Jane and the Man of the Cloth Page 25

  “Jane was ever a foolish, fanciful girl,” my mother broke in. “And she is forever writing her fancies in a little book, and secreting it beneath a table linen whenever I enter the room. She is not to be thought of, I assure you, mademoiselle, so pay her no mind.”

  “But I fear that I must,” Seraphine replied, with a sudden smile for my mother. “Your daughter’s fancies might be taken for truth, did I fail to address them. And so, good sir, and gende madame, would you be so good as to leave us alone for a time? It is best that we speak in private.”

  I cocked an ear towards the passageway, and gave a look to my father. “If I am not very much mistaken,” I said, “that is the maid returned with the Green Leaf I bade her purchase. Do you go, my dear father, and take some tea with my mother. I shall not detain you above a quarter of an hour.”

  “Very well,” my mother said grudgingly. “I cannot deny that I should relish some refreshment But, Jane,” she whispered low in my ear as she passed, “do you be careful. She is French, after all, and may very well be a murderess, and must possess arts you can know nothing of.”

  “I SHALL. NOT KEEP YOU ABOVE VOtJR QUARTER-HOUR,” SERAPHINE began, without meeting my gaze. “I like your company too little to prolong its enjoyment.”

  “Our tete-a-tete might be concluded in a moment. A word alone shall suffice to end it Did you kill Captain Fielding, Seraphine?”

  She permitted herself the briefest of laughter. It was a brittle, a heartbreaking sound. “And what, now, do I answer? If I say no, you will not believe me; and if I say yes, I will not believe myself. But I cannot avoid the one or the other; so no it must be, Miss Austen. I did not kill the Captain.”I expected her to look at me then, to convey the sincerity of her words; but she did not. The very sight of my countenance must be odious to her. “I have been moved to wish for his death in the past; and I admit that his death, once achieved, caused me no pain. —Until, that is, my cousin was taken for it.”

  “And why should I believe what you say?” I enquired gently.

  She shrugged. “Why should you believe otherwise?”

  “Because I am committed to a pursuit of the truth,” I replied, “and must consider every possible alternative. I will leave no stone undisturbed, until I have found the meaning behind Fielding’s death, and may know whether your cousin is guilty or no. My heart whispers that he is not; he had not the look of wilful deceit, in all his assertions to the coroner—his was rather the appearance of intentional restraint.”

  “And so you would have me stand in his place.” Her expression of amusement was scathing. “I would gladly take it for him, if he would let me. I would give my life for Geoffrey, Miss Austen!” she cried, with a passionate look. “And even you, who must bear him some love, could never say as much.”

  “I? Low? That is absurd,” I replied, excessively stung. “I am merely an Englishwoman, who pays the notion of justice the most profound respect I would not have your cousin falsely accused, and hang for a crime he did not commit”

  “Noble words,” Seraphine said, with something like a sneer, “but false words nonetheless. You Englishwomen are all the same—cold, and unwilling to admit in the brain what the heart knows to be truth. Well, Miss Austen, I am French. And I say you are in love with my cousin. I am not afraid to look the truth full in the face. But I hate you for it.”

  “Hate me if you will, Mademoiselle. Believe what you will. It is no concern of mine,’” I rejoined, with an effort at calm. “I care only for the facts. Were you within the Grange’s walls, the night of Fielding’s murder?”

  “Why should I answer you?”

  “Because the more knowledge I have, the more likely that I will find the truth; and that can only help us all. Even did I prove your cousin guilty, we might draw comfort from the certainty. Would you rather continue in ignorance, and allow blind luck to determine the outcome?”

  “No,” she said reluctandy. “Though you will understand that the truth makes not a particle of difference to me. I care nothing for your justice. I care only for Geoffrey. But if the world believes him guilty, he shall certainly die. I am not so wilful I do not see the danger.”

  “Will you answer me, then?”

  The need for hope and the desire to thwart me struggled for mastery in her face. “I was within the Grange all night. I did not stir beyond its doors, as the housekeeper, Mary, may vouch. You were correct, when you said we had guests abovestairs. She and I were much occupied in tending to them.”

  “A smuggler’s crew?”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps. You saw yourself what a friend my cousin has been to them.”

  “A friend? Not their leader?”

  She did not answer.

  “How many horses are stabled at the Grange, Mademoiselle?”

  “Eight,” she answered, without hesitation. “A matched pair for the curricle, and Satan, of course; four draft horses for the farm; and my own mount.”

  “And do all bear the same sort of shoes?”

  “Stamped with Geoffrey’s initials, you mean? Of course. Any of the horses might have left those prints.”

  “Any, that were the same size, and bore the same weight,” I replied thoughtfully, “for the height of the horse and the heft of its mount, must severely affect the impressions.”

  “That is true!” she cried. “Geoffrey is a tall, well-built fellow, and Satan the same. Not every horse could make a print like that stallion’s, when Geoffrey is upon him.”

  “Not, for example, yourself.”

  “No,” she replied, with a bitter smile. “My Elf is a dainty lady. The draft horses, however, with a man astride, might manage it”

  “There is also the curious affair, Mademoiselle, of the white lily.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, her gaze shifting. “It is curious, indeed.”

  “Have you any notion what it might signify?”

  “I fear that I do not. It is simply one more confusion amidst all that is bewildering.”

  “I wondered if it might not refer to the Captain’s name.”

  “His name?”

  “Yes. lje Chevalier. The tide Fielding won from his service to you.”

  She winced. “I do not pretend to understand you, Miss Austen.”

  “A French flower for a French knight,” I said patiendy. “Is not the fleur-de-tys a white lily?” A symbol of a country’s trampled greatness, like the absurd tide Fielding bore. But what, then, was the significance of the flower left by the hanged Bill Tibbit?

  “I wonder, Miss Austen, that you think you might affect the odds in this way,” Seraphine said, breaking into my thoughts. “For what can a woman do, in a proceeding so determined by men? Had not Geoffrey better stand his chance, in a world in which he is at least an equal, unlike ourselves?” But for the steadiness of her sombre gaze, I might almost have believed her to be mocking me.

  “I have never been willing to admit that inequality,” I told her. “I spend the better part of my life endeavouring to redress it. But no matter. If all did but bend their efforts to determining your cousin’s guilt or innocence, some resolution might speedily be found. I do but contribute my part, as I am sure Mr. Crawford will, and even Mr. Dagliesh.”

  “I have seen enough of their parts today.”

  “Their hands were tied.”

  “Then I do not want their hands further in the matter,” she rejoined with animosity.

  “Very well,” I said. “But that cannot prevent you from sharing what you know with me. I cannot emphasise enough, Mademoiselle, that some part of the conviction of your cousin’s guilt arises from the general perception that he hated Captain Fielding. What possible reason can he have had, for doing so?”

  In her look of contemptuous dismissal, I fancied I read the same disdain her long-dead mother must have shown the guillotine. “I am not inclined to tell you, Miss Austen, and certainly not without Geoffrey’s approval. It would seem too great a betrayal.”

  “And if your cousin dies as a result of
your silence, you foolish girl?” I cried.

  “He will not.”

  “But of course he will!”

  She shrugged, all of France in the gesture, and stared into the middle distance. I saw that whatever influence I had held over her mind, had begun to slip away.

  “You were ready enough to speak this afternoon, before the coroner,” I threw out, in one final attempt. “You very nearly then revealed everything to do with your affairs, and gladly, in an effort to save your cousin’s neck.”

  “But as you saw, Miss Austen,” she replied with chilling calm, “my cousin did not wish it It was his words that stopped my mouth before Mr. Carpenter, and yours shall certainly never loose it.”

  “Tho’ you hazard the risk of sealing his guilt?”

  “Even so. I must trust in Geoffrey’s determination of what is right; and further importuning must be useless. I must beg you to cease. We have spoken long enough.”

  I saw from her looks that she was quite determined, and so I rose with a sigh, and turned for the door.

  “You shall have but a few days for the consideration of your cousin’s fate,” I said, “when every hour is precious. If ever you determine to seek some assistance with your burden of confidence, know that I stand ready to help you bear it.”

  “And if you, Miss Austen, can ever admit what you feel for Geoffrey,” she replied, “then we shall both know where we stand. But until then, I believe I shall keep my own counsel.”

  “And I shall pursue my own path,” I said, with some asperity. “For the cause of justice will not suffer indifference, Mademoiselle.”

  “Justice, Miss Austen?” she said mockingly; and turned her head away. But her laughter followed me down the length of the passageway, and I confess it disturbed me more than I should like. There was too much of Eliza’s knowing in it.

  21 September 1804, cont.

  ∼

  I FOUND MY FATHER ENSCONCED IN A DIM CORNER OF THE LION, HIS book open upon his lap. My mother had long since departed the inn to pay a call upon an acquaintance—an intelligence I received with some relief, as I had feared her too-eager canvassing of Seraphine LeFevre’s affairs in so public a place. I could now avail myself of my father’s advice without concern for interruption; and so, as he gathered up his things, I suggested we take a turn along the Cobb. A dubious proposition for one of my father’s unsteady gait; but the day was fair enough, and the wind not of a strength to overwhelm. He appeared surprised at the suggestion, but ready enough to seize the opportunity for exercise; and thus we set off, companionably arm-in-arm.

  “And so, Jane—what is your opinion of this sad business of Sidmouth’s? I should enjoy a share in your thoughts at the present; for I know that your acquaintances among the great have taught you much about scandal and violence,” my father began. That he referred to Isobel Payne, and her nephew Fitzroy (who were even now upon the point of uniting once more the titles of Countess and Earl of Scargrave), I immediately understood.

  “I fear that my singular experience of two winters past prepared me for nothing in the present case—unless it be a greater tendency to question the truth of everything I hear, and to assume that the persons appointed to safeguard the law, are little likely to look beyond the most obvious construction of events,”I replied. “But I would gladly share my intelligence, Father, if you will promise in return some measure of perspicacity.”

  And so, as we coursed the length of the breakwater’s stone, I told my father all that I had learned of the infamous Reverend and of Mr. Sidmouth—who might, or might not, be one and the same man. I did not neglect to mention my dubious commission from Roy Cavendish, nor the curious movements in the Grange’s garret, nor the appearance of a wounded man on the Charmouth shingle, nor my own midnight adventure in the cavernous tunnel, nor my interview with Maggie Tibbit. When I had done, the good man was lost in silent contemplation for some few minutes; and when he had sufficiendy roused himself from thought to pay his companion more heed, he turned to me with an expression of wonder and—dare I say it—respect.

  “My dear Jane,” he said. “My dear Jane. I knew you for a lady of fine understanding and natural courage; but I dared not hope you possessed such faculties of determination and initiative. Forgive me if I must observe that they seem rather the part of one of your brothers, than a member of the weaker sex. I am not entirely assured that the affairs of either Mr. Sidmouth or the Captain required so much active benevolence on your behalf—and at such risk to your person—but I will not pain you with suppositions regarding your motives. Only tell me,

  Jane”—and here he hesitated—“are you quite convinced of Sidmouth’s innocence in the Captain’s death? For I should not like you to suffer for what you will discover.”

  “I am convinced of nothing, dear sir,” I replied, “and do not imagine me to harbour such tender emotions towards the gentleman in question, that my senses should be entirely routed if I find my labour has gone only to confirm his guilt I may congratulate myself upon a clearsighted view of his character. Sidmouth is forthright, but self-serving; loyal to those he values, but indifferent to the broader claims of society. His temper is mediated only with difficulty, though I could not charge him with unwonted meanness of spirit And though I know no real evil of him, I cannot profess a complete confidence in his motives or aims. I hear such conflicting reports of him, as should bewilder a finer understanding than my own. There—have I satisfied your anxiety?”

  ‘Tor the moment,” my father replied. “But tell me, Jane—could you ever love a man you regarded with such ambivalence?”

  “Must love, then, be blind, in your opinion?”

  “Not blind—but preferably unalloyed; and best bestowed upon a worthy object.”

  I hesitated before I answered him; for I knew from the kindly tenor of his words, that my father’s whole heart was in the subject. “1 am not now in love with Mr. Sidmouth, Father,” 1 said with remarkable firmness, “and I do not know that I could ever be, or that the question should even be put to the test, in the event that he returned such feeling. And since the gentleman promises fair to hang before he should have time for a tender dalliance, you may set yourself at ease.”

  “Jane! You cannot jest in such a matter!”

  “Matters have come to such a turn, my dear sir, that I may fairly do little else. But I wiilbe serious. I ivill promise you to take what care 1 can in the business. I shalI not plunge whole-heartedly into a matter that might offer only harm, without judicious thought beforehand.”

  “That is as I should expect of you, my dear,” my father replied, with a pat to the hand he held close in the crook of his arm. “You were ever a girl whose heart was ruled by her head.”

  Was I? I thought fleetingly; and is that to be preferred to a head ruled by the heart” I cannot be entirely certain,

  “Father—” I said, with a purposeful effort at changing the subject, “—what should, then, my next step be? For so much cries out for elucidation, that I am in a confusion as to my proper path.”

  We had reached the end of the Cobb, and lingered to feel the freshness of the spray; and I knew with a sinking of the heart that autumn was advancing, and winter coming on. The sea air was sharper than it had been only a few weeks before, and I shivered as I drew my shawl closer about my thin muslin gown. We had but a little of our Lyme sojourn remaining to us; but Geoffrey Sidmouth had fewer days still. I must not be a spendthrift with time.

  “You have declared the horseshoes to be the crux of the business,” my father said thoughtfully. “And since you are unlikely to have success where Mr. Dobbin did not, I should counsel against a useless review of the Lyme blacksmiths. Your appearance in their midst, and in pursuit of such information, should only arouse suspicion against you, and excite the attention of the local tradesfolk.”

  “Very true.”

  “Let us consider, my dear Jane, whether any of the people hereabouts might spurn the Lyme trade, and engage a private smithy for the maintenance o
f their beasts.”

  “No one in our acquaintance is likely to require such a service,” I objected. “Even Mr. Crawford has a modest stable, as we observed only a few days ago.”

  “But the Honourable Barnewalls have gone in for horses on a larger scale, have they not?”

  “In Ireland, perhaps,” I said doubtfully, but my father waved away such temporisations with surprising vigour.

  “Forgive me, Jane, if I beg to speak from greater knowledge,” he said. “I have known a few of your race-mad fellows in my time. They are never far from horseflesh if they can manage it; and from BarnewalFs conversation the other evening at Darby, I should adjudge him to be perpetually in a fever of acquisition over some mount or another. You will recall he wished to purchase Sidmouth’s Satan; and undoubtedly he has snatched up a horse or two—or ten—in the course of his visit to Lyme. Have you paid a call on Mrs. Barnewall, Jane?”

  “I have not,” I replied, with new respect for my father’s turn of mind.

  “It is very remiss of you, when one considers the attentions she has shown. I should not have thought you capable of such rudeness.”

  “Indeed. And I might solicit her excellent taste, in the matter of my new silk—for Mrs. Barnewall is the very soul of fashion, and would appear well-acquainted with Maggie Tibbit’s wares.”

  “And perhaps even with the woman’s manner of obtaining them,” my father finished smoothly. “I should think a visit to the Honourable Barnewalls highly profitable.”

  We turned with some reluctance from the vivid view of the bay, and had the wind at our backs for the remainder of the way home. It was a slow walk, and marked only by desultory conversation, for my father was much fatigued; and I was far too preoccupied with his perspective on the matter, to spare a thought for much else. The Honourable Barnewalls had their fingers in every piece of this pie; and I wondered I had not troubled to notice it before. It was stewho had first introduced le Chevalier to my acquaintance, and he who elicited the valuable intelligence that Geoffrey Sidmouth marked his horses’ shoes. It should take less than a few hours for a private smithy to render a Barnewall horse similarly shod; and the Honourable Mathew had enjoyed the span of a day, between learning of the Grange’s brand and the murder of Captain Fielding. Could he have so wished to obtain the stallion Satan, that he resorted to theft and murder to do it? It seemed incredible. But might there exist some other motive in the matter, that should make the death of Captain Fielding, and the guilt of Geoffrey Sidmouth, in every way delightful to the peer-in-waiting?