Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,15
a smattering of rain. They were sheltering under the oak in front of the Digweeds’ house. Water dripped around them from the few remaining leaves.
“Why, yes. Lord Craven said so himself.” He inflated again. “Are there no limits to his influence? Not content with half Berkshire, he also has an estate out there, too!”
Since the moment of their engagement, Cassy had been planning her future in Berkshire. In all her fond imaginings—in those whimsical sketches a romantic young woman must somehow produce in her few idle afternoon moments—there had always been brick-and-flint cottages, gentle undulations, a parsonage solid and square. And in the background, off the page somewhere, there were Fowles close by and—this was important—Austens not too far. Surely that was the arrangement? She felt quite unsteady.
“It is good country around there,” Tom offered, but then immediately doubted it. “Is it not? Yes, I am sure someone has told me … Who was it, now?” Cassy knew that Tom had never developed a particular attachment to detail. “I think I believe I have heard that said.”
“Yes. I think perhaps I too have heard that.” In fact nobody around Cassy had ever testified to the goodness or otherwise of the country in Shropshire, not once in her life. She was certain of it. “It is just that … surely … the very great thing you are doing in joining the expedition … the prize would be … Well, we will be a little farther away than I had imagined, that is all…”
“Ah!” He brightened. “Yes.” He was triumphant. A fact had suddenly occurred to him. “I do know the living to be convenient for Ludlow.”
Convenient for Ludlow. Cassy thought for a while, and did try to find that consoling. She was always amenable, never known to be difficult, but even she could not find much consolation in Ludlow.
“Well, reasonably convenient, at least.” Tom looked vague again; confidence in his great fact was quickly diminishing. “Quite how convenient I am not at all sure.”
Cassy had lived all her life in Hampshire: To her it was God’s own country. She had been brave about Berkshire, accepting of her fate. Of course she must marry, Tom Fowle would be her husband—it was her destiny; indeed, her own good fortune—and so Berkshire it must be. That was quite exotic enough for Cassy. That was the limit of her own adventurous spirit. But Shropshire! That was foreign indeed.
A loud sigh escaped her. “I was just thinking of my family—our families—and the possibilities of visiting.”
“Ah, of course. Yes. Our families…” Tom pondered, while Cassy marveled that he had not thought of this sooner. “Well, with God’s blessing, we will soon have our own family to concern us. Wherever we live will become our home, will it not?”
“But we will still love them all! Even though we will have each other, and—God willing—children of our own. I cannot imagine how we will ever see our families again regularly, for we shall be several—many—days away.” Cassy’s mind, as always, turned at once to the practical. Her talent was for finding solutions, but on this she could see only difficulties—or, worse, realities, harsh and insuperable. How could her sister ever come to visit her? Which brother would give up all that time to escort her there? They could face years of separation! How could they bear it? What would Jane do?
Tom held out his upturned palm to check the rain was abating. “It may not come to that,” he said. “Let us not even discuss it. After all, I do have to get to and from the Windward Isles first.”
Immediately she was chastened, horrified, overcome by the force of her own selfishness. How dare she quail at the imaginary perils of England when he was off to face the real perils of heavens knew where?
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