“I am to go as his private chaplain. Not too onerous a task, I am sure you agree!”
Cassy was struck dumb. His was not a naturally adventurous spirit. She had accepted a curate. Moreover, she was happy with a curate. Who was this new, seafaring, Romantic hero?
He kissed her hand. “My Cassy. See this as my investment in our future security. The ship leaves from Portsmouth in a fortnight. I have come to say my good-byes.”
* * *
THE AUSTEN FAMILY WAS SENSITIVE to the young lovers’ situation and, where possible, afforded them the privacy they deserved. On Tom’s last morning, Cassy came down to a household that was already hectic. She knew her work for the day. She went straight to the parlor, where her sister was sewing. Their brother, Frank, was now in the navy and needed new shirts. The two girls had been stitching their finest and fastest to get them done in time. Cassy made for her usual chair, but Jane, laughing, shooed her away.
She went through to the offices and her next pressing task of the morning: the bottling of the orange wine. If it was not done soon, there would be none for Christmas. This was urgent work indeed. Her mother was already there—apron on, face flushed, hair escaping from under her cap. And Cassy’s friend Martha was with her!
“You are not needed here, Cass.” Mrs. Austen took a measure of muslin. “I have a fine helper come from Ibthorpe for exactly this purpose.” She peered through the scullery window. “There is a good morning out there. You and Tom should seize it.”
Dear Martha—who always got the most happiness from enabling the happiness of others, who had never once known the pleasure of a walk with a young gentleman in crisp winter weather—first embraced and then directed her out of the room.
The day was, in fact, a little unsettled, but they wrapped up well and did as they were bid. The garden was sodden, the fields impassable, but though the mud was building, the Church Walk was still just good enough. Cassy balanced on her pattens. Once out of sight of the rectory, Tom gave her his arm.
It was a poignant outing for both. Tom Fowle had come to live with the family in his sixteenth year, to be educated by Mr. Austen. Here he had learned and grown up and become loved by all at the rectory. But from the beginning, his one, particular companion, with whom he shared an especial sympathy, was Cassy. For years they had been walking these lanes together, since she was a girl and he only on the cusp of manhood. As they grew, Cassy’s beauty bloomed to the point at which she was just the more handsome; her height stopped short of his at the requisite number of inches: They appeared to any beholder as the perfect young couple. Tom was already thought of as part of the family. Steventon was his home almost as much as it was hers.
“I shall miss this place,” he said grimly.
“Oh, Tom. It—we—I shall miss you.”
And then they talked—as they always talked when they were alone, without anyone else to tease them—about their joint future in minutest detail. Her favorite topic above all was their children. How she longed, how she ached for her arms to feel the warmth and weight of her own babies. It was what she was born for, she knew: to be surrounded by infants; to nurture; to care. They went through the naming process—her first girl would be Jane, after her sister, which she thought perfectly reasonable; his first son would be Fulwar, after his brother, which she rather did not—and moved on to the place that would be home to these offspring. And here the conversation took a more awkward turn.
“Unless we are in Shropshire, of course,” Tom was saying, quite casually.
“Shropshire!” Cassy could not stop herself gasping. The skies had turned gray; there was a smattering of rain. They were sheltering under the oak in front of the Digweeds’ house. Water dripped around them from the few remaining leaves.
“Why, yes. Lord Craven said so himself.” He inflated again. “Are there no limits to his influence? Not content with half Berkshire, he also has an estate out there, too!”
Since the moment of their engagement, Cassy had been planning her future in Berkshire. In all her fond imaginings—in those whimsical sketches a romantic young woman must somehow produce in her few idle afternoon moments—there had always been brick-and-flint cottages, gentle undulations, a parsonage solid and square. And in the background, off the page somewhere, there were Fowles close by and—this was important—Austens not too far. Surely that was the arrangement? She felt quite unsteady.
“It is good country around there,” Tom offered, but then immediately doubted it. “Is it not? Yes, I am sure someone has told me … Who was it, now?” Cassy knew that Tom had never developed a particular attachment to detail. “I think I believe I have heard that said.”
“Yes. I think perhaps I too have heard that.” In fact nobody around Cassy had ever testified to the goodness or otherwise of the country in Shropshire, not once in her life. She was certain of it. “It is just that … surely … the very great thing you are doing in joining the expedition … the prize would be … Well, we will be a little farther away than I had imagined, that is all…”
“Ah!” He brightened. “Yes.” He was triumphant. A fact had suddenly occurred to him. “I do know the living to be convenient for Ludlow.”
Convenient for Ludlow. Cassy thought for a while, and did try to find that consoling. She was always amenable, never known to be difficult, but even she could not find much consolation in Ludlow.
“Well, reasonably convenient, at least.” Tom looked vague again; confidence in his great fact was quickly diminishing. “Quite how convenient I am not at all sure.”
Cassy had lived all her life in Hampshire: To her it was God’s own country. She had been brave about Berkshire, accepting of her fate. Of course she must marry, Tom Fowle would be her husband—it was her destiny; indeed, her own good fortune—and so Berkshire it must be. That was quite exotic enough for Cassy. That was the limit of her own adventurous spirit. But Shropshire! That was foreign indeed.
A loud sigh escaped her. “I was just thinking of my family—our families—and the possibilities of visiting.”
“Ah, of course. Yes. Our families…” Tom pondered, while Cassy marveled that he had not thought of this sooner. “Well, with God’s blessing, we will soon have our own family to concern us. Wherever we live will become our home, will it not?”
“But we will still love them all! Even though we will have each other, and—God willing—children of our own. I cannot imagine how we will ever see our families again regularly, for we shall be several—many—days away.” Cassy’s mind, as always, turned at once to the practical. Her talent was for finding solutions, but on this she could see only difficulties—or, worse, realities, harsh and insuperable. How could her sister ever come to visit her? Which brother would give up all that time to escort her there? They could face years of separation! How could they bear it? What would Jane do?
Tom held out his upturned palm to check the rain was abating. “It may not come to that,” he said. “Let us not even discuss it. After all, I do have to get to and from the Windward Isles first.”
Immediately she was chastened, horrified, overcome by the force of her own selfishness. How dare she quail at the imaginary perils of England when he was off to face the real perils of heavens knew where?