by Syrie James
It was very muddy in spots, yet we made good progress. We had been on our way about two hours when we came to a long and lovely stretch of luxuriant woods, in which the tall, leafy trees at the road-side met overhead, forming a kind of tunnel. After some time passing through this pretty and secluded section, we suddenly burst out into a pleasant, open country dotted with grazing sheep. I immediately observed a lane leading across a vast field towards a distant grove, through which I could perceive the upper story and gabled roof-top of an immense, modern mansion house with a white stone façade, two elegant wings, and many chimneys.
“Sir!” cried I to the postillion through the open window, over the soft plodding of the horses’ hooves and the gentle jangle of their harnesses, “what house is that?”
“That be Bifrons, miss,” said he loudly in return, “the residence of Edward Taylor, Esquire; been in the Taylor family for generations, Bifrons has.”
“For generations?” commented Cassandra to me in surprise. “From what little I can perceive, it appears to be very new.”
“It looks very new!” echoed I to the postillion.
“It is, miss! The first house stood here since Elizabethan times, and all red brick it was, and grown very old. The Reverend Mr. Taylor had it all rebuilt in the newer style some fifteen years past, and very grand it is. The manor house is let out to tenants at present, as the reverend and most of his family be out of the country.”
“Did you say the Reverend Edward Taylor?” inquired I.
“Yes, miss. It seems he succeeded to Bifrons upon the death of his brother.”
“The house looks even bigger than Godmersham,” remarked Charles in awe.
“If only there were not so many trees blocking the way,” murmured I. “I long for a better view of the place.”
Here ended this conversation, for our journey was abruptly interrupted by events of an unexpected and catastrophic nature.
We were proceeding down a small incline, the horses moving at a round trot, when I felt a queer jarring, as if one of the animals had stumbled. The vehicle began shaking dramatically to and fro, and then to our consternation it pitched to one side, sank with a heavy jolt, and came to rest at an alarming angle, leaving all within in a state of extreme unbalance.
“What happened?” exclaimed Charles, as we all struggled to remain upright in the injured vehicle.
Looking out the window, I replied: “It appears as though we have fallen into a deep and muddy rut.”
“Oh dear,” said Cassandra, very worried.
The postillion dismounted and glanced in at us. “Is anybody hurt?”
My brother and sister shook their heads.
“No, sir,” said I.
With a grunt, he returned to the fore, where he stood in silence, surveying the situation and frowning deeply.
“Should we get out?” asked Charles.
“I think not,” replied Cassandra. “It is so dirty. We had best wait and see what he wishes for us to do.”
Still on foot, the postillion picked up the reins and spoke sharply to the horses, urging them forward; but although they strained and pulled, the chaise did not move. A few minutes passed thus engaged, with no more promising outlook. I was feeling very discouraged, and wondering how we should ever be liberated from the mire, when I heard the sound of horses approaching.
Through the window of the chaise, I caught sight of two riders coming towards us across the empty fields. As they drew nearer, I became aware of their distinguishing features. They were young men, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years of age, and from the quality of their clothes, hats, and tall leather boots, and the way they held themselves in the saddle, I knew them to be the sons of gentlemen. The first had a ruddy countenance which, although pleasing, was not regular enough to be called handsome.
My full attention, however, was directed at the young man riding beside him, who was so good-looking as to make it difficult to look away.
Chapter the Fourth
Good morning,” said he (his voice deep and commanding) to the postillion, drawing up beside our disabled carriage. “My cousin and I could not help but see your predicament. I hope no one is injured?”
“They are not, sir,” responded the postillion.
The young man had a long, oval face; dark eyes flashed beneath arched brows; his nose was perfectly straight; his lips were full and well shaped above a determined chin. His complexion was clear and a shade or two darker than my own, suggesting that he had recently spent time in sunnier, foreign climes, or spent a great deal of time out of doors. His hunter green coat and dark brown breeches were so perfectly tailored as to shew off his fine figure to great advantage; and contrary to fashion, he sported no wig or powder; rather his hair, which fell in a haphazard manner to just below his ears, was as sleek and silky as the mane of his magnificent horse, and in precisely the same shade of deep auburn.
Nimbly dismounting, and unheedful of the mud (his tall, sturdy boots giving him some protection), the young man walked around the vehicle, and bent to study the half-submerged wheels. “From what I can determine, the wheels are not broken, but only stuck in this quagmire. I have already sent a servant to fetch two dray-horses. They should be here momentarily, and can pull you out.”
“Why thank ye, Mr. Taylor, sir. We’d be most grateful, for surely otherwise we’ll be stuck here till nightfall and beyond.”
The young man appeared very surprised at being addressed by name. He looked at the side of our chaise as if seeking proof of its owner, but the coat of arms was obscured by splattered mud. Returning his glance to the servant, he paused, and said, “Are you Thomas Knight’s man, of Godmersham Park?”
“I am, sir, and I am honoured that you should recall it; for it has been a good two years I believe since I last saw ye, and even then I was never formally made known to you.” Removing his hat, and bowing respectfully, the postillion added: “May I further say: welcome back to England, Mr. Taylor, sir.”
“Thank you.”
I darted Cassandra a look of surprise. From this exchange, and the age of the young gentleman, I deduced him to be the son of the afore-mentioned Reverend Edward Taylor, who owned the nearby manor house.
While his companion sat silently upon his steed, young Mr. Taylor asked, “What is your name, sir?”
“Sam, sir.”
“Where are you going, Sam? Are Mr. and Mrs. Knight within the coach?”
“They are not, sir. I am taking Mr. Knight’s house guests to Goodnestone for a visit, sir.”
“Ah! I see. How many passengers are on board?”
“Three, sir. Two young ladies, sisters as they are, and a lad.”
“Well, let us get them out. Even with our dray-horses, it will be a piece of work to pull this chaise from the mire, and harder still with three people weighing it down.”
Sam pulled down the steps and threw open the chaise door. “You’d best all step down.”
Charles moved dexterously to the opening and hesitated, frowning. I perceived the difficulty: the chaise was positioned at such an angle that the doorway partly faced the sky, and the steps led more to the side than down, complicating one’s descent; moreover, the road was deep in mud.
“I have got you,” said Mr. Taylor; without further ado, he picked up my little brother and carried him to the safety of the road-side.
Cassandra was next.
“Take my hand, miss,” said the postillion.
Mr. Taylor’s as yet nameless companion (whom I believe he had called his cousin) leapt from his horse and crossed to the carriage’s open door, silently offering his own assistance—an action no doubt prompted, I deduced, by my sister’s beauty.
Both men held out their gloved hands to Cassandra and helped her out, although so awkwardly as to result in her landing in a deep pocket of mud, which engulfed her feet to the ankles.
&n
bsp; “Oh!” cried she in dismay, raising her skirts as she was assisted through the mud to the firmer bank immediately adjacent. In the process, she lost one of her slippers, which the postillion adroitly rescued from the mire and held aloft as if a dead thing. “Oh, Jane, do be careful; I am afraid I have ruined my shoes.”
While Cassandra’s rescuers quietly apologised at the road-side, and made what efforts they could to wipe her shoes clean on the grass before she put them on again, I attempted to determine my best means of exit; but before I could proceed, Mr. Taylor walked back to the open doorway of the chaise and stopped before me. With an accent and inflection on the final appellation so flawless as to resemble (at least in my imagination) a native Italian speaker, he said, “May I help you down, signorina?”
I froze; I could not avert my gaze; Mr. Taylor’s handsome countenance was but a foot or two from mine, and his arrival, like a knight in shining armour, had been so unexpected, his eyes were so dark and sparkling, and the overall effect was so appealing, that for the space of a breath, I forgot where I was or that any action was required of me.
“Miss? Are you quite well?”
I nodded.
“May I help you descend?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”
“I ought to carry you. Otherwise, you will ruin your shoes, as did your sister.”
“Carry me?” A picture formed in my mind, as I envisioned his proposal: my arms were wrapped around his neck, and my face was against his silken hair, as he swept me into his arms and brought me to the embankment. The notion caused my heart to beat with more rapidity than usual and a warmth to rise to my cheeks. Such familiarity would be most inappropriate—an action reserved for only the most dire of circumstances—which this decidedly was not. “I think,” replied I quickly, “I had rather climb down myself.”
He looked dubious. “Well then, if you want to avoid the mud, I only see one option. You must climb out past the back wheel and over the rear platform. From there I can jump you down to the bank.”
I stared at him in quiet disbelief. “A daring proposal, sir, and one which I imagine you could execute with ease. But it will be rather difficult to accomplish, wearing a gown.”
“I imagine you can find a way, mademoiselle. But it is up to you, and whether or not you wish to sacrifice your shoes.”
I paused, considering. His suggestion involved some risk, as the vehicle lay at a very marked pitch; but it was admittedly preferable to walking through the mire. Moreover, his tone, and the look on his countenance, seemed to me akin to the throwing of a gauntlet. “Very well. I shall try it.”
“Jane!” cried Cassandra from the embankment where she waited with Charles and the other gentleman. “Do not attempt it. You might fall.”
“I will not fall,” answered I, with more confidence than I truly felt.
Not wanting to soil my new gloves, I removed them and stowed them in my reticule; then, holding up my skirts, I placed my hands on either side of the carriage door, and propelled myself up and out. It was a precarious business; by supporting myself on the large, very muddy wheel, I managed to scramble onto the rear platform and over the trunks, but so precipitous was it, that I nearly slid off. Throughout my exertion, Mr. Taylor stood close by (I suppose to catch me if required); but with the greatest of efforts I was able to right myself, and from there to jump down as directed, onto the bank into his waiting hands.
I was vaguely sensible of a cheer (from Charles) and applause from Mr. Taylor’s cousin; but these sounds melted away, so overpowered was I by the circumstance in which, for an instant, I found myself. My hands were pressed against the soft wool of Mr. Taylor’s coat, and his large hands were firmly clasping my upper arms as he looked down at me. There was a fluttering in my heart and stomach such as I had never before felt or imagined, and my cheeks burned—from fear or exertion, I knew not which. Did he feel a similar emotion? I could not say; but during the brief interval in which he held me thus, as his dark eyes gazed down into mine, I imagined that they held a look of deep interest which matched my own.
Releasing me, he said, “There. That was not so hard, was it?”
“Not at all,” lied I, relieved that the exercise was completed, that I was safely on the ground, and that there was again some physical distance between us, so that I might regain some semblance of composure. It was ridiculous, a voice in my head cried, to swoon so over a total stranger, no matter how handsome he might be; but at the same time, another inner voice exulted over this unexpected meeting—for was it not exactly the sort of circumstance of which I had been dreaming for many years? These inner musings were instantly terminated when Cassandra, shaking her head, said:
“Thank goodness Mamma was not here to see that.”
Mr. Taylor now turned to her and Charles. “And how are you, miss? I trust you both have suffered nothing worse in this misadventure than a pair of muddy—” (glancing down at Cassandra’s shoes with mock alarm) “very muddy—slippers?”
“We are quite well, sir. Thank you for stopping to assist us.”
“Yes! Thank you!” cried Charles, regarding our rescuer with undisguised gratitude, wonder, and veneration.
Mr. Taylor only shrugged his shoulders. “It was my duty. You broke down on the road passing my family’s estate. I could not ride by and do nothing. It is just lucky it occurred today, while I happened to be at Bifrons—I am not living here at present, but with my cousins at Ileden, a few miles distant—and a fortnight ago, I would have been out of the country.”
“From whence have you returned?” inquired Cassandra.
“From Italy. My family is still abroad.” He paused then, and with a smile, removed his hat. “Forgive me, here we are chatting away without a proper introduction. It is very awkward—but I trust that the necessity of the case will plead my excuse—it seems we have no choice but to circumvent convention. This fellow here—” (waving his hat towards his companion) “is my cousin Thomas Watkinson Payler, Esquire.”
Mr. Payler bowed, with a particular smile for my sister. “A pleasure to meet you,” said he quietly but elegantly.
With a bow of his own, our rescuer added: “I am Edward Taylor.”
I smiled to myself, for Edward was, and always had been, one of my favourite names.
Cassandra curtseyed and introduced herself, myself, and my brother, and when all of us had paid our respects, I asked,
“Do you have brothers, Mr. Taylor?”
“Four of them.”
“Are they all called Edward?”
“What? Of course not.” His eyes narrowed as he studied me. “What a strange question; why do you ask?”
I felt my cheeks redden. It was not only a strange question, but an impertinent one; what would he think of me? But having started down that road, I was obliged to continue. “The Bridgeses have five sons called Brook,” responded I with an impish, nervous shrug. “I thought it might be a tradition in this part of the country to name every son the same.”
Taking in my teasing manner, he laughed—a look and sound so congenial, it lit up his whole face, removed all my discomfort, and made me laugh in response. “It is a tradition, I believe, only where the Bridgeses are concerned. We have two Edwards in my family, my father and myself—and that is quite enough.”
“We seem to run into Edwards everywhere we go,” remarked Charles. “We have a brother called Edward.”
“Ah yes—so you do!” replied Edward Taylor. “I had the honour to make Mr. Austen’s acquaintance only last week—he was not in the country the last time I was here. He is lately engaged to Miss Elizabeth Bridges, is that not so?”
“It is, sir.”
“He mentioned that his family was to be visiting from Hampshire—and here you are.”
All subjects suddenly ceased, as two servants arrived with a pair of large dray-horses. Edward Taylor ordered th
e postillion and a groom to unhitch the horses from the chaise and replace them with the sturdier beasts. Under his direction, our trunks were then unfastened from the carriage to lighten the load. At length, the vehicle was successfully pulled from the mire, deemed to be in sound condition, our own horses returned to their former positions, and everything made ready for us to proceed.
Once more we thanked our rescuer, and he and Mr. Payler helped us to climb aboard the vehicle again. I fully expected them to mount their horses and ride away (an idea which caused me a great pang of disappointment); but instead Mr. Taylor gazed ahead with a frown, and said, “It is still a good five miles to Goodnestone; I travelled that way the other day, and the road is fairly floating in places. There are some deep, hidden pockets that may cause grave difficulties to anyone not intimately familiar with them. Thomas: we ought to accompany the Austens on their way to Goodnestone, so that I might point out all the low spots to Sam and prevent further catastrophe. What say you?”
“I have no objection,” returned Thomas Payler.
“It is settled, then. We shall be your escort. Adieu.” So saying, Edward Taylor shut the chaise door. He and Mr. Payler went directly to their horses, mounted, and we were soon all on our way.
Chapter the Fifth
The remaining five miles of the journey were given over to a minute discussion of the accident in all its particulars, the manner in which we had been rescued—so quickly and with such a minimum of discomfort!—and our good fortune in the acquisition of the two gallant riders who now accompanied us.
“It was very good of them to stop and help us,” said Cassandra, “and particularly thoughtful of them to accompany us in this manner.”
I agreed. Through the window, as I observed Mr. Taylor on horseback, his hat tilted back, his lips curved in an easy smile, the sight unaccountably made my skin tingle. “I wonder how long Mr. Taylor lived on the Continent?”
