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 her mother’s—earlier assurance, a letter arrived. Addressed to Miss Austen. In Eliza Fowle’s hand.
Fingers trembling, Cassy opened it.
4
Kintbury Vicarage
24 November 1795
My dear Cassandra,
I know you must be consumed with worry, as are we—oh, the horror of it—so let me tell you at once: we have this minute had news of Tom. My dear Cass, he is safe! And even now on dry land. The household is all jubilation, grateful prayers and relief.
We had heard such stories—of the hurricane hitting the fleet in the Channel, the ships scattering, the bodies washing up on the shore—and we had quite given up all hope that Tom might be delivered back to us. But we—and you, and our Tom of course—are the lucky ones. The Buffs somehow—we know not yet the ways and the wherefores—limped back into Portsmouth and disembarked yesterday. All the men are unharmed—thank the Lord!—though the poor ship has suffered. The voyage is perforce abandoned while she is repaired, and they will set sail again in January.
And so we are doubly blessed! Tom will be home again in Kintbury as early as next week. I have spoken to Mrs. Fowle and it is agreed, if your own family will permit it: we would be so happy if you, Cassy, would be so kind as to join us here for the festive season? To have both you and Tom with us … It would be our own Christmas miracle! Please write and tell me you will.
Your hopeful friend,
E. Fowle.
Cassy was spinning. One week she was in Steventon and the next suddenly in Kintbury, with no sort of notice at all. Never had she known life to move so fast. By the moment of arrival, she was quite beside herself. Was this what they called giddiness? She had never knowingly been giddy before.
It had been decided that her brother James should escort her, and he was delighted to do so. For all the Fowle boys, not just Tom, had been educated in Steventon and played together with the Austens like a litter of puppies. As soon as their coach hit the Kintbury gravel, the Fowles had all swarmed out to greet it. James swung open the door and jumped down even as the horses were slowing. There was a lot of loud welcome, hearty handshaking, and ragging. Cassy watched from within and laughed at them: In each other’s company they at once returned to boyhood, even now they were grown men.
While waiting, she took in her new surroundings and, to her great satisfaction, found them perfectly charming and exactly how she had imagined. Here, to the side, were brick-and-flint cottages; behind them were gentle undulations and before her a parsonage, solid and square.
“Here she is!” James turned back—Cassy could not help but notice the pride in his eyes—and offered his hand to her. “Mr. and Mrs. Fowle, may I present to you my sister, Miss Austen, the next Kintbury bride?”
“My dear.” The older Mrs. Fowle pressed forward and took her hands. A neat, tiny woman to have borne four such strapping sons, she was all warmth and determined on friendship. Mr. Fowle Cassy knew well already—he was a great friend of her father’s from their own days at Oxford—and here he was now, sober as ever, though most correct and polite. They each took her side and guided her in.
The hall was so busy she was almost overwhelmed by it. As well as Tom—hanging behind, shy, at the back—Charles and William were home for the season. The eldest son, Fulwar, and his wife, Eliza, lived there all the time now, with their three children. The two small boys were both attractive and charming; little Mary-Jane, who had—what a shame—taken after her father, now wore a cross look and clung to her mother’s skirts.
The whole household gathered to take a look at Cassy: She was quite the main spectacle. Someone took her claret pelisse, and in all her (modest) glory she was revealed to them. In a wild act of romantic abandon—it was not entirely suitable for traveling and she was nothing if not practical—beneath it, she wore her best blue. Their approval was audible. It was a magnificent moment.
And that was it: the high point of the fortnight. Poor Cassy: This was her first solo visit—a great rite of passage for any young heroine. But she had come to a household in the grip of misery and fear.
The last time she had seen Tom, he had been embarking on a year at sea in a spirit of blithe ignorance. One week in the Channel and he was now gaunt, hollow-eyed, quite haunted by the horrors he had seen. His parents, who had always held reservations about the whole enterprise, were now dismayed at the prospect of his leaving again the following month. Even Fulwar’s wife, Eliza, on whose companionship Cassy had counted, was not quite her happiest self. She was exhausted by her young family and in some suffering with the new child she was carrying.
Christmas at Kintbury was more somber than Cassy had ever known any Christmas to be. After beef and pudding—she wondered, had the pudding at home in Steventon turned out well? And how was the orange wine?—they gathered in the drawing room, a subdued little party. William and Charles set out the chess pieces, the ladies their embroidery; Tom sat with his parents by the fire in silence and studied the flames.
Just one person alone was in festive mood. Like nature—and there was something of the elements about him—Fulwar abhorred a vacuum. He strode into the middle of the silence and pierced it with a loud, cheerful peroration on the one topic in the world about which they did not want to hear.
“I do envy you, Tom.” He lifted his jacket a little to warm his seat further, blocking the fire from the rest of the party. “Oh, how I envy you! Out there on the waves with the men. The camaraderie of a ship—that is second to none. Or so they tell me.” He gazed ahead, misty eyed, at the horizon of the warm yellow wall. “The sea air! The shanties! Fellow in the Hunt was on the Victory, you know. He was saying the japes are quite something. Puts the Meet Supper completely to shame.” He chuckled at this secondhand memory.
What a pity it was, Cassy reflected, that Fulwar himself had made the decision to forgo the thrills of military combat. What a shame that, instead, it was his fate to take over this charming country church from his father.
Mr. Fowle pulled himself out of his musings to remonstrate: “I do not think Tom enjoyed much in way of japes when the ship was near wrecked a few weeks ago. Nor did he much like the waves crashing over his head.”