Jane and the Genius of the Place jam-4

by Stephanie Barron

  Jane and the Genius of the Place

  ( Jane Austen Mysteries - 4 )

  Stephanie Barron

  The book cleverly blends scholarship with mystery and wit, weaving Jane Austen's correspondence and works of literature into a tale of death and deceit.

  Stephanie Barron

  Jane and the Genius of the Place

  In laying out a garden,

  the first and chief thing to be considered

  is the genius of the place.

  — ALEXANDER POPE, 1728

  as quoted in

  Observations, Anecdotes and Characters of Books and Men,

  by Joseph Spence.

  Being the Fourth Jane Austen Mystery

  Dedicated to the memory of Ruth Connor,

  whose genius lives on in the places

  and people she loved

  Editor's Foreword

  BRITISH NOVELIST JANE AUSTEN WAS BORN ON THE EVE of her country's conflict with its American colonies, in 1775, and died only two years after Napoleon's second abdication in 1815; yet the turmoil of England's passage through more than four decades of revolution and warfare is barely evident in her novels. As a result, her fiction has too often been dismissed as superficial or as reflecting the purely “female” preoccupations of domestic life. An Austen scholar might be quick to point out the naval influences in Persuasion, or argue that the subtle shifts in social practices and mores that Austen repeatedly chronicles could exist only in the broader context of political transformation — but in the main, her fiction mentions military figures most often as they appear at a ball, and politics not at all.

  Austen's letters, however, reveal her to have been anything but ignorant of the affairs of her day. As Warren Roberts points out in his engrossing work, Jane Austen and the French Revolution(Macmillan, 1979), the novelist habitually read the London newspapers and commented on the political news reported in them. She followed the battles and engagements of the Royal Navy with avid interest, having two brothers serving in ships of the line, and she spent the entire summer of 1805 near the coastline of Kent — Napoleon's ground zero for invasion.

  What a delight, therefore, to discover in this, the fourth of the long-lost Austen journals to be edited for publication, an account of Jane's life during a period known to her contemporaries as the Great Terror. For over two years, from May 1803 until August 1805, Napoleon Bonaparte planned the invasion of England with a passion bordering on mania. He beggared his treasury to build a flotilla of over a thousand ships, massed an army of one hundred thousand troops in the ports of the Channel coast, and goaded his reluctant naval commanders into attempting to breach the remarkably effective British blockade of France. Never, since the Norman Conquest, had Britain faced so serious a threat of invasion from its neighbor; never again, until the Bat-tie of Britain in September 1940, would she confront so potent a military force, merely twenty miles from Dover.

  Jane Austen witnessed the denouement of Napoleon's grand scheme from the idyllic vantage of her brother Edward Austen Knight's principal estate, Godmersham Park in Kent. The compelling events of those days— which coincided with Canterbury's Race Week — are here recounted for the first time.

  In editing this manuscript for publication, I found Alan Schom's Trafalgar: Countdown to Battle, 1803–1805 (Oxford University Press, 1990) an invaluable guide to the period. But nothing can exceed the pleasure of my brief walk through the grounds of Godmersham itself, with its sheep-filled meadows roiling down to the Stour, on a hot afternoon in July.

  Stephanie Barron

  Evergreen, Colorado

  Chapter 1

  The Figure in Scarlet

  Monday,

  19 August 1805

  MISS JANE AUSTEN — LATE OF GREEN PARK BUILDINGS, Bath, but presently laying claim to nowhere in particular, given her esteemed father's recent death, and the subsequent upheaval in domestic arrangements — might never be accused of dissipation. Not for Jane the delights of the ton, who may dance until dawn at the most select assemblies, or haunt the private gaming hells where hazard is played so scandalously high. At her time in life — and she is hard on the heels of thirty — there is something a little unseemly in a desire for modish dress, or a taste for fashionable watering-places, or a reckless disregard for social convention. Accustomed from birth as she has been to the modest lot of a clergyman's daughter, Miss Austen may only witness the habits of her more materially-fortunate brethren with shocked dismay, and trust that her fervent prayers — sent Heavenward in all the humility of a woman mindful of her end — might serve as intercession between the Fallen and their Maker.

  Unless, I observed to myself with satisfaction on the present occasion, the more materially-fortunate brethren determine our Jane to be worthy of a little dissipation-on-loan. A visit to a race-meeting, perhaps, in all the glory of a barouche-landau excellently placed for viewing the horses, a picnic hamper overflowing with good things, and attendant footmen stifling in their livery. There can be few pursuits so conducive to the flutter of an ivory fan or the delicate flirtation of a muslin sunshade. And where but at the Canterbury Races, in the very midst of August Race Week, might one find all the excesses of human folly so conveniently placed to hand?

  Within the compass of my sight, I assure you, were any number of incipient scandals. The countenance of more than one gentleman was flushed with wine and the course's promise, or perhaps the anxiety attendant upon heavy betting — for in the decision of a moment, fortunes might be made or lost, reputations sacrificed, and ruin visited upon more than merely the horse.

  From the vantage of their gay equipages, ladies young and old flirted with every passing swain, and offered raspberry cordial or spruce beer to such as were overcome by the heat. Our friends the Wildmans, from nearby Chilham Castle; the Edward Taylors, from Bifrons Park; and the Finch-Hattons, of Eastwell Park, in their elegant green barouche, all chattered gaily across the distance separating their parties. Footmen unpacked the heaviest of the hampers, and decanted the spirits from an hundred bottles, while stable lads walked the patient carriage horses under whatever shade might be found.

  One dark-haired young woman, tricked out in a very fetching habit of red bombazine, with a tricorn hat and feathers, held pride of place on the box of her own perch phaeton — a daring gesture in so public a gathering, and not for the faint of heart. It was a cunning little equipage, built for speed and grace, and possibly not unsuited to a lady's use in St. James Park — but a rare sight, indeed, among the serviceable coaches of Kent. She drove a pair of matched greys, and led a snorting black gelding behind — or rather, her tyger did. He was a diminutive, crab-faced fellow with a bent back, stifling in gold braid and livery, who sat hunched at the phaeton's rear, awaiting his mistress's commands, and feeding an occasional bit of greenstuff to the snorting black.

  As I watched, the figure in scarlet drew a whip-point from her collar and tossed it to an admirer standing at the phaeton's wheel. He caught it neatly and held it to his lips like a spoil of victory; she threw back her head and laughed. I might have enquired as to the lady's name, but that I espied my brothers approaching the Austen carriage, and thus dismissed the Fair Unknown without regret. I must confess that even Jane will grow weary of fashionable absurdities, when treated to their display for so long as three months.

  In June, my sister Cassandra and I shook off the dust of Bath and descended upon Kent, and all the splendour of Godmersham, my brother Edward's principal estate.[1] The change in circumstance has been material, I assure you. My excellent father having passed from this life in the last days of January, the subsequent months were overshadowed by all the gloom of bereavement; and the
black hours were hardly improved by my mother's heartfelt wish of quitting Green Park Buildings, in the hope of an establishment more suited to her purse and widowed estate. February, and then March, and even April were allowed to pass away in pursuit of cheaper pastures; but the sensibilities of three women being so far divided on the question of what was vital to our comfort, we could none of us agree. And so we resigned the abominable duty at the first opportunity — my mother embarking upon a visit to Hampshire, and her daughters stepping thankfully into their brother's chaise, sent expressly from Kent for the purpose.

  In the great house at Godmersham, no expense is too dear for the achievement of my comfort. All is effected with ease and style, for an elegant mode of living is the primary object of Elizabeth, my brother's wife. There are not many uses for a baronet's daughter, but the steady management of a gentleman's household may safely be described as one of them; and in this, and in the rearing of a numerous progeny, Lizzy gives daily proof of her goodness. At Godmersham I may revel in the solitary possession of the Yellow Room (the bedchamber at the head of the stairs, set aside for my use whenever I am come into Kent), and while away a rainy afternoon with a good book and a better fire in the library's shadowed peace. Here I may be above vulgar economy, and drink only claret with my dinner, despising the orange wine that usually falls to my lot. When Edward's excellent equipages await my every whim, I need not rely upon the hack chaise for the conduct of my business; and if seized by the fever of composition, I have no cause to hide myself away, in constant apprehension of discovery. The grounds at Godmersham are very fine, and include in their compass at least one summerhouse and a cunning little temple set on a hill, ideally suited to the visitation of the Muse.

  I find my condition in general so enviable, and so entirely suited to my taste, as to make me think with wonder on a certain event of nearly three years ago. Can I have been in full possession of my senses, indeed, to have refused Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither — a man of wealth and easy circumstances, despite his numerous imperfections — simply because I could not esteem him? Utter folly! The indulgence of a fanciful mind! And its bitter reward is orange wine and hired lodgings for the rest of my days.

  “Jane. “My brother Henry, two steps ahead of Edward in their assault upon our barouche, shattered my reverie at a word. “I fear we must desert you this very instant, or we shall never secure a position at the rail. It is the Commodore's final heat, you know, and he is to meet a very telling litde filly, Josephine by name, who won her last quite handily. He is to carry four stone six.”[2]

  Edward — handsome, carefree, and debonair despite the fine beads of sweat starting out on his brow — leaned into the open carriage and kissed his wife. “You look a picture, my dear. Shall our defection make you desolate?”

  Picture was the very word for Lizzy, with her delicate parasol of Valenciennes lace inclined just so, above her dark head, and the famous Knight pearls shining dully on her bosom. “Not at all,” she murmured, with a languid look from her slanting green eyes, “for positioned as you are, Neddie, you quite destroy all our hopes of flirtation. Jane and I can manage quite well by ourselves — until dinnertime, at least, when we shall grow cross and hot and prove quite ready to declare ourselves of your party. Until then, sir, be off! For we want none of your careful ways.”

  My brother burst out laughing at this sally of his wife's, and kissed her again, to the astonishment of the raven-haired little governess, Anne Sharpe; but all of Kent might observe the pair without contempt, for the Austens' was always acknowledged a love-match. Indeed, Neddie is so amiable, so honestly good — and Lizzy so perpetually elegant, without the least pretension to snobbery — that there can be few who must observe their happiness, without wishing them the heartiest good fortune in the world.

  “May not I accompany you, Papa?” My niece Fanny bounced impatiently on the barouche seat opposite. She is Edward's eldest child, and very nearly his favourite — a pretty little thing of twelve, with all the advantage of birth, fortune, and connexion to recommend her. “I long to see the Commodore's action!”

  “His action, is it? Lord, Fanny, how you do go on. I suppose we have you to thank, Miss Sharpe, for this cunning miss's tongue!”

  A look of horror suffused Miss Sharpe's flushed cheeks, and she searched in vain for a word. Fanny's governess cannot be more than two-and-twenty, and however proficient in French and instruction on the pianoforte, is possessed of a delicate constitution. She holds my amiable brother in something very like terror.

  “I should not have thought you equal to the mortification of the governess, Neddie,” Lizzy interposed quietly. “You are usually possessed of better taste.”

  “I believe Henry deserves the credit of schooling Fanny's tongue,” I quickly supplied, while Miss Sharpe sank back into her seat in confusion. “The children have acquired all manner of cant expressions in the short time he has been with us. I was treated to a sermon on the art of boxing this morning, from little George — who offered to show young Edward his fives, and threatened to draw his cork, if he did not come up to scratch, and I know not what else. Miss Sharpe is hardly equal to Henry's influence. She shall merely be forced to remedy it, when he has at last returned to Town.”

  “But, Papa — may not I accompany you to the rail?” Fanny persisted, having heard not above a word of the abuse visited upon her favourite uncle.

  “The Commodore's action shall hardly be worth viewing, my dear,” Neddie said easily, “after the three heats he has already survived. We shall be in luck, does he finish the race at all.”

  “Nonsense!” Henry cried. “The horse was never fitter!”

  “But, Papa—”

  “Now, do not teaze, Fanny. You know it would never do. We shall return directly the race is run, for there is sure to be a crush in leaving the field, and the oppression of the weather is fearsome. I will not have your mother tired.” And with a forage into the picnic hamper for some bread and cheese, the two men set off for the rail.

  Fanny burst into tears and buried her head in Lizzy's lap.

  “I suppose,” Lizzy observed distantly, while one hand smoothed her eldest's bedraggled curls, “that a finer lady would lament the ruin of her best muslin at such a moment, and shriek for Miss Sharpe to come to her aid. But I have never been very fine in my ways, Jane.”

  “No,” I fondly replied, “only born to an elegance that is as natural as breathing, and that must serve as a lesson to all who meet you. The muslin shall survive, Lizzy, without the intervention of Miss Sharpe.”

  The governess was in no danger of hastening to her mistress's aid, however, for her interest was entirely claimed by a scene unfolding well beyond the limits of the barouche. As I watched, Miss Sharpe drew a sudden breath, and clasped her gloved hands together as tho' desperate for control. I glanced over my shoulder to discover what had so excited her anxiety — and found myself arrested in my turn.

  The lady in scarlet, whom I had remarked some time earlier, now stood upright in her elegant perch phaeton. Her countenance — which in easier moments might well have been judged lovely — was contorted with rage, and she held a whip poised in her right hand. A gentleman stood calmly at her carriage mount, as tho' braced for the issue of her fury; and as I watched, the whip lashed down with a stinging sigh upon his very neck. Beside me, Anne Sharpe cried aloud, and then stifled the sound with her hand.

  Lizzy's green eyes narrowed. “Whatever has Mrs. Grey got up to now?”

  “Mrs. Grey?”

  “The banker's wife. She is capable of anything, I believe—”

  “She has just struck the gentleman by the phaeton with her riding whip. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “Not at all.” Lizzy sounded intrigued. “I have never seen him before in my life. A gentleman from Town, perhaps, come down to Kent on purpose for the races.”

  “He is possessed of the most extraordinary countenance,” I whispered. “But why should she abuse him in so public a manner? I cannot believe he o
ffered her an insult — there was neither heat nor drunkenness in his looks.”

  Not a commanding figure, to be sure — for he was slight and taut as a greyhound, in his elegant coat of green superfine and his fashionable high-crowded hat. A young man of perhaps thirty, whose auburn hair fell loose to his shoulders, like a cavalier's of another age. In these respects, he looked very much like any other gentleman of breeding who strolled about the race grounds; but in his aspect there was something more: an air of nobility and unguessed powers, that demanded a second glance.

  “Perhaps he has declined the offer of Mrs. Grey's favours,” Lizzy murmured, “and she could not abide the affront. It would be in keeping with her reputation, I assure you.”

  As we watched, the scarlet-clad woman pushed angrily past the man she had injured, and hastened from the phaeton. He gazed after her a moment, his countenance devoid of expression, and then drew a handkerchief from within his coat. This he applied to a great weal standing out above the line of his neckcloth; and then, rather thoughtfully, his eyes shifted towards our own. He held our gaze some few seconds, and then, quite deliberately, raised his hat in acknowledgement.

  “Yes, Jane,” Lizzy breathed, “self-possession and nerve are in all his looks. I would give a great deal to know his name.”

  “Fanny,” Anne Sharpe said abruptly from the seat opposite, “you are crumpling your mother's dress. Do come and sit by me, dear, and partake of the jellied chicken. I am sure this litde fit of temper is entirely due to your nerves. They cannot withstand such heat, you know, if you refuse Cook's excellent luncheon.”

  “Some jellied chicken, Lizzy?” I enquired.

  “Every feeling revolts,” she said dismissively. Her eyes were still trained on the elegant young man, who had moved off through the crowd in the direction opposite to Mrs. Grey. “I shall never make a patroness of the turf, my dear Jane, for I find the stench of dust and dung very nearly insupportable. Without the parade of fashion that always attends such events, I should be bored to tears.”