Jane and the Genius of the Place jam-4

by Stephanie Barron

  To my surprise, however, the housemaid informed me that Mrs. Knight was not at home. I was enough an intimate of White Friars, however, that I was invited very civilly within, and offered a glass of wine and a slice of lemon cake. When Neddie and Henry called to claim me, I was thus established in all the splendour of an empty apartment, with an aspect giving out on a late-August garden, quite engrossed in my book.

  “This is living fine, indeed,” Neddie cried. “Poor Collingforth is charged with murder, and you can do nothing but consume a quantity of cake!”

  I closed my book and surveyed him narrowly. “Lizzy has informed me that you are invariably peevish when suffering the pangs of hunger. Call for some more cake, I beg, and tell me of the inquest. Was Mr. Grey in evidence?”

  “He arrived in haste, some moments after the jury had viewed the remains of his wife. Mr. Wing, our coroner, actually called Grey to the stand — but he could offer littie concerning his wife's death, beyond attesting that he was absent from the country at the time.”

  “And did Mr. Wing enquire as to his movements?”

  “He did not. A gentleman's word, after all, is his bond.” Neddie could affect the ironical nearly as well as myself. His own man in London, it seemed, had not yet returned with the desired intelligence.

  “You presented the note?”

  “And had the pleasure of witnessing Mrs. Colling-forth called. The coroner thought it necessary she should attest to her husband's hand — which she did, albeit in an inaudible tone. She looked very ill.”

  “She fainted,” Henry supplied.

  “Of course she did,” I returned impatiently. “It was expected by everyone in attendance. But I am astonished that she should admit to recognising the hand. Even the most truthful of wives might be forgiven a prevarication, in such a cause.”

  “Perhaps Laetitia Collingforth has other feelings, somewhat less expected in a wife,” Neddie suggested delicately.

  “Such as — a desire for revenge against her husband?”

  “She has been made to look a fool before her neighbours.”

  “True,” I said. “But what of the letter in French, discovered within the scandalous novel, Neddie? Did Mr. Grey still maintain that it was sent by a courier?”

  “Of course. Any other admission — such as the existence of yet another lover — should serve to cloud the waters. For whatever reason, Mr. Grey desired a swift conclusion to the day's events. He was not inspired to confuse the coroner's judgement. And as we know, Jane, Mrs. Grey did receive a courier.”

  “—Tho' not on the shores of Pegwell Bay,” I mused.

  “You have neglected to mention the lad,” Henry prodded.

  Neddie frowned. “It cannot hope to serve Colling-forth's case. But perhaps Henry should inform you, Jane. I had stepped out when the lad was called.”

  “The lad?”

  “An undergroom of James Wildman's,” Henry supplied. “He had been left to hold the horse while Wild-man circulated among the crowd. He was positioned only a hundred yards, perhaps, from our own coach.”

  “I remember Mr. Wildman's equipage,” I said; and indeed, the dark blue fittings of the carriage's interior were elegant in the extreme, as suited the master of Chilham Castle.

  “The lad professes to have seen a gentleman unknown to him, enter Collingforth's chaise.”

  “Could he describe this person?”

  “He could not,” Henry said, “and being just then distracted by some orders of Wildman's, he did not observe the gentleman to depart. Some time later, when he chanced to look again at Collingforth's chaise, it was to find Mrs. Grey on the point of quitting the interior— presumably after her conference with Collingforth himself.”

  “Or the unknown gentleman,” I said thoughtfully. “And is this boy to be credited?”

  Henry shrugged. “Wildman would have it that he comes of a respectable family, in the Castle's employ these many years, and that he has never been known for a fanciful nature.”

  “How very odd,” I said slowly. “It is as tho' Collingforth's chaise was to let for the use of any number of passersby. Are we to assume, then, that Mrs. Grey was acquainted with the stranger? And that she met him by design within the borrowed chaise?”

  “I should not be surprised to hear it,” Neddie replied. “Nothing that lady did while alive can seem extraordinary now in death. She was accustomed to liberties and behaviours that, in another, might seem inexplicable.”

  “What did the coroner make of the stable lad's words?”

  “Very little, it would seem, since he returned a verdict against Mr. Collingforth.”

  “Recollect, Jane, that all this is said to have occurred before the final heat,” Henry observed, “when Collingforth is known to have been at the cockpit, in company with his friend Everett. He was seen and recognised there by a score of his acquaintance; but, of course, it is immaterial where Collingforth was when Mrs. Grey was yet alive.”

  “It is clear, nonetheless, that despite her husband's protests, there is a man in Mrs. Grey's case,” I declared. “That man is hardly Denys Collingforth. Wildman's groom should have recognised so near a neighbour. We must apply ourselves, Neddie, to learning the name of the Unknown Cicisbeo without further delay.”

  “Why should you exert yourself, Jane, for a rogue like Collingforth?” my brother asked me curiously. “He is dissolute, nearly ruined by gaming and drink, and he is said to treat his wife abominably. You are hardly even acquainted, and can certainly bear him no affection.”

  “But I am increasingly convinced that someone has endeavoured to place his neck in a noose,” I replied, “and I cannot bear to think that such malevolent cunning should go undetected, much less unpunished. That is all. Call it a simple desire for justice, if you will.”

  “Or the desire to outwit a foe,” he retorted. “I swear you might almost be a man at times. No wonder you are the despair of our mother, Jane.”

  “She may have Cassandra to console her,” I said. And smiled.

  Chapter 8

  At Delmar's Rooms

  21 August 1805, cont'd.

  HOWEVER RIDICULOUS I MIGHT FIND THE GUARDS' decision to attend the Race Week Assembly, I could see nothing reprehensible in my own participation. I dearly love a ball. And the crowd that moves so indolently through the smart Delmar's Rooms, tho' hardly as fine as the most select society of London, is nonetheless a glittering parade. There is that about the company — a liberality of means, a refinement of experience, an elegance of conduct and expression — that must lift the meanest participant to a more elevated plane. It is all too likely that such delights will prove depressingly rare in my future life; my father's death can only reduce my modest fortunes still further; and as the decade of my thirties opens, I must be but too sensible of the continuing diminution of my looks. It is a melancholy picture — one that might thrust me entirely into despair, were I not possessed of those inner resources without which a woman is nothing. However retired my future days, I will have my wit to sustain me — the secret sarcasms of my pen, that must subject even the greatest to my power, unbeknownst to themselves. I shall have long walks in sun and shadow with my dearest sister, Cassandra. I shall have desultory hours of practise on a hired and indifferent piano. And on occasion, courtesy of Neddie and Lizzy, I shall have the illicit pleasure of a Canterbury ball.

  While life may still offer a good-size room, braced with roaring fires and a plethora of wax candles — while “The Comical Fellow” or “The Shrewsbury Lasses” still thread their delightful chords through the babble of conversation — while some hundred couples of a nodding acquaintance, and a full detachment of the Cold-stream Guards, exist as it were for my pleasure alone — I cannot fail of enjoyment. Let melancholy be banished for another day, when I am too-long marooned in the rains of Bath, and the regrets of my vanished youth.

  And thus, heedless of murder and the threat of invasion both, I pinned the shoe-roses to my slippers this evening, adjusted my muslin shawl, and a
llowed myself to be borne away to yet another scene of dissipation. I had not been arrived five minutes, before I felt my morals to be thoroughly corrupted.

  That this was the result of gallantries easily paid, from at least three gentlemen in my general acquaintance, might readily be imagined. I entered upon the scene in the company of the Godmersham party — Neddie, Henry, Lizzy, and myself — with every expectation of pleasure. I wore a borrowed gown, made over in respect of the current season, that became me almost as much as it had graced Lizzy two summers before; my hair had been cut and dressed in curls all about my forehead, courtesy of the obliging Mr. Hall; and despite the closing of that decade beyond which a woman is commonly believed to cherish few hopes, I knew myself to be presently in good looks. I shall never again possess the bloom of eighteen; the bones of my face have sharpened of late, particularly about the nose, as tho' the flesh is stretched too tightly over it, and my complexion is coarser than it was ten years ago. But several months' trial of the air of Kent, taken in daily doses through long country walks, will have their effect; and despite the worry of advancing French hordes, and a commensurate anxiety for the safety of my naval brothers, my eyes were as bright as though I were embarked upon my very first ball.

  “The Godmersham party! At long last!”

  Mr. Edward Taylor advanced upon us with arms outstretched, as befits a very old acquaintance. Those dark eyes I had so long ago celebrated, and mourned upon his betrothal to another, were alight with anticipation and scandal; little else of his former self could be traced in the present figure. Age will take its toll, even among the wealthy of Kent; and the object of my girlhood dreams was become florid and balding. But his ample waistcoat was a testament to the excellent management of his household at Bifrons Park — and so I judged Edward Taylor happy, and excused his fall from grace.

  “You have had us all on tenterhooks, man! Thank God that you did not forgo the Assembly.” Mr. Taylor seized my brother Neddie's arm. “Is the fellow Collingforth laid by the heels? The matter quite resolved already? Or shall you have recourse to the authorities in London?”

  “Don't look so dull and stupid, my dear,” Lizzy murmured in Neddie's ear. “He is enquiring about the Grey woman's murder.”

  “I had perceived that much, Lizzy,” Neddie returned, and bowed to Mr. Taylor with careless grace. “You astonish me, Edward. I had hoped that at least you — who care nothing for horseflesh, and never venture farther than your own spring in such heated weather — might have escaped the tide of Race Week gossip. But if even Mr. Taylor is not immune, I must resign myself to being the object of every eye.”

  “So that's the way of it, is it?” Mr. Taylor rejoined, not to be deterred. “You intend to tell us nothing?”

  “The ways of Justice, like the secrets of the marriage bed, are best enshrouded in silence,” Neddie intoned.

  Mr. Taylor merely snorted at this, while Lizzy laid a hand caressingly on my brother's shoulder. “Poor lamb,” she crooned, “you shall be led to the slaughter. I give you a quarter-hour, my dear, at the hands of your dearest friends — and then we shall see how enshrouded your tongue may be. Come along, Jane.”

  And so I fled in Lizzy's bewitching train, bobbing and nodding to a multitude on either side, to take up a position just below the musicians, where we might observe the gathering company. I expected my sister Cassandra, and Harriot Bridges, among them; and was impatient to converse at long last with the former.

  Lizzy snapped open her ivory fan — a gift from my brother Charles, when Endymion was in the Mediterranean — and began to waft a humid air about our faces. I do not believe there is a lady living who can carry off dark grey silk so becomingly as Lizzy. The new gown — so long expected from her modiste — had been ordered a month previous, during a flying visit to London; and with its cap sleeves, fitted bodice, and extraordinary turban of jet and feathers, it looked admirably suited to the wardrobe of a queen. Lizzy is in the last days of mourning for her eldest sister, Fanny Cage, who departed this life in May; but her dark colouring makes even the dusky shades of grief appear to advantage.

  “Good God, it is hot,” she murmured. “Every sensible young lady will be slipping into the garden for a turn in the moonlight before the hour is out. How unfortunate that such a recourse is denied to me. You, however, might avail yourself — having neither a husband to detain you, nor an anxious regard for your reputation.”

  “And with whom would you have me take a turn, Lizzy?”

  “Anyone might do for a little moonlight,” she said, shrugging carelessly. “It conceals a host of sins, and lends an aura of grandeur to the most common physiognomy. Take my brother, Mr. Bridges, for instance — he can look quite well-made with a little shadow to lend him substance.”

  “I understood from your sister Harriot that Mr. Bridges was indisposed. But perhaps it has passed off, if he truly intends the ball this evening.”

  “My brother is nothing if not inconstant. He considers it as chief among his charms — being of a turn to mistake an unpardonable weakness for an amiable disposition.”

  “You are severe upon him.”

  “The Reverend Brook-Edward Bridges is the sort of man I cannot help but despise,” she rejoined sharply. “He believes the world exists to sustain his follies, and ask nothing of him in return. My brother was spoilt as a youth, and age has merely made him indolent. He sponges on my mother and my husband for the relief of his debts, and is foolish enough to believe that he might prevail upon an excellent woman to make his fortune in marriage. Yes, Jane, I am severe upon him — for he has disappointed me these fifteen years at least.”

  I smiled, catching at but a part of her diatribe. “And which lady is so fortunate as to deserve the honour of Mr. Bridges's attentions? She cannot possess less than ten thousand pounds, I daresay — tho' as the son of a baronet, he might endeavour to look still higher.”

  “Oh, Jane — have you not seen? Have you not understood?” Lizzy was too well-bred to cry out in exasperation, but the murmured words carried a singular vehemence. “My brother intends that either you or Cassandra shall be his bride. If Cassandra's visit to Goodnestone fails of the desired result, you shall be sent for next week, as a second string to his fiddle. It matters not to Edward which of your hearts he engages; it merely suffices to secure one or the other.”

  I could not reply for fully five seconds. My heart pounded in my chest with indignation, and the blood rose to my heated cheeks, while speech was left entirely at bay. Lizzy, for her part, retained the serenity of her air — I imagine she might as easily plot regicide behind that extraordinary countenance — and murmured a greeting to a passing acquaintance.

  “There is Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton,” she observed, “shockingly underdressed as usual. I cannot think what she finds to admire in the spectacle of her own bosom. Her husband certainly does not — he will already be settled at whist. And there is her daughter, the feckless Louisa — a not unpretty sort of girl, but distressingly wanting in understanding. I expect them to descend upon Godmersham tomorrow — did I mention as much? They always take us in on their return to East-well Park; it has become quite the Race Week custom. I shall have to order a good dinner, regardless of the threat of the French.”

  “You cannot have spoken seriously just now, Lizzy,” I muttered purposefully in her ear. “You can only have intended it as a poor sort of jest.”

  “—You would refer to my brother's hopes? I should never sport with those, my dearest Jane. I find them too tedious to provide of much wit. But I suspect I have distressed you. I did not intend it. I thought that one of your penetration would have marked Edward out long ago.”

  “Mr. Bridges is certainly a gallant gentleman,” I managed, “but as for having the slightest pretension to the affections of either Cassandra or myself—”

  “I must confess that in making you both his object, my brother has not simply consulted himself. The alliance is my mother's dearest wish — and this has, in great measure, served t
o guide him.”

  “Lady Bridges desires the match?”

  Lizzy's superb green eyes glanced at me sidelong. “I perceive that you are all astonishment, Jane. But you must know that as to fortune, my mother is hardly particular. Her anxiety is all for Edward's welfare. She fears he will end by fleeing to the Continent, pursued by his numerous creditors, does he fail to secure a sensible wife. Lady Bridges is aware that, however slim their resources, the Austens have always been possessed of sense. She could not fashion a better helpmeet out of whole cloth, did she even possess the power, than yourself or Cassandra.”

  “But we have barely a pound to spare between us!” I protested. “How can we be expected to secure Mr. Bridges's fortunes?”

  “Ah.” Lizzy sighed. “How, indeed? I have represented as much to Mamma. But she will hear nothing against either of you. My brother's circumstances, however presendy involved, shall be speedily arranged by Lady Bridges herself, once his betrothal is announced. Provided, of course” — and here the green gaze turned calculating as a cat's — “that Mamma approves of his choice.”

  “Good God!” I cried. “Can it be possible? Mr. Bridges to marry an Austen, simply for the relief of his debts?”

  “Neddie gives the preference to you, Jane,” Lizzy said by way of reply, “because you are merely five years Edward's senior, and because Cassandra is so tenacious in the single state. She might have had our good friend Mr. Kemble, of Chilham, these three years for the asking; and yet she shows not the slightest inclination to marry.”

  “And where do you place your wager, Lizzy?”

  “I consider that you are far less likely to be cozened by a popinjay than any woman alive,” she replied, “and from the accounts I receive of poor Edward's progress with your sister, I cannot think that Cassandra will yield. It is a hopeless case, is it not? My brother must look to the Continent by and by.”