“Well, this is a coincidence, and I must say quite the happiest. How delightful to meet you again. You do look well this year, Mrs. Hobday. The winter clearly agreed with you. They have been to Europe, Mr. Austen—can you imagine? It puts our own adventures quite in the shade. Although we are even now hatching a plan to go to North Wales”—Mrs. Austen paused, and then added—“which is also very far away.”
“Thank you. The alpine air was exactly what was needed.” Mrs. Hobday patted her son’s arm. “My dear boy was, as ever, quite right. I am so fortunate to have such a protector. His judgment in all matters is never less than impeccable.”
Now it was his turn to look thoroughly awkward. Cassy should have liked him a lot less if he had not.
“How did you come here this morning, Mrs. Austen? I confess the thought of the walk defeated me, so we brought a trap. But Henry, I am sure, would be happy to give up his seat to you for the return. Why do not we, the two senior ladies, travel in comfort and the rest of the party go back on foot?”
This scheme clearly delighted Mrs. Austen on every possible level: the ease of the journey; the time alone with the pleasant, well-bred lady whom she was determined to befriend; and, of course, the opportunity for this fine gentleman to become more deeply acquainted with her two girls. She looked from one to the other, and Cassy read her thoughts as she did so: The choice could be his, according to his own preference. She would not much mind either way.
* * *
“AND HOW DID YOU FIND THE SERVICE this morning, sir?” asked Mr. Hobday.
“I thought the young man did well enough.” Mr. Austen flicked his cane as he got into his long stride. They left the crowd behind them and moved on to the meadows. “It cannot be easy to have a parish with such a fluctuating congregation. Full this morning, but no doubt in the winter there is little more than one man and a dog.”
“Then that might explain his histrionics in the pulpit,” Jane put in with some scorn. “Perhaps he is nurturing his own fame to drum up more trade.”
“Now, my dear,” her father cautioned. “He is entitled to preach in the manner he wishes, and we have no reason to doubt his fervor.”
“My father is being polite,” Jane told Mr. Hobday. “The sermon was not in our preferred style.”
“Jane!” Cassy exclaimed, putting hand on her sister’s shoulder to signal caution. “We do not know Mr. Hobday’s own feelings on the subject.” She dropped her voice. “We would not wish to offend.” Then she turned to Mr. Hobday: “Sir, you must forgive my sister.” The first time she had ever properly addressed him, and it was to beg forgiveness for her sister! How very unfortunate. “She is not ordinarily quite so outspoken.”
Mr. Austen roared with laughter: “I am afraid that she very much is!”
“Please do not worry on my account. I have no fear of plain speaking, I assure you. Nor was that sermon quite to my tastes, but when one travels as much as we do these days, one can hardly pick and choose.” Mr. Hobday’s smile was broad and quite unaffected. “Now, while we are embracing the spirit of mutual honesty, what think you all of Dawlish?”
“Very pleasant,” replied Cassy politely.
“As a resort,” Jane cut in, “it is lacking.”
“Indeed it is!” Mr. Hobday exclaimed. “I tried the library yesterday, on our first afternoon. A pitiful business. If I did not travel with a good supply of my own books, I do not know quite what I should do with myself.”
Cassy smiled in anticipation, for here was the perfect opportunity for a meeting of minds. Her sister’s fury at the persistent flaws of the circulating library had been a constant refrain since their own arrival. So she waited now for the inevitable urgent agreement, but the wait was in vain.
At last her father stepped into the breach: “Then I envy you, sir. I had to surrender my own library when we gave up the rectory last year, and much pain did it cause me. To surrender one’s books, well: It is to surrender part of one’s soul.”
“And without them we are reduced to being no more than mendicants,” sighed Jane theatrically.
“Jane!” Cassy admonished, yet again.
But Mr. Hobday seemed only amused. “It is not many mendicants who have the good fortune to take a house in Dawlish for the length of the summer.”
“Oh, we shall not spend the whole summer here,” Jane dismissed him. “My brother will arrive soon—”
“Captain Charles Austen RN, on the Endymion,” their proud father put in then. “He has been at sea for a few years, seeing off Napoleon.” As if the war had been a duel between the two men. “The blessing of this peace has come at just the right time. He is already on his way.”
“—and I dare say, Papa, he will not put up with Dawlish for long. He is a Man of the World now and accustomed to all manner of excitement. A place like this, in the company of no one other than his family, could never be enough for a strong character such as his.”
Cassy grabbed Jane’s arm then, pulled her ahead, and they walked back across the fields toward the sea and their lodgings in silence.
Once home, Jane at once sat down to her writing with an air of great satisfaction. She had repulsed Mr. Hobday with an expert efficiency. She could return to her invented world.
* * *
“I HAVE GIVEN IT MUCH THOUGHT and concluded I rather approve of your Mr. Hobday.” Jane spoke into the glass while Cassy brushed her hair for her that evening.
“Well, you certainly had a most interesting way of showing it,” Cassy scoffed.
“Oh, Cass.” Jane pressed her lips together. “Was I terribly rude?” It was almost as if she might care a jot.
“Yes! You were frightful!” Cassy tugged at her locks playfully.
“As rude as I was to Mr. Blackall?”
“No,” Cassy conceded, laughing. “Nobody has ever, in the history of social intercourse between the two sexes, been as rude as you were to Mr. Blackall. You set impossibly high standards with him, for all womankind.”
“Hmm. So would you estimate this morning at”—Jane held out her thumb and forefinger as if measuring—“say, half a Blackall?”
“Not quite half a Blackall, perhaps more of one-third. But if our mother had been there and caught it…”
Cassy could not stay cross for long. The days here followed the same pattern. Jane had only two moods: sullen and silent, or brittle and wicked. Neither was easy on the household, and only Cassy could manage her. Mrs. Austen was quite close to despair. But then she did not notice that which had struck Cassy: Those foul moods persisted only until the moment when Jane was free to pick up her pen. After an hour or two alone with her thoughts and her writing, she returned—as if purified—to something almost like calm. And at night, when it was just the two of them in their room, she was the happiest of all.
Cassy passed Jane her cap. “Anyway, I do not know why you will call him my Mr. Hobday. He is nothing of the sort. Indeed”—she moved to the side of the bed and knelt down—“I had rather thought”—she hid her face in her hands—“he might do for you.”