Jane and the Man of the Cloth

by Stephanie Barron

  A look of surprise from Captain Fielding, and a hesitation; for a Mrs. Barnewall to raise such matters, might be acceptable, but for a Miss Austen to broach them, apparently was not.

  “Poor Tibbit,” he answered at the last, as he eased himself next to me and extended his game leg before him. “He leaves a wife and five children, and all ill-provided for.”

  “You knew him then? How tragic! And nothing is known, I suppose, of his murderers?”

  “Nothing.” The Captain offered me a glass of wine, his fingers grazing my own. Unless my eyes misgave me, his hand trembled at the touch. “The fellow was a scoundrel, of course; he has turned up at my home a thousand dmes, to labour in the garden or mend a stone wall. The sort of idler who can be hired for a few pence, in the performing of odd jobs—which sums are as quickly dissipated at the Three Cups, as turned to his children’s account. Tibbit shall not be missed, even by his wife.”

  “But is that reason to ignore the manner of his end?” I enquired gently, as I took a sip of punch. “Is not the death of even the slightest creature of weight in the scales of justice?”

  “Oh! But of course! If you would look for a reason in his death, Miss Austen, you need search no further than the manner of his life. I will wager that if Bill Tibbit did not meet his end at the hands of the Reverend, then it was through some fellows he double-crossed, in an affair of devilry; and though the local justice were to question the entire village, and solemnly record their protestations of innocence, and preoccupation with their affairs on the night in question, he should not arrive at the truth of it. No, Miss Austen”—the Captain said, drawing me back towards the ballroom as the musicians recommenced— “the scales of justice are balanced already. Bill Tibbit knows why he is dead, I warrant; but that we shall ever know, is quite unlikely.”

  IT WAS SOME HOURS LATER, AS I WAS RESTING IN THE COMFORT OF AN alcove settee, having danced with Mr. Crawford, and a few of Captain Fielding’s brother officers (who had gone in search of negus), that Mr. Sidmouth arrived. Mindful of all that the Captain had told me, I felt some little trepidation upon perceiving the master of High Down; a confusion of disapprobation and dislike, which warred with my appreciation of his appearance. For indeed, he showed to greater advantage in his dark blue tailcoat and cream-coloured breeches, than he had in an open shirt, standing in his doorway on a rainy night. The fine figure, the aquiline line of his nose, the dark glow of brown eyes, the sternly commanding countenance—all these cried out nobility where I now knew there to be only the vilest propensities. He divested himself of hat and walking stick, drew on his white gloves, and commenced to scan the room, as though in search of acquaintance; and an expression of glad alacrity encompassing his features not long thereafter, I assumed he had found it. A brisk step, a bow—and I was to see him exert his charms upon a slip of a girl, not above nineteen, and very pretty at that She was accompanied by an older, shrewish-looking woman, dressed all in mourning, whose aspect held less of warmth in regarding Mr. Sidmouth; and at their being joined presently by Mr. Crawford, I presumed the ladies to be of his household. But I had not time to observe their conversation, for behind Mr. Sidmouth stood Henry and Eliza.

  I judged from the animation of the Comtesse’s countenance that she had succeeded in scraping acquaintance with the master of High Down Grange. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes snapped, under the recent influence of his brusque regard; and Henry’s brow bore a faint crease, as though already wearied by this rival for his wife’s attentions.

  ‘Jane!” Eliza called, as she tripped on her small feet, encased in red satin slippers, across the room. Her bobbed brown head was adorned with pearls, and a cameo locket circled her neck on a length of dark red ribbon; her dress was of cream sarcenet, very fine for Lyme, and trimmed in the same rosy hue. Her gown slipped well down upon her arms, showing to advantage her excellent shoulders and bosom, in a manner that was all the Ixmdon rage, but which must have afforded dear Henry some anxious moments. What artistry the maid Manon employed to keep Eliza so bountifully displayed, and yet still clothed, never failed to amaze me.

  “I have met your roguish suitor,” she confided, as she pecked me on the cheek, “and 1 applaud your taste. He will quite do for a heartless flirtation.”

  “Do you imagine yourself to voice my intentions, Eliza, or your own?”

  “Now, do not scold me, Jane. You know me too well to imagine I should steal your beaux. I am five-and-thirty at least”

  In fact, she was three-and-forty, some ten years older than my brother Henry; but with a woman such as Eliza, whose beauty and spirits defy attempts to cage them, the flow of years is best left untallied. It may be that she had long since forgot to consider the anniversaries of her birth, and sincerely believed herself on the flow tide of forty; what is certain, in any case, is that age had no power to repress her.

  “Mr. Sidmouth is not my beau,” I replied with asperity, “and I may say with feeling that I hope he never may be. I have heard such things of him tonight, Eliza, as confirm my worst suspicions. I believe him now to be the very worst sort of fellow, and must thank Providence for having allowed us to come to so little harm while under his roof.”

  ‘Oh, pshaw!” Eliza rejoined. “I see you are determined to sink me in respectability. I will not have it” She settled herself beside me and glanced quickly about the room, a sharp-eyed bird. “And with whom have you been dancing? For it can only be another man who would strip Sidmouth of his good name. Only one anxious to win your affections would attempt to assassinate his character.”

  “I must disagree, Eliza,” I said drily, “for it seems calumny is more properly the province of women. Men have other weapons, that may carry mortal injury; but a lady may use only words.”

  “Unless she employs poison, as she did at Scargrave,” Eliza said, sidelong, “but then gossip may be considered one of the most lethal of those, I suppose. I will not be convinced, Jane. A rival for your interest has torn Mr. Sidmouth’s reputation. Do admit.”

  “And there he comes,” I replied, as the gallant but limping form of the Captain appeared through the throng, “bearing a cup by way of peace-offering. Will you dance, Eliza, or have you the time to be acquainted with Captain Percival Fielding?”

  But she was denied the opportunity to answer.

  “Miss Austen of Bath,” Mr. Sidmouth said at my shoulder. “You look very well this evening.”

  I turned, intending to cut him with a glance—but that glance, in revealing all the power of his manner and appearance, instantly overwhelmed me. I setded for a wordless nod, and took refuge in averted eyes.

  “Do I presume too much—or may I have the honour of this next dance?”

  I opened my mouth to declare myself already engaged, when the change in Mr. Sidmouth’s complexion stopped the words in my mouth. His gaze was fixed by something beyond my head, and as I watched, his countenance was suffused with colour, then paled to a deathly white.

  “Mr. Sidmouth,” Captain Fielding said with a bow, and handed me a glass of negus.

  The master of High Down nodded almost imperceptibly, turned on his heel without another word or look for me, and thrust his way back towards the opposite side of the ballroom.

  “Well, my dear,” EUza said wryly, “he saved himself the misery of your refusal.” She glanced at Captain Fielding, as if in hopes of an explanation; but she was to receive none. He bowed, and smiled, as though unaffected by the recent scene, and looked to me for introduction.

  Recovering myself, I made the fair Eliza known to the Captain, and the two were soon engrossed in conversation. But I found I was little suited to following its conduct; my eyes would too often search the room, and find him first in close confidence with Mr. Dagliesh, and then upon the arm of one of the Miss Schuylers; and so, vexed with too contrary a nature, and torn between wishing for, and fearing, a renewal of his address, I went in search of my father; and departed the Assembly not long thereafter.

  “WELL, MY DEAR JANE, I AM QUITE INDEBTED
TO YOU,” SAID THAT good gentleman, as we walked the length of starlit Broad Street behind our man James and his Ian thorn. “Crawford is a most excellent fellow! Such industry, in the pursuit of science! Only think—he has engaged a team of men, for the express purpose of digging for fossils! We are to visit the site on the morrow. You must certainly accompany me, and your sister, too, if she is able.”

  “Fossils, Father? I cannot profess an interest in bits of old stone.”

  “Now, now. Did they have the lettering of ancient Rome upon them, you should moon about their ranks in reflection of fallen glory, and think yourself a lady of Caesar’s time, and indulge in every romantic fantasy open to a girlish heart. I know you, Jane. You merely want persuasion. Consider the smallest invertebrate, impaled for eternity upon the rock, as a minor centurion, and you shall suffer the visit in good grace.” We walked on some moments in silence, while I considered my plans for the morrow—which had encompassed nothing of a fossilised nature—until my father overthrew all my complacency.

  “Yes, fossils are quite the rage in Lyme, I understand,” he said. “Even Mr. Sidmouth intends to be of the party.”

  “Mr. Sidmouth,” I said, faltering.

  “But of course,” my father replied. “He is a man of great sense and intelligence, so Mr. Crawford says.”

  “Mr. Crawford!” What could the retiring widower, of kindly if balding aspect, have to say to Mr. Sidmouth?

  “I hope you do not intend to repeat everything I say, Jane. I may have attained a venerable age, but my memory is equal to the length of a conversation. I wish that I could say the same of your dear mother’s.” My father halted at the gate of Wings cottage, peering absent-mindedly at our stoop. “Have we come home so soon, James? Have you found the number direcdy?”

  “That I have, sir—number ten, as you’ll see.” The manservant raised the lanthorn in a swinging arc that sent light and shadows at a run across the cottage’s facade.

  “And so Mr. Crawford and Mr. Sidmouth are on such excellent terms that Mr. Crawford may praise his understanding,” I mused, as I preceded my father up the path. “I should not have considered them the most likely of friends.”

  “Indeed. I am assured by Mr. Crawford that we could not have chosen a better place to overturn and that there is nothing like Mr. Sidmouth for decency and good sense. Quite the prop of Lyme, from what I understand.” My father pushed open the gate and motioned for me to precede him. “I quite look forward to knowing him the better—for I confess I did not think much of your Mrs. Barnewall, Jane, nor all her pretty little friends. More form than substance, hey? And so pronounced a taste for rubies as she displays must always be suspect.”

  1 Named after Captain Francis Negus, this was a warm punch made of water, sugar, and sherry or port, and frequently offered at balls. —Editor’s note.

  2 The Royal Navy was divided into three squadrons—the Red, the White, and the Blue. Austen’s brother Frank, for example, advanced to become Admiral of the Red, before his promotion to Admiral of the Fleet at the age of 89. —Editor’s note.

  3 Mathew Barnewall was at this time only a claimant to the viscountcy of Kingsland, and his right to that tide and inheritance was not yet determined by the House of Lords. It is unlikely that Jane Austen was aware of this dispute when she met the Bamewalls. —Editor’s note.

  4 Crawford is speaking of James, Duke of Monmouth, the bastard son of Charles I, who sailed from France to Lyme in 1685, intent upon toppling his uncle James II from the throne of England. His revolt was suppressed, and twelve men of Lyme were hanged on gibbets erected in the shallows of the beach where Monmouth landed. —Editor’s note.

  5 “The Monster” was the common appellation for Napoleon Buonaparte. Captain Fielding probably alludes to the seventeen-month-long British, Russian, and Neapolitan blockade of French forces holding Malta in 1799. The final French surrender in March of that year was marked by a daring escape attempt on the part of Admiral Denis Decres, who barely survived to be named Napoleon’s Naval Minister in 1801. The nearly 1000 men on his ship, the GmUaume. Telly were hardly so fortunate; Decres gave up his opportunity to escape in order to attack the British fleet single-handedly, and lost 500 men under fire. Badly wounded himself, he was taken prisoner and released after the Treaty of Amiens in 1801. Presumably, Captain Fielding lost his leg in the midst of Decree’s attack. —Editor’s note.

  6 The Peace of Amiens, negotiated in October 1801 and broken in May 1803, brought peace to France and England only briefly. A year later, in May 1804, Napoleon crowned himself emperor of France, and hostilities between the two countries continued until 1815. —Editor’s note.

  7 Captain Fielding here refers to the Earl of Westmoreland and his family, resident in Bristol but controlling Lyme’s two parliamentary seats through corrupt voting practices. The Fanes dominated Lyme for roughly a century—from the 1730s until the Reform Act of 1832, when the borough was reduced to one MP. In 1867 it was disenfranchised completely. (See John Fowles, A Short History of Lyme Regis, Little, Brown & Co., 1982.) —Editors note.

  7 September 1804, cont.

  ∼

  I AROSE RATHER LATE THIS MORNING, DUE TO THE FATIGUES OF THE previous evening, but still well before my fellows in Wings cottage; and so I availed myself of the interval until breakfast to take a solitary ramble along the Cobb. I found it cleansed by the tides of its sinister associations; the scaffolding had disappeared, and with it, all hint of intentional evil. The stones at my feet were awash in early sunlight and cold spray; and I walked briskly, glad of the calls of seabirds, and suffused with pleasure at the turning season. September is a month of paradoxes—part decaying summer, part incipient autumn; and the complexity of its character decidedly suits my own. Not that I believe the deeper nature to be more worthy of study than the simple—but complexity is assuredly more compelling to the student than transparency. Captain Fielding, for instance, could be likened to June—forthright, warm, and easy. Mr. Sidmouth, however, is neither summer nor its frigid counterpart, deepest January; he is a November of a month, or perhaps a March—that mix of sudden sunlight and chill wind that keeps one always alert for change.

  So I mused, as I walked; and did not neglect to ask whether one should be better suited to a lifetime of June, than an eternity of November—a question I deferred answering until another day.

  At the Cobb’s end, I halted, and eyed uneasily the marks of recent building; did I close my eyes, the shape of the gibbet should be revealed as etched upon my veiled sight, and the spray-drenched form of Bill TCbbit depending from its ominous bar. Such a fearsome structure could not have been carried to this place—even at night, its progress from town should be remarked—and so, at a thought, I gathered up my skirts, removed my right glove, and crouched down to search the rocks at waterline. A few moments’ groping sufficed; an iron ring was revealed to my hand, and the manner of Tibbit’s dispatching confirmed. Flakes of rust were smeared across my palm—I blessed the foresight that had removed Mr. Milsop’s perfection of a glove—and that the flakes were but lately displaced, I quickly discerned. A boat’s painter had disturbed the iron ring, in being recently tied up at the Cobb’s end, and the vessel’s burden then shifted to the stones, no doubt in the very dead of night. A little time indeed might prove sufficient for such a hanging, and poor Tibbit’s cries had surely gone all unheeded at this distance from the town.

  I paused a moment, to ease my aching muscles—such bending and reaching, while wearing tight-laced stays, can only be called exertion—and glanced back at Lyme. An increase in activity along Broad Street heralded the advancing morning; I had better make my way back to Wings cottage. And so I bent to the stones once more, and leaned quite far over to gaze at the ring in the rocks, and saw then the marks of paint.

  But of course! When a simple wooden boat is moored near the jetty, the tide must drive it against the stones, particularly if its crew is bent upon the destruction of one in their midst, rather than the preservation of their vessel.
And so the dinghy’s prow had scraped against the Cobb, and left its telltale mark. A dark green, a very bottle green, and common enough in its way among the fishing boats of Lyme. I should be unlikely to discover the Reverend’s vessel—if the murderer was the Reverend—from such a signature. But the smear of green remained a grim reminder of the night’s vile work, all the same; and one I should hold close in memory.

  THE IMAGE OF THE BOBBING GREEN BOAT, rrs MUFFLED OARS AND menacing figures outlined against the darker night sky, persisted in my waking thoughts the remainder of the morning. As I sat at the little Pembroke table in the Wings cottage sitting-room, attempting to write, I was so often forced to draw a line through my words, that I became quite vexed and threw down my pen.

  “The story does not come to your liking, Jane?” Cassandra enquired gently. She was reclining upon the settee, with a view of the street beyond our gate, and the two of us quite filled the tiny room. My father and mother had gone to stroll up the hill, in search of Henry, whom we hoped should accompany us to Mr. Crawford’s fossil site. I had taken out my small sheets of writing paper, folded in half in preparation for composing,1 and begun to work at Emma Watson, while Cassandra trimmed her hat.

  “I am not in congenial company, Cassandra—and so the conversation comes with difficulty. I have just got Emma home to her father’s house, and into a pony cart on the way to a ball; and as she is quite low in spirits, I find myself in a similar state. It is not a condition conducive to composition, I fear.”

  ‘On her way to a ball—and in low spirits?” my sister rejoined with some amusement. “Then she cannot have sprung from your pen. An impostor has had the writing of it, Jane, while you danced the night away in the Lyme Assembly. For I know your portraits of young ladies are always drawn from life. Elizabeth Bennet should never be so low, when faced with the prospect of a ball.”

  “But then Lizzy is blessed with resources not commonly granted to frivolous beauties,” I rejoined. “She is almost as clever as myself. Emma Watson’s portion must and shall be different. She cannot be Elizabeth Bennet; it is impossible that two such should fall from my pen—but neither is she an empty-headed girl, unformed and filled with nonsense. She is a sober young woman, tried by the perversities of those she holds most dear, and faced with the prospect of a future all unprovided-ior.”