“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, Mr. Austen? We both used the very same phrase.”
Jane’s face lit up with amusement. Cassy—who had not witnessed any discussion of a draft—was surprised to see how gratified her brother was by this support. He followed it up with a discourse on the music that evening: “I am quite sure it is an improvement on the last time I was here.”
“Why, how right you are again!” Mary seemed quite taken aback by the force of this insight. “I do not believe I even noticed until you said so. I am quite staggered it did not strike me at once. But it is—to be sure—a vast improvement on the last assembly. I could not agree more.”
Jane gave a loud snort. James’s mood expanded yet further. “And how pleasant it is to be agreed with, Miss Lloyd. As soon as we arrived, I struck up a conversation with young Terry about this season’s hunting. I merely said I hoped for better than last year, as to my mind last year was quite dull. So imagine my surprise when I found that we were in something of a dispute. Mr. Terry has memories of a blistering campaign against the fauna of Hampshire that I simply cannot recognize. So forceful was he I began even to doubt myself!”
“Oh, but it is your memory that is the correct one, sir!” Mary insisted. “Of course, I know nothing of hunting, but I have listened attentively to all your conversations on the subject. Well, all those I have been lucky enough to hear. And your reports were certainly of a general disappointment. I do hope,” she added earnestly, “that you enjoy better sport this year.”
* * *
“WELL, I MUST CONGRATULATE YOU, my dear sister,” Jane whispered to Cassy as they returned to the ballroom. “Victory is yours.”
“Do you think so?” For some reason, Cassy was suffering from a momentary loss of faith in her own plan.
“Oh, very much so.” Jane chuckled. “Mary played her best hand. We need no longer worry about her lack of a fortune, or flaking complexion. For a gentleman like our brother, there is no greater proof of superiority—in charm, wisdom, and intelligence—than agreement with his every word.”
Dancing resumed, and this time James led Mary onto the floor, and at last the other ladies were free to enjoy themselves—while keeping their eyes on the situation, like anxious aunts over a debutante charge. As the couple danced again—and again—they began to relax, began even to feel something like confidence.
The crowd was thinning by the time Mary finally came back to them. She was flushed now: flushed with exertion; flushed with her own natural high color since the paste had dropped and scattered all over the dance floor. And, on top of that, flushed with success.
“Well,” Martha cooed at her, patting her hair back. “You have a conquest there, Mary. Of that there is no doubt.”
“Oh, Martha.” Mary flicked her hand away. “I shall take wisdom from Cassy if I have to—she is betrothed. But you, my poor sister? What could you possibly know?”
7
Kintbury, March 1840
CASSANDRA HAD CHOSEN TO forget, and did not enjoy being reminded, that she had once been so energetic in her promotion of Mary Lloyd’s cause. Jane, of course, had foreseen the inherent problems right from the beginning: She could not—would not—trust a girl who was so dismissive of her sister, and never did share Cassy’s trust in the wisdom of their mother’s many plans. From the most tender age, she had a seer’s talent for the analysis of character and the prediction of disasters. She was, indeed, something of the Cassandra of legend. It was their joke that the name should rightly be hers.
Jane’s letter was unhelpful; Cassandra must remove it. For on becoming Mary Austen, Mary Lloyd had rewritten her own history. And in her version, it had always been a love match for James: unconquerable, inevitable. Were she to read this evidence of plotting and conniving, unpleasantness would surely follow.
Cassandra folded it up, rose, lifted the corner of the mattress under which she would hide it, when there was a quick rap at the door.
“She’s ’ere.” It was Dinah, flicking her head, rolling her eyes, and then remembering herself. “Sorry.” She bobbed, adding: “M’m.”
Cassandra looked up in horror. Caught red-handed in her room—surrounded by papers to which she had no right! She started to gather them all up, hurriedly, while Dinah stood there and watched her.
“Best leave all that for now, m’m. Miss Fowle needs you, most urgent, downstairs.”
She found herself being led away, feeling as befuddled as Dinah liked to imagine her. “But who is here, Dinah?”
By now they were on the main landing. There was some sort of commotion going on down in the hall.
“I was insistent that it could not be possible.” The shrill voice was quite unmistakable.