But at the thought of France, I was seized by a memory and a notion at once.
“Eliza,” I said, as we ploughed ahead against the wind, “how great still is your command of the French language?”
“As great as my enjoyment of it, Jane — which is to say, excessively good.”
I had observed it to find its way into your conversation.”
“Oh, that, my dear — when one has a reputation for liveliness, one is forever ejaculating bits of French and Italian. It passes for breeding, in some parts of town. But you cannot mean betise,” she said, as if suddenly struck. “Even you must know it to mean a stupidity.’
“I thought it a faux pas,” I rejoined, with a hint of dryness, at which Eliza laughed aloud.
“How I have missed you,” she cried, patting my arm. “You must come to London this winter, my dear, and throw yourself in the way of some dashingly handsome murderer, so that I may have the enjoyment of following in your train as you go about exposing the man's vileness. In fact, a propos of vile men, I have several we might pretend are murderers, and expose for the fun of it. Nothing has been so delicious, I assure you, since you ended the Scargrave business so tidily.[15] I have been quite overcome with ennui; but then, I always am in the summer. One so wants a little scandal, now and then, that one is almost tempted to make it oneself!”
“Now, Eliza—” I cautioned.
“Oh, never mind, cherie. Unmixed felicity is rarely found in life, but your Henry knew when he married me that I was unaccustomed to control, and should probably behave very awkwardly, did he attempt it; and so, like the wise man he is, he makes my will his own.[16] And thus we get along quite happily.”
“I am relieved to hear it.”
“Of course you are. You mistrust the married state so well, you have never ventured near it yourself — and may be forgiven for assuming it to be the ruin of all those around you.”
“I deserve neither such praise, nor such censure,Eliza!” I cried. “I should gladly have assayed the estate, had it been offered by a gentleman for whom I could feel sincere affection. But in cases where such affection was possible, the gentleman did not offer; and when it was the reverse, I could not accept.”
“I am very sorry for it, Jane,” Eliza replied soberly, “and for the unconscious cruelty of my words. I meant but to make a sport of men, in holding them up to your supposed derision; but I ended by wounding you.’
“I, et us think no more about it,” I replied, mortified at my own susceptibility; were my feelings regarding my single state, at the advanced age of eight-and-twenty, so exceedingly raw? But I shook off such thoughts and returned to my first subject. “Regarding your mastery of French,” I said. “Can you give me the sense of a particular word, did T attempt to repeat it?”
“I can but try.”
“Very well. I believe it was lascargon.” A French word spoken in the drawing-room at High Down Grange.
Eliza's brows lowered over her eyes with a pretty air of penetration. “But that means nothing, my dear Jane. You cannot have got it right.”
“Think, Eliza. What might I have heard?”
“Lascargon. Lascargon. I suppose it might have been les garsons—the boys — or La Gascogney a woman from Gascony, a province of France.”
“That could very well be!” 1 cried, considering Seraphine. “But why did he not simply call her by name?”
We had achieved the end of the Cobb, and were thrust quite far out into the sea; a drenching plume of spray burst and churned against the rocks at our feet, and in the distance, a cutter sped by under full sail, its stem harried by seabirds. The breeze off the waves was decidedly stiff; and after a summer of Bath's closeness and poor drains, the smells of a city given over to medicinal waters, I revelled in Lyme's freshness, and breathed deep.
Eliza was not so sanguine. “Jane, my dear, I am all to pieces in this wind,” she declared, turning about with a hand to her turban, “and your confusion of pronouns has quite worn out my patience. Let us turn round, and find our way to the Golden Lion, while you explain yourself.”
And so, as the shadows of afternoon grew longer on the Cobb, and the gulls wheeled and dipped above our heads, I told Eliza of High Down Grange, and the mysteries of a lanthorn on the cliff edge at night.
“And you cannot place the girl Seraphine's purpose in the household,” Eliza mused, her eyes upon the stones. “She seems neither a domestic nor a lady. Well! There is only one possibility remaining! She is his little French lovebird — though why he dresses her in sacks, and sends her about the shingle at night, I cannot undertake to say. You have once again found yourself the company of a rogue, my dear Jane, and we must know more of his character before such questions may be resolved.”
“I do not think you have the right of it, Eliza,” I protested. “Seraphine had not the look of a mistress.”
“And what is that, in your understanding? An open vulgarity, a blowsy aspect, a decided want of taste? I assure you, the chere amies I have known — including my late husband's — were hardly as the novels have painted them.” At my expression of horror, Eliza threw back her head and laughed. “I shock you, Jane; I am sure that I shock you; but, after all, that is my purpose in life. I continue to exist merely for the upsetting of Austen conventions. And when are we likely to encounter this most intriguing gentleman? At the Lyme Assembly?”
“I should not think Mr. Sidmouth prone to dancing. He wants the sort of easy temper that finds diversion in frivolity.”
“Perhaps,” Eliza replied. “Perhaps. But I would charge you to take care with your appearance on the morrow, in the event Mr. Sidmouth comes.”
“You cannot believe me to wish for the attentions of such a man!” I protested.
“I can, and I do. Your air, when you speak of him, is hardly easy, and you were ever a girl to find the eccentric character more engaging than the open. You delight hi mystery, my dear Jane; and Mr. Sidmouth has piqued your interest. Admit it! Your reddened cheeks even now bespeak your susceptibilities/’
Indeed they do not” My voice was sharp — but then, I was rather mortified. “They are merely brightened by the wind.”
“I could find it in my heart to believe you, my dear, Eliza said comfortably, “did not the wind blow to our backs at present.”
I HAD REASON TO PONDER ELIZA'S WORDS WHEN ONCE I HAD SEEN her safely into the care of her devoted maid, Manon, and her little dog, Pug, in the rooms Henry had engaged at the Golden Lion. I was returned once more to the street, and only steps from my cottage gate, when a brief scene unfolding near a shopfront opposite, drew my curious eye. A flash of a scarlet cloak, a stream of unbound blond hair, and the angelic features of Seraphine — and behind her, Mr. Sidmouth, his brows drawn down in an expression of angry contempt. Another man — a common labourer, and quite astoundingly tipsy, by his wavering appearance — was lounging in the shop doorway, an unattractive leer upon his face. That he had only just unburdened himself of a phrase of abuse, I read in his countenance; and knew Sidmouth's anger to be the result. Seraphine, to her credit, appeared unmoved. Her noble head was high, and her carriage graceful; she moved, as always, as though possessed of wings. I bent my head, much intrigued by what had passed, but desirous of drawing no attention from their quarter; and in a moment I had gained the safety of the cottage door. One further glance sufficed to tell me that the intimates of High Down were turned the corner; and I breathed a sigh of relief. But why? Why this emotion at the sight of him, and in her company? A man of whom I know next to nothing, and have even less reason to think well of; a man so little likely to prove congenial to my sensibility or expectations? The ways of the mind and heart are sometimes past all understanding.
Except, I am reminded, for the Elizas of this world.
Chapter 3
The Sally Gibbet
6 September 1804
CASSANDRA AND I WERE ROUSED FROM SLEEP AT DAWN BY THE HUE and cry of a large party of men; and when I had stumbled to the window, and o'er
looked the lightening Cobb[17], I found them to be racing back along its length in an attitude of urgency. I might have spared a thought, in my fuddled state, to wonder at such a noise; but, in truth, I merely felt all the strength of honest resentment, in being roused so early by a party of brawling flsherfolk. Though I have lived more than three years in Bath, and must be accustomed to the sounds of a city's daybreak, I have not yet forgot the felicity of early-morning birdsong, and the gender down of the country. And so I gaped, and glared once more upon the beach, in the direction from which the men were running — and started where I stood.
For the first rays of a rising sun had picked out the end of the stone pier, to reveal erected there a scaffolding ominous in its outlines, even from the distance at which I beheld it; and depending from its crossbar, what appeared to be a bundle of clothing, swaying dejectedly in the stiff breeze off the sea. It must — it could not be other — than a parody of a man; a straw form, perhaps, for burning in effigy — or so my bewildered thoughts insisted, as I gazed with palpitating heart. For if it were truly a man, then he could not be otherwise than hanged. And how a man should meet his end in so extraordinary a manner— in a place I well knew to have been free of a gibbet only the previous afternoon — was past all understanding.
As I watched, a wave rose up and broke whitely against the rocks, drenching the crossbar's nerveless form, and the cries of the fleeing fishermen drew nearer.
“What is it, Jane?” came Cassandra's sleepy voice behind me. “A fire?”
“Nothing so general in its destruction,” I said slowly, “though perhaps as inexplicable.”
WHEN I HAD DRESSED, AND BADE THE HOUSEMAID, JENNY, TO SUPPLY Cassandra with tea and toast, I slipped on my bonnet— which was Leghorn straw, quite new, with an upturned brim and violet ribbons — and ventured out of doors. I had told my mother I wished to purchase a pair of gloves, my own being unhappily spotted from the effects of Monday night's rain; but, in truth, I intended to find what the townsfolk might tell me, of the body at the end of the Cobb.
I opened the picket gate, and turned onto Broad Street, making my way with care towards the linendraper's on Pound. Harding and Powell's is a bow-fronted building with a cheerful entry, much frequented by the Austens the previous year; indeed, the fifteen yards required for Cassandra's pink muslin, which I should wear this very evening, were purchased in the shop. But beyond the delights of its lengths of silk and lawn, its ravishing soutaches and braids, its pretty little bunches of purple grapes, ideally suited for the adorning of a straw hat with violet ribbons — the shop was the centre of gossip, according to the temper of its principal clerk, a fellow by the name of Mr. Milsop.
A bell tinkled prettily as I thrust open Harding's bottle-green door and stepped inside. The interior was pervaded with a peculiar mixture of scents, of the sneeze-inducing variety — part camphor, part dried roses, part good new cloth. I glanced quickly about, and found my eye drawn to a sprigged muslin exactly the colour of clotted cream, a shade I may pass off with a fair measure of success; but turned away with some regret, mindful of my errand.
A group of three very fine ladies was gathered at the counter, desirous of service — or perhaps of conversation; for I perceived the very Milsop, waspishly thin, and resplendent in a sky-blue tailcoat, striped breeches, and stiff white cravat, one elegant hand at rest upon the counter's edge, and the other holding high a quizzing glass[18], the better to study his fair audience — with the occasional glint of sunlight, in catching the glass unawares, completing the dazzling effect.
And thus we have the caricature of our age — a gentleman of weak understanding, who apes the form of gentility in an effort to supply his want of substance. But I was not to be afforded further moments for contemplation, or assays of philosophy; the bell had drawn notice; I was seen and — to my great surprise — remembered. The paragon stiffened; the quizzing glass dropped on its silken cord; and condescension gave way to beatific pleasure.
“Can it be? Is heaven so benevolent? Do I see before me the very Miss Austen — Miss Jane Austen — who brightened the tedious hours of an endless September past; whose delicate step, and dulcet voice, could lift my heart with her every visit — whose taste remains so far above Lyme, that I wonder at her repairing once more to these sadly dismal shores; whose understanding, penetration, and cunning ways with hat-trimming are not to be equalled? Or should I say,” — with a sudden recollection of the aforementioned audience — “equalled only by the ladies who stand before me now? And by her own sister as well, the lovely Miss Austen — but can it be?”
To stem a further efflorescence of this kind, I hastened forward, the embodiment of womanly virtue, and extended a gloved hand to Mr. Milsop. It was decidedly spotted, and a delicate frown twitched about the draper's eyes as he bowed gallantly low.
“I am come, as you see, Mr. Milsop,” I began, with a nod to the ladies, whose company had parted coolly for my admittance, “under the direst necessity of a new pair of gloves. I was incommoded by a dreadful storm Monday last; and my things were all quite ruined with rain and mud. But I trust you shall have something that will answer.”
“Answer? Answer? I have gloves that are ravishing, Miss Austen, gloves whose charms could never be denied. Silk gloves, in lilac and peach blossom; doeskin gloves, in day and evening lengths; knitted silk, or knitted cotton— Ah!” he cried, bending low over a counter and pulling open the glass, “these, perhaps? Or would silk serve better?”
Held out for my inspection were a delicately-netted pair, of the finest cotton lace. “Valenciennes,” Mr. Milsop said, with the profoundest satisfaction; “and very dear.”
“Then I fear they shall not do, for a seaside resort, where one is much exposed to the elements,” I replied, with regret. “Such dust and sand, as fly about these streets, should have them soiled in a moment” I scanned the counter's array, and selected a pair of simple cotton gloves, undoubtedly the cheapest on offer in the establishment, and very like the ones I presently wore. Mr. Milsop's face fell; but he rallied, as was his wont, and found a virtue in simplicity.
“Such retiring taste — such a repugnance of show! Not for Miss Jane Austen the vulgarities of Spanish lace; she is the very soul of delicacy! I quite agree. Indeed, I applaud your choice. With consideration, one sees that no other glove in the world could be so suited to your hand. That will be four shillings.”
There was a murmuring behind me, while the little show of exchanging coins occurred; and with a pricking of my ears, I knew the three ladies whose privilege I had displaced, were discussing the very incident of which I wished to learn more.
“His face was quite ghastly,” said the eldest — a bold, queer-looking woman in her middle thirties, with the accent of an Englishwoman raised in Ireland. That accounted for the boldness, and perhaps the queerness as well — which must be said to have begun with her height, which was considerable, and her dress, a vivid green and white drapery in the Greek style, which swooped low across bosom and back, and was held at the shoulders by polished-steel clips in the form of heraldic arms. Quite unsuitable for day, unless I am hopelessly behindhand in my fashions; but her independence of attire was exceeded only by that of her slanting dark eyes, which roved everywhere, and drew back from no one.
“You cannot mean to say you saw it, Mrs. Barnewall!” ejaculated one of her companions — a sharp-featured girl of perhaps four-and-twenty, with ginger hair and an incompatible taste for pink.
“Saw it — alas, I had not the pleasure. I had the news of my tyger[19], who ran up to the gibbet when he should have been holding the horses.”
“The violence of the lower orders is not to be credited,” the ginger-haired girl observed. “Why, only last week, Father ordered a tenant of ours be hanged; for you know that Father is a justice, and the man had poached one of our deer. Only imagine! So brazen! But it was an example, for the fellow had seven children, and his widow is turned out; so that now I fancy our deer shall run unmolested in the park.”
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“For heaven's sake, Letty,” the youngest of the three rejoined faintly, “do not talk so about the odious Cogginses. It quite turns my stomach; and you know I have not been at all well today. I think I shall have some of that yellow muslin, with the scattered border; I am sure it should improve my spirits immeasurably.”
“You have spent your purse already, and Father shall have my head for it,” ginger-haired Letty replied; and tucking her sister's arm beneath her own, she exited the shop in all the complacency native to the possessor of a deer-park, however many unfortunates might be hanged to ensure its continuance.
“Mr. Milsop,” the bold Irishwoman said, with an eye my way, “you have not been very kind. In fact, I must quite accuse you of cruelty. You have extolled the virtues of this lady to everyone who might listen; and yet, you deny us the felicity of an introduction. I am sure you mean to keep her acquaintance all to yourself, for fear that she shall like others better, and desert you.”
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