Cassandra's Sister (12 page)

Elizabeth was very excited. “Mama and Papa are in the hall, but Harris and I cannot help coming out to see people's astonishment when they arrive. The house looks wonderful, does it not? Do you not think we have a generous papa!”

“You do indeed,” observed James. “What the final account will be for all this I cannot imagine. Or rather, I can!”

Amid the laughter this caused, Elizabeth took Jenny's arm and led her towards the house. “Because the snow made last year's ball such a disappointment, we wanted to do something special, you see. And we have so many young gentlemen! Madam Lefroy has brought her nephew, and all “the Johns” are here.”

“John Lyford, John Portal and – am I correct? – John
Harwood
?”

“And who, pray, is John Harwood?” asked Elizabeth archly.

“Oh, Elizabeth…”

“All right.” Elizabeth lowered her voice. “Yes, John Harwood is here. But so is William Heathcote. I fear tonight may be the last occasion upon which poor Mr Harwood will count himself a suitor… Why, Jenny, what is the matter?”

Jenny had stopped a few paces short of the front door. “Elizabeth, tell me once and for all,” she demanded, “has your father changed his mind? Do you intend to accept William Heathcote if he should speak tonight?”

“I do. And no, my father has not changed his mind. I have changed it for him.”

Jenny looked earnestly at her friend, but saw no trace of embarrassment on her face. She tried to think. If William Heathcote was here as Elizabeth's probable future husband, she, Jenny, must act as if nothing had happened. His conduct must be the guide of hers.

“He has already asked me for the first dance,” Elizabeth was saying airily, “and I expect I shall dance with few other men all evening, except out of politeness.”

They had reached the ballroom. “Look about you, Jenny,” invited Elizabeth. “Is it not splendid? All the usual collection of acquaintance is here. The Lloyds – is that not Martha's reticule, with the beads, by the way? It matches your gown beautifully. And all the Lefroys and their friend Mr Blackall and … oh, there is William, waiting for me.”

William Heathcote approached, bowed to both ladies and held out his hand for Elizabeth's. At the lowest point of her curtsey, Jenny looked up at him, but he was not looking at her. His smile was only for Elizabeth.

As Jenny straightened up, however, courtesy demanded he acknowledge her. “How pleasant to see you again, Miss Austen,” he declared in his reserved way, quite at his ease.

“And you, Mr Heathcote. My brother Henry, whom I believe you know, is also here tonight.”

“Splendid!” He smiled broadly. “Shall you do me the honour of dancing with me later?”

“Of course, if you wish. The cotillion, perhaps?” suggested Jenny.

Mr Heathcote and Elizabeth exchanged looks.

“Ah,” said Jenny. “The ‘Shrewsbury Lasses' then?”

He bowed. “I have very happy memories of doing that delightful dance with you at Basingstoke, and look forward to repeating the pleasure.”

In the eighteen months since Jenny had last seen him, William Heathcote had become, if anything, more attractive. Indeed, Jenny found herself almost shocked by the unembarrassed pleasure both he and Elizabeth took in their own beauty. Now that he was master of his own house, his languorous manner had become a satisfied air. He radiated bonhomie, and was evidently not inclined to spoil it by resurrecting old oversights. Not even his unadorned clergyman's clothes could detract from the impression of height, strength and elegance his figure gave. Elizabeth, despite her eighteen months of uncertainty, had truly done well for herself.

Jenny watched them begin the dance. Then, remembering that she was standing alone in a ballroom, she lowered her shoulders, held up her head and tried to smile. Suddenly, she found herself surrounded by Madam Lefroy and her sons, Ben and George.

“Miss Jenny!” came Madam Lefroy's familiar cry. “And your brothers are here too, I notice. What is keeping your sister from the company? Is she not yet returned from Berkshire? But how delightful to see Mr James venturing out! And how does his little daughter fare at Steventon? Are her aunts enchanted with her still?”

Which question do I answer first?
wondered Jenny. But a curtsey seemed all that was required of her, because Madam Lefroy immediately began speaking again.

“You know, do you not, my dear, that our good friend Mr Blackall has spent Christmas with us? He is now a Fellow of Emmanuel College, in Cambridge, and has recently been ordained. He was looking for you a little while ago. I believe he has something
very particular
to ask you. Such a bright young man!”

“Certainly, ma'am,” said Jenny. It was difficult not to be uncomfortably aware of Madam Lefroy's ceaseless attentions to the prospects of young people. She did not desire the attentions of Samuel Blackall, but she would at least please Madam by dancing with him. His conversation might be heavy, but his feet were light.

“I am going up to Emmanuel next Michaelmas,” said Ben importantly.

“Mr Blackall has secured a living – a good one, I assure you, my dear,” continued Madam Lefroy, “and we would like to help him broaden his circle of acquaintance, particularly with young ladies.”

“Oh, do take him off our hands,” cut in George Lefroy impatiently. “The Reverend what's-his-name has been at our house for three days and we need somebody else to talk to him.”

“Sshh, George!” Madam Lefroy waved her fan gaily. “Why, here is Mr Blackall now!”

The Reverend Samuel Blackall, Fellow of Emmanuel or not, looked the same as he always had. The large head on narrow shoulders was still there, and the reluctance to look at his interlocutor's face. His manner had become haughtier since Jenny had last seen him, and his tendency to nod his head unnecessarily had increased.

“How pleasant to see you again, Mr Blackall,” said Jenny, making him an elegant curtsey. “I trust you are well?”

“Very well, I thank you, Miss Austen,” he said, nodding.

She wondered what
very particular
thing he could have to ask her. He was not at his ease, that much was clear. Perhaps he was aware of Madam Lefroy's throwing them together, and would rather it had happened more naturally. As soon as he began his next speech, however, Jenny began to doubt this.

“My honoured friends,” he said, indicating Madam Lefroy and her sons, who were exchanging resigned looks, “have bestowed their most excellent hospitality upon me this Christmas while my new home is being made ready for me. I have secured a living, you see, in Dorset.”

“A pleasant county, by all accounts,” said Jenny, “and not so far away as to render visits to your old friends difficult.”

“Indeed, Miss Austen,” he replied stiffly, with a small bow.

Samuel Blackall's elevation in education had not been accompanied by any elevation in wit. Jenny searched her head for social platitudes of the sort that came so easily to Cassandra. What had her sister advised her once? When in tedious company, speak of books.

“When you are established in your own house, Mr Blackall,” she began, “perhaps you will embark upon the collecting of a library – though I cannot foresee many libraries surpassing the one at Ashe, of which the Reverend Lefroy is justly proud.”

Mr Blackall's reply was sagacious, and so lengthy that Madam Lefroy, her smile faltering, was obliged to interrupt it. “Mr Blackall, did you not have something very interesting to put to Miss Austen? You must say it before the dancing begins, since it is never advisable to speak of serious subjects while dancing. I believe you wish to ask Miss Jane about her writing? Such delightful stories, so clever and comic!”

The young clergyman shifted from one foot to the other. He did not look at Jenny.

“Do you read novels, Mr Blackall?” she asked, by way of a prompt. “You know, stories of family life, or adventure, or mystery?”

“Actually…” Still he did not look at her, but his eyes rested upon her right ear, in which she wore one of her best earrings, of silver and amber. Jenny wondered whether the size of his head was exaggerated by the large – nay, enormous – wing collar he wore. Was this some Cambridge fashion? “Actually, my interest in novels is extensive, and it is upon that subject that I wish to address you. Of course, as a clergyman I have read widely in every field.”

“Of course.”

“Literacy, I believe, is the way forward for civilization. To that end, I am introducing in my new parish a school for village children. People of that sort will, of course, never read philosophy, or science, or history. It is as much as we can do to instill the Scripture into them. But if they were to be provided with suitable reading material in the form of novels, I believe that as much can be learned from such works as any other.”

Thinking of Kitty's admission of her acquaintance with Mrs Radcliffe's books, Jenny could only approve. “I applaud your venture, Mr Blackall, and wish your parishioners many years of novel-reading.”

He had gone very pink, and where his light brown, rather unkempt hair met his brow, beads of perspiration had appeared. “Thank you, Miss Austen.” At last he looked at her, his flush deepening. “Indeed, since you speak so agreeably of my scheme, might I prevail upon you to listen to a proposal I have long nurtured, but which I have not had the opportunity to air until this moment?”

Jenny did not dare look at either of the Lefroy boys. “A proposal? Of course.”

“I have the outline of a story concerning a young clergyman,” Mr Blackall announced. “It contains a modicum of personal experience, of course, but I flatter myself I have made the character sufficiently unlike myself as to be unrecognizable to my friends.”

He stuck his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. For one panic-stricken moment Jenny thought he was going to produce the “outline” from one of them. “I wonder, Miss Austen, if you would do me the honour of allowing me to send it to you, so that you may peruse it and perhaps use it for your next book?”

“Mr Blackall, I am most gratified—”

“A novel,” he continued without noticing Jenny had spoken, “with a strong religious theme, which avoids the sensational elements in many modern books which
masquerade
as novels, while all the while being the devil's work, must be considered to provide for the lower orders reading matter both instructive and godly. Do you not agree, Miss Austen?”

“Wholeheartedly,” said Jenny. Helplessness had descended upon her; she put up her fan and coughed discreetly behind it. “Pray tell me, sir, why do you not write this novel yourself?”

His face, still red from embarrassment, reddened further from some other emotion. “Novel-writing, Miss Austen, is perfectly acceptable as a pastime for young ladies such as yourself. But please do not intimate that
any
novel can be serious enough to bring anything but
mortal punishment
upon a member of the clergy!”

Madam Lefroy came to Jenny's rescue by hurriedly instructing her sons. “Ben, take Mr Blackall and fetch us all some punch. And you, George, find your cousin Tom and bring him to me
immediately
.”

When they had gone she turned back to Jenny with a gleaming eye. “Mr Blackall is not the only young person whose company I have secured this evening. My nephew, Mr Thomas Lefroy, has come over from Ireland and is also staying at Ashe this Christmas. Mrs Bigg kindly extended her invitation to him, and I always maintain that the more gentlemen we can bring into the company of our young ladies the better.”

Jenny's spirits sank. Her smile fixed itself to her face, but it was not sincere. She did not wish to be a chesspiece in Madame Lefroy's matchmaking game. The Reverend Blackall's shortcomings she knew well enough. But she had not bargained with trying to think of amusing things to say to yet
another
protégé of the well-meaning lady. She would greet this nephew, and make her excuses as soon as was polite.

George reappeared, holding his cousin's coat-sleeve. He delivered him to Madam Lefroy with a bow, then went to join Harris Bigg, who was sliding on the polished floor in his stockings.

Jenny noticed that Tom Lefroy had reddish hair and light, cheerful eyes, and that there was something familiar about him.

“Tom, my dear, this is Miss Jane Austen, of Steventon,” announced his aunt. “I have mentioned her to you, of course.”

Tom Lefroy made a swift, rather nervous bow, which brought his forelock over his eyes. With an equally swift movement he pushed it back. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Austen.”

“Mr Lefroy,” said Jenny as she curtseyed.

“I understand you were introduced to my father at Basingstoke,” he said.

“Oh…” said Jenny. “Why, yes, I was.” Of course, this Mr Lefroy must be the son of the Irishman who had so charmed Cass at the Assembly Rooms ball.

Ben returned bearing glass cups on a tray. The Reverend Blackall was nowhere to be seen. Tom Lefroy took two of the cups. “Punch, Miss Austen?”

“Yes, please.”

It was churlish to refuse. And besides, he was looking at her with a mock-grave expression which communicated his awareness of his aunt's intentions.

“Let us take some punch to Papa,” suggested Madam Lefroy to her son, pulling him away by his coat-tails.

Jenny sipped her punch. It was as warm as the room and very sweet. She remembered to smile at Mr Lefroy, but her nervousness had risen the instant his relatives had departed. Fearing that he would think she was fishing for a partner, she surveyed the room with an air of studied nonchalance. Her gaze fell on Elizabeth Bigg, whose beautiful eyes followed William Heathcote's every movement; the rest of her face was obscured by her spread fan. Suspecting that her own smile must seem false, Jenny decided to put up her own fan. But it was dangling inelegantly from the wrist which held the punch cup. She transferred the cup hurriedly to the other hand, spilling some of the liquid on her glove as she did so.