Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,13

that she will laugh until she is spent.

Of course, our insufferably happy couple must suffer a long engagement. A curate must always be patient; a curate’s bride even more so. Economy is as ever at war with Romance. But one day, Tom’s luck must change and they will be wed. I shall be so pleased for them then—but more than a little sorry for myself. For if there is a drawback to this perfect arrangement—and I should not dare to mention such a possibility in the hearing of my triumphant family—it is that I now have somehow to live without her. So felicitations to you, Eliza, and to all the Fowle family. For you are the victors. Yes, we have the comfort of knowing that Cass will always be happy. But you will have her—and she is the best of us!—close by you, always.

Do look after her. She is so precious to me.

Yours affectionately,

J. Austen.

It was a deeply ordinary Wednesday afternoon in the Steventon Rectory. Cassy was intent on her embroidery, Jane on her letters at the table by the window, Mrs. Austen nodding off over a sock yet undarned, when Tom Fowle burst without notice into the parlor.

“My love, I have news!” he announced, breathless, to his astonished fiancée. “Great news! And I have come to tell you in person.” Tom grabbed Cassy’s hand, greeted her family, begged for their privacy, and pulled her through the house to the garden.

It was now September, the day brisk and brittle. Cassy had to skip to keep up with his stride.

“Well then, am I to hear it?” she asked of him, delighted and laughing. “Dearest? What is this great revelation?”

In truth she was not expecting to be told of any important development, but was merely indulging his mood. Her Tom she knew to be more tortoise than hare, not known for his shocks and surprises—or, at least, not hitherto.

“Wait just a moment.” Tom steered her farther up the Elm Walk. “Wait until we are under our tree.”

Six months had passed since he had proposed to her there: months that Cassy had spent at the peak of contentment. She had discovered that favor in the family and fame in the neighborhood which an engagement entailed, and was basking in it. She knew patience was required of her, and she delivered it without effort. There was no great imperative to rush on to the next stage, as far as she was concerned.

But Tom felt quite differently. The prospect of marriage had engendered within him the first stirrings of ambition. And it transpired that he did not, after all, share her appetite for waiting. He was suddenly keen to get on, get his hands on a living to which he could take his young bride.

They reached their spot. Tom stopped and turned to face Cassy.

“Last week I had an interview with Lord Craven”—Tom seemed to inflate as he spoke—“in which he agreed—oh, my dear love!—he agreed to act as my patron!”

His own family had nothing to offer him. Tom had, early on in life, committed the cardinal sin of being born second, and for that he was now keen to atone.

“Tom! That is great news indeed.”

Cassy had often heard talk of Lord Craven, a neighbor of the Fowles and some sort of relation. He was young, rich, and landed, with a powerful personality, or so it was said. Of course, she had not had the privilege of ever seeing him in person. But this she did know, for by now she had read a great many novels: Such august creatures, born so entitled, could not always be trusted.

“And has he made you an offer?”

“Yes! He has made me an offer.”

Cassy’s heart leaped. “A living?” Already! So soon! “We are to have our own vicarage?”

Tom smiled down at her. “My love, yes.” He then paused to gather his words. “In time. But first, he has asked me—and I have agreed—to accompany him on his next expedition.”

“Expedition?” Her mind conjured a few weeks’ stalking in Scotland, or sailing, perhaps, in the Solent.

“His lordship is leading a contingent of his regiment to the Windward Isles, shortly. I did not quite grasp his business down there. At the time, as you can imagine, I was quite overcome by the whole situation. Never before have I been alone with a man of such—”

“The Windward … But Tom”—fear gripped her—“they are in the West Indies.”

“So they tell me. I should not be gone more than a year.”

“Gone more than a year…”