the others that they too must help her. “There is no evidence whatsoever that James has even noticed Miss Harrison. He has never before mentioned her to me.”
The ladies began what was hoped to be a dignified parade through the hall, the Lloyd sisters in front, the Austens, arms linked, following behind. Cassy sighed heavily.
Jane leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper. “This scheme of yours, Cassy, to bring Mary into our family … You are quite convinced it is sound?”
“Why, of course!” Cassy replied. “Mama believes—”
“Oh, Mama!” Jane interrupted. “Do not talk of Mama. She merely favors marriage in general. She cannot help herself. But what of you, Cass? What of us, indeed? Do we truly want Mary as our future sister?”
“Jane!” Cassy laughed. “The Lloyds are our greatest friends, are they not? And the sisters of Eliza. We will be all of one clan. There never was a more perfect arrangement.”
They sidestepped the dancers, and were forced back into the wall.
“I would say that Martha is our great friend, certainly,” said Jane. “And Eliza, of course. But Mary … would you not say Mary is of a more difficult nature?”
“Oh, Jane. Why must you be always the pessimist? Any character flaws on display at the moment are due entirely, in my view, to the fragility of her confidence. Once settled, Mary will bloom. Mama and I are in one accord on it. My only concern now”—they had reached the top of the room, and Cassy looked about her—“is that this evening is shaping into a perfect disaster. I must salvage it. Where is James?”
She studied the dance floor. James was on it, in partnership with Miss Harrison—now smiling, now laughing, his poor widower’s spirits seemingly banished. She glanced over at Mary, and watched as a tear—ill advised and regrettable—cut a livid, red path down a white pasty cheek.
“I have a new idea,” she called, brightly, over the noise. “We should withdraw for a while. It is not long till supper. I hate to be last and deprived of a good seat.”
They were the first there by at least twenty minutes, which three of them spent in false animation, while Mary sat blowing her nose. At last James came through. Mercifully, he was alone. Cassy jumped up and took him to one side.
“Rather a good evening, much to my surprise.” He was quite uncommonly cheerful. “I hope you are enjoying yourselves. I have not seen you since the coach!”
“It does seem a success,” she began, with some caution. “Though I am surprised that you have not yet asked Mary to dance.”
“Mary?” The very fact of her existence seemed to have slipped James’s mind.
“Miss Mary Lloyd.” Cassy smiled. “It looks a little strange, Brother, when she is staying as our guest and you have spent so much time together lately. I think it would be in order for you to pay some attention to her now.” She paused, breath bated. It was not in her character—and had never before been necessary—to tell her eldest brother how to behave, and she was not sure quite how she would now be received.
Fortunately his new good humor was robust and undentable. “If you say so, dear Cass. Of course.” He took her arm and led her over to the small, feminine party. “Is there space at this delicate table for one hungry man? Might I join you?”
In the moment it took for James to pull out a chair and be seated upon it, Mary’s countenance altered. While he stood, she was the picture of Tragedy; when he sat, the embodiment of Joy. Only a man with no vanity could fail to notice the difference between the two Marys, or believe that difference was not down to him. And for all his many excellent qualities—he was intelligent, articulate, loyal, and godly—James Austen was not a man without vanity. He did notice, and was visibly pleased.
“I hope you ladies are enjoying your soup. I am not sure that I can quite take any at the moment. I am warm enough from the dance floor, and it is—as ever—too hot in here.”
Mary put down her cup and nodded earnestly. “How right you are, Mr. Austen, and how pleased am I to hear you say so. My sister was earlier remarking about the draft in here. Fancy! ‘Draft?’ said I. ‘What draft?’ And do you know what I said then? I said: ‘It is—as ever—too hot in here!’ Is that not the most remarkable coincidence,