Miss Austen - Gill Hornby Page 0,17
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 trotting. 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