by Gill Hornby
“My father is being polite,” Jane told Mr. Hobday. “The sermon was not in our preferred style.”
“Jane!” Cassy exclaimed, putting hand on her sister’s shoulder to signal caution. “We do not know Mr. Hobday’s own feelings on the subject.” She dropped her voice. “We would not wish to offend.” Then she turned to Mr. Hobday: “Sir, you must forgive my sister.” The first time she had ever properly addressed him, and it was to beg forgiveness for her sister! How very unfortunate. “She is not ordinarily quite so outspoken.”
Mr. Austen roared with laughter: “I am afraid that she very much is!”
“Please do not worry on my account. I have no fear of plain speaking, I assure you. Nor was that sermon quite to my tastes, but when one travels as much as we do these days, one can hardly pick and choose.” Mr. Hobday’s smile was broad and quite unaffected. “Now, while we are embracing the spirit of mutual honesty, what think you all of Dawlish?”
“Very pleasant,” replied Cassy politely.
“As a resort,” Jane cut in, “it is lacking.”
“Indeed it is!” Mr. Hobday exclaimed. “I tried the library yesterday, on our first afternoon. A pitiful business. If I did not travel with a good supply of my own books, I do not know quite what I should do with myself.”
Cassy smiled in anticipation, for here was the perfect opportunity for a meeting of minds. Her sister’s fury at the persistent flaws of the circulating library had been a constant refrain since their own arrival. So she waited now for the inevitable urgent agreement, but the wait was in vain.
At last her father stepped into the breach: “Then I envy you, sir. I had to surrender my own library when we gave up the rectory last year, and much pain did it cause me. To surrender one’s books, well: It is to surrender part of one’s soul.”
“And without them we are reduced to being no more than mendicants,” sighed Jane theatrically.
“Jane!” Cassy admonished, yet again.
But Mr. Hobday seemed only amused. “It is not many mendicants who have the good fortune to take a house in Dawlish for the length of the summer.”
“Oh, we shall not spend the whole summer here,” Jane dismissed him. “My brother will arrive soon—”
“Captain Charles Austen RN, on the Endymion,” their proud father put in then. “He has been at sea for a few years, seeing off Napoleon.” As if the war had been a duel between the two men. “The blessing of this peace has come at just the right time. He is already on his way.”
“—and I dare say, Papa, he will not put up with Dawlish for long. He is a Man of the World now and accustomed to all manner of excitement. A place like this, in the company of no one other than his family, could never be enough for a strong character such as his.”
Cassy grabbed Jane’s arm then, pulled her ahead, and they walked back across the fields toward the sea and their lodgings in silence.
Once home, Jane at once sat down to her writing with an air of great satisfaction. She had repulsed Mr. Hobday with an expert efficiency. She could return to her invented world.
* * *
“I HAVE GIVEN IT MUCH THOUGHT and concluded I rather approve of your Mr. Hobday.” Jane spoke into the glass while Cassy brushed her hair for her that evening.
“Well, you certainly had a most interesting way of showing it,” Cassy scoffed.
“Oh, Cass.” Jane pressed her lips together. “Was I terribly rude?” It was almost as if she might care a jot.
“Yes! You were frightful!” Cassy tugged at her locks playfully.
“As rude as I was to Mr. Blackall?”
“No,” Cassy conceded, laughing. “Nobody has ever, in the history of social intercourse between the two sexes, been as rude as you were to Mr. Blackall. You set impossibly high standards with him, for all womankind.”
“Hmm. So would you estimate this morning at”—Jane held out her thumb and forefinger as if measuring—“say, half a Blackall?”
“Not quite half a Blackall, perhaps more of one-third. But if our mother had been there and caught it…”
Cassy could not stay cross for long. The days here followed the same pattern. Jane had only two moods: sullen and silent, or brittle and wicked. Neither was easy on the household, and only Cassy could manage her. Mrs. Austen was quite close to despair. But then she did not notice that which had struck Cassy: Those foul moods persisted only until the moment when Jane was free to pick up her pen. After an hour or two alone with her thoughts and her writing, she returned—as if purified—to something almost like calm. And at night, when it was just the two of them in their room, she was the happiest of all.
Cassy passed Jane her cap. “Anyway, I do not know why you will call him my Mr. Hobday. He is nothing of the sort. Indeed”—she moved to the side of the bed and knelt down—“I had rather thought”—she hid her face in her hands—“he might do for you.”
Jane climbed straight into bed and talked over Cassy’s prayers. “I assure you, he is very much your Mr. Hobday. That was apparent from the way he looked at you this morning. Do not tell me you could not feel the warmth of his admiration.” She plumped up her pillow. “So, on reflection, I should not have been quite so hostile. It can only have come from sheer force of habit.”
Cassy pulled back the cover and got in beside her.
“I condemn my own behavior.” Jane turned, put an arm around her sister, and planted a kiss on her cheek. “It was quite unforgivable, and I confidently expect you to forgive it at once. Anyway, I doubt that it affected your Mr. Hobday one way or t’other. What matters a bad sister off in the background? He did not strike me as a lover who could be deterred by—”
“‘Lover’!” Cassy pulled back in horror. “What on earth can you mean, lover? Jane, you have it all wrong. He has all but ignored me at every opportunity. His lovemaking, if that is what you call it, is directed at everyone but myself—first Anna, then Papa, and today, I rather thought, you.”
“Precisely! There is my evidence—that, and the unmistakable ardor. I am quite sure I saw sparks flying off him. I think one caught my bonnet. Because of you and your charms, I might have gone up in smoke. Oh, Cass, you can be so slow. Why do you suppose he has fetched up in Dawlish at all?”
“Well, I cannot say I know enough of the Hobdays to arrive at an answer, but I can only presume it must be no more than coincidence. There are not so many watering places on the South Coast—”
“And not many gentlemen of Mr. Hobday’s caliber in this one.” Jane blew out the candle and settled down. “He is here in pursuit of the enchanting Miss Austen. You have him quite in your powers.”
Cassy laughed. “How can you be so foolish? I have no powers to speak of.”
“Oh, but you do, my dear. And that you are unaware of them only makes you more powerful still. Our poor Mr. Hobday has fallen.”
“Then I am sorry for it,” Cassy replied firmly. “You of all people must know me to have lost the only one I could ever marry. I have no possible interest in him, or any other gentleman now.”
“Is that so?” Jane turned on her side and nestled her chin into her sister’s shoulder. “Poor, beautiful Miss Austen, condemned to eke out a sad life with nothing to do but care for others and control the temperament of her difficult sister.” She pulled up her knees, preparing to sleep, yawned, and then muttered: “Let us just wait and see.”
17
Dawlish, July 1802
CASSY HAD HOPES FOR A RETURN of her mother’s poor health so that she could stay home and nurse her in blessed obscurity. But the next morning, to her profound disappointment, Mrs. Austen arrived down in the parlor and pronounced herself well.
“What an excellent day it is out there! And I am pleased to report that I passed a good night and awoke feeling unusually robust. Now, Cassy, while your father and Jane are out, I think we should take a walk together, do you not agree?”
Cassy knew her agreement to be no more than a formality, and collected their bonnets.
“Oh, sp
lendid,” said her mother, setting off from the threshold. “The tide is still low, and we can take to the strand. It is a pity that Dawlish does not yet have a more permanent promenade.” She squeezed Cassy’s arm. “We shall have to make sure that we seize every opportunity for walking and talking, eh? Let us not miss our chance.”
It was a dazzling day, all brilliant sun, clear air, and variegated blues. Cassy drank it in and prayed it be peaceful.
“Perfect conditions for bathing. Perhaps a good dipping will improve your sister’s spirits. We can but hope, we can but hope. That girl is all sharp edges at the moment, and it worries me greatly. Your father reported back to me on her conduct with our charming Mr. Hobday, and I do not mind telling you that I was most displeased. Of course your papa thought it amusing, which irked me yet further. His excessive indulgence does naught to alleviate things, and I have told him so often. But why she herself must endeavor to appear as unattractive as possible, that I do not understand.” She paused to take breath, and they greeted a few passing neighbors. “Mind, I have my own theory about Mr. Hobday.” Mrs. Austen’s voice did not drop, but merely transferred to its booming and audible whisper. “And that is, it is you, my dear, who have caught his eye.”
In her embarrassment, Cassy studied their feet as they took up walking again.
“His mother said something rather interesting to me on the way back from ch—Mr. Hobday!” Mrs. Austen stopped. “With what pleasure it is that we meet again. It did not occur to me as we set off this fine morning that we might be so fortunate. The coincidence is quite startling. Tell me, what accounts for you being out here today?”
“Mama.” Cassy, curtsying, was compelled to introduce a calm to the histrionics. “Mr. Hobday is staying here in the village. It can hardly be pure serendipity. Most of Dawlish is enjoying the weather.”
“I beg you, madam”—he bowed—“do not cheat me of such an effusive reception. It is not what I am used to, but must confess to finding it most pleasant.”
Mrs. Austen chuckled. “There. My daughter chiding me again, for no reason. You can be assured, Mr. Hobday, you can always expect a warm welcome from me. Now, which way are you headed? We are merely pottering in an aimless fashion. Perhaps you might like to accompany us for a while?”
“Mama.”
“How delightful. I, too, am only taking the air and enjoying the view while my mother takes her sea bath.” He turned and started to walk alongside them.
“Forgive me for being so personal, Mr. Hobday—it is my way, you will no doubt get used to it. People have to. I am too old to change now—but I must say that you are an exemplary son to your dear mother.”
“It had not occurred to me to be otherwise.”
“Nonetheless, not all young men can boast of such a clear sense of duty. Such filial devotion is a pleasure to witness. You remind me very much of my daughter here.” She patted Cassy with fondness. “She, too, is in possession of the most remarkable qualities.”
“Mother, I fear you are tiring,” Cassy put in quickly. “Perhaps you should rest on this bench for a while.” She settled Mrs. Austen. “Sir, please do not feel obliged to wait with us. Our progress is a little erratic, is it not, Mama? Oh!”
“You were correct, madam.” He smiled. “Your mother must indeed have been tired. She has fallen asleep at once.” He sat down beside her. “Please allow me to wait with you until she has recovered. I do not like to think of you alone.”
“That is kind, but, truly, I have no need of the company.”
“Then let me think only of my own pleasure.” He pulled his cane toward him and studied its top.
Cassy sat in silence and affected a calm, demure exterior that belied the raging torment within. A thin, warm summer breeze was all that held them apart. It played on her skin. Oh! He had only to reach out his hand and her senses would fire up, as they had fired up the first time she saw him. She quailed at the memory: that scalding, quicksilver flash … It was too much to bear. Her life was set, decisions made; her promise had been given, and still there came danger. She had maneuvered herself into a place of tranquility and believed she was settled. Why should her resolution come now under such heavy assault?
She determined to freeze him away. He might converse on any subject that pleased him—thoughts on the picturesque or peace with the French; his incomprehensible love of the fossil—but could hope for no sort of success. He would find it as blood from a stone.
“May I inquire after the health of your dear niece, Anna? I think of her often and that pleasant morning we enjoyed on the beach.”
This was not what she had been expecting. In her shock, Cassy softened to putty. “Thank you for remembering her, sir. She is quite well, I believe.”
“And I hope happy? There seemed a streak of melancholy, or perhaps insecurity, that was troubling to witness in a child of that age.”
“She lost her mother when still very small and is, I fear, scarred by it. Though I am surprised it should be perceived by a stranger.”
“Ah. The loss of a parent is a heavy burden to carry,” he said with a sigh, “especially in one so young.”
“Mrs. Hobday told us last year of your own bereavement, for which I am sorry.”
“Thank you, madam. My father was an excellent man, and is much missed. My mother was badly struck by the grief of it, and that explains our peripatetic existence. She found it too painful to stay in our family home for a while. But I think, and pray, that, her strength now recovered, we shall be returning this autumn to our estate.”
Cassy felt her mother twitch as that small but all-powerful word pierced through and pricked her innermost mind.
“For myself, I believe our mourning has gone on long enough. It is not only because I am keen to take up my inheritance, more that the pull of Derbyshire is too strong to resist.”
“Derbyshire!” exclaimed Cassy.
“Derbyshire?” In her excitement, Mrs. Austen clean forgot she was asleep.
“So you know it?” Mr. Hobday seemed pleased.
“Alas, not at all.” Cassy felt foolish. “It is just that my sister has it in her head the place is some sort of perfection.”
“Then your sister is a lady of great intuition. It is God’s own country, I sincerely believe.”
Mrs. Austen struggled to her feet. “And we would very much like to hear all about it, would we not, Cassy? Come now. Let us walk again.”
They both rose, on order.
“You can describe everything to us in the greatest of detail. We are country people ourselves, Mr. Hobday, with an excellent sense of the land. My daughter here is quite a hand with the poultry, although—dear me! How foolish—I suppose you have people for that, yes? Well, of course. An estate, I heard you say. Now, how many acres?”
The tide had turned. The thin spit of sand—so wide and firm on their outward journey—was still desperately holding out, as if it had a choice in its future. Though it knew, from experience, that the sea was bound to overcome it in time.
“Ah, that is extensive,” Mrs. Austen was saying. “And how much is farmland, and how much is park?”
Their return to the village had to be hurried. Cassy chose not to contribute to the conversation, but nobody noticed. Mrs. Austen had too many questions to ask of Mr. Hobday, and Mr. Hobday was all too keen to reply.
* * *
WITH THE EXCITEMENT OF CHARLES’S arrival, the family became introspective. They each, individually, preferred the company of Austens above any other. With enough of them assembled, there was no need for society. They were a party unto themselves. And if they could not all be together, then this, for the ladies, was the perfect arrangement. Among their brothers, they each had their favorites, but on Charles they both equally doted.
The evening was warm, preserving the memory of the heat of the day. Jane sat by the open window, reading aloud to them. A light breeze sauntered through and lifted the hair around her face.
“I say, your Thorpe is the devil of a bounde
r.” Charles jumped up and strode around the small parlor. He could never be still for long. “If that is the Oxford Man, I am grateful not to have gone there myself. I dare him to try and come onto my ship: We should have him run up the yardarm at once.”
Jane lowered her pages. “He never would be on your or any ship, Charles. Mr. Thorpe has neither the heart nor the head for it. We all know that our sailors are the very best of our men.”
“Hear, hear,” said Mr. Austen. “As the French now know to their cost.”
“You say that, and yet my sister here continues to insult me!” Charles retorted.
“I?” exclaimed Jane. “My dear Charles, you are surely teasing! What can I have done?”
“Is it not obvious? You will persist in writing these stories, full of splendid fellows of all different sorts, but never once have I heard one of your heroines to be blessed with a dashing sailor brother whom she admires and adores.”
“That is true.” Jane laughed. Cassy looked up from her sewing and smiled to see her sister so at ease. After a successful reading of her own work to the family, she glowed as she never glowed otherwise. “But to do so would defeat my own purposes. It would strike right through the narrative. You must see that if a young lady is so fortunate as to have her own dashing sailor brother, she is spoiled then for any other hero I could create for her. For how, with such an example in her own background, could she fall in love on dry land? No man could match him.”
“Aha!” Charles bounded over and knelt at her feet. “So that is why I return to find that you are still yet to be settled. Tell me, truthfully now.” He took her hand. “Is it as I fear? That you despair of finding a man who could match me?”
“I certainly despair of finding one so adept at playing the fool.” Jane batted him away. “But Charles, it is Cassy who betrays you. She has a new suitor, and is now far too grand to give thought to a subject as dreary as her dear sailor brother.”