Cassy repeated, her voice trailing away.
“I will be paid very well; beyond anything I can make if I stay here. And he has promised an excellent position on our return. We shall be set! In just a year! Cassy, without this, we should have waited much longer.”
“Yes indeed. We had agreed, we were prepared to … It would have been hard, but at least we would have waited in safety. Surely there are risks involved in this scheme?” Had he promised all this without thinking? Simply because Lord Craven had asked it?
“I am to go as his private chaplain. Not too onerous a task, I am sure you agree!”
Cassy was struck dumb. His was not a naturally adventurous spirit. She had accepted a curate. Moreover, she was happy with a curate. Who was this new, seafaring, Romantic hero?
He kissed her hand. “My Cassy. See this as my investment in our future security. The ship leaves from Portsmouth in a fortnight. I have come to say my good-byes.”
* * *
THE AUSTEN FAMILY WAS SENSITIVE to the young lovers’ situation and, where possible, afforded them the privacy they deserved. On Tom’s last morning, Cassy came down to a household that was already hectic. She knew her work for the day. She went straight to the parlor, where her sister was sewing. Their brother, Frank, was now in the navy and needed new shirts. The two girls had been stitching their finest and fastest to get them done in time. Cassy made for her usual chair, but Jane, laughing, shooed her away.
She went through to the offices and her next pressing task of the morning: the bottling of the orange wine. If it was not done soon, there would be none for Christmas. This was urgent work indeed. Her mother was already there—apron on, face flushed, hair escaping from under her cap. And Cassy’s friend Martha was with her!
“You are not needed here, Cass.” Mrs. Austen took a measure of muslin. “I have a fine helper come from Ibthorpe for exactly this purpose.” She peered through the scullery window. “There is a good morning out there. You and Tom should seize it.”
Dear Martha—who always got the most happiness from enabling the happiness of others, who had never once known the pleasure of a walk with a young gentleman in crisp winter weather—first embraced and then directed her out of the room.
The day was, in fact, a little unsettled, but they wrapped up well and did as they were bid. The garden was sodden, the fields impassable, but though the mud was building, the Church Walk was still just good enough. Cassy balanced on her pattens. Once out of sight of the rectory, Tom gave her his arm.
It was a poignant outing for both. Tom Fowle had come to live with the family in his sixteenth year, to be educated by Mr. Austen. Here he had learned and grown up and become loved by all at the rectory. But from the beginning, his one, particular companion, with whom he shared an especial sympathy, was Cassy. For years they had been walking these lanes together, since she was a girl and he only on the cusp of manhood. As they grew, Cassy’s beauty bloomed to the point at which she was just the more handsome; her height stopped short of his at the requisite number of inches: They appeared to any beholder as the perfect young couple. Tom was already thought of as part of the family. Steventon was his home almost as much as it was hers.
“I shall miss this place,” he said grimly.
“Oh, Tom. It—we—I shall miss you.”
And then they talked—as they always talked when they were alone, without anyone else to tease them—about their joint future in minutest detail. Her favorite topic above all was their children. How she longed, how she ached for her arms to feel the warmth and weight of her own babies. It was what she was born for, she knew: to be surrounded by infants; to nurture; to care. They went through the naming process—her first girl would be Jane, after her sister, which she thought perfectly reasonable; his first son would be Fulwar, after his brother, which she rather did not—and moved on to the place that would be home to these offspring. And here the conversation took a more awkward turn.
“Unless we are in Shropshire, of course,” Tom was saying, quite casually.
“Shropshire!” Cassy could not stop herself gasping. The skies had turned gray; there was