Cassandra's Sister (13 page)

“Oh! No matter, these are old gloves. That is, not
old
, but…”

For the first time since they were introduced, he smiled.

To her shame, Jenny felt her heart leap. Tom Lefroy's smile affected his face so entirely that the eyes, cheekbones, lips and teeth suddenly appeared to her quite changed. Sweetened, yet still masculine. She had never seen any man look like this before. Was it his air, the set of his shoulders, the darkness of his evening dress against the lightness of his colouring? She was looking at a man who attracted her as no other man – even William Heathcote – had ever done.

Should she be thinking such things? It was schoolgirls' nonsense, of course. Tom Lefroy would turn out to be either too worldly or not worldly enough, too talkative or too quiet, too eager or too reticent. He would be unintelligent, or drink too much, or be interested only in hunting. He might be as boring as John Lyford. Most probable of all, he would not like her.

“Will you do me the honour of dancing with me, Miss Austen?” he asked, looking expectantly into her face.

She felt none of the embarrassment requests for dances usually produced, and accepted as calmly as if one of her brothers had asked her. But when Tom Lefroy led her out onto the floor her heart felt as if something heavy were pressing it. She could not feel her legs at all. She executed the steps without knowing it, aware only of how naturally her hand fitted into her partner's, and how unreservedly delighted he showed himself to be whenever she caught him looking at her.

After the dance he did not let go of her hand, make a correct bow and seek his next partner, as gentlemen usually did. He conducted her to a chair at the side of the room and, flipping his coat-tails, sat down next to her.

“Sitting out” together, when they had only just met! Why, Jenny was behaving more impulsively even than Elizabeth, whose dance with William Heathcote had been followed by their huddling in a corner, as familiarly as if they were already engaged. Jenny remembered Elizabeth's flushed, almost hysterical appearance at Basingstoke, when she and Mr Heathcote had merely spoken in the deserted supper room. Now, after one dance with Tom Lefroy, could Jenny honestly say she was any less enraptured?

“So you have … let me see, six brothers?” Tom Lefroy was saying. “And one sister? And is she still at home?”

“My sister Cassandra is engaged to a Mr Tom Fowle, and hopes to be married when he has returned from military service overseas.”

“Tom! A name I heartily approve of!” he said, his face consumed by the beautiful smile.

Jenny lowered her gaze modestly. If she went on looking at him, she was sure that her own smile would break the bounds of her cheeks and leap around the room, rejoicing in its freedom as gleefully as she now rejoiced in Tom Lefroy's company. “Indeed,” she said. “Thomas is not an unusual name.”

“Do any of your brothers possess it?”

“No.”

“What are their names, then? My aunt has told me, but I confess my ears were more alert to
your
name than any masculine one. Tell me about them.”

He was flirting with her. It made her feel like she had often imagined Cassandra felt in the presence of
her
Tom. Strong, at peace with the world, secure in mind and person.

“First is James,” she began, “who is a clergyman. He has the living at Deane, the very next village to Steventon. His little daughter lives with us because his wife died eight months ago. In fact, he is here tonight.” Her eyes roamed over the dancers. “There he is, dancing with Miss Catherine Bigg. Next is Edward, who is married and lives in Kent, then Henry, who is at Oxford at present but is soon to rejoin his regiment in the militia. He is also here, though I cannot see him dancing. Then Francis – we call him Frank – and Charles, who are both serving in the navy.”

He pondered. “That is five brothers,” he said with uncertainty. “Am I to conclude…”

“Oh, no!” corrected Jenny. “That was remiss of me. Our other brother, George, who is between James and Edward in age, is unwell and must be cared for away from home. He is ever in our thoughts and prayers.”

“And your father is a clergyman, I understand?”

“Yes, and he also has a school in the Rectory. Only a few boys, but it sometimes seems as if there are…”

“…several hundred?” he finished for her. “It must feel a little crowded.” His light eyes were full of the pleasure Jenny knew he could see in her darker ones. She and this most amiable Irishman were understanding each other.

“Exactly so,” she told him. “But you must live in a large house, Mr Lefroy, which does not have a school in it. Therefore you are surely a stranger to such concerns.”

“Not at all. My father owns land, but our house is not as large as Ashe. And now you must guess how many brothers I have.”

“I guess four.”

“Guess again.”

“Five?”

He shook his head. The forelock fell over his brow again. Jenny watched his fingers as he pushed it back. His hands were square-palmed, with broad knuckles like Papa's. Her heart began to gallop. Would there ever come a day when Papa would invite this man into his study, and close the door behind them, and…
Stop
, she reprimanded herself.

“I have no brothers at all.” He sat back in his chair. The expression on his face showed some envy, but there was also an element of apology in it.

“But you have sisters?” she ventured.

“Three.”

“I see.”

“My mother is confident she can marry them all to suitable husbands.”

“If she cannot, your aunt will!” Jenny declared, laughing.

For a moment she thought she had offended him. It
was
a rather impertinent remark. But his surprise was instantly replaced by delight, and he shouted with laughter, so loudly that the guests seated nearby turned to see what the commotion was.

“I envy your brothers,” he told her when he had recovered his composure. “None of my sisters ever says anything to make me laugh.” He leaned forward again; his face was only inches from hers. “But truly, I am very, very glad that you are
not
my sister.”

Jenny could not reply. This was more than flirtation. He had hinted as plainly as possible what propriety decreed he could not say outright. Her blood rose; she felt hot, and highly conscious that she and Tom Lefroy were being watched by several onlookers.

“How warm it is in here!” she cried, fanning herself. “Why does someone not open a window?”

“On a cold night such as this, I suppose it would not be advisable,” he replied reasonably. He looked steadily at her for a minute. Though her face blazed, she no longer felt self-conscious. Indeed, she
wanted
him to look at her.

“You have very handsome eyes, Miss Austen,” he said.

“Thank you.” She was tempted to return the compliment, but stopped herself. Elizabeth Bigg would never tell William Heathcote to his face how good-looking he was, and Jenny could not have had a better teacher in matters of courtship.

“Have you ever had your portrait taken?” he asked.

“No. That is, not officially. I sometimes sit for my sister as her model for sketching.”

“And are her sketches like?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you also sketch, Miss Austen?”

“I do, but I am not very good at it.”

“What pursuits do you follow during your spare hours, then, if I may enquire?”

Jenny smiled. It was easy to behave attractively, secure in the knowledge that she
was
attractive to this man. However she looked, he wanted to look at her. Whatever she said, his attention was chained. “Like all young ladies, I sew, play the pianoforte and sing.” She dipped her head and raised her eyelids as she had seen Elizabeth do. “I am learning French and German, and I improve my mind with serious reading. But unlike other young ladies, I am not at all talented at any of these things.”

Tom Lefroy's returning smile was wider even than Jenny's own. “I refuse to believe you are without talent. My aunt certainly does not think so.”

“Do you mean your aunt has spilled my secret?”

His smile faltered. “Oh! I was not aware that…”

“Do not make yourself anxious that you have betrayed her,” Jenny reassured him, putting up her fan to hide her amusement at his discomfiture. In fact, his lack of guile was recommending him very strongly to her. “It is no secret that I write stories.”

“My aunt learnt from your mother that you have completed a novel. Is that true?”

“Do you ever answer questions, Mr Lefroy, or only ask them?”

“I will tell you on one condition,” he returned, his composure once more intact. “That you cease addressing me as Mr Lefroy, and call me Tom.”

“In that case, I too have a condition. You must call me Jane before I disclose any more about myself.”

“Very well, then. I am asking so many questions because I want to find out as much about you as I can in the short time available to us at this ball. I cannot monopolize you for the whole evening, as I am persuaded several other gentlemen would very much like to dance with you, and so you must forgive this catechism I am subjecting you to. Do you forgive it, Miss – I mean, Jane?”

Jenny laughed “I do, Tom. And, yes, it is true that I have written a novel. A real, three-volume novel.”

“You are very young to have completed such a feat,” he said admiringly. “It is as much as I, or my sisters for that matter, can do to write a letter.”

“Writing comes to me as easily as breathing,” said Jenny. “And if I were prevented from writing, just as if I were prevented from breathing, I would die.”

She had never confessed this to anyone, even Cassandra. After she had said it to Tom Lefroy, she felt as if they had set foot together on territory no one had explored before. Mindful of Cass's advice about speaking of books in tedious company, she pushed the thought aside and addressed Tom eagerly. “Do you like reading novels?”

He paused. “I am not familiar with many,” he said carefully. Clearly, he was anxious not to offend her, but was equally anxious not to tell an untruth. “I began
Tom Jones
, but I must confess I never finished it. In our house novels seem to be the province of ladies.”

“Diplomatically put!” laughed Jenny. “Ladies read them, and ladies write them. What could be more fitting? Cassandra will be delighted to hear it when I tell her. She is a great reader of novels.”

“When she is not sketching?” he asked good-humouredly.

“Indeed. Nor sewing, which she is very good at, or playing the piano and singing, or—”

“Improving her mind with serious reading?”

They both laughed. Jenny knew without any doubt whatsoever that this was the happiest she had ever been. As their laughter subsided, Tom inclined his head closer to hers. “Do you tell you sister everything?” he asked.

“No,” replied Jenny truthfully. “She is my confidante, and I am hers, but we both have things we do not share.”

“In that case, please do not tell her that we have allowed ourselves to address each other by our first names. I wish it to be between
us
.”

He said this with a look of such boyish, and therefore very charming, embarrassment, she could not possibly refuse.

“Very well, Tom, it is.”

He took her hand. “And now, Jane, do you hear the music beginning again? Do you want to dance?”

As they walked to the set, Jenny could feel herself glowing – with pride, with happiness, with the secure knowledge that she was admired. She determined to savour every moment of the evening as if it were her last on earth, in order to relate it all, with the exception of the part she must not disclose, to Cassandra.

T
om Lefroy was to return to Ireland in two weeks. When he and his young cousin George made the customary visit to Steventon the day after the ball, the call was brief even by duty-driven standards. Jenny barely had the chance to address him; each time she looked at him his attention was elsewhere. But on the way out of the garden gate he turned and ran back, hat in hand, to where she stood on the doorstep.

“Pray do not forget, Miss Austen, that you are cordially invited to my uncle and aunt's ball at Ashe next Friday. May I engage you now for the first dance?”

“Certainly, Mr Lefroy,” she replied, and they smiled at each other.

Bundling up her skirts in the way she used to when she was a little girl, Jenny climbed the stairs three at a time. Huddled in her shawl, with mittens half-covering her hands, she now wandered about the cold sitting-room, thinking, thinking…

In the corner of the writing desk was the little pile of cross-stitched pen-wipers Cassandra had made for Edward years ago. Faded now, but still serviceable, they were as much a part of the familiar surroundings of Steventon as the carved chair Jenny now pulled out from under the desk, and the embroidered cushion on which she sat.

The sight of her sister's handiwork drove all thought of story-writing from her mind. What flowed from her pen was a letter to Cassandra. A long, long letter. By the time Jenny had finished her hand ached and weariness had begun to overwhelm her. She was also, she noticed, weak from hunger. She had been too nervous to eat breakfast.

Tiptoeing down to the kitchen, she begged some bread and cold meat from Travers. Then she carried her spoils back upstairs, settled herself upon the bed and gave herself up to the dreams that Mama called “nonsense”. It was not nonsense, though. Jenny preferred to think of it as writing her own story instead of someone else's.

She was twenty years old, the very age Cassandra had been when she became engaged to
her
Tom. Jenny's own Tom (she could permit herself to think of him as that in dreams) was twenty-three, that perfect age between majority and marriage that she envied Cassandra for possessing. How extraordinary it was, that just as one Tom was leaving for the West Indies, another Tom had appeared from Ireland. Jenny had to concede that the first country was rather less exotic than the latter; but one's own story was never as exciting as fiction, after all.