Jane and the Genius of the Place Read online

  “They will pass within a stone’s-toss of Goodnestone in their way,” Cassandra added, ignoring my barbs. “The country is all alive with what it might mean, Jane— sudden intelligence, perhaps, from France, of the Monster’s landfall. If it were to be near Deal, only seven miles from the Farm—if dear Lady Bridges and all her household were to be driven from their beds—I do not think I could bear it! But, of course, I shall assist them in any way that I am able, with Marianne and the packing.”

  “You had much better bring them all to Godmersham and leave the packing to the French,” I said crisply. “I wonder Neddie did not consider of it before. But we have been served with our own plan of evacuation, my dear, and only yesterday morning. The gallant Captain Woodford brought it himself.”

  “Captain Woodford! I cannot help but like and admire him,” she said with a sigh. “There is such an expression of goodness in his looks—and the severity of his wounds must argue for the nobility of his character.”

  “Does Harriot admire him as much as her whole family?” I gazed out over the floor, where a few straggling couples clung determinedly to the final measures of a dance. Among them were certainly Lizzy’s little sister and the Captain, her white dress a delicate counterpoint to his dashing military colours.

  “I wish it were in my power to say,” Cassandra mused. “On this subject, Harriot cannot be open. There is too great a difference in our ages—nearly ten years—and tho’ much thrown together of late, we have never enjoyed the intimacy of sisters. But I suspect her heart to be a litde touched. It would be unfortunate if the Guards were to be ordered out of Kent entirely.”

  “Or the Captain himself run through with a French sword somewhere between Chatham and Deal,” I observed callously. “He might at least declare himself to Harriot before the unhappy event, so that she might cherish her interesting state. A girl who is only the object of a hero’s regard, has never the eclat of a bereaved intended.”

  “Jane! How can you!”

  Too late I remembered Cassandra’s own condition— the loss of her betrothed some eight years before. I bit my lip, and wished my own bitter humour might be kept in better check. But too late! The words were said; and I should not declare them orphans now.

  “I speak so because I must, my dear. A degree of general indifference is the only surety against peculiar pain. What a lot of people are killed in these wars, to be sure— and how fortunate that one cares for none of them! If Fly or Charles should be struck on the quarterdeck by a French twenty-four-pounder, a part of me would go over the rail at their side.”

  “Do not speak of it, I beg,” Cassandra said sofdy “I know that you have borne a great deal of late—the loss of Mrs. Lefroy, and our own dear Papa—but you mourn too much for them, Jane. They would not wish it so. Papa, I am sure, did not regret his life in leaving it.”

  I nodded blindly, my gaze obscured by a sudden film of tears; and then turned the conversation with effort. “And so the Guards are to march from Deal! I wonder how much Major-General Lord Forbes really knows— and how much he merely hazards?”

  “I am sure that all such manoeuvres are so much Blindman’s Buff,” Cassandra replied, “tho’ Buonaparte would have us all believe him omniscient, and as infallible as Rome. The gentlemen of the neighbourhood, including Mr. Bridges, are in an uproar over the intended troop movements—for it is rumoured they shall come but a day or two before the commencement of pheasant season. The sportsmen are all alive with the fear that the birds shall be disturbed—flushed from their manors, or poached out of hand for an infantryman’s dinner.”

  “It should not be surprising that the credit of our neighbours’ game-bags must come before the safety of the Kingdom,” I said with conscious irony. “Apropos of manoeuvres, my dear, how have you fared in your skirmish with the sporting Mr. Bridges?”

  Cassandra blushed and averted her eyes, a perfect picture of consciousness. “Mr. Bridges! Aye, you may well laugh at my persecution, Jane! I should like to know how you should fare against the weight of his blandishments, for a fortnight together! Mr. Bridges is excessively teasing. Did you observe that I was forced to stand up with him for full three dances this evening? I only escaped a fourth by pleading the headache.”

  “Three dances! That is very singular, indeed,” I observed mildly. “Another man might consider it too particular—but perhaps he believes that his being Lizzy’s brother must do away with such nice distinction.”

  “He is not so very much our relation, Jane, as to make me forget what is due to propriety,” Cassandra said with some distress. “Do not think that I am ignorant of his object. He hopes to secure my affections—and he has made himself repugnant in the process! Where once I might have found his gallantries flattering—his poses amusing—his wit even tolerable—he is become entirely disgusting! There is a lack of sincerity in all he says that has made his society intolerable.”

  “Poor Mr. Bridges!—To have lost that interest he particularly hoped to secure. Did I not feel moved to laugh at him heartily, I should pity him a good deal.”

  “I was much taken with the import of your last letter,” my sister confided, in a lowered tone. “I must assure you, Jane, that Mr. Bridges has hardly been easy since Mrs. Grey’s death. He barely speaks a word, and never leaves the house, unless it is to accompany myself or Harriot on some trifling errand. And yet, you know he was never to be found within doors if he could help it! There were weeks on end, when no one at the Farm had the slightest idea of his whereabouts, or whether he should be home to dinner! The change is very marked.”

  “Perhaps he cannot bear to be parted from you, my dear.”

  “Do not teaze me, Jane. It is very unkind in you, I am sure.”

  I pressed her hand in apology and said, “You believe the change in his behaviour to date from Mrs. Grey’s murder. Can you detect any reason for his seclusion? Has he let fall the slightest syllable that might explain his extraordinary conduct?”

  “He moves as tho’ in the grip of fear,” Cassandra replied, with utter seriousness, “and I have even thought, indeed, that he half-expects to suffer Mrs. Grey’s fate.”

  My eyes widened. “Mr. Bridges, to be torn from his riding habit and strangled with his own hair-ribbon? Impossible!”

  “Jane!”

  “Forgive me. I could not suppress the notion. But what could possibly give rise to such a fanciful dread, Cassandra? Who should wish to murder Mr. Bridges?”

  My sister glanced knowingly about the room before she answered. “Mr. Valentine Grey.”

  That the reserved and ill-humoured banker should have the slightest idea of the curate’s existence, was amusing in the extreme; and I confess I laughed out loud.

  “Is it not obvious?” Cassandra cried. “You told me yourself that Mr. Bridges was found in the lady’s saloon, on the very night of her murder, rifling the drawers of her writing-desk. He was desperate to secure the letter discovered between the pages of the scandalous French novel—the letter that proposed a meeting at midnight on the shores of Pegwell, and a subsequent flight to the Continent.”

  “But does Mr. Bridges possess a passable command of French?”

  “Naturally! All the Bridgeses are most accomplished in that line!” In her enthusiasm for her theory, Cassandra abandoned the last of her ice and leaned towards me eagerly. “I am certain that he believes himself the agent of Mrs. Grey’s end—that his dangerous passion for the lady precipitated her death at the hands of her husband, and that Mr. Grey merely awaits a suitable opportunity to serve vengeance, in turn, upon her lover! Mr. Bridges cannot know that his letter was found among the lady’s things. He fears only that he is discovered by the husband, and dares not stir beyond the Farm’s threshold.”

  “—Except to attend the inquest,” I amended slowly. “He would desire to learn everything that was known of her end, of course.”

  “Is it not a delightful idea?” my sister prodded.

  “It is not without its merits, Cassandra. But why, th
en, should Mr. Bridges quarrel with Captain Woodford? Or stand idly by, while Mr. Collingforth is charged with murder?”

  “As to that, I cannot tell,” she replied with a shrug. “I cannot solve all your mysteries for you, Jane. I am placed to disadvantage, marooned at the Farm. I shall hope to do better, when once we have exchanged our places.”

  “It is quite a settled matter, then, that I shall go to Goodnestone Farm? Pray—when is the delightful prospect to take place?”

  “Whenever Mr. Bridges has proposed, and been refused,” Cassandra said wickedly. “I cannot be expected to remain within the bosom of the family, once that regrettable episode is sustained.”

  “When may we expect the elegant curate to come to the point? I have my packing to consider.”

  A sudden stiffening in Cassandra’s looks alerted me to a subtle change. Her gaze was fixed a few inches above my head, and that the selfsame Mr. Bridges now hovered there, all civility and attention, I immediately surmised. I turned and found his good-natured, slightly anxious face bent upon us both. I say bent—for the height of his collar points, and the stiffness of his cravat, rendered any but the most exaggerated movements from waist to neck impossible.

  “Miss Austen!” he cried. “And the delightful Miss Jane Austen! How well you both look this evening, I declare. That such beauty and wit should be united in one lady surpasses all experience … but that two such, and claiming the same family name, should so subjugate us all to their charms…”

  “Mr. Bridges,” Cassandra broke in, “I must suppose you are come to tell us that the carriage is called. You are very good.”

  “Not at all! A decided pleasure—and only exceeded by the honour of escorting you home at the close of these delightful festivities. Or should I say—back to the Farm, which, although not your home, must be, I hope, very nearly as dear to you as though it were. That it might prove even dearer in future, through the accomplishment of a certain change…”

  Cassandra’s countenance, I fear, offered no encouragement to the gallant performer; and so he was suffered to dwindle into silence under the glacial influence of her gaze. He merely bowed to me, and offered my sister his arm, and thus the unfortunate pair moved off through the thinning crowd. I pitied Cassandra, but reserved some measure of the feeling for myself— for that Mr. Bridges would soon bring the matter to a point, and as speedily earn his refusal, I litde doubted. It would be but a matter of days, then, before I should be despatched to the Farm in Cassandra’s stead. And I should hardly meet Mr. Bridges’s attentions with my sister’s steady tranquillity. I had not the recourse to a headache complaint; for I was commonly acknowledged to be in riotous good health.

  “LIZZY,” HENRY BEGAN AS WE SETTLED OURSELVES WITH some exhaustion in the Godmersham carriage a quarter-hour later, “have you heard what your young brother is up to? He has actually waited upon Major-General Lord Forbes in the card room, in a matter of pheasant-shooting!—Was pleased to bring the General’s attention to a rumour of the Guards’ troop movements, and expressed his concern that the marching men might entirely rout his birds! The cheek of it all! Can not you put a word in your brother’s ear?”

  “I am sure the General gave him a dressing-down,” Lizzy returned languidly.

  “In too subde a manner, I fear, for Mr. Bridges’s understanding. Lord Forbes informed him that if only the birds-were routed, he should consider all of Kent but too fortunate.”

  Neddie’s sharp bark of laughter cut through the darkness of the coach. “And how did the young popinjay take it?”

  “He suggested an alternative route for the troops— through the hayfields to the west, which he represented as a course that might save several miles.”

  “And ensure the crops’ ruin,” Neddie said with satisfaction. “I am sure the General knew how to express his gratitude for young Edward’s sage advice.”

  “He was too much engrossed in play, to lend Mr. Bridges more than half an ear,” Henry returned, enjoying the moment hugely, “but I believe he took the point under consideration; for I observed him not a half-hour later, in a frightful rage, with poor Captain Woodford as his object. Lord Forbes was displeased, it seems, with the general knowledge of his manoeuvres. All of Kent may command it; and if we are apprised of the Guards’ plans, can Napoleon’s spies be in ignorance? While the General marches to Deal, the Monster will throw his troops quite elsewhere.”

  “I doubt it was Captain Woodford who published the intelligence,” I mused, “but I should not vouch for Lady Forbes. She has quite the look of a woman who enjoys a sensation—and herself at the centre of it, above all things.”

  “She is quite the persecution of poor Woodford,” Lizzy murmured. “Were it not for the deference he owes his commanding officer, I am sure he should shake her off in a trice; but she willhang upon his arm, and regard him as her personal pug-dog, to be petted and spoilt for show.”

  “You observed once that Lady Forbes was intimate with Mrs. Grey,” I said. “On what was their friendship founded?”

  Lizzy waved her fan, a gleaming arc of ivory in the darkness. “On a mutual love of finery—of spending more than they ought—and of a desire for shared confidences. There is little that occurred in the Army’s Officer Corps, I am sure, that was not known at The Larches an hour later. Lady Forbes is the kind of woman who delights in confiding secrets.”

  “And Mrs. Grey, in possessing them?” I added thoughtfully. The notion of blackmail was never far from my mind, when I considered of that lady. What might she not have known regarding Captain Woodford, for example, that should thwart his career in the Army?—Or of the spendthrift curate, Edward Bridges, whose luck proved so ruinous at her card-table? She should be unlikely to toy with them for money; she possessed enough of it herself. What, then, had been her object? What form of pressure had she employed? And was her interest merely a malicious delight in the unhappiness of others—or had she a greater object in view?

  “Mrs. Grey’s relation is a secretive sort, as well,” Neddie observed from his corner, as the carriage jolted down the road. “I could not make the Comte out at all; but I quite liked him, all the same.”

  “The Comte de Penfleur! A very elegant gentleman, indeed.” Lizzy was all approval. “But I cannot think it the wisest thing you have ever done, Neddie, to closet yourself fully an hour in his company. All of Canterbury must be alive to the interest of your tete-a-tete; and all of Canterbury will be chattering even now.”

  “It is clear, at least, that the Comte attended the Assembly solely with our conversation in view. He is gready distressed at Mrs. Grey’s death, and cannot feel sanguine with Grey’s management of it.”

  “Grey’s management?—But Grey is not the Justice responsible,” I cried.

  “No more he is,” my brother replied comfortably, “and the Comte de Penfleur was relieved to hear of it. He was circumspect enough, for the first quarter-hour; but he unbent a great deal, and intimated almost too much, for the remaining three. I shouldjudge him much attached to Francoise Grey; profoundly distrustful of her husband; and anxious that her murderer should not go unpunished.”

  “As he believes Denys Collingforth will,” I added.

  “He cares nothing for Collingforth, unless he be guilty—and it is quite clear, from his manner of speaking, that he cannot believe him so. Mr. Grey is too eager to charge poor Collingforth with the murder, for the Comte’s liking.”

  “How very intriguing, to be sure.” Lizzy sighed. “It has quite a Continental flavour to it, Jane, almost of a tragic opera. I am sure the stage shall be littered with the dead and dying, before the final curtain is rung down—do not neglect to inform me of how it all ends. For the present, however, I must implore you, Neddie, not to forget that the Finch-Hattons are to be at dinner tomorrow. We cannot neglect what is due to our friends, however tedious they might prove, merely because of invasion and murder.”

  My brother laughed aloud, and kissed his wife’s gloved hand, and was content to pass the remainder of the d
rive in reflective silence.

  But I very much wondered, as the shades of night flitted disconsolately past the carriage windows, how greatly the Comte had been attached to his adoptive sister—and whether it was he who had written that letter, in agonised French, to urge a meeting at Pegwell Bay.

  1 Harriot Bridges’s elder sister, Marianne (1774-1811), was an invalid from childhood, and was at this time bedridden. Much of Harriots time was spent attending her, and Cassandra was assisting in the duty while resident at Goodnestone Farm.—Editor’s note.

  2 The projected troop movements took place on August 30, 1805, as Jane reported in a letter later written from Goodnestone Farm.—Editor’s note.

  Thursday,

  22 August 1805

  I SET DOWN MY ACCOUNT OF THE BALL IN THE EARLYhours of the morning. Once in bed, I tossed and turned until the rain broke before five o’clock, and brought a cooling breeze through the open window. I rose not three hours later and took tea in my room, where I might collect my thoughts before the rest of the house had stirred.

  Breakfast at Godmersham is never before ten o’clock, although the children are served in the nursery far earlier. By the time our indolent Lizzy is dressed and abroad, her numerous infants are long since out-of-doors—under the supervision of Sackree, the nurse, or the long-suffering Miss Sharpe. There had been talk yesterday of an expedition with the gamekeeper, in search of wild raspberries; we should have clotted cream and fresh fruit for the Finch-Hattons at dinner.

  I found the breakfast parlour quite deserted of life when at last I descended, and was allowed the consumption of tea and toast unmolested. Afterwards I hied myself to the litde saloon at the back of the house, which serves the ladies of Godmersham as a sort of morning-room; here my sister Lizzy keeps a cunning litde marquetry desk, well-supplied with a quantity of paper, pens, and sealing-wax. I settled myself to compose a letter to my mother—who has been happily established these several weeks in Hampshire with our dear friends, the Lloyds. She was to come to us in September, and together we intended a visit to the seaside at Weymouth. I very much feared, however, that the pleasure-trip would be put off, from a superfluity of French along the Channel coast—but saw no reason to alarm my mother. She is given to the wildest fancies at the best of times, and should require no spur at present from her youngest daughter. One source of consolation I found at least: the Lloyds took no London paper. Mrs. Austen should thus be preserved in ignorance of the sailing of the French fleet, a circumstance devoutly to be hoped. Did the rumour of invasion happen to reach her ears, she should demand her daughters’ immediate removal into Hampshire—a prospect I could not regard with composure. The society of Kent was too beguiling, and the matter of Mrs. Grey’s death too intriguing, to permit of a hasty departure.