Steventon Rectory
1 May 1795
My dear Eliza,
You must find it in your heart to forgive the tardiness of my reply to your letter. The truth is that our once peaceful Rectory has lately been consumed by such a riot of celebration, that it is hard to find a quiet place in which one can write. I have just now crawled into the corner of the dressing room, which—for the moment, at least—is mercifully free of members of my family, noisily embracing and shedding tears of pure happiness. And I have shut the door firmly, in the vain hope of keeping the rioters at bay. Really, Eliza: there is so much joy and delight about as to make me feel quite sick and wicked.
I cannot quite remember how I once passed my time in the days before my sister’s engagement. But it appears that, from now on, nothing more is required of me than to congratulate others, as often as my poor breath will allow—my mother and father on the perfection of the match; Cassy on the perfection of her future husband; Tom Fowle on the perfections of his bride. Then when I have finished, it seems, I have to start all over again … And it occurs to me that, before I die from the exhaustion of it all, I should be congratulating you, too, my dear Eliza.
After all, once this momentous wedding has finally taken place, then Cassy will be a Fowle, and you will share with me the honor of calling her your sister. And you cannot know what delights are in store! She is the best, the cleverest, the kindest and most caring sister on this earth. And, should you occasionally be minded to say something witty, I guarantee that she will laugh until she is spent.
Of course, our insufferably happy couple must suffer a long engagement. A curate must always be patient; a curate’s bride even more so. Economy is as ever at war with Romance. But one day, Tom’s luck must change and they will be wed. I shall be so pleased for them then—but more than a little sorry for myself. For if there is a drawback to this perfect arrangement—and I should not dare to mention such a possibility in the hearing of my triumphant family—it is that I now have somehow to live without her. So felicitations to you, Eliza, and to all the Fowle family. For you are the victors. Yes, we have the comfort of knowing that Cass will always be happy. But you will have her—and she is the best of us!—close by you, always.
Do look after her. She is so precious to me.
Yours affectionately,
J. Austen.
It was a deeply ordinary Wednesday afternoon in the Steventon Rectory. Cassy was intent on her embroidery, Jane on her letters at the table by the window, Mrs. Austen nodding off over a sock yet undarned, when Tom Fowle burst without notice into the parlor.
“My love, I have news!” he announced, breathless, to his astonished fiancée. “Great news! And I have come to tell you in person.” Tom grabbed Cassy’s hand, greeted her family, begged for their privacy, and pulled her through the house to the garden.
It was now September, the day brisk and brittle. Cassy had to skip to keep up with his stride.
“Well then, am I to hear it?” she asked of him, delighted and laughing. “Dearest? What is this great revelation?”
In truth she was not expecting to be told of any important development, but was merely indulging his mood. Her Tom she knew to be more tortoise than hare, not known for his shocks and surprises—or, at least, not hitherto.
“Wait just a moment.” Tom steered her farther up the Elm Walk. “Wait until we are under our tree.”
Six months had passed since he had proposed to her there: months that Cassy had spent at the peak of contentment. She had discovered that favor in the family and fame in the neighborhood which an engagement entailed, and was basking in it. She knew patience was required of her, and she delivered it without effort. There was no great imperative to rush on to the next stage, as far as she was concerned.
But Tom felt quite differently. The prospect of marriage had engendered within him the first stirrings of ambition. And it transpired that he did not, after all, share her appetite for waiting. He was suddenly keen to get on, get his hands on a living to which he could take his young bride.
They reached their spot. Tom stopped and turned to face Cassy.
“Last week I had an interview with Lord Craven”—Tom seemed to inflate as he spoke—“in which he agreed—oh, my dear love!—he agreed to act as my patron!”
His own family had nothing to offer him. Tom had, early on in life, committed the cardinal sin of being born second, and for that he was now keen to atone.
“Tom! That is great news indeed.”
Cassy had often heard talk of Lord Craven, a neighbor of the Fowles and some sort of relation. He was young, rich, and landed, with a powerful personality, or so it was said. Of course, she had not had the privilege of ever seeing him in person. But this she did know, for by now she had read a great many novels: Such august creatures, born so entitled, could not always be trusted.
“And has he made you an offer?”
“Yes! He has made me an offer.”
Cassy’s heart leaped. “A living?” Already! So soon! “We are to have our own vicarage?”
Tom smiled down at her. “My love, yes.” He then paused to gather his words. “In time. But first, he has asked me—and I have agreed—to accompany him on his next expedition.”
“Expedition?” Her mind conjured a few weeks’ stalking in Scotland, or sailing, perhaps, in the Solent.
“His lordship is leading a contingent of his regiment to the Windward Isles, shortly. I did not quite grasp his business down there. At the time, as you can imagine, I was quite overcome by the whole situation. Never before have I been alone with a man of such—”
“The Windward … But Tom”—fear gripped her—“they are in the West Indies.”
“So they tell me. I should not be gone more than a year.”
“Gone more than a year…” Cassy repeated, her voice trailing away.
“I will be paid very well; beyond anything I can make if I stay here. And he has promised an excellent position on our return. We shall be set! In just a year! Cassy, without this, we should have waited much longer.”
“Yes indeed. We had agreed, we were prepared to … It would have been hard, but at least we would have waited in safety. Surely there are risks involved in this scheme?” Had he promised all this without thinking? Simply because Lord Craven had asked it?
“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?
He led her back onto the lane. “We should not pick away at our own contentment, even before it is achieved. And I know myself to be happy anywhere, with you by my side.”
Cassy resolved, again, not to think about it, or mention it to Jane. It would be bad for her sister’s nerves, cast down her spirits. Why worry her with rumor before it had become fact? They joined arms, walked, and their conversation picked up again: They would like one cow for the household, a pony for the children; Tom would no longer hunt, once married with a living: It meant too much time away from his work—and his wife. She blushed, and melted: dear, dearest Tom. He would still like to fish, though, if she would not mind it. She gave him her blessing; he thanked her. For he felt a particular peace on the riverbank, with a rod in his hand.
IT WAS A CHEERFUL PARTY that gathered in the evening. The Austens were always cheerful in the face of whatever life fancied to throw at them. Cheerfulness and good humor were the Austen way.
“That’s a fine pair of sea legs you have there, Tom Fowle, so you need not fret on their account.” Mrs. Austen, who had earlier dispatched a full plate of veal pie and dumplings, was now swelling gently in the chair by the fire. “I merely have to look at a man to judge him a sailor or no. It is a talent I have, never once known to fail me. And you will have no trouble. I shall stake my reputation upon it. You, my boy, are a sailor. I can see it at once.”
“Oh, I assure you I have no concerns on that score.” Tom was also flushed and benign after the feast that had been prepared for him. Cassy looked at him sharply. Since signing up, he had assumed a new masculine swagger—expected in most men, quite ill suited to him. “After all, I have lived by water all of my life.”
She felt quietly mortified. Her sister, beside her, was stifling her giggles. And her brothers just loudly guffawed.
“You live on the dear old river Kennet!” cried Henry, slapping his thigh.
“It is not known for its high tides and breakers,” James added.
“Oh, but do remember, Brother, that day we had punting.” Henry, when he met with an opportunity for comedy, was always reluctant to let it move on. “Those water lilies we came up against were the very devil itself!”
“Well may you tease, boys,” cut in their mother, reproaching. “I went on a punt once on the Cherwell and quite feared for my own life. And my point was,” she went on, determined to get the conversation onto a kinder, happier note, “that Tom will sail there and back with no difficulty. And before we know it, this beloved young couple will be wed and in a house of their own.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Cassy feared for her digestion later. “I always knew you would not be a curate forever, dear Tom. Fate never stands in the way of the promotion of happiness. Mark my words: The Lord doth provide.”
“If not the Lord, a lord—my esteemed patron,” Tom replied proudly. “And indeed,” he looked across, smiling at Cassy, “we shall be established—in Berkshire or Shropshire—ere too long.”
“Shropshire?” Jane’s voice came out at a strange high pitch. She looked alarmed, then self-conscious, and shrugged carelessly. “But—oh, please, remove Cassy as far as you want, Tom. Why settle for Shropshire? Surely you can pick somewhere even more wild and inconvenient? Go farther north! You can take her to Ireland, for all it bothers me.”
“Oh, no!” Tom leaped in at once, looking worried. “Not Ireland! I should not like the snakes there. I am really quite fearful…”
At that even the young ladies could only erupt into laughter and—because their mother preferred they did not laugh too loudly in company—collapsed into each other to smother the noise.
“Dear Tom.” Henry slapped his shoulder. “You never fail us. Let me be the first to break it to you: It is said there are no snakes in Ireland! Is that not excellent news?”
James, a parson too now, with a healthy, if ponderous, appetite for preaching, cleared his throat and began in lugubrious tones: “Legend has it that Saint Patrick—”
Henry at once cut him off. “Thank you, James. We are all well acquainted with the saints and their miracles. Ha! All except one of us, that is. Who in this room will claim responsibility for Tom Fowle’s education?”
Mr. Austen, in his seat by the window, looked up from his book. “I did my best,” he said mildly. “We got you to Oxford, Tom, did we not? Fortunately the dons cared less about the geography of reptiles and more for his Latin.”
Tom smiled over at Cassy again. “And you helped me so much with that.” Cassy blushed back at him. They used to work for hours together, after Tom had spent the morning in the attic schoolroom. The gerund would elude him, while she grasped it at once. But how touching of him to speak up and give her the credit. Not all young men would be so generous. This was the old Tom she knew.
Mrs. Austen took another sip of wine, and the pink of her cheeks deepened. “It has all worked out splendidly,” she proclaimed with great satisfaction. “We could not be more pleased for you both. We are so very fond of you and your dear family, Tom, as well you know. And—remember this, when you are off crossing the Seven Seas—you will never find a better peach to pick than our Cassy. She is a wonder, make no mistake. Such an accomplished young lady as my eldest daughter will always be an asset to any young man.”
“Here it comes,” Jane said to Cassy, under her breath.
Cassy whispered back, with a tragicomic countenance, impersonating their mother: “But poor Jane…”
“But poor Jane,” began Mrs. Austen with a sigh. Delight burst out of her daughters. Her voice had to be still further raised: “We are not so sure what will become of her.”
“Mama,” urged Cassy gently, through her laughter. “Jane is with us. Here. In the room.”
“I am merely saying that when a young woman is exceptionally competent—”
“Oh, Mama,” Jane protested. “One can have a surfeit of competence.”
“Quite so, Jane, quite so. If one happens to marry a man on ten thousand a year. Should one fail to find such a thing, should even you end up like Cassy and myself, married to a man of the Church with a large family and limited resources, you will not have the luxury of dismissing those qualities. Your father will tell you how often I, through my hard work and efficiencies, have kept the wolf from our door.”
Mr. Austen, now closing his book and rising to his feet, was in no mind to do any such thing. “We are blessed with two brilliant daughters, Mrs. Austen—if perhaps that brilliance manifests itself differently in each. And I should think any man would feel lucky to have either.”
“Thank you, Papa, for that glowing testimonial.” Jane nodded up at her father.
Tom beamed. “I certainly am.”
“And now,” proclaimed the Reverend George Austen, as if from his pulpit, “we have but a few hours left with our future son-in-law. I believe some music is called for, do not you agree?”
Jane leaped to her piano; the men moved the sofa. And Tom and Cassy danced their last dance for a while.
IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN the coach came the next morning. At the doorway George Austen shook Tom’s hand briskly, wished him Godspeed and—ever the schoolmaster—urged him to record in a journal all those wonders of the world he was to be lucky enough to witness. Was there envy in those older eyes? Cassy fancied she could see it. Her father had himself once had a lust for adventure that life had not chosen to satisfy. How she wished, for his sake, that Tom Fowle was made of the same cloth! Was there ever a man less suited to ship life, to campaigning in strange, far-off islands, than her beloved, cautious young curate? What a cruel twist of fate that he—of all of them—should have been chosen for this.
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.