believe He has a reason for taking de Feuillide from us, and derive comfort from that. My dear,” he said to Mama, “do the servants know the truth?”
    â€œOnly that Monsieur le Comte has died in France.”
    â€œThen let us tell them no more for the present. We shall have prayers later.” He looked steadily at Eliza. “Trust in God, my dear. I shall be in the study if anyone should want me.”
    He bowed, and kissed Eliza’s hand with the old-world courtesy some people admired, others ridiculed, but Jenny rejoiced at. She fiercely loved her father and all his mannerisms. This blow to his beloved niece, daughter of a no-less-beloved sister, would fall heavily on his heart.
    When he had left the room Cassandra went to Eliza, who had begun to drink her wine. “May I bring you something to eat?”
    â€œNo,” replied Eliza distractedly. “I thank you, Cass, but…” When she leaned forward to put down her glass, something caught her eye. “Oh! A horseman is stopping here. Another visitor?”
    Cassandra looked out. “No, it is only Henry.”
    The click of riding-boots on the hall flagstones was soon heard. A masculine voice, obliterating poor Kitty’s attempts to speak, called for Dick to bring a bucket of water for the horse.
    â€œFine afternoon for a ride, Kitty! That will do, my boots are clean. Look, not a speck on them. Family down? They have waited dinner, I hope.”
    When Henry saw Eliza through the half-open drawing-room door he snatched off his hat, put it under his arm, opened the door fully and stood before the company. “Cousin Eliza, what a
very pleasant surprise
! To what do we owe—”
    â€œHenry!” interrupted Mama. “Eliza is not here for a social visit.”
    â€œDo not scold him, Aunt,” said Eliza. “He has yet to hear my news.” She was regarding her son. “Might Madame Bigeon take Hastings upstairs? He will wake soon, and must have his bread-and-milk.”
    â€œOf course,” said Mama. “Jenny, would you ring for Kitty?”
    â€œMama, may I show Madame upstairs?” asked Jenny, glad of the opportunity to leave the company. She felt dazed. No, that was not quite right. She searched for a word that described her feelings, and it came to her:
thinned
. Like watered milk. Eliza’s story had entered her soul and weakened her resilience, never very great, to the harshness of the world.
    Henry, silenced, watched as Madame Bigeon expertly lifted the child. Jenny longed to run to her brother, hang on his arm, see the realization in his eyes as they fell on Eliza in her widow’s weeds. But these were the actions of a child no older than the boy in Madame Bigeon’s arms. Instead, she spoke again to her mother.
    â€œIf you please, ma’am, I shall stay upstairs until dinnertime.” Mama nodded reluctantly, and Jenny turned to Eliza. “Cousin, I beg you to excuse me.”
    â€œMy dear, of course.”
    Jenny’s longing for solitude had never been so strong. She had neither the patience of Cassandra nor the social ease of Eliza. She could not bear to hear the story of the guillotining repeated for Henry, then to pass the time until dinner in murmured condolences and news of mutual acquaintances.
    Madame Bigeon was too fatigued to talk. She asked to be brought bread-and-milk for the boy and soup for herself, with a little bread and wine. Then she retired behind her door.
    In her own room Jenny, with inexpressible relief,