by Gill Hornby
He led her back onto the lane. “We should not pick away at our own contentment, even before it is achieved. And I know myself to be happy anywhere, with you by my side.”
Cassy resolved, again, not to think about it, or mention it to Jane. It would be bad for her sister’s nerves, cast down her spirits. Why worry her with rumor before it had become fact? They joined arms, walked, and their conversation picked up again: They would like one cow for the household, a pony for the children; Tom would no longer hunt, once married with a living: It meant too much time away from his work—and his wife. She blushed, and melted: dear, dearest Tom. He would still like to fish, though, if she would not mind it. She gave him her blessing; he thanked her. For he felt a particular peace on the riverbank, with a rod in his hand.
* * *
IT WAS A CHEERFUL PARTY that gathered in the evening. The Austens were always cheerful in the face of whatever life fancied to throw at them. Cheerfulness and good humor were the Austen way.
“That’s a fine pair of sea legs you have there, Tom Fowle, so you need not fret on their account.” Mrs. Austen, who had earlier dispatched a full plate of veal pie and dumplings, was now swelling gently in the chair by the fire. “I merely have to look at a man to judge him a sailor or no. It is a talent I have, never once known to fail me. And you will have no trouble. I shall stake my reputation upon it. You, my boy, are a sailor. I can see it at once.”
“Oh, I assure you I have no concerns on that score.” Tom was also flushed and benign after the feast that had been prepared for him. Cassy looked at him sharply. Since signing up, he had assumed a new masculine swagger—expected in most men, quite ill suited to him. “After all, I have lived by water all of my life.”
She felt quietly mortified. Her sister, beside her, was stifling her giggles. And her brothers just loudly guffawed.
“You live on the dear old river Kennet!” cried Henry, slapping his thigh.
“It is not known for its high tides and breakers,” James added.
“Oh, but do remember, Brother, that day we had punting.” Henry, when he met with an opportunity for comedy, was always reluctant to let it move on. “Those water lilies we came up against were the very devil itself!”
“Well may you tease, boys,” cut in their mother, reproaching. “I went on a punt once on the Cherwell and quite feared for my own life. And my point was,” she went on, determined to get the conversation onto a kinder, happier note, “that Tom will sail there and back with no difficulty. And before we know it, this beloved young couple will be wed and in a house of their own.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Cassy feared for her digestion later. “I always knew you would not be a curate forever, dear Tom. Fate never stands in the way of the promotion of happiness. Mark my words: The Lord doth provide.”
“If not the Lord, a lord—my esteemed patron,” Tom replied proudly. “And indeed,” he looked across, smiling at Cassy, “we shall be established—in Berkshire or Shropshire—ere too long.”
“Shropshire?” Jane’s voice came out at a strange high pitch. She looked alarmed, then self-conscious, and shrugged carelessly. “But—oh, please, remove Cassy as far as you want, Tom. Why settle for Shropshire? Surely you can pick somewhere even more wild and inconvenient? Go farther north! You can take her to Ireland, for all it bothers me.”
“Oh, no!” Tom leaped in at once, looking worried. “Not Ireland! I should not like the snakes there. I am really quite fearful…”
At that even the young ladies could only erupt into laughter and—because their mother preferred they did not laugh too loudly in company—collapsed into each other to smother the noise.
“Dear Tom.” Henry slapped his shoulder. “You never fail us. Let me be the first to break it to you: It is said there are no snakes in Ireland! Is that not excellent news?”
James, a parson too now, with a healthy, if ponderous, appetite for preaching, cleared his throat and began in lugubrious tones: “Legend has it that Saint Patrick—”
Henry at once cut him off. “Thank you, James. We are all well acquainted with the saints and their miracles. Ha! All except one of us, that is. Who in this room will claim responsibility for Tom Fowle’s education?”
Mr. Austen, in his seat by the window, looked up from his book. “I did my best,” he said mildly. “We got you to Oxford, Tom, did we not? Fortunately the dons cared less about the geography of reptiles and more for his Latin.”
Tom smiled over at Cassy again. “And you helped me so much with that.” Cassy blushed back at him. They used to work for hours together, after Tom had spent the morning in the attic schoolroom. The gerund would elude him, while she grasped it at once. But how touching of him to speak up and give her the credit. Not all young men would be so generous. This was the old Tom she knew.
Mrs. Austen took another sip of wine, and the pink of her cheeks deepened. “It has all worked out splendidly,” she proclaimed with great satisfaction. “We could not be more pleased for you both. We are so very fond of you and your dear family, Tom, as well you know. And—remember this, when you are off crossing the Seven Seas—you will never find a better peach to pick than our Cassy. She is a wonder, make no mistake. Such an accomplished young lady as my eldest daughter will always be an asset to any young man.”
“Here it comes,” Jane said to Cassy, under her breath.
Cassy whispered back, with a tragicomic countenance, impersonating their mother: “But poor Jane…”
“But poor Jane,” began Mrs. Austen with a sigh. Delight burst out of her daughters. Her voice had to be still further raised: “We are not so sure what will become of her.”
“Mama,” urged Cassy gently, through her laughter. “Jane is with us. Here. In the room.”
“I am merely saying that when a young woman is exceptionally competent—”
“Oh, Mama,” Jane protested. “One can have a surfeit of competence.”
“Quite so, Jane, quite so. If one happens to marry a man on ten thousand a year. Should one fail to find such a thing, should even you end up like Cassy and myself, married to a man of the Church with a large family and limited resources, you will not have the luxury of dismissing those qualities. Your father will tell you how often I, through my hard work and efficiencies, have kept the wolf from our door.”
Mr. Austen, now closing his book and rising to his feet, was in no mind to do any such thing. “We are blessed with two brilliant daughters, Mrs. Austen—if perhaps that brilliance manifests itself differently in each. And I should think any man would feel lucky to have either.”
“Thank you, Papa, for that glowing testimonial.” Jane nodded up at her father.
Tom beamed. “I certainly am.”
“And now,” proclaimed the Reverend George Austen, as if from his pulpit, “we have but a few hours left with our future son-in-law. I believe some music is called for, do not you agree?”
Jane leaped to her piano; the men moved the sofa. And Tom and Cassy danced their last dance for a while.
* * *
IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN the coach came the next morning. At the doorway George Austen shook Tom’s hand briskly, wished him Godspeed and—ever the schoolmaster—urged him to record in a journal all those wonders of the world he was to be lucky enough to witness. Was there envy in those older eyes? Cassy fancied she could see it. Her father had himself once had a lust for adventure that life had not chosen to satisfy. How she wished, for his sake, that Tom Fowle was made of the same cloth! Was there ever a man less suited to ship life, to campaigning in strange, far-off islands, than her beloved, cautious young curate? What a cruel twist of fate that he—of all of them—should have been chosen for this.
Her father withdrew and, pulling her shawl around her, Cassy stepped out into the cold for the final farewell. It was tender, and poignant: an awful moment that each pledged to remember forever. She closed her eyes as he kissed her hand for the last time. And at once he was in the coach, the door was slammed, and the horses were trottin
g. Cassy watched them all disappear. Yes, she was moved. She was a young woman bidding farewell to her fiancé. Of course the lump was in her throat, the tears in her eyes. And yet she also—much to her relief—felt a rush of confidence for which she had not dared to hope. Cassy was already a woman of strong and firm instincts. And she felt then, somewhere deep in her marrow, in the blood that was now warming her cheeks, that he would come back to her. She knew she would one day see him again.
The wind got up soon after he left. The Austens watched the storm from the rectory window and thought of that young man at sea in cruel weather for the very first time. Lord Craven and his Buffs set off as agreed, but the conditions were terrible; they faced disaster. After sleepless nights, which Cassy passed listening to the gales roaring around her and doubted, cursed, her—and in particular her mother’s—earlier assurance, a letter arrived. Addressed to Miss Austen. In Eliza Fowle’s hand.
Fingers trembling, Cassy opened it.
4
Kintbury Vicarage
24 November 1795
My dear Cassandra,
I know you must be consumed with worry, as are we—oh, the horror of it—so let me tell you at once: we have this minute had news of Tom. My dear Cass, he is safe! And even now on dry land. The household is all jubilation, grateful prayers and relief.
We had heard such stories—of the hurricane hitting the fleet in the Channel, the ships scattering, the bodies washing up on the shore—and we had quite given up all hope that Tom might be delivered back to us. But we—and you, and our Tom of course—are the lucky ones. The Buffs somehow—we know not yet the ways and the wherefores—limped back into Portsmouth and disembarked yesterday. All the men are unharmed—thank the Lord!—though the poor ship has suffered. The voyage is perforce abandoned while she is repaired, and they will set sail again in January.
And so we are doubly blessed! Tom will be home again in Kintbury as early as next week. I have spoken to Mrs. Fowle and it is agreed, if your own family will permit it: we would be so happy if you, Cassy, would be so kind as to join us here for the festive season? To have both you and Tom with us … It would be our own Christmas miracle! Please write and tell me you will.
Your hopeful friend,
E. Fowle.
Cassy was spinning. One week she was in Steventon and the next suddenly in Kintbury, with no sort of notice at all. Never had she known life to move so fast. By the moment of arrival, she was quite beside herself. Was this what they called giddiness? She had never knowingly been giddy before.
It had been decided that her brother James should escort her, and he was delighted to do so. For all the Fowle boys, not just Tom, had been educated in Steventon and played together with the Austens like a litter of puppies. As soon as their coach hit the Kintbury gravel, the Fowles had all swarmed out to greet it. James swung open the door and jumped down even as the horses were slowing. There was a lot of loud welcome, hearty handshaking, and ragging. Cassy watched from within and laughed at them: In each other’s company they at once returned to boyhood, even now they were grown men.
While waiting, she took in her new surroundings and, to her great satisfaction, found them perfectly charming and exactly how she had imagined. Here, to the side, were brick-and-flint cottages; behind them were gentle undulations and before her a parsonage, solid and square.
“Here she is!” James turned back—Cassy could not help but notice the pride in his eyes—and offered his hand to her. “Mr. and Mrs. Fowle, may I present to you my sister, Miss Austen, the next Kintbury bride?”
“My dear.” The older Mrs. Fowle pressed forward and took her hands. A neat, tiny woman to have borne four such strapping sons, she was all warmth and determined on friendship. Mr. Fowle Cassy knew well already—he was a great friend of her father’s from their own days at Oxford—and here he was now, sober as ever, though most correct and polite. They each took her side and guided her in.
The hall was so busy she was almost overwhelmed by it. As well as Tom—hanging behind, shy, at the back—Charles and William were home for the season. The eldest son, Fulwar, and his wife, Eliza, lived there all the time now, with their three children. The two small boys were both attractive and charming; little Mary-Jane, who had—what a shame—taken after her father, now wore a cross look and clung to her mother’s skirts.
The whole household gathered to take a look at Cassy: She was quite the main spectacle. Someone took her claret pelisse, and in all her (modest) glory she was revealed to them. In a wild act of romantic abandon—it was not entirely suitable for traveling and she was nothing if not practical—beneath it, she wore her best blue. Their approval was audible. It was a magnificent moment.
And that was it: the high point of the fortnight. Poor Cassy: This was her first solo visit—a great rite of passage for any young heroine. But she had come to a household in the grip of misery and fear.
The last time she had seen Tom, he had been embarking on a year at sea in a spirit of blithe ignorance. One week in the Channel and he was now gaunt, hollow-eyed, quite haunted by the horrors he had seen. His parents, who had always held reservations about the whole enterprise, were now dismayed at the prospect of his leaving again the following month. Even Fulwar’s wife, Eliza, on whose companionship Cassy had counted, was not quite her happiest self. She was exhausted by her young family and in some suffering with the new child she was carrying.
Christmas at Kintbury was more somber than Cassy had ever known any Christmas to be. After beef and pudding—she wondered, had the pudding at home in Steventon turned out well? And how was the orange wine?—they gathered in the drawing room, a subdued little party. William and Charles set out the chess pieces, the ladies their embroidery; Tom sat with his parents by the fire in silence and studied the flames.
Just one person alone was in festive mood. Like nature—and there was something of the elements about him—Fulwar abhorred a vacuum. He strode into the middle of the silence and pierced it with a loud, cheerful peroration on the one topic in the world about which they did not want to hear.
“I do envy you, Tom.” He lifted his jacket a little to warm his seat further, blocking the fire from the rest of the party. “Oh, how I envy you! Out there on the waves with the men. The camaraderie of a ship—that is second to none. Or so they tell me.” He gazed ahead, misty eyed, at the horizon of the warm yellow wall. “The sea air! The shanties! Fellow in the Hunt was on the Victory, you know. He was saying the japes are quite something. Puts the Meet Supper completely to shame.” He chuckled at this secondhand memory.
What a pity it was, Cassy reflected, that Fulwar himself had made the decision to forgo the thrills of military combat. What a shame that, instead, it was his fate to take over this charming country church from his father.
Mr. Fowle pulled himself out of his musings to remonstrate: “I do not think Tom enjoyed much in way of japes when the ship was near wrecked a few weeks ago. Nor did he much like the waves crashing over his head.”
“Oh, it was not as bad as all that,” retorted Fulwar, who had seen out the disaster marshaling the parishioners of Kintbury through the challenges of Advent. “And the fact that they abandoned ship shows how seriously Lord Craven takes the men’s safety. Errs on the side of caution, I sometimes think.”
Cassy looked over at her fiancé from under her lashes, and studied his calm exterior. Why was Tom himself not protesting at all this? Of course she well knew his temper was remarkably even. It was one of the many ways in which they were well suited. But she had never before noticed that his equilibrium could not be disturbed even when, surely, it should.
Eliza leaned toward her. “Perhaps you find us—the majority of us—a little quiet in the evenings, compared with your own family?”
“Oh, no!” Cassy blushed. Was she wearing her thoughts on her face? “Not at all. It has been most pleasant. Could I perhaps borrow a pin?”
Eliza smiled, passed her workbag, and asked, kindly: “What will they be doing now in Steve
nton, do you suppose? I hear from my sisters that you are often playing games.”
“Yes,” Cassy could feel her own distress building. She hid herself in her work. “I expect they will be on the charades by now.” Jane was, no doubt, being slightly too clever; her father roaring with laughter at the things she dared say. It was best not to think about it. “Do you not do that here? Of course I quite understand the present difficulties—I mean in happier times?”
“We tend not to,” Eliza replied, dropping her voice further. “My husband does not take kindly to losing. Though some of us do enjoy a hand of patience when we can find the time.”
Mrs. Fowle spoke up. “It is not the sea that worries me as much as the climate and fevers.” She patted Tom’s arm. “One does hear talk of such exotic illnesses out there.”
“Ha! Dear Mother, have you not always worried? And look at us! Look at the four indestructibles you have inflicted on this world.” In fact, Fulwar was of a build completely different from his brothers. He was short and squat and ruddy; the others were taller, yes, but Tom was rather slight. “I would sooner worry about those unruly savages down there before I will worry about our Tom,” Fulwar continued. “And they will not take a moment’s sleep from me in a hurry. I shall tell you for why.”
Cassy steeled herself for what she knew was coming, and tried to focus again on her needle.
“The insurrection that is now upon us, in all four corners of the globe…” He gestured to the corners of the drawing room.
It occurred to Cassy that Fulwar was quite a different person in his own home. Certainly he was not like this with the Austens. Her family had no truck with pomposity or dominance. He would have been teased into submission as soon as he opened his mouth.
“It is of vital importance that our men pick up their weapons…”