Jane and the Man of the Cloth jam-2 Read online

  “I did nothing any person of feeling and decency would not do,” Sidmouth replied, taking the chair Dag-liesh had vacated. In sitting, he adjusted it slightly so as to place Fielding at his back. I am rewarded entirely by finding you much improved, under Dagliesh's care. He is a surgeon's assistant of some ability — and should have been a physician[35], I believe, had his fortune been the greater. With time and Mr. Carpenter's careful instruction, however, he is likely to possess such a practice and home as will make all apology unwarranted.”

  “Considering the many cases you put him in the way of, I do not doubt it,” Captain Fielding said drily. “You might almost be taking a finder's fee.”

  Sidmouth sat back, his face grave and his lips compressed. Cassandra looked conscious, and coloured.

  “Indeed, Mr. Sidmouth engaged Mr. Dagliesh's services on my sister's behalf, Captain,” I interjected, “and we are heartily glad he did so. For as strangers to Lyme, we could not have had the choosing of a surgeon; and Mr. Sidmouth's valuation of his friend has been amply proved, in Cassandra's regained health.”

  “I am very sorry — I did not intend — that is to say, I knew nothing of it,” Captain Fielding stammered, in some mortification.

  “I wonder if that is not often the case,” Mr. Sidmouth rejoined quietly, his eyes upon mine.

  Captain Fielding rose with some effort on his game leg, and reached for his hat. “I must beg leave of this pleasant abode, Miss Austen,” he said, with a bow to Cassandra, “and hope that my business does not detain me too long. I look forward to this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon?” Mr. Sidmouth enquired, stiffening.

  “Indeed.” Captain Fielding looked all his satisfaction. “I am to drive the young ladies about Charmouth once they have done visiting Crawford's fossil site.”

  Mr. Sidmouth consulted the large pocket watch that hung from the chain of his waistcoat; and very handsome it was, too. “Then you had best be about your business, Fielding,” he replied smoothly, “for you should not wish to find the party gone upon your arrival. I came, it is true, to enquire after Miss Austen's health; but having been assured of its excellent tendency, I am free to broach my second errand.” He turned his attention to Cassandra and me. “I am come in Crawford's barouche expressly to fetch the Miss Austens, and their father; we are all to be of the party, Fielding, you see. Quite a delightful affair; and it is a pity you shall miss it.”

  The transformation of Captain Fielding's face was singular to behold, but there was nothing to be said; and with a bow to myself, and the barest of nods for Sidmouth, he turned for the door. It being evident that the entry was never to be without bustle, the poor Captain encountered my father and mother there, only just returned from the Golden Lion; and upon hearing them successful in their errand, and Henry and Eliza behind, I knew Mr. Sidmouth should be rewarded in his scheme. My father was only too happy to be saved the trouble of hiring a rig; the offer of Mr. Crawford's barouche was gladly accepted; and so, with an air of suppressed triumph not unwarranted by events, Mr. Sidmouth helped my family to their places. My mother alone remained behind, declaring herself untempted by the prospect of rocks, and extremely dirty ones at that; and not all the attractions of a ride in an open carriage, in delightful weather, could persuade her.

  “And the barouche is filled, besides,” she pointed out, as she came to the street to wave goodbye. “I do not think that Jane shall find a place.”

  “I am afraid the interior is very much occupied,” Mr. Sidmouth said, surveying the four faces turned expectantly my way, “and I should not like to worsen your sister's delicate health, by incommoding her further. It seems you have but one choice, Miss Jane Austen — to remain at home, or ride up front with me.”

  At my hesitation, he approached, and added in a low ered tone, “I was denied the felicity of a dance last evening, for reasons I shall not ask. You cannot be inclined to disappoint all your family, who wait upon your decision. Do I presume too much, Miss Jane Austen of Bath — or will you do me the honour of sitting on the box?”

  Chapter 6

  Pits and Pitfalls

  7 September, cont.

  THE DRIVE WAS HARDLY A LONG ONE, FOR MR. CRAWFORD'S FOSSIL site was among the cliffs below Charmouth about two miles from Lyme, and indeed, but a stone's throw from the heights of the Grange. And so, the penalty for cowardice being the loss of such a pleasure party, I bowed to Fate and allowed Mr. Sidmouth to hand me up onto the barouche's box, and waited stiff-backed while he settled himself beside me, and took up the team's reins. I had never before had the occasion to watch a gentleman drive four-in-hand, and must declare myself quite fascinated; his strong, broad fingers in their leather driving gloves seemed endowed with a particular sensibility, that read the intentions of each animal's mouth almost before it was itself aware of them. As we headed east up the long coastal road, however, the team picked up speed; and the effects of wind and motion so high upon an unprotected seat almost unnerved me. I would not allow myself the indulgence of giving way — no feminine shrieks, no pitiful hands clutching at Mr. Sidmouth's arm — but rather maintained a stoic appearance as I swayed beside him; and if my jaw was clenched and my fingers knotted, I pray he was too intent upon the road to spare either a thought.

  “How fortunate that the weather is fine,” he said, after a time, “and yet, not too fine — not so very dry that we should have a cloud of dust before and behind. One wants a little rain at night, when one embarks upon a plan of driving.”

  “Mr. Crawford is very good to think of us, and to endeavour to afford so many so much pleasure,” I said.

  “Crawford is always bent upon pleasing. It is his chief fault.”

  “His fault! Can goodwill and generosity ever be so considered?”

  “When they lead to obligation, I believe they can,” Mr. Sidmouth replied. “Cholmondeley Crawford is a wealthy man, and may have the pleasure of doing as he likes; but some of those he entertains, cannot afford to treat him in a like manner, and the mortification of it goes unnoticed by the man himself. If the distinctions of rank have any value, it would seem that they should be preserved, if only to prevent embarrassment.”

  “If this is a fault, then Mr. Crawford has chosen wisely,” I cried. “I should rather be charged with doing too much, of being too easy, than of being above my company. Pride is a quality I abhor beyond all things. However justified by the accomplishments of the possessor, it renders the power to do good, onerous when once bestowed. We none of us like condescension when it is offered.”

  “Very true. Condescension, and officiousness — the unwonted interference of others in our private affairs.”

  He spoke with an edge of bitterness, as if at a painful recollection; and unbidden, Captain Fielding's face arose in my mind. His opinion of Mr. Sidmouth was so very bad; and yet, so kind and generous a gentleman as Mr. Crawford counted the master of High Down among his intimate friends. It was a puzzle.

  “And what is your fault, Mr. Sidmouth?” I enquired, bracing my right hand against the seat as the barouche rounded a ragged curve.

  “Following my own inclination, when I should consider the needs of others,” he said, without hesitation. “You will notice, for example, that I drive to suit myself, rather than in deference to your fear of heights and speed. But having observed your hand clutching at the seat, I cannot persist; I must imagine the rest of the party to be similarly incommoded.” He sawed at the reins, and glanced over his shoulder at the four heads bobbing behind; all were engaged in animated discussion, the sense of which was drowned in the tumult of hooves and wheels; and none, to my eye, looked the slightest bit discomfited.

  “To follow one's inclination first, is the habit of a solitary man,” I observed.

  “And how then have I acquired it? For I can hardly be called a hermit.”

  “I did not mean you wanted a household,” I replied. “Only that a household cannot claim the consideration that a family might.”

  “Ah! The wife
and children!” he said, with some amusement. “Yes — I admire your circumspection, Miss Jane Austen of Bath. It is rare for a young lady in my company not to broach the subject of marriage within an hour's acquaintance; and you have withstood the test now several days. But I fear my habits are not conducive to a settled life. For domestic bliss, you must search elsewhere.”

  “I spoke but in the general way!” I cried, mortified. “I meant only to illustrate my point, by describing your situation.”

  “But you have not described it as you should,” he replied. “For I do not live alone. There is my cousin Seraphine.”

  I must have flushed hotly at the name, for his eyes, when they glanced my way, narrowed shrewdly.

  “You have heard something to her discredit. I am sure of it.”

  “Of your cousin I have heard little — and that, only praise. But of yourself, Mr. Sidmouth—” I faltered, and searched for a means of carrying on. “I hear such conflicting reports of your character, that I confess I know not what to think.”

  “If you would draw my likeness from the opinion of men such as Percival Fielding, you cannot hope to capture it truly.”

  “Captain Fielding appears all that is honourable,” I replied, stiffening.

  “Appears! Aye, he appears to be a great deal.” At this, Sidmouth laughed with contempt, but his countenance was decidedly angry. “He has sunk Mademoiselle LeFevre before the eyes of all Lyme. The sorrow Fielding has caused — the pain — I tremble to think of it, Miss Austen.”

  “How can you speak so!” I said, my attitude all indignation. I clutched involuntarily at the seat's edge as the barouche began to descend towards the Charmouth shingle. A broad sea vista was spread before us — breathtaking in the extreme — but I was too intent upon my thoughts to give it proper notice. “You, Mr. Sidmouth, who should have been your cousin's protector! You — who are responsible for reducing her to misery of the acutest kind! I wonder at your encompassing a man so honourable as the Captain — his motives all disinterested, his aims merely just — in the ruin of Mademoiselle LeFevre! Your own sense of decency, Mr. Sidmouth — of respect for the duties of a gentleman — must cry out against it!”

  His countenance paled above his bitten lips, and his gaze, levelled as it was over the horses’ heads, became stony. “I would beg you to speak no more to me, madam, of Captain Fielding,” he said. “You cannot know what is toward between that gentleman and myself, and I shall not stoop to deriding him to others, as it has suited him to serve me.”

  “I am glad to know you retain some claims to the honour of a gentleman,” I replied tartly; and so we pulled up before Mr. Crawford's fossil works, in silence and some confusion of emotions the one towards the other.

  “MY DEAR MR. CRAWFORD,” MY FATHER EXCLAIMED, AS HE advanced upon that gentleman with hand extended, “I quite revel in this opportunity to view your pits! What industry, on behalf of science! What energy, towards the greater glorification of God!”

  Mr. Crawford stood in his shirtsleeves (for the day was decidedly warm), his bald head shielded by a monstrous hat. The redness of his countenance testified to the energy with which he had been stooping and carrying the small articles of stone laid neatly to one side upon a blanket; and the weariness of the two men employed in his behalf, who worked deep in a quarry hewn from the cliff face with picks and trowels, spoke eloquently of the labour undergone. The heat was intensified by a smallish fire ignited near a bellows, where Mr. Crawford's men might repair such tools as required attention, on a crude sort of forge; and all about lay piles of rubble, the detritus of scientific endeavour.

  Eliza and Henry were admiring the view from the shingle; Mr. Sidmouth was attending to the horses; and so Cassandra and I followed my father towards the day's burden of treasures. There we found the two ladies of the Crawford household ranged on either side of a blanket, in the process of unpacking a hamper.

  “Miss Crawford! And Miss Armstrong!” Geoffrey Sidmouth declared, coming up behind. “How delightful to see you, indeed. I did not know that you were to be of the party. May I present to you the Miss Austens, of Bath.”

  And so there were introductions all around — and several glances the length and breadth of our simple white gowns from Miss Crawford, who is fully as sharp and shrewish in aspect as I judged her to be the previous e'en. She is Mr. Crawford's sister, and his housekeeper since the death of his wife some years ago; and I judge her to labour under the burden of disappointment, for her pinched and suffering countenance bears the mark of regret. This, and her customary black, give her the general air of a raven, an impression that the harshness of her voice does nothing to dispel.

  Miss Lucy Armstrong is their niece, down like ourselves from her home in Bath.[36] She is not above nineteen, with the freshness of complexion and sweetness of temper common in those untried by life. She met Mr. Sidmouth's eyes only with difficulty, and seemed to prefer the study of an ant toiling across the blanket, so firmly did her gaze seek the ground. She was likewise impervious to the slings and arrows of her aunt's tongue — which suggests some greatness of mind, upon reflection, for one consigned to living with Miss Crawford so many months together. At Mr. Sidmouth's moving to join the gentlemen, young Miss Armstrong recovered her faculties enough to attend to our conversation — though not so well as to partake of it.

  “Well! And so you are the famous Austens, of whom we have heard so much,” Miss Crawford began, as she set out forks with the efficiency of a Commander of Foot. Her malicious glance flicked up to meet mine, and as quickly dropped away. “Mr. Crawford is quite full of you, I declare, and Mr. Sid mouth. One is reminded of the smallness of Lyme, when the slightest addition to our society is regarded as such an event.”

  “Mr. Crawford is too kind,” 1 replied. “1 am sure he makes all his acquaintance feel equally celebrated.”

  “Oh! Cholmondeley has no discernment in his society, 1 assure you. He is forever acquiring strangers on the road, and compelling them to visit these dreadful pits. Such dirt! Such noise! And in pursuit of what? The tracings of a few vanished creatures, too poor to survive, too abject and miserable for consideration. It quite works upon my nerves — though they are shattered already. I attribute the shocking decline in my condition, Miss Austen, to the date of Cholmondeley's embarking upon fossil-collecting; and I have made it a policy not to encourage him in the pursuit. I should never have come today, in fact, did not I have the opportunity to meet your dear sister”—this, with a simper for Cassandra—“whose interesting trouble has given rise to such concern among the intimates of Lyme. The poor state of the roads, and the worse state of the drivers! Something ought to be done about our modes of private transportation. Though I do say, that those who undertake to hire as disreputable a fellow as Hibbs for postboy must take their chances of a bruising. Not that I would speak of it for the world, now your dear sister has come to grief. Indeed, I said as much to Mrs. Schuyler only last evening; and she quite agreed.”

  “But we were not to know of the man's propensities beforehand,” Cassandra said gently. “We accepted his services in Crewkerne, where his general character could not be known. When one is a traveller, one must trust a little to Fortune.”

  “And look where Fortune took you! To the very brink of death! No, my dear — the only driver worth consideration is one's own coachman, at the head of one's own carriage. I should not think to trust dear Lucy to anyone but our Summerfield when she is to come down from Bath, though her father would send her post.”

  “I observe, however, that you trusted us to Mr. Sidmouth,” I interjected.

  “True — but he would insist. And when Mr. Sidmouth insists, even / find myself overruled. Cholmondeley becomes decidedly bullheaded in the man's presence; there is no managing him. Lucy, dear, do fetch your uncle. He is turning quite purple. This heat and exertion cannot be good for him.”

  Miss Armstrong smiled prettily in our general direction, and floated towards the gentlemen; I say floated because of the airiness of h
er cloud of green muslin, which was quite sheer, and draped to becoming effect across her full bosom. She is a well-grown girl — though petite, like my sister Eliza, and possessed of decidedly red hair, and the freckled complexion that so often accompanies it. But I detect some acid in my description of Lucy Armstrong, and must hasten to retract it. Freckles on the one hand, a pleasing figure on the other — of what importance are such? If I resent her youth and simplicity of manner, it is only because I remember possessing both myself, and fancy I can foretell Lucy Armstrong's future. When, indeed, I know nothing of her fortune, or prospects; merely assuming that both are slight, since she appears in the guise of poor relation dependent for her pleasures upon a spiteful maiden aunt and widower uncle. She might as easily have three thousand a year, and a bevy of suitors waiting to snatch her back to Bath. Much may preserve her from a state such as mine — growing old, unloved, and unprovided-for.

  And yet I am only ten years her senior. Only ten years! — Of balls, and flirtations, and new dresses and fashions; of disappointments, broken hearts, and fading hopes. I shall be nine-and-twenty next Christmas; and Lucy only just embarked upon her ten years. I would not wish them to end as mine have done.

  I was jolted from my reverie by the appearance of the gentlemen. Mr. Crawford walked somewhat slowly, as though fatigued, and had Miss Armstrong by his side; but to my surprise, Mr. Sidmouth quite monopolized my father's attention.

  “… then you would agree with Bentham[37], that the question is not ‘do animals reason,”but ‘do they suffer? my father enquired. I started, knowing him to be anything but a Benthamite, and hardly believing him acquainted with that gendeman's philosophy.