7 September, 1830

Mansfield Parsonage

Dear Jamie,

I take pen in hand to inform you that my birthday festivities yesterday were a splendid success. So, at least, my Aunt Bertram informs me. I found the entire day dreadfully boring, though it sounds terribly ungrateful in me to say so, when so many people did their best to make it special.

My idea of an ideal birthday would be to have you home from Oxford for the day, and the two of us (and Richard, I suppose, if he insisted) go fishing together, as we did in the old days, with a picnic lunch of cold meats and lemonade to sustain us when we were hungry, followed by star-gazing on the lawn. Does not that sound splendid?

Instead, I was forced to wear a fragile white muslin gown, above which my hair seemed redder than ever, and my skin dead-white in comparison, and sit in an uncomfortable chair at Mansfield Park, thanking dozens of young men and women for their appearance at my birthday party (most of whom I do not know, and do not wish to know), and listen to my aunts complain.

Aunt Bertram thought it dreadfully risky to have an outdoor picnic in September, and wouldn't we rather move inside? She was sure it was going to rain, or turn cold, or bugs were going to get into the food, or a table was going to overturn, or one of the young ladies would tear her dress while dancing, or something dreadful. I stopped listening after a while.

My other aunt, Mrs. Rushworth that was (so terribly difficult knowing what to call her! Do I say Mrs. Rushworth or Miss Bertram? Addressing her to her face I simply call her "Aunt", but that does not work when speaking of her to others. Perhaps that is why Papa never speaks to her or of her.), complained that for her part, she was unbearably hot, but nobody ever minded her, she was sneered at by everybody, and if her dear Aunt Norris hadn't died, she would never have come back to Mansfield at all.

To which Richard, who was sitting on my other side at the moment, muttered, "I am sure we wish you hadn't!" which was quite shockingly rude, of course, but understandable, and thankfully my aunt did not hear him.

I feel sorry for Aunt Maria (there! Improper though it may be to use her first name, she has been improper enough that I shall not flinch). She behaved very badly with that wicked Mr. Crawford, to be sure, but I think she has suffered enough for it. Her face is very haggard, and her once stately figure quite slovenly. Her voice is querulous and grating, poor thing (I do like a nice voice, as you know, Jamie dear—I am so thankful yours is pleasant) and she appears altogether miserable.

It would be quite difficult to throw everything away in a burst of grand passion, only to have it end with creeping back to your elder brother after your father's death, begging for a place to live! I think it very charitable of my uncle, Sir Thomas, to take her in, but I think it would be a far kinder thing if he and Aunt Bertram did not mention it quite so frequently in front of Aunt Maria.

Papa, of course, never speaks to her, and while I would never wish to say anything bad about Papa, and I am sure it is quite the moral thing to do, it does not seem very loving. If you did something dreadful, Jamie, I would never stop talking to you, and you are but my cousin, and not even my brother!

But there—perhaps it would be harder if you were my brother, and I felt you disgraced the family name. And after all, Papa is a wise and kindly clergyman, and I only his unruly seventeen year old daughter—I am sure I am in no condition to judge.

Mama, I believe, would be kind to Aunt Maria if she did not think it disloyal to Papa, and if Aunt Maria would permit it, but my aunt really seems to hold Mama responsible for Mr. C. leaving her, and so glares hatefully at her every time Mama comes near.

Our Aunt de Lacey takes great umbrage at that, and would say something quite harsh to Aunt M. if Mama did not plead with her to be gracious. Aunt de L. and I share much more than our red hair—we both have very hasty tempers, and carry our family loyalty rather too far. Mama is always telling me I need to practice more self-control, especially as I am a young lady now, and soon to be out.

I am thankful to say that my Aunt and Uncle Yates were not able to come, Uncle being quite busy with work, and Aunt doing something frivolous with darling Althea. Aunt Yates did send a note, however, stating that she would have sent me a silk dress but that she was sure I would tear it or stain it, so she gave it to Thea instead, as Thea is such a proper lady!

Despite my dislike of fine frocks, I do rather regret the silk gown. I love silk—it is so glistening and smooth and cool—and I feel sure I could be proper if I wore silk.

Papa, however, though he makes a comfortable living for all our needs, does not make enough to justify foolish fripperies, especially when there are so many poor people we can help with any extra halfpennies we might have, so Aunt Yates was my last hope.

Aunt de L., of course, is more than wealthy enough to buy me a closet full of silk dresses, but all of her money goes to that odious Isabella Huston, Aunt's "protégée." She was there at my party, of course, condescending to me with her usual smug superiority, and turning the heads of every male person there, including Richard, who ought to know better. How I hate her! I know that is a shocking sentiment to come from a clergyman's daughter, but I can have no secrets from you, Jamie dear.

What if Isabella does have fine eyes and a lovely figure? What if she can giggle and make pretty speeches? Disregarding the lowness of her birth, which as a clergyman's daughter I am of course too well-bred to throw in her face, she does not have an original idea in her brain. She thinks of nothing but fashions and flirtations, and I can carry on an intelligent conversation far better than she ever could.

People, however, look at her and see a well-dressed, pretty young woman who smiles and simpers and says what is proper, and they look at me and see a red-headed minx with wicked green eyes, a sharp tongue, and an unfeminine interest in world affairs.

I do think it entirely unfair that women are not allowed at Oxford. When I listen to Richard boast about his exploits there, I get in such a rage that he doesn't care about his education and is trying to get through with as little effort as possible. Whereas I, who would adore an education, am limited by my sex to stupid tea parties and embroideries, and doomed to either be an old maid or end my days tending babies and gossiping about servants!

At least you understand me, Jamie, and share with me everything you're learning. Speaking of which, what is the political situation lately? I asked Richard, but he just patted my head and called me an amusing child. Really, and he is only three years older than I, the prig. I don't care if he will be Sir Richard someday, he is by far the most irritating young man I know!

Isn't it odd to think about how much has changed from when we were all children? I remember right after your poor dear mama died, when you came to stay with us because your papa had to go back to sea, how much fun the three of us had. Richard and I used to fight constantly, but you were a steadying influence on me, and a calming influence on him, since he hated to admit that a naval captain's son could be better bred than a baronet's heir.

And then how he and I used to plague poor Thea when they would visit, and you would take pity on her and spend hours listening to her prattle on about nothing, while Richard and I, selfish little beasts that we were, would run away and sail boats in the stream.

And now Richard patronizes me, and you let me pour out my deepest thoughts to you. And I suppose, if you saw Thea, you would still be polite to her, as well! Really, Jamie, sometimes I think you are too good to be quite human. You make me ashamed of my temper and mischievous ways and all my uncharitable thoughts.

I know that I am really a great worry to Mama and Papa. They are both so good—really good, truly—and I am so bad. They do not understand how their training could go so awry! It was one thing, when I was twelve, to declare that I liked playing soldiers better than dolls, and wanted to sit in Parliament when I grew up, but it is a bit more shocking now when I say that I do not care about marriage and wish I could work like a man does to earn my own living.

Aunt Bertram warns me that no man will ever want to marry a strong-minded woman. Well, I do not want to marry a weak-livered man, so I don't regret my lost beaux!

I do not think I am all bad, though. I do care very deeply for people. Only, I tend to see things from such a human perspective. Papa talks a great deal about right and wrong, and teaching people morals by our example—and he is so very moral. Mama is gentler, but she is so pure herself that she cannot understand people who do wrong things.

Now I, when I hear about Old Simon robbing Miss Lofton's henhouse, recognize that it was wrong, but instead of feeling horror, like Mama, and sternly talking to him about the perils of thieving, like Papa, I think about his poor starving children, and how desperate he must have been to do such a wicked thing, and that really, one should not punish him, because he wouldn't have done it had he had any other choice.

Really, I must be quite hopeless.

This is an unpardonably long letter, Jamie dear. All I really wanted to tell you was about my boring birthday festivities! Suffice to say the day ended with a dance, in which I did not participate, because Richard was supposed to ask me, and instead asked the odious Isabella! and then none of the other young men asked me, because they did not want to ask the girl who was slighted by her own cousin, the heir to Mansfield Park.

So I sat with Mama and my three aunts and watched the dance. I wished you were there, Jamie. We could have slipped away from everybody and danced one of your papa's hornpipes—you remember the one he taught us on his last leave? It would have been quite shocking and disgraceful, but so lovely—much lovelier than all the stupid bowing and crossing and stepping of the dances today.

And then everyone went home, and I thanked Sir Thomas and Aunt Bertram very prettily for a lovely day, shook hands with the odious Isabella, stuck my tongue out at Richard, and came home to sleep off the unaccustomed luxury.

Really, I would rather have spent the day at Oxford with you, studying the law!

Do write soon, and tell me all the news,

Your loving cousin,

Cass.