As Tom’s sole duty was the guarding of souls, Cassy sincerely hoped and believed, that her future husband would make no sort of shrift of anybody at all.
Fulwar swilled his wineglass. “Back before we notice you have gone.”
“Perhaps we might agree now to, if possible, hold the baptism until Tom can be there for it?” offered Eliza. “And Tom! We would love you to stand as godfather, if you would be so kind?”
“I would be honored,” Tom replied warmly. “And that gives me something to aim for: I need to be home before he is walking.”
“And definitely in time to teach him to fish,” chimed in Mr. Fowle. Cassy was touched to see the father try so hard to be cheerful. It was game of him. He was not naturally at home on the bright side, even at the happiest of times. “No one can cast like our Tom. One more good reason to come back to us!”
“I do have another,” said Tom gently from the other end of the table, glancing over at Cassy and smiling.
Eliza beamed round at them all, pleased with this familiar coze. “What luck for my children to have such a fine uncle.” She squeezed Cassy’s hand under the table. “And soon, of course, aunt.”
* * *
JUST BEFORE DAWN CASSY WENT down to say her farewell to Tom for the last possible time. The air was sharp and freezing, the trap being loaded by the light of the moon. Mrs. Fowle was, of course, down before her. They cut three miserable figures: fraught with the tensions inherent in the occasion. This time it seemed to be Cassy’s place to say goodbye in the hall. Mrs. Fowle stood with them, waiting patiently for the lovers to finish, which, in the circumstances, did not take them long.
“I will write,” whispered Tom.
“As will I. And you know I will be following your progress. Be safe.”
“You can rely on it. Look after Eliza, as only you can.”
His lips glanced her hand; then he turned and he left.
Cassy stood for a moment, watching the shapes of mother and son embrace by the trap until she felt as if she were intruding, then dragged herself back up the stairs. She waited for that old sense of optimism, that positive instinct, but could only identify heaviness, misery. Grief.
* * *
WORSE WAS TO COME.
A maid met her when she got to the landing and told her that Eliza was in agonies and calling her name. She rushed to the bedside and upon a scene of pure horror.
“I am losing it!” Eliza lay contorted and sobbing. “The baby! It is too early. It is coming too early.”
At once Cassy started her ministry. She had already attended other births, albeit easier ones, and immediately knew what to do. The next hours were terrible, a sequence of rags and hot water, laudanum and fear. The baby—a boy, as so fervently hoped for—came into this world with the distracted air of one who had not yet decided how long he might stay.
It was Cassy’s lot to go out onto the landing where Fulwar was desperately pacing, and impart the news. His terror and tender, loving concern for his wife overpowered him and were quite humbling to witness. She understood then that—however they chose to present to the outside—men, too, were all feelings beneath.
For the remainder of the day Cassy hardly stopped nursing and comforting and working. But at some point, around four in the afternoon, Eliza slept, and she was alone in the nursing chair, the baby, swaddled, in her arms. She held tight and rocked him, desperately willing him to survival. For this small, sad scrap of a being was the baby to whom Tom was to come home. He must live. He had to. Or what sort of omen would that otherwise be?
5
Kintbury, March 1840
CASSANDRA WOKE EARLY, aching all over, having fallen asleep propped up on her bolster with the letters still on her lap. What had she dreamed of? It was just out of reach, but she knew it to be dark and uncomfortable. She rose, dressed, and, unable to shake the mood—indeed, somehow keen to indulge it—she crossed the landing and opened the door to Tom’s room.
With sudden force she was returned to the turmoil she had felt there that Christmas so long ago, when she had stood on this very spot and quailed at the prospect of marriage, railed at the thought of leaving her family. That moment was a stain on her personal history. Her sense of guilt over it was, even now, enormous, overwhelming; it could still quite crush the air out of her. Though—for once trying to be kind, as if she were talking to a niece and not just herself—had she not, all her life, been but the victim of events?
For had they taken the other turn, those dark thoughts she had harbored could have been classified as doubts, pure and simple: the doubts that any soon-to-be-married young woman might respectably have. She would have been able to tell herself then, in that life, that it was perfectly natural. We women worry, all of us, about everything—especially marriage. After all, what was there more important than that? She could have looked back—from the comfort of their fireside with her husband beside her, from a nursery filled by their own, dear children—and seen that moment as a nothing. As one small, private stumble on the rosy path to conjugal felicity.
But life had not done that. It had robbed her and, in so doing, snatched away any presumption of innocence. And whenever she thought of that morning—which was not often; she tried to suppress it—she saw only her own apostasy, could only believe that her doubts had been heard and taken as curses. And was covered in shame.
She walked into the plain, simple bedroom. It had been home to so many Fowle boys since that one; a whole generation had grown there, then flown. There was no trace of Tom now. Although—she moved past the heavy oak bedstead and peered up—yes! The very same indifferent hunting print. Perhaps he never would have brought it with him to their vicarage near Ludlow. She should not, after all, have worried about living with that.
The cheval glass in the alcove by the fireplace was a later addition: a testament to the vanity of the younger generation. Her Tom would certainly never have had need of it. She peered in. Her old face was reflected back at her. And there, over her shoulder, were Dinah’s narrowed, knowing eyes.
Cassandra jumped. “Dinah! Goodness.” She turned round, faced the maid. “You took me quite by surprise!”
“Miss Austen.” The negligible bob, a curt sniff. “Is there something I can do for you, m’m? Lost your bearings again, is it?”
Another suggestion of her incipient senility. “Not at all. I…” It was simply easier to pretend it was so. “Yes. I am sorry. I cannot remember why it was I came in here.”
Dinah looked satisfied. “Been looking for you, m’m. Was quite worried when you weren’t in your room.” Her room! The letters—unhidden! “So I cannot help you at all?”
“No. Thank you, Dinah. I am quite well. In fact, I think I may have a walk before breakfast.”
“As you wish, m’m.” Dinah creaked a knee before vanishing down the back stairs.
Cassandra retreated back to her chamber and, though she feared that particular horse had already bolted, collected the papers and hid them under the mattress. And she realized it was true: Some fresh air was just what she needed. A good walk would always buck one up.
An encouraging smell drifted across from the bakehouse, but otherwise the household was quiet. Isabella, no doubt, still languished in bed. Cassandra met no one on the landing, took the stairs as quietly as possible, and stepped around Pyramus, who was stretched, luxuriously, out on the rug. The dog struggled to his feet. She did not greet him, certainly did not invite him, and yet, it seemed, he would be coming. They carefully negotiated the chaos of the hall and together set off into the morning.