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 melted: dear, dearest Tom. He would still like to fish, though, if she would not mind it. She gave him her blessing; he thanked her. For he felt a particular peace on the riverbank, with a rod in his hand.
* * *
IT WAS A CHEERFUL PARTY that gathered in the evening. The Austens were always cheerful in the face of whatever life fancied to throw at them. Cheerfulness and good humor were the Austen way.
“That’s a fine pair of sea legs you have there, Tom Fowle, so you need not fret on their account.” Mrs. Austen, who had earlier dispatched a full plate of veal pie and dumplings, was now swelling gently in the chair by the fire. “I merely have to look at a man to judge him a sailor or no. It is a talent I have, never once known to fail me. And you will have no trouble. I shall stake my reputation upon it. You, my boy, are a sailor. I can see it at once.”
“Oh, I assure you I have no concerns on that score.” Tom was also flushed and benign after the feast that had been prepared for him. Cassy looked at him sharply. Since signing up, he had assumed a new masculine swagger—expected in most men, quite ill suited to him. “After all, I have lived by water all of my life.”
She felt quietly mortified. Her sister, beside her, was stifling her giggles. And her brothers just loudly guffawed.
“You live on the dear old river Kennet!” cried Henry, slapping his thigh.
“It is not known for its high tides and breakers,” James added.
“Oh, but do remember, Brother, that day we had punting.” Henry, when he met with an opportunity for comedy, was always reluctant to let it move on. “Those water lilies we came up against were the very devil itself!”
“Well may you tease, boys,” cut in their mother, reproaching. “I went on a punt once on the Cherwell and quite feared for my own life. And my point was,” she went on, determined to get the conversation onto a kinder, happier note, “that Tom will sail there and back with no difficulty. And before we know it, this beloved young couple will be wed and in a house of their own.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Cassy feared for her digestion later. “I always knew you would not be a curate forever, dear Tom. Fate never stands in the way of the promotion of happiness. Mark my words: The Lord doth provide.”
“If not the Lord, a lord—my esteemed patron,” Tom replied proudly. “And indeed,” he looked across, smiling at Cassy, “we shall be established—in Berkshire or Shropshire—ere too long.”
“Shropshire?” Jane’s voice came out at a strange high pitch. She looked alarmed, then self-conscious, and shrugged carelessly. “But—oh, please, remove Cassy as far as you want, Tom. Why settle for Shropshire? Surely you can pick somewhere even more wild and inconvenient? Go farther north! You can take her to Ireland, for all it bothers me.”
“Oh, no!” Tom leaped in at once, looking worried. “Not Ireland! I should not like the snakes there. I am really quite fearful…”
At that even the young ladies could only erupt into laughter and—because their mother preferred they did not laugh too loudly in company—collapsed into each other to smother the noise.
“Dear Tom.” Henry slapped his shoulder. “You never fail us. Let me be the first to break it to you: It is said there are no snakes in Ireland! Is that not excellent news?”
James, a parson too now, with a healthy, if ponderous, appetite for preaching, cleared his throat and began in lugubrious tones: “Legend has it that Saint Patrick—”
Henry at once cut him off. “Thank you, James. We are all well acquainted with the saints and their miracles. Ha! All except one of us, that is. Who in this room will claim responsibility for Tom Fowle’s education?”
Mr. Austen, in his seat by the window, looked up from his book. “I did my best,” he said mildly. “We got you to Oxford, Tom, did we not? Fortunately the dons cared less about the geography of reptiles and more for his Latin.”
Tom smiled over at Cassy again. “And you helped me so much with that.” Cassy blushed back at him. They used to work for hours together, after Tom had spent the morning in the attic schoolroom. The gerund would elude him, while she grasped it at once. But how touching of him to speak up and give her 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.