Chapter Twenty Three
Cassandra
Bath, Somerset
It is a perfect summer’s day, and all of Bath is out for a promenade after church, every young woman in the city dressed in white - gowns fluttering in the breeze, parasols providing much needed shade against the glare of the midday sun.
We are to dine with our Aunt and Uncle Leigh-Perrot this evening, but we’re going for a walk to the Crescent Fields this afternoon where everyone will be gathered.
‘I am quite sick of Bath,’ says Jane, as we reach the top of Gay Street and come out onto the Circus where streams of people, like a procession, are all headed in the same direction.
‘There is so much attention demanded every day from each and every one of our relations that I have had no time to compose or please myself.’
‘Well, we won’t be in Bath much longer,’ I say, ‘and when winter comes to Steventon and we’re stuck inside the house every day, I daresay you’ll be much happier.’
‘I do not relish the idea of winter, but I should like nothing better on a day like this to find a quiet spot by the river and take time to lose myself in writing. I find no pleasure in being paraded about, and the thought of having to spend an evening playing cards, is a prospect I am certain will be very dull indeed. I would much rather stay at home and read a book.’
‘I shall not scold you, though perhaps I should. I must admit; I wish we were going home to our own apartments. This afternoon will prove trial enough.’
‘What do you mean, Cassy? We might see Mr Fowle; just think of that. He is sure to cheer us up.’
I am thinking of Mr Fowle, but far from looking forward to seeing him, I am dreading it.
We have not spoken since the evening in Spring Gardens, and though I’ve only seen glimpses of him since, he has always been in the company of Miss Brooke and her family.
They were not at the last ball at the Lower Rooms, and I couldn’t help thinking of their families preferring to spend time with one another, becoming more intimately acquainted in the privacy of their lodgings.
There is a great crowd all along the Crescent and spilling out onto the fields, and we’re soon caught up in the throng.
‘Smile, girls,’ says my aunt, ‘you’ll never attract a husband if you look so miserable. And stand up straight, Jane. Do stop hopping about, and behave with some decorum.’
Jane does not have to say a word, a glance from her tells me everything she is thinking.
And as we walk down the slope with fixed smiles, I dare not look at her.
She is pulling such a comical expression, her teeth bared in a grinning mouth, and when she thinks my aunt cannot see she jigs right up behind her, dancing a sailor’s hornpipe.
I’m scanning the whole scene before us but cannot see Mr Fowle or his family.
They did not attend the Octagon chapel this morning, but I suppose they may have been in the Abbey with their friends instead.
And then just as I’m starting to think I may not see him, and feeling a mixture of both relief and disappointment, I see them at the top, entering through the gate.
He’s offering his arm to the young woman at his side and even from this distance I know it can only be one person.
I cannot look any longer and turn my back against the sight, hoping they will not walk in our direction.
It is a vain hope. Before another five minutes has passed my mother is calling out their names in a cheery halloo, and the two families are standing before us.
Though I hear my name, I become mute during the introductions.
I cannot look Mr Fowle in the eye, and yet, I feel sure he is looking at me.
I blush, knowing he must be remembering the last disagreeable time he saw me, and I wonder if he feels glad he is in more refined company.
My aunt is inviting them all for an evening party next week, and my heart sinks.
I do not know how I shall endure an evening in Mr Fowle’s company, watching him lavish all his time and attention on someone else.
‘And shall we see you at the theatre?’ Reverend Fowle is asking. ‘There’s a performance of The Wonder … I remember you’ve always wanted to see it, have you not, Miss Cassandra?’
Reverend Fowle is always so very kind to me. I manage to look up and smile with genuine warmth.
‘I know of no plans to go, sir, though I have heard it is a most entertaining play.’
‘But, we have tickets, Cassy, I secured some just yesterday,’ my father is saying. ‘I did not want to say so before, in case they were all sold out.’
‘I hope I haven’t spoiled a surprise,’ says Reverend Fowle, and my father insists not, saying he just forgot to mention it with all that’s been going on.
‘We shall be able to meet again very soon,’ says my mother, and everyone is laughing and bowing.
I catch a glimpse of Mr Fowle’s countenance.
He is scowling, he looks to be in a dark mood, and it is he who seems to be avoiding my eye now.
I watch him proffer his arm to Miss Brooke, and cannot mistake the look of sheer admiration on her face as she looks up at him.
With reassurances to meet once more at the theatre ringing in my ears, I feel a cloud of despondency settle on my shoulders like a weight.
I must rally and compose myself, but it is hard to shake off the feelings of despair.
Jealousy is such a harmful and depressing emotion, and I try as hard as I am able to fight it, telling myself I must be happy for my friend.
If I love him, as I truly do, I should be desirous of wanting the best for him.
The pain is over, and we are walking back to The Paragon at last.
‘You are very dull today, Cassandra,’ says my aunt.
‘You scarcely spoke a word to your friends, and Miss Brooke seems a pleasant sort of gel who could be very useful to you. You were not very encouraging. I hope you’ll liven up for my party or we’ll have a miserable evening.
I do not know what is wrong with young people nowadays.
In my day we knew how to enjoy ourselves. ’
Jane has taken my hand, and I am grateful when I feel the pressure of her fingers against mine. She knows just how I am feeling, I am certain.
‘He does not admire her, I can tell,’ she whispers, as soon as we have gained some distance from our party, and I see her expression is sincere.
I want to believe what she says, but I cannot help remembering the brief picture of Mr Fowle and Miss Brooke walking down the fields, arm in arm.
‘He let go her arm as soon as he could … and surely if he liked her, he’d do more, rather than less to prove it.
He was just being gentlemanly … his parents would expect nothing less. ’
I smile wanly at my sister.
‘He could not stop looking at you,’ insists Jane, but I cannot be convinced that it was in admiration and keep thinking back to that fateful night.
But, I know the worst is not over yet. We have the theatre to attend, and another ball before we have to endure my aunt’s evening party.
I wish we could return home to Steventon and never come back again.
***
Aunt Leigh-Perrot has made me a present of two new ostrich feathers, and her maid has been sent to help me dress and arrange my hair in the latest style.
She can be very generous, and I am fond of my aunt, though at times it is hard to be at the mercy of her harsh tongue.
Jane says she is envious of our youth, and that is why she cannot help her barbed comments.
My sister is a great studier of character, and there surely must be an explanation for the swings of temper my aunt seems to endure.
I wonder if she is very different when we are not in Bath.
Our uncle seems to adore her, and looks fondly on her every word.
There is a miniature of her when young, set in diamonds, and it is clear she was a great beauty with porcelain skin, the bluest eyes and her fair powdered hair dressed in curls.
Even now, one sees gentlemen looking admiringly at her, and my uncle seems so aware of it, my aunt’s arm tucked in his, and very proud to walk around Bath as he shows her off.
The theatre foyer is full when we arrive, and the usual people can be seen having over the latest gossip and news.
I cannot see anything of our friends, but I know that they will be here - a fact I half dread.
Then we are mounting the stairs, and the biggest surprise of all is that darling Papa has gone to the great expense to secure a box for us.
I feel very grand as I sit down on a gilt chair at the front next to Jane, our aunt admonishing her not to lean over the side.
‘Oh, Cassy, is this not very exciting?’ my sister says, finally taking her seat, her eyes looking round, taking in everything she sees. ‘Don’t look now, but there is a very interesting party who have just entered the box over on the other side.’
There is a hustle and bustle in the box opposite, as its occupants find their seats.
Mr Fowle and Miss Brooke are seated next to one another, as if it should be any other way, I consider, but I cannot look any longer than the two seconds it takes to register they are there.
My mother is waving, and I see Jane has her hand up too, but I keep my eyes in my lap.
All I can see are my hands clasped together, the wrinkles in my kid gloves, and can only lift my eyes as far as the velvet balcony before us.
The curtains are parting, and in the dim candlelight I become bolder, looking across the dark expanse to where I can see Mr Fowle sitting with Miss Brooke.
His head is bent toward hers, and he is whispering into her ear.
I do not want to look, but I cannot help myself.
I find I am staring, drinking in his handsome features - black curls waving back from striking features - his eyes velvet and glittering in the darkness - white shirt, neat cravat, crisp against his throat, a flash of cream silk in his waistcoat showing his lean torso - his shoulders broad in his black coat.
I will him to glance at me, but his eyes are on the stage or on his partner, and yet I cannot stop looking in his direction.
I try to concentrate on the play, but my eyes are drawn to his dear countenance once again.
My heart turns over as I trace his features, memorising the way his hair falls on his collar and the way his eyebrows are drawn together when he’s amused.
The first act is over, and there is a knock at our door.
I am shocked when the door opens and Mr Fowle enters with a bow.
He is unaccompanied, and spends the first five minutes talking to my father.
There is another knock, and the Reverend Fowle is here too, and as I watch our parents talking, Mr Fowle steps up to take the chair next to mine.
‘I hope you are well, Miss Austen. I hope you have made a good recovery since … I saw you last.’
‘I am very well, Mr Fowle,’ I say.
There is a cold stiffness between us, and I cannot find any warmth in my voice, even if I try my hardest to sound pleased to see him.
‘Are you enjoying the play, Miss Austen? I remember it is one you always wished to see.’
I realise he is echoing the words of his father. I am sure he neither knows nor cares whether I have ever found any interest in the play. I hope he will go away, for this interview is to suffer such feelings of mortification that I cannot be easy.
‘The play is most entertaining, Mr Fowle.’
He stands up and bows, most abruptly, and is gone in the next second.
I wish I’d been able to speak, and been more encouraging.
I should have thanked him for coming to my rescue.
I should have said a thousand things, and all I can think is how much he must be congratulating himself that he has another, more charming friend to sit by and converse with.
The stage can no longer excite genuine merriment, no longer keep my whole attention.
Every other gaze is directed towards the opposite box; and, for the space of two entire scenes, I watch Tom Fowle, without being once able to catch his eye.
His attention is never withdrawn from the stage during two whole scenes.
At length, however, he does look towards me, and he bows his head, but what a bow!
There is no smile, and no continued observance attending it; his eyes are immediately returned to the stage.
A glance at his companion is rewarded with a warm smile from her, and I watch their companionable whisperings in misery until the play concludes.