Page 48 of Searching for Mr Tilney

‘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.

Chapter Twenty Four

It is but a matter of days since our outing to the theatre and the memory of that occasion haunts me still. We are arrived at the Upper Rooms for a ball, the prospect of which I’ve been dreading since the mortifying evening at the theatre. Whatever Jane says to the contrary I have no hopes of dancing with Mr Fowle this evening, and I’ve never wished for an occasion to be over quicker than this one. I think I’ve been fooling myself that he has any regard for me, and when I look back on his kindnesses to me, I now see that is all they are and were. I have been imagining partiality where there is none, and believing in admiration where toleration might be a better word to use. I am not going to look for him, at him, or even acknowledge his existence. I might even refuse to dance with him if I can find the strength. The last thing I want is for him to pity me for lack of partners, though I doubt he shall even request to dance with me.

The rooms seem particularly full, stuffy and airless. The heat is unbearable - all the young women look like wilting hothouse flowers with damp curls like limp silk tassels swinging over one shoulder. Kid gloves are smoothed of any wrinkles when the desire to relieve oneself of their warmth altogether is strong. Fans are fluttering like the nervous girls as their partners approach to escort them. There is a crush in every room, and everyone seems to have left their manners at home. I never saw such pushing and rough behaviour, ladies positively racing to get the best seats in the ballroom. I’d be thankful if there was nowhere left to sit. My mother might even take me home again if we cannot find a chair, I think, but tonight she is in her most accommodating mood.

‘I daresay we’ll find somewhere in just a moment, and this evening I feel so well, I’m almost inclined to dance. Your aunt promised to introduce us to some friends who have just arrived in town. Now, what was their name, Mr Austen? I cannot see my brother anywhere in this crowd, and if we do not hurry your aunt will not be able to assist us.’

No doubt, they are the parents of a suitable young man, held in reserve by my mother in case cousin Lucius decides against being my marriage partner. I can see the Motley-Austens on the other side of the room, and I am aware that they know of our presence by the nods and very slight bows of the gentlemen. They have been increasingly keeping their own company, and though polite when we meet, conversation is limited to the weather and the latest activity.

I am thankful there is no sign of Mr Fowle or the Brooke family, and I am determined not to keep looking round the room for a glimpse of him. I wish I were at home with Jane instead of being here. There do not seem to be many people here we know, and certainly no young gentlemen to ask me to dance. It is rather mortifying to have to sit the first and second dances out, and I cannot help thinking what a very faded wallflower I must make.

I watch Lucius leading a young woman to the floor. She is expensively dressed in the latest fashion, and I know I must retain her picture in my mind for Jane will want to know how naked she looks and how much rouge she is wearing. True to form, Lucius’s attentions are very marked, and I’m grateful I’m not under such ungentlemanly scrutiny.

Before the dance ends, my mother marches me over the room to greet our cousins, and so obvious are her intentions that I feel my cheeks burning with shame. When Lucius comes off the floor he is polite, but makes no attempt to take my hand or ask me to dance, for which I am grateful. We pass stilted comments on the weather and the usual small talk, and I try not to eavesdrop on my mother’s conversation, but her voice is so loud, it cannot be helped.

‘Oh, we are so delighted to be better acquainted with Lucius,’ I hear Mama say to his mother, ‘and so happy he and Cassy are spending time together once more.’

At least they are behind me, though I wish I could walk away instead of standing still to hear such mortifying discussion.

‘I think you must agree how charming they look together,’ Mama goes on, ‘Lucius is such a handsome young man.’

‘I am very proud of my son,’ his mother replies. ‘My father-in-law has great expectations for Lucius, both in his career and in his marriage. I am sure you understand me, Mrs Austen, having sons of your own, when I say these matters must be handled with great delicacy.’