excessive indulgence does naught to alleviate things, and I have told him so often. But why she herself must endeavor to appear as unattractive as possible, that I do not understand.” She paused to take breath, and they greeted a few passing neighbors. “Mind, I have my own theory about Mr. Hobday.” Mrs. Austen’s voice did not drop, but merely transferred to its booming and audible whisper. “And that is, it is you, my dear, who have caught his eye.”
In her embarrassment, Cassy studied their feet as they took up walking again.
“His mother said something rather interesting to me on the way back from ch—Mr. Hobday!” Mrs. Austen stopped. “With what pleasure it is that we meet again. It did not occur to me as we set off this fine morning that we might be so fortunate. The coincidence is quite startling. Tell me, what accounts for you being out here today?”
“Mama.” Cassy, curtsying, was compelled to introduce a calm to the histrionics. “Mr. Hobday is staying here in the village. It can hardly be pure serendipity. Most of Dawlish is enjoying the weather.”
“I beg you, madam”—he bowed—“do not cheat me of such an effusive reception. It is not what I am used to, but must confess to finding it most pleasant.”
Mrs. Austen chuckled. “There. My daughter chiding me again, for no reason. You can be assured, Mr. Hobday, you can always expect a warm welcome from me. Now, which way are you headed? We are merely pottering in an aimless fashion. Perhaps you might like to accompany us for a while?”
“Mama.”
“How delightful. I, too, am only taking the air and enjoying the view while my mother takes her sea bath.” He turned and started to walk alongside them.
“Forgive me for being so personal, Mr. Hobday—it is my way, you will no doubt get used to it. People have to. I am too old to change now—but I must say that you are an exemplary son to your dear mother.”
“It had not occurred to me to be otherwise.”
“Nonetheless, not all young men can boast of such a clear sense of duty. Such filial devotion is a pleasure to witness. You remind me very much of my daughter here.” She patted Cassy with fondness. “She, too, is in possession of the most remarkable qualities.”
“Mother, I fear you are tiring,” Cassy put in quickly. “Perhaps you should rest on this bench for a while.” She settled Mrs. Austen. “Sir, please do not feel obliged to wait with us. Our progress is a little erratic, is it not, Mama? Oh!”
“You were correct, madam.” He smiled. “Your mother must indeed have been tired. She has fallen asleep at once.” He sat down beside her. “Please allow me to wait with you until she has recovered. I do not like to think of you alone.”
“That is kind, but, truly, I have no need of the company.”
“Then let me think only of my own pleasure.” He pulled his cane toward him and studied its top.
Cassy sat in silence and affected a calm, demure exterior that belied the raging torment within. A thin, warm summer breeze was all that held them apart. It played on her skin. Oh! He had only to reach out his hand and her senses would fire up, as they had fired up the first time she saw him. She quailed at the memory: that scalding, quicksilver flash … It was too much to bear. Her life was set, decisions made; her promise had been given, and still there came danger. She had maneuvered herself into a place of tranquility and believed she was settled. Why should her resolution come now under such heavy assault?
She determined to freeze him away. He might converse on any subject that pleased him—thoughts on the picturesque or peace with the French; his incomprehensible love of the fossil—but could hope for no sort of success. He would find it as blood from a stone.
“May I inquire after the health of your dear niece, Anna? I think of her often and that pleasant morning we enjoyed on the beach.”
This was not what she had been expecting. In her shock, Cassy softened to putty. “Thank you for remembering her, sir. She is quite well, I believe.”
“And I hope happy? There seemed a streak of melancholy, or perhaps insecurity, that was troubling to witness in a child of that age.”
“She lost her mother when still very small and is, I fear, scarred by it. Though I am surprised it should be