Jane and the Genius of the Place Read online

  Mr. Sothey’s interest in your well-being must always ensure him a warm place in my heart…. Mr. Sothey is possessed of a peculiar aptitude for gossip. I was charmed by your report of his conversation with Lady Forbes…. Mr. Sothey’s influence with your husband might do much towards the securing of our lace. Pray exert your charms towards this end, ma chere Frangoise, for it appears that your own influence with the gentleman is limited.

  Mr. Sothey, it seemed, had been a gratifying tool in Mrs. Grey’s hands. How useful the Gendeman Improver should be, to a woman of her inclination! He knew everyone, and was welcome everywhere; he overheard the counsels of the Great at their very dinner tables. Where Mrs. Grey’s sex and very foreignness should be a bar to a certain sort of male intimacy, Mr. Sothey was trusted and admired by the men of his acquaintance; before him, they should always be open. Had he understood, at last, that he was being worked upon—and confronted Mrs. Grey at the Canterbury Races? Was this the break that had sparked the lady’s fury?

  “Neddie,” I said abruptly, “pray consider the phrases I have translated. They are drawn from several of the Comte’s letters, despatched during the course of June and July. I do not doubt that we shall discover more such, in the month of August.”

  He read them, and a frown gathered on his brow. “Do you suppose Sothey to have been aware of the delicacy of the information he conveyed? Or that Mrs. Grey intended to use him against her own husband?”

  “I cannot undertake to say. A man in the grip of infatuation, might do anything to win the favour of his lady; he might offer her the dearest intelligence, without a second thought as to the wisdom of the impulse. And, too, we know so litde of Mrs. Grey herself—how subde her manipulation may have been, and how patiendy effected, week by week.”

  “But can Grey have been blind to such a passion in his friend, or its consequences? Is it possible he should overlook Sothey’s attempts to influence himself?”

  “We rarely suspect a friend of the heart—a man whose integrity and opinion we esteem—of employing our affections for particular ends,” I observed. “It requires a doubt of intimacy, to reveal the snake.”

  “That should make Sothey’s betrayal all the more abhorrent.” Neddie considered a moment in silence. “But perhaps we read too much into these words, Jane. Sothey might be worked upon from any number of causes. He may have cared nothing for Francoise Grey— but possessed as ruinous a taste for gaming as his father. That should easily place him in her power.”

  “It should not be surprising,” I agreed. “Such things are said to run in the blood. But what was he intended to procure, Neddie?”

  “Gossip?”

  “His charm and brilliance—his inclination for discourse—and the ease with which he moved among the houses of the Great, should provide him with a considerable fund of knowledge. But that appears to have been the least of his talents. He is specifically intended by the Comte to secure some Spanish lace, and arguably from Mr. Grey.”

  “But what is the lace intended to signify?”

  “Money, Neddie,” I replied with decision. “Recall what Henry has suspected, and what the Comte himself has said. Grey has a scheme under consideration, that must encompass the great banking houses of Europe; it is the only way in which Mr. Sothey might be of use to Penfleur.”

  “But was not the Comte already Grey’s partner in a Continental concern?” my brother protested, bewildered. “Why should he have need of subterfuge?”

  “Because the intended use of the funds, my dear, should ruin Mr. Grey were it suspected. He should be accused of treason, or worse; and until the funds are secured, he must never be allowed to suspect the gravity of his betrayal.”

  My brother whisded. “You suspect that Grey is to bankroll Buonaparte’s invasion of England?”

  “I can think of nothing else that should require such delicacy of arrangement and preparation. Only consider, Neddie—Francoise Grey was forced into a loveless marriage, for the express purpose of winning her husband’s resources. Let us hope that she eventually failed—and was murdered as a result.”

  “And if she succeeded?” A fine beading of sweat stood out on my brother’s brow. “What then, for Grey and the security of the Kingdom?”

  “That is a question,” I said drily, “that I suspect you must put to Mr. Grey.”

  MY BROTHER MIGHT HAVE MOUNTED HIS HORSE AT THAT very moment, and ridden off in the direction of The Larches, had he not been prevented by the appearance of the Gendeman Improver. As it was, he was forced to be content with a hastily-scrawled note, despatched by messenger to Valentine Grey, that required that gendeman’s presence at dinner—or if the banker were otherwise engaged, for coffee afterwards.

  It was hardly Mr. Sothey’s fault that he thus interrupted our counsels at a most inauspicious moment. He had arrived in good time—at a quarter past one o’clock— and looked so delighted at the prospect of his visit, that I could hardly believe him capable of a conscious deceit. He was elegandy dressed, and as cool in his appearance as tho’ the short ride had no power to discomfit him; praised everything from the plasterwork in the hall, to the arrangement of the rooms, and would stay within doors only long enough to pay his respects to Lizzy, before proposing that we should all walk out and survey the grounds.

  To my surprise and delight, Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton had ridden over from Eastwell in company with the improver.

  “Miss Austen!” he cried, bending low over my hand, “it is a pleasure to see you again. I have had a letter from our mutual friend, that would not delay of its communication to you; and so I have imposed upon Sothey and yourselves, in presuming to invite myself to dinner.”

  ‘You will always be welcome, sir, as I believe you know.” We were awaiting Lizzy’s appearance on the stairs, in stout boots better suited to walking than the slippers she had sported all morning, before crossing the Stour. Mr. Sothey had judged the prospect from the Doric temple’s height ideally suited to an initial survey of the grounds; and there we should commence our tour. “Lord Harold is well?”

  “He is as well as any man may be, who has been denied a glimpse of his native shores for six months together. He found success in Austria, I understand—the Hapsburgs will stand with England and Russia—and is presently embarked for Amsterdam.”2

  “Amsterdam?” I echoed. “As Mr. Pitt’s personal envoy, perhaps?”

  “I believe Lord Harold presendy enjoys that honour.”

  “Then he is charged with the thankless task of persuading a Scots banker to lend, where all confidence is lacking.” Unless, I thought, Trowbridge is too late— and Mr. Grey’s funds have already rescued the French crown.

  ‘You have been reading the Times, I see,” Mr. Emilious observed with a twinkle. “You may soon discover some interesting items in its columns, I believe—but I shall say no more, at present.”

  We had been walking all this while to the end of the sweep; had passed the lodge, crossed the Canterbury road, and were fetched up at the little foot-bridge over the Stour.3 The tedious uphill climb to achieve the temple next engrossed our attention, and Mr. Emilious—being better suited to the consumption of an elegant meal, than the scaling of more Picturesque heights—could hardly be expected to spare breath for my amusement.

  “Capital!” Mr. Sothey cried, his face aglow. He stood under the temple’s portico next to my brother, who was also flushed with the exercise. Lizzy had adopted a chair. “The house is nobly positioned between this rise of the downs and the hills against its back; and with the Stour bisecting the narrow valley, it is a most bucolic scene. That cottage away to the right, with the road winding up to it, is a dependent’s?”

  “It belongs to the gamekeeper,” Neddie said, “for the deer park runs up through the far downs; and that building behind die house, midway up die slope, is the ice house.”

  Tour farmland is where?”

  “To die south.”

  “I see. Adjacent to the church?”

  “Just so.”

&
nbsp; “That avenue, I collect, is your usual path to Sunday service?”

  “We have traversed it already twice today.”

  Mr. Sothey shaded his eyes with one hand against the slanting light of the westering sun, and turned first north and then south, towards Chilham Castle. “It is remarkable, however, how litde space was accorded the pleasure gardens, given the expanse of the park, and the commodious impression afforded by the rising ground. It is unfortunate that the river runs so close to the road, and the road so near to the gatekeeper’s lodge. There is an impression of confinement, of claustration, at that end of the estate, that is most unfortunate. The garden paths running down to the limes only increase that sensation, if you will observe; for they are without exception unvaryingly straight, and must serve as boundaries rather than avenues of escape.”

  Neddie’s eyes narrowed, and his lips compressed.

  “I rather wonder at the original builder’s intent,” Mr. Sothey mused, “in placing the house at right angles to the river and the road.”

  “Perhaps he found a southern exposure, and the prospect of the downs and the church, more pleasant than that of the highway,” Neddie said tartly.

  “Perhaps—but as you see, it increases the crowding of the sweep and the lodge immeasurably. Those are kitchen gardens, I suppose?” Mr. Sothey gestured towards two enclosures at the north end of Bentigh.

  “They are,” Neddie replied. “An estate cannot hope to function without them. They have served us amply for more years than you can claim, Mr. Sothey.” There was a faint note of belligerence in his tone, as tho’ the improver’s observations were felt as a personal attack.

  “My dear sir,” Mr. Sothey said swifdy, “you must not take it amiss if I prod and prick your sensibilities here and there. It is always difficult to work against the force of habit; we are creatures of convention, as you very well know, and despise the merest hint of change. It is essential, however, to comprehend the daily employment of these grounds, and the manner in which the work of the estate might be improved, and made compatible with its visual delights. I shall demand to know a great deal from the kitchen maids—how often they use certain paths, where the villagers are wont to trespass, and whither the Austen ladies delight in roaming, in the pursuit of exercise. All this must be understood, before anything of improvement may be achieved.”

  “And so the genius of our place is a kitchen maid?” I enquired, amused. “I tremble to think what might occur, if the nursemaid is not appeased!”

  Mr. Sothey threw back his head and laughed. His remarkable auburn locks rippled in the sun; and I was struck at once by the vigour and openness of his looks— he might have been Gabriel, surveying the Lord’s kingdom. “I should have said the genie of Godmersham was Demeter, Miss Austen—the drowsing hum of the birds among the grain speaks only of harvest to my ears; but we shall know better with time. Perhaps the resident spirit is one of water, and sings through the stones of the Stour; or perhaps it wanders among the lime trees, plaiting violets in its hair.”

  “Then pray take care you do not destroy its natural haunt,” Neddie broke in.

  “Heaven forbid!” Mr. Sothey cried. “I cannot think that destruction is the wisest approach to Art. You are happy, Mr. Austen, in the possession of an estate where natural beauty and a wise hand have achieved much; the essentials of the place are so good, that a very little effort may offer considerable rewards.”

  Neddie did not look appeased; there was a stiffness to his demeanour, and a caution in his air, that argued opposition to anything Mr. Sothey might counsel.

  “I should like to sketch the approach from the Stour,” Mr. Sothey said with decision, “and then ascend to the ice house. We might profitably traverse the garden paths afterwards, and examine the avenue of lime trees. They are of considerable age, if I do not mistake?”

  “Indeed,” Neddie replied, “and are regarded with affection by most of the populace.”

  Happily, Mr. Sothey was too litde intimate with my brother to read his humours in his looks; Lizzy and I were not so fortunate.

  “It was ever thus,” Lizzy murmured to me. “You cannot think how many months together I was forced to urge the abandonment of your brother’s periwig, and the laying aside of the powdering horn, in favour of his delightful hair! I believe a twelvemonth at least was required to achieve it; and now he would have it the change in fashion was all his own thought, and as natural as breathing. It will be the same with Mr. Sothey’s views, I am sure.”

  “Let us hope that Mr. Sothey does not advise the felling of Bentigh,” I replied, and prepared to follow the gendemen down the slope.

  It was just as we rounded the northern side of the house, and prepared to ascend to the ice house, that we fell in with Anne Sharpe.

  She had been walking some time with Fanny and young Lizzy—the two girls had taken their dolls for an airing, and were just returned to the house intent upon refreshment. The exercise had improved the governess’s looks; there was colour in her cheeks, and a brightness in her eye, that had been lacking for some days. She wore a simple day dress of pale pink muslin— her best, put on in respect of Sunday service, and not yet exchanged for another; and her dark hair peeked out from the depths of her bonnet, with all the gloss of a raven’s wing. It was commendable, I thought, that she had ventured out-of-doors, despite her fear of meeting with Mr. Sothey; perhaps my warning had served to prepare her, and afforded a measure of strength.

  “Miss Sharpe!” my brother cried. “How have you liked your charges today? They are easier to manage, I warrant, when the air is fresh and the sun in good regulation!”

  “We are all very well, sir, I thank you,” she replied with a curtsey, “only a trifle tired. We have walked to Seaton Wood and back.” She kept her eyes trained on Neddie’s face, as tho’ she could not trust herself to look beyond; but her appearance was one of tolerable composure.

  “So far!” Neddie cried. “Then I am sure you have carried my little Lizzy nearly half the distance.” He caught the child up in his arms, and kissed her.

  “Not at all, Papa,” she said stoutly. “I was promised an extra bit of pudding with my supper, if I achieved the walk alone.”

  “How very wise of Miss Sharpe. But I am forgetting my manners—I do not believe you are acquainted with our guests, Miss Sharpe. This is Mr. Sothey, and that is Mr. Finch-Hatton; Miss Sharpe, my daughters’ governess.”

  She curtseyed again to the two gentlemen, who doffed their hats; and I glanced quickly from the improver to the governess to observe how Mr. Sothey took the introduction. I expected a certain reserve; a circumspection, even—but he defied expectation as always.

  “I am privileged in being very well-acquainted with Miss Sharpe,” he said with a bow, and the keenest look in his grey eyes. “We were so fortunate as to spend some weeks together in Weymouth, last year, while she was yet with the Portermans. Your friends are in health, I trust?”

  “Very well, sir,” Miss Sharpe replied, in a barely audible tone. Her cheeks had flushed crimson from mortification; she must be suffering agonies of discovery before her employer—for never, at any mention of Mr. Sothey’s name heretofore, had she admitted to the acquaintance. I felt for her, and could have abused Mr. Sothey for stupidity to his face.

  He moved towards her slowly, until a very little distance separated them. “And are you equally in health and spirits, Miss Sharpe?” he enquired softly. “Or has something occurred to trouble you?”

  “I believe I should be returning to the house,” she replied, and took Lizzy’s hand. “Come along, Fanny. We deserve our lemon-water, after such vigourous exertion; and then perhaps we shall rest a little, until dinner is served.”

  “Until dinner, then,” Mr. Sothey said, raising his hat to Miss Sharpe.

  “I always take my dinner with the children, sir,” she replied distantly; and with a nod to Mr. Emilious, moved off across the lawn.

  Mr. Sothey watched her go without another word. There was a compression to his
lips, and an intensity in his gaze, that argued strong emotion; but he remained as ever under perfect regulation. The suspicions of the entire party must be awakened against him; even Mr. Emilious seemed to observe his friend narrowly; but the improver turned towards us all with a smile, and said gaily: “How oddly she has arranged her hair, to be sure! I have never observed anything like it. She is very much changed since last summer—quite fallen off in looks. I should hardly have known her again.”

  1 In Austen’s day, the recipient of a letter paid the postage. —Editor’s note.

  2 ustria’s alliance with England and Russia on August 9 concluded the building of what was termed the Third Coalition. It was thrown into conflict with Napoleonic France soon thereafter, at the Battle of Austerlitz, December 2, 1805. Bonaparte triumphed, and was ceded considerable German and Italian territory at the Treaty of Pressburg, which was concluded later that month. Austria’s ties to England were then severed completely, and she was forced to pay forty million francs as indemnity to France.—Editor’s note.

  3 Present-day visitors to Godmersham will be slightly confused by this description. The Canterbury road Jane describes is now the A28, and was rerouted well after her death (in the 1830s) beyond the far bank of the Stour. The Doric temple now has the road to its back, rather than standing in contemplation of it, as in Jane’s day.—Editor’s note.

  25 August 1805, cont’d.

  “I HAD EXPECTED MR. VALENTINE GREY TO DINNER,”