Jane and the Genius of the Place jam-4 Read online

  “Are you perhaps increasing again?” I enquired delicately.

  “Lord, no! That is all at an end, I am quite sure,” she retorted; but I thought her voice held a note of doubt. Lizzy's ninth child is as yet a babe in arms; but at the age of two-and-thirty, she might expect any number in addition. “Perhaps some raspberry cordial.”

  I secured her the collation. “Fanny? Miss Sharpe? Some cake and cordial, perhaps?”

  My niece raised a tear-stained cheek. “I could not stomach a bite, Aunt Jane, from all the anxiety attendant upon his prospects.”

  “His prospects,” her mother repeated in some perplexity. “Whose, my dear?”

  “I believe she means the horse, ma'am,” Miss Sharpe supplied in her gentle voice.

  “Such elevated language! You have been lending Fanny your horrid novels, Miss Sharpe, I am certain of it.”

  “Indeed not, I assure you, madam — merely Mrs. Palmerstone's edifying letters to her daughters.”[3] Anne Sharpe raised eyes full of amusement to my own, and I could not suppress a smile — for we had debated the merits of such writers as Mrs. Radcliffe and Madame D'Arblay for nearly an hour in the schoolroom, with Fanny pleading to borrow my subscription volumes of Camilla. I had pressed them, instead, upon Anne Sharpe — and did the governess often resort to horrid novels, I should be the very last to blame her. With the schooling of two small girls in her charge, and limited reserves of strength or health to aid her, she must find in the Austens' exuberance a trial.

  Particularly since the Commodore had come to plague us all.

  A fearsome, snorting chestnut steed of nearly sixteen hands, the Commodore might be termed my brother Henry's latest folly. Being a man of some means, well-established in banking circles, and possessed of an elegantly-aristocratic wife in my cousin Eliza, Henry aspires to the habits of the Sporting Set, and has gone in for horse-racing in its most vicious form. Not content with losing breathless sums at Epsom and Newmarket, he has gambled his all on a dearer stake — the possession of an actual beast.

  Knowing little of horseflesh, and still less of such points as action or blood, I have been rendered mute in almost every conversation since Henry's arrival in Kent a week ago. He is full of nothing but the subject; and it has been all a matter of furlongs and oat mash and Tattersall's betting room for a se'nnight.[4] The children have caught a dose of the fever; Neddie himself is hardly immune; and never have I found dear Henry's company so profoundly tedious. The flight of his wife, the little Comtesse Eliza, to a shooting party in the North, suggests that she is as impatient for the fad's decline as any of us. And so I prayed that the Commodore might stumble to his ruin in the present race, or perform as wretchedly as a carter's nag, and thus save us all the trouble of adoring him.

  “It is too bad!” Fanny was craning over the carriage's side for a view of the course. “In sitting at such a remove, we shall be denied the smallest glimpse of the Commodore's triumph. I believe my heart shall break!”

  “My dear Fanny.” Miss Sharpe laid a gloved hand on her charge's arm. “We are privileged in attending the meeting at all. Recollect that ladies must never approach the rail — it is not the done thing, and is left to the province of such hoydens as may claim neither rank nor breeding among their charms.”

  “Mrs. Grey may claim rank and breeding, Sharpie, and yet she is allowed the liberty of the grounds,” Fanny retorted. “I should not be so nice as you are, for a kingdom! Mrs. Grey for me!”

  And, indeed, the child spoke no more than the truth. The dark-haired beauty in the scarlet riding habit was strolling freely among the assembled carriages, with the eye of more than one gentleman lingering upon her wistfully. As we watched, she caught the banter of one and returned it playfully, her countenance alive with laughter. The brutal cut of a few minutes earlier was plainly forgotten. She appeared a ravishing young lady of exuberant spirits — forward, perhaps, but entirely in command of her circumstances.

  “Perhaps we should read a little of Palmerstone aloud,” Miss Sharpe suggested, with a slight note of reproof. She drew a volume from her reticule and patted the empty seat beside her. “Sit down by me, and endeavour to attend. I believe we left off at letter number twelve.”

  “Mrs. Grey has never read Palmerstone,” Fanny retorted darkly, but she sank down next to Miss Sharpe.

  “Mrs. Grey is not the pattern I should choose for your conduct, Fanny.” Lizzy's words had the tenor of a scold, but I observed her mouth to twitch. “However dashing in moments, Mrs. Grey has not been gently reared. She is a Frenchwoman, moreover, and her manners must be very different from ours.”

  Miss Sharpe commenced to read, in a quiet tone; and at that moment, I caught a glimpse of scarlet as Mrs. Grey passed to the rear of the governess's bent head. As Lizzy and I watched her wordlessly, she approached a shabby-looking chaise but a hundred feet from our own. It was equipped with neither footman nor tyger, and but for its sweating team of matched bays, appeared all but deserted. At Mrs. Grey's swift knock, however, the carriage door was thrust open by an unseen party within. With a swift glance about, the lady disappeared into the darkness, and the door closed softly behind her.

  “Good Lord!” Lizzy murmured. “So Laetitia Colling-forth makes Franchise Grey her friend. This is news, indeed.”

  “Has she so little acquaintance among the neighbourhood?”

  “I am afraid that Kent has not embraced the Greys as it should,” Lizzy replied. “But, then, Mrs. Grey is very young—”

  “—and very French,” I concluded.

  Lizzy nodded abstractedly, her eyes still fixed on the shabby chaise. “That cannot be agreeable, at such a time.”

  The London papers have been full of nothing but the rumour of invasion the entire summer. Buonaparte's dreaded army, which is said to number some one hundred thousand men, sits but a stone's toss across the Channel from Kent, and many of the less stalwart families among our acquaintance have quitted the neighbourhood for safer regions far from the sea, until the danger should be passed.

  “A lesser woman than Mrs. Grey might find her situation awkward,” I observed, “and adopt a retiring appearance; but that has hardly been the lady's choice.”

  Lizzy laughed abruptly. “Retirement would never be Mrs. Grey's preference. I fear she endures our company better than we suffer hers!— Tho' I cannot think why she remains in Kent; London should prove a better field for her appetites and pursuits. Perhaps the country air suits her — or, more to the point, her horses.”

  “She has set up her stable?” I enquired.

  “—And is passionate about the turf. Some one of her racers is entered in the Commodore's heat, no doubt, and thus we may account for her extraordinary behaviour in strolling about the meeting-grounds. She considers herself quite one of the Sporting Set, and spends a fortune, it is said, on the comfort of her mounts.”

  “Her husband must be in possession of easy circumstances, then.”

  “Mrs. Grey has never had the appearance of a pauper,” Lizzy observed enviously. “I, for one, cannot afford her modiste. My pin money should never run to such sums. You observed the cut of that habit, I presume? The quantity of gold frogging about the neck and bosom? And having displayed it to all of Canterbury, she should never presume to wear it again.”

  “Well, well.” I sighed. “The French are known for their ruinous habits, I believe. Perhaps she shall run through her husband's fortune, and serve as spectacle for us all. We cannot do without a little amusement, the news from the Channel being so very bad.”

  Lizzy threw me a mocking glance. “We are not all without resources, Jane. Some little money attaches to the lady herself. She is said to be the ward of a French banking family — de Penfleur by name, although her own was Lamartine. Grey married her for her connexions, I believe.”

  The judgement was callously expressed, but was no more than Lizzy should serve upon any number of her acquaintance. It is rare to marry for love, as my brother has done. Calculation is the more general advocate o
f worldly alliance, as every baronet's daughter must know.

  “She must be new to the neighbourhood,” I replied, “for I cannot think I have ever met her before.”

  “She has been resident in Kent but seven months, and her husband, Mr. Valentine Grey, acceded to his estate only three years ago. You may have heard me speak of it — The Larches. It is one of the finest places in England, Jane. Perhaps we shall pay a call there, one day, if you persist in your fascination for the lady.”

  I frowned. “The Larches! But is not that only a few miles from Goodnestone? How have we never come to meet them before?”

  Lizzy's childhood home, Goodnestone Park, is a lovely old place some seven miles from Godmersham. Her elder brother, Sir Brooke-William Bridges, acceded to the tide nearly fifteen years ago, and at his marriage to a respectable young woman, Lizzy's mother retired to Goodnestone Farm a mile distant from the great house. My sister Cassandra has been gone on a visit to Lady Bridges and her unmarried daughters this fortnight, but her letters have made no reference to any neighbours, near or far.

  “The Greys do not mix very much in Society, Jane. He is the principal member of a great banking firm— and however genteel a profession, it remains one that many still consider to be trade.” Lizzy glanced sidelong at this, to see how I should take it; for banker or no, Henry has always been my favourite brother, and I have no patience with snobbery of any kind. “And as Mr. Grey has been resident in these parts only a little while, moreover, he cannot be said to be truly of the neighbourhood.”

  “No,” I rejoined with a touch of irony, “for that he should have been forced to endure his infancy here, and have married the daughter of a local worthy — a Miss Taylor of Bifrons Park, perhaps, or one of the Wildmans of Chilham Castle.” Kent, for all its wealth and easy manners, can be a very closed society; it suffers from a touch of the provincial, as every country neighbourhood must.

  “Perhaps I have not done as much for Mrs. Grey as I ought,” Lizzy admitted, “but I like her too little to further the acquaintance. She is far too young, far too pretty, and far too much of a temptation to the local bloods to stand my friend; such a woman must always be seen in the light of competition. I confess, Jane, that I have withdrawn from the field, rather than tilt with such an adversary.”

  “Lizzy! You may command any number of dashing young gentlemen with the slightest curl of your finger! You know it to be true!”

  “—Unless they have already accepted one of Mrs. Grey's dangerous card-parties,” Lizzy retorted. “You can have no notion, Jane, of the fascination the woman exerts. My own brother has fallen victim to her charms; and yet, she cannot be more than two-and-twenty!”

  “—With all the cunning of a Countess Jersey,” I mused.[5] “And Mr. Grey? He cares nothing for his wife's reputation?”

  “Mr. Grey is often from home on business. He maintains a house in Town, and spends the better part of his time there. He is certainly not in evidence today.” Lizzy's gaze roved restlessly among the crowd, and her attention was immediately diverted. “Only look! Captain Woodford and my brother!”

  “Captain Woodford! Uncle Bridges!” little Fanny cried, and sprang up from her perch near Miss Sharpe, waving a napkin at the pair. “Do come and tell us! How do the horses appear? Is the Commodore stamping to be off?”

  “They have not yet approached the starter's mark, Miss Fanny,” Captain Woodford called jovially as he achieved the barouche, “but I have called upon your champion in his stall, and must declare him in excellent form! As worthy of the plate as any horse lately born. Ladies, your humble and devoted.” He swept off his hat with a smart military bow, and we murmured our salutations.

  Captain Woodford is a favourite with Lizzy — and did I not believe calculation and cunning quite beneath the daughter of a baronet, I should declare that she intends to secure him for her little sister Harriot. Though well past his first youth and decidedly not handsome, being marred by an eye patch that covers half his brow, the Captain is blessed in possessing a sunny nature that renders all misfortune delight, and cannot fail of finding solace in the simplest of pleasures. In Captain Wood-ford's company one is always assured of good sense, good humour, and honest feeling. I like him the better for his eye patch, as being the outer mark of a life lived honourably in the service of his country.

  The Captain is all admiration for Harriot Bridges's fresh countenance, while she is wont to blush at the first glimpse of his red coat. And as to rank or fortune, there can be no objection — for she is the daughter of a baronet, and must be possessed of a competence; while the Captain is the second son of a viscount, and holds an excellent commission in the Coldstream Guards, presently quartered at Deal against the advent of the French.

  “Lord, Lizzy, but it is hot! Give me some ginger beer like a good sister, and pray do not be telling our mother in what state you found me.” Mr. Edward Bridges, Lizzy's younger brother, mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief by way of a courtesy, and accepted the glass that Miss Sharpe proffered. “Woodford and I are just come from a capital little cocking ring set up on the edge of the course, and a pretty penny we lost there, too. I shall depend upon your Commodore to restore our fortunes.”

  “I might almost hope that you depend in vain,” Lizzy retorted, “but that you should apply to my husband for relief from any debts of honour. In either case, win or lose, the Austens must be the making of you.”

  Her brother smiled roundly, as though Lizzy had uttered nothing like a reproach; and there the matter ended.

  Mr. Bridges is a very different sort of gentleman from his companion in cocking, the gallant Captain. A well-made, high-coloured fellow of five-and-twenty, he is bent on spending his purse entire in pursuit of a sporting life. No London fashion may be heralded by The Gentleman's Magazine without first being seen on Mr. Bridges's back; no cricket match may be bruited in the neighbourhood, without Mr. Bridges laying a guinea against the odds; no pack of hounds loosed upon the trail of some unfortunate vixen, without Mr. Bridges hot in pursuit on the back of his latest hunter. I relish his absurdities, and find him lively company enough — but I cannot approve him. Long the favourite of his indulgent mother, and lingering still in the single state, he kicks his heels at Goodnestone Farm to the exasperation and expense of all his excellent family. Lizzy, at least, is anxious for her brother's prospects — and has declared that a taste for gaming and fast company will lead him to ruin e'er long.

  Despite these storied charms, Mr. Bridges may support at least one claim to sobriety and good conduct — for he is ordained a clergyman in the Church of England, having taken Holy Orders some few years past. He is at present the fortunate beneficiary of two livings: perpetual curate of Goodnestone, which fell in his late father's gift; and very lately, rector of Orlingbury, a parish in Northamptonshire — and one he never visits. In this we may read the reverence of our age: Mr. Edward Bridges, determined Dandy and half-hearted curate!

  But perhaps I am too severe. I am quick to detect a convenience, and call it hypocrisy, where another might divine only the usual way of the world.

  “You have seen the Commodore, Uncle?” Fanny enquired of Mr. Bridges excitedly. “Is he mad to be off?”

  Mr. Bridges then delighted us with the intelligence that the lamentable animal had spent a tolerable half-hour cooling down in his shed between heats; that he had been walked to admiration; and that the quality of his dung was said to be unassailable. Only the famed Eclipse himself could display a sweeter action.[6] A description of the Commodore's chief competitors — who must all be lame, spavined, or doltish in the extreme — then followed, to the delight of Fanny, who declared that Uncle Henry must be the champion of the day. Only Captain Woodford saw fit to ruin her hopes.

  “I should agree with Mr. Bridges in everything excepting Mrs. Grey's little filly,” he said. “In respect of Josephine, I cannot be sanguine. She is a fine-stepping goer, and over such a distance — a heat of two miles;—might give the Commodore a fair run for the plate.
We shall have some excellent sport when the horn is blown. But enough of racing! You look very well this morning, Mrs. Austen — and your sister might be Diana the Huntress herself, established over the picnic hamper in that becoming habit.”

  I blushed, for my riding dress was a cast-off of Lizzy's made over to suit myself, and I feared the truth might be blurted out by Fanny, to the mortification of us all. It is a lovely summer thing of lilac muslin, with a high collar and scalloped sleeves ending just at the elbow; the train is fashioned long for the accommodation of a lady's posture when riding sidesaddle, a sad encumbrance in the present confines of the barouche, and I am sure that Fanny has trampled it on several occasions at least. My hair had been cut and arranged for Race Week by Mr. Hall, Lizzy's modish London hairdresser, who has been resident at Godmersham for over a fortnight. I had thus abandoned my usual cap, and wore a dashing lilac top hat tied round with a sheer green silk scarf. However cast off by my brother's fortunate wife, the ensemble was ravishing; and I felt distinctly elevated in my borrowed feathers. I shall not know how to bear the deprivation when once I am returned to Bath.

  “Do not flatter me, Captain Woodford,” I managed, “or like Diana I shall prove the ruin of masculine ardour.”

  “I await your worst, madam,” he replied, with an inclination of the head, “for it cannot be more severe than Buonaparte's cannon — and I have steeled myself to those, you know, these two years and more.”

  “Perhaps we should establish Miss Austen at the headlands at Deal,” Edward Bridges suggested, “with a sword in one hand and a martial light in her eye, the better to forestall invasion — for a whole company of French cavalry could hardly ignore such loveliness. It must halt them in their tracks, and preserve the nation inviolate.”