Jane and the Man of the Cloth jam-2

by Stephanie Barron

  I cared little for the denied stable visit; it was enough to know that the means to make a shoe existed on the property, and that Mathew Barnewall was indeed a desperate addict of horseflesh in all its forms. But I could not yet see him resorting to murder, however important a horse might be, in order to obtain it. For tho’ Geoffrey Sidmouth's goods might be forfeit, and Satan sold, were he condemned for a murder that Barnewall committed, it seemed a circuitous route to the business.

  If murder had been done, and a horse from Wootton House its agent, then the motive must be far more serious and deadly indeed. Nothing less than Barnewairs entire manner of living must be at stake — and there, were he indeed the Reverend, I might find a reason for Captain Fielding's killing.

  “And now, Miss Austen, will you take some refreshment in the morning room? Though I confess it bears a rather chilly aspect today.”

  I assented to the suggestion with alacrity, and descended the stairs in Mrs. Barnewairs train. After a passage through a central hall, from which several corridors sprang, and the selection of one of these, we proceeded past the open doors of several drawing-rooms and a dining-parlour before achieving the morning room. It was a cheerful place, being painted a pale green, and draped in a flowered stuff of a similar hue, and bearing about its cornice the figures of several cherubs, all engaged in staring down at us with the most puckish of expressions; it was at once more intimate, and less formal, than the part of the house in which I was originally received. Here Mrs. Barnewall should conduct her correspondence, and have her second cup of breakfast chocolate, and say yea or nay to the cook's choice for the day's dinner, and take up what needlework or sketchbook should suit her fancy. A pianoforte stood at one end, backed by an excessively large pier glass, that whichever performer chose to essay the keys, might have an admiring audience of at least herself. I could not help an involuntary exclamation as I perceived the instrument, for my music had been denied me throughout the length of our travels; and my delight did not go unnoticed by my hostess.

  “You are a proficient, I presume?”

  I shook my head regretfully. “An aspirant only to that title, and sadly in want of practise from a summer's worth of neglect.”

  “Pray, delight me with your skill, Miss Austen. Music is above all things my preferred activity.”

  “Then I should rather hear yourself, and avoid embarrassment.”

  “Oh! I never learnt, I am afraid — and so should hardly stand in censure upon your performance.”

  After a moment's hesitation, I drew off my gloves, and seated myself at the piano, and attempted one of the simple airs I so loved to play for my sister, of a quiet morning in Steventon, so many years ago.

  “It is a plaintive melody,” Mrs. Barnewall observed, when I had done; “but perhaps you merely echo the weather.”

  “Perhaps,” I said with a smile, and rose from the instrument “I may confess to a longing for my sister, who is the dearest creature in the world to me, and denied me by the misfortunes of which I know you have heard.”

  “Indeed!” Mrs. Barnewall cried, as she threw herself carelessly into a settee. “The famous overturning. An event almost as thoroughly discussed by the Lyme worthies as Mademoiselle LeFevre's unfortunate accident only a few weeks before.”

  “Her unfortunate accident?” I replied, feigning bewilderment. “What accident was this?”

  “Why, my dear, you must have heard of it — the Miss Schuylers talked of little else the length of their stay. Not that they are possessed of such faculties as should provide them with frequent diversion, it is true — they were much dependent upon the affairs of others for their edification and amusement. But I recollect. Your business of the overturning, and the hanging of the man on the Cobb, quite put all thought of the mademoiselle and Captain Fielding out of our minds for a time.”

  “It was the Captain who caused Mademoiselle LeFevre's accident?”

  “No, no — it was he who rescued her. Hence his affectionate name of le Chevatier.” My confidante reached for an exquisite porcelain box that sat upon a Pembroke table near her seat, and to my amazement, drew forth a pinch of powder on the tip of her forefinger, which she inhaled as elegantly as it was possible to do. At my inability to conceal my surprise, she smiled devilishly. “Would you care for some snuff, Miss Austen? Or is the daughter of a clergyman a stranger to this, as to so many other vices?”

  “I do not believe I should find it agreeable.” My voice sounded priggish, even to my own ears. “How can you find it so?”

  “It clears the mind wonderfully,” she said, and sneezed.

  “Indeed?” I confess the practise is new to my experience. Though my brothers James and Edward are both fond of their clay pipes, they take care never to smoke them within doors, and as it is my fathers view that tobacco is a dangerous addiction, I was hardly exposed to the fumes in my infancy. Even Henry, however — charming, foolish, light-hearted Henry — has avoided the fashion for snuff. Though there are some who have partaken of the substance for years, I may fairly state that only recently has it become the rage to carry the little boxes about, and change them according to whether one is at home or in society, or abroad of a morning or an evening. I had never witnessed a woman consuming snuff — even my flamboyant sister Eliza.[70]

  “I failed to discover the meaning behind le Chevalier” I said, with an effort to appear rueful. “I fear I have not your penetration, Mrs. Barnewall, and the Captain did appear indisposed to discuss the matter.”

  “That is like his natural reticence,” she replied softly, and sighed, her snapping dark eyes momentarily clouded. I had not considered that the lady might consider herself in mourning. Such obtuseness should be unforgivable, had I not believed her too light in her attachments to regard the poor Captain with anything like tenderness. But T am too prone to a hasty judgment of the characters and impulses of others; it may be fairly declared my chief failing.

  “The tale does him no dishonour, 1 trust?”

  “Hardly.” She adjusted a cushion at her elbow, and settled in for a long chat. “It was a few weeks before your arrival, Miss Austen, about the middle part of August, I should say. We had ail been in attendance at the Thursday night Assembly, though the crowd was rather thin, the summer people in general having departed for country estates to the north. There was nothing like a moon that night, as I recall, and so for those of us who travelled into town by carriage, the drive home was a slow business. Captain Fielding had not been in the rooms — indeed, I had thought him away from Lyme on some business — and his absence deprived the ball of a good part of its gaiety.

  “Mr. Barnewall and I had agreed to follow Mr. Crawford to Darby, for a late supper and some cards, being little inclined to retire early, despite the ball's having closed a full hour before its usual two o'clock. And so our carriages travelled in train, up the Charmouth road towards Mr. Crawford's estate — until with a ‘Whoa!’ the equipage in front was pulled up, and in a moment Mr. Crawford had descended, and then my husband must be impatient to know what was toward, and we were all out in the road in the middle of the night, with only the light of a Ian thorn to show the scene.

  “And what a scene!”

  “Mademoiselle LeFevre?”

  She shook her head. “Captain Fielding, unhorsed and with the lady quite insensible in his arms. What a picture they made! Her long red cloak, trailing from unconscious limbs, and the fall of her extraordinary hair across his arm; his face bruised and weary, and himself standing upon a wooden leg, and endeavouring to bear her homeward, without benefit of assistance or even his horse! Had we not arrived at the very moment, I cannot think how things should have gone; but we did, and commended him for his gallantry, and managed them both to their respective houses.”

  “But what had occurred?” I cried, in some exasperation.

  “We had it from the Captain — whom we chose to convey homeward, while the Crawfords took the mademoiselle — that the lady had been abroad on horseback, well after midni
ght, about some errand of her cousin, Mr. Sidmouth — only fancy! — and that her horse had startled, and bolted, and thrown her to the ground; at which point she was fortunate in the Captain's happening upon her on the road, at his return very late from business in Dorchester. Only think! Our carriages might have run over her body in the dark, as she lay insensible, had he not appeared to act as saviour!”

  “Perish the thought!” I said, with suitable fervour. “But why, then, had the Captain's horse also run off?”

  Mrs. Barnewall leaned closer, her eyes once more brilliant with animation. “I understood from Fielding that he was unhorsed in the animal's act of leaping over the mademoiselle's still form, as the beast came upon her in its way. It was thus he made the discovery of her.”

  “I suppose Mr. Sidmouth was very grateful,” I observed, with conscious stupidity, “to have his cousin so safely restored.”

  “Mr. Sidmouth seemed rather to despair of his errand's having gone awry,” Mrs. Barnewall replied, “but that is ever his way. He should rather have all the world trampled underfoot, than have his own business interrupted; and the poor little Frenchwoman is but a cog in his larger affairs. She is capable, I suppose, and dutiful in her bidding, and there her utility ends. But we knew of this only later, when it became apparent that there was a grudge between Sidmouth and the Captain — the result of which we have all unfortunately seen.”

  “And what do you believe is Sidmouth's business?” I enquired of her tentatively. “He is much abroad, in France, I hear — though perhaps not so much of late.”

  “Because of the war, you would mean?” She sat back against the cushions, one delicate forefinger to her reddened nostrils. “Aye, that is very bad for business, I have no doubt. I myself intended to purchase a lovely length of silk, promised me by one of the Free Traders hereabouts, and I find it is not to be had. The controls at the ports are much stronger, I hear, and the Royal Navy less amenable to turning a blind eye, no matter how much brandy is waved beneath their noses.”

  “Whatever would you speak of, Mrs. Barnewall?” My brow was furrowed, my countenance the very picture of confusion.

  “Why, the Gentlemen of the Night, of course! The Reverend's men, who keep us all in silk and snuff, and playing cards and sealing wax. You will have heard of the Reverend — as I recall, we discussed his exploits at your very first Assembly.”

  I studied my acquaintance's expression — the slanting eyes, sparkling with fun — or was it calculation? — the determined smile, which might hide a mind curious to know how much I had guessed of her affairs — the impenetrable facade of a carefully composed woman, betraying nothing of her true mind. She had allowed me to know that she was familiar with the smugglers’ habits, that she patronised them for their wares; and had even referred obliquely to Maggie Tibbit's silk. One might almost think that she knew of my visit to the woman, and my own purchase of the stuff — as perhaps she did. For the first time I was afraid in her presence, from knowing myself to be in waters too deep for steady footing.

  “I did not know that people in my acquaintance were aware of the clandestine trade,” I said slowly.

  “Aware of it? But, my dear, they run it,” she replied, in some amusement. “Whatever do you think Sidmouth's business is? His errands for the little LeFevre? His grudge against the Captain, whom we all know to have been opposed to the Trade? Depend upon it, Miss Austen, the Captain's death — however conveniently it might be ascribed to an affaire de coeur over the petite mademoiselle — was a matter of business. And if I adjudge Sidmouth righdy, he will dispose of the coroner's charge in similar terms. He will disappear, of a sudden, from his Lyme gaol, and take a swift ship for France, where he shall be given up for dead; but in a little while, in a different town, on another part of the coast, the Reverend will reappear.”

  “You are very intimate with the gentleman's business, Mrs. Barnewall,” I observed.

  “Am I?” She laughed mockingly, and reached for her snuffbox with the archest of glances. “I must say I find the gentleman irresistible. But then, most women do, do they not, Miss Austen? I daresay you have fallen victim to Sidmouth yourself, on one or two occasions.”

  “If I have, I should be the very last to own it,” I said firmly, and rose to take my leave. “It has been a most enjoyable afternoon, Mrs. Barnewall; I regret that I visited Wootton House only at the close of your stay in these parts. I should like to have seen it in finer weather.”

  “Then do not stay away, while yet we both remain in Lyme,” she rejoined, with perhaps an equal level of insincerity; and so we parted — two women of self-sufficient habits, and little inclination for the society of females, and yet driven together by a mutual need for confidences gained. I had come to Mrs. Barnewall with the intention of soliciting intelligence; but it was only at our parting that I knew her to have received me with an equal aim in view. I felt that I had been carefully managed from my first step inside her hail; but the why of it eluded me.

  Chapter 20

  The Watcher in the Doorway

  Sunday, 23 September 1804

  IT WAS NEARLY THE HOUR FOR DINNER WHEN I RETURNED TO WINGS cottage from Wootton Fitzpaine yesterday afternoon, but the fog had lifted under the influence of a light breeze, promising a shift in the weather; and so I seized a few moments of liberty to slip down Pound Street to the linendraper's, of a mind to view Mr. Milsop's latest sketches of evening gowns, so important to the effect of a good length of peach-coloured silk, and to consider whether a demi-turban[71] or a feather should be better suited to my headdress; and with such pleasant fancies dancing before my eyes, and banishing all thoughts of smugglers, their wives, and their purported bloodlettings, I very nearly ran down poor Mr. Dagliesh, who was engaged in conversing with a rotund lady of middle age, not five paces from Mr. Milsop's door.

  “Miss Jane Austen!” he cried, with a flourish of his hat and a hasty bow. “I hope I find you well?”

  “Very well, Mr. Dagliesh,” I replied, with a nod for his companion, who paid no heed to ceremony and made her lumbering way on up the street, leaving me to enjoy the gentleman's undivided attentions. “I am relieved to see you in excellent health.”

  “Had you any reason to fear for it?” he enquired.

  “Oh! No reason at all — though I guessed you were so much in demand, and in the middle of the night, too — about the shingle and the downs, in attending to all manner of wounds of a sudden received, whose victims have not the luxury of appearing by the light of day — that I thought you must soon be quite broken down.”

  He started, and gave me a narrow look, and with a foolish smile, said that the demands of a country practise were sometimes unmanageable.

  “Particularly when one is under the obligation of attending to one's friends,” I continued. “The demands of a stranger might be put off to another day; but the necessity of one's intimate acquaintance may not be gainsaid. And there has been so much of that sort of thing in Lyme, of late! A lady thrown from a horse here, a shot to the back there, a skirmish at sea that might leave a man at the mercy of Fate — I wonder you have slept at all, from riding to the Grange.”

  “Miss Austen—” he began, and then halted in confusion.

  “I know now why you could not be summoned, the very night of my sister's unfortunate injury — for you were undoubtedly in attendance upon some smugglers’ band, deep in the folds of the Pinny, or secreted in a convenient cave. And nothing is plainer than your failing to appear the morning of her departure for London, to pay your respects. It was the very morning that Mr. Sidmouth routed the dragoons, just below the Cobb, and even 1 observed Davy Forely the lander to have been shot Was it Mademoiselle LeFevre who cared for him there, in the kitchen garret, against the Preventy Men's discovery?”[72]

  “I could not undertake to say,” the surgeon's assistant replied. “It was not there that I attended him, certainly. But tell me, Miss Austen — would you have a man die of a wound he did not merit, when a surgeon could easily be called? I
s there some wrong you might find, in my ministering to such unfortunates? For to heal is my calling in life.”

  “No wrong, Mr. Dagliesh — unless it be that your care for the local criminal set prevents you from attending to those more worthy of your attention. Had my sister died of her injuries, I should look with less gentleness at the manner in which you spend your evenings.”

  “Heaven forbid!” he cried, with a sensible look. “And how does your sister? She continues to mend?”

  “As swiftly as we might have hoped — her Ijmdon physician having no other claim upon his time and attention, that might prove more remunerative.”

  “You are severe upon me.” He turned his hat in both hands, worrying at the brim. “But money has not been my object, though you would have my motives solely mercenary. I may go so far as to assert, Miss Austen, that neither my conduct, nor that of those I have attended, merits such censure; but honour forbids me saying more.” His look, when he raised his eyes, had something of pleading in it, and a circumspection I should not have guessed Mr. Dagliesh capable of. “There is a nobility in the most common of men, Miss Austen, when they are spurred to act from principle; and I have found that the appearance of what is wrong may often cloak, conversely, a very great good.”

  “As I am sure the opposite is true,” I rejoined, somewhat tardy, “with all manner of evil parading itself as circumspection and propriety.”

  “That has ever been the case,” he said, with some gentleness. “The wonder is that we should still be equally as fooled.” And with a civility, he left me — though less happy in my designs upon peach-coloured silk.

  IT WAS AS I RETURNED FROM POUND STREET TO WlNGS COTTAGE, that I first noticed the presence of a man to my back. He appeared to find interest in shop windows at exactly the moment I turned to gaze at something on offer; and resumed his slow stroll in my train whenever my interest was satisfied, and my own walk recommenced. Upon first perceiving him, I was puzzled; then alarmed; and finally, determined upon calculation. Though I had half a mind to confront him with questions, the possibility that I but succumbed to an over-active imagination, could not be discounted; and so I turned instead into a local purveyor of comestibles, in search, ostensibly, of tea. I knew the shop to let out onto an adjacent street at its rear; and upon learning that no tea was to be had in all of Lyme — a curious notion, that — I exited by this latter way. Imagine my dismay, upon perceiving the gentleman as yet behind! For he had assuredly pursued me to the shop's interior, and thence into the adjacent street.