I had no desire to alert him to my awareness of his presence, by attempting blatantly to lose him; and so, with my head down and my feet purposeful, I made as swiftly as I might for Wings cottage. A hurried ascent to my room, to dress for dinner — and to observe the gentleman posted in the street below, arranged so very casually in a doorway, for all the world like one of my brother James's Loiterers.[73]
I wonder what shall become of him? Does he intend to remain there the rest of the night? And who has set him upon me — and for what possible reason? Is he, perhaps, one of Roy Cavendish's men, intent upon learning the direction of my enquiries, since I have been so rude as to avoid communication with the Customs man himself?
I was unsettled the length of dinner, and could make only the most cursory of replies to my mother's many suppositions regarding Wootton House, and my father's observations of the history of Wootton Fitzpaine's church.
And now, alone with my pen and paper in the clear light of a Sunday morning, with little of activity before me other than the writing of a long-overdue letter to my poor Cassandra, I am incapable of so simple a task, and must rise continually to peer out at the street, in as stealthy a manner possible, in search of an unknown watcher.
Monday, 24 September 1804
NOT LONG AFTER BREAKFAST THIS MORNING, AS I SETTLED DOWN IN the sitting-room to mend the slit in my brown wool, and mull over all that I knew of Lyme's tangled affairs, I was starded to find in the depths of my workbasket, a bit of paper — its edges sealed with a drop of tallow. Opening it in some wonderment, I discovered it to be a missive from our man James, written painstakingly with a bit of lead, and looking something of a scrawl.
Dear Miss, it ran, I'll be seing Matty Hurley as you askt it being my free day. Do you come to St. Michael's church at 3 o'cfock. I hope as this will serve. Yours respeckfuUy James.
I had but to waste the better part of the morning, then, in fitful bursts of work, and occasional glances from the scullery window — which revealed no watchers waiting in doorways; and indeed, I am forced to wonder if my fancies did not run away with me Saturday e'en, in being surfeited with all manner of preposterous schemes.
ST. MICHAEL'S BEING BUT A SHORT WALK DOWN BROAD TO BRIDGE Street, and from thence, after a brief look at the sea and Broad Ledge, which was visible now at low tide[74], up Church Street, I had a very little way to go. I set out not long before three o'clock, accordingly, in my demure close bonnet and with a basket of clothes depending from my arm; for at my mother's hearing that I intended visiting the church, she would charge me with delivering her contribution to the ladies’ auxiliary, and was only persuaded with difficulty against accompanying me herself.
St. Michael's is not a handsome edifice; and that may be attributed, perhaps, to it being two churches at once — a late Norman one, and the present building, which dates from the sixteenth century. It sits nobly upon a cliff, how-ever, and seems quite suited to the spirit of Lyme, with all its peculiarities. I should not wish a more regular building to take its place; it seems, indeed, to have been a part of this coast forever.
I stood a moment on the stoop of the church, and glanced back the way I had come; and shivered to think that I detected a figure lingering behind; but it must have been an effect of the sunlight, a chimera of sorts, for when I blinked to observe a second time, the figure was no more. I pushed open the church's heavy oak door, and stepped into the cool dimness of its vestibule.
All was hushed, and the few supplicants scattered amidst the pews, too bowed in prayer to attend to my arrival. I looked about for James's broad shoulders, and could not find them; and so, after a moment, I progressed up a side aisle and took my place among the reverent. The church bell tolled the hour.
After fifteen minutes of silent contemplation, I determined to search for James outside the church; and made my way once more to the vestibule. It was there I encountered Miss Crawford, as staunch as a general the afternoon of a battle. She stood to one side of the vestibule itself, in the Auxiliary's anteroom, in an imposing black cap arrayed with jet. Her nostrils were pinched as though in reception of a noisome odour, but her bony hands fairly flew among the ordered piles of cast-off clothing. She looked up as I hesitated on the little room's threshold, and under the command of Miss Crawford's gaze, I could not but drop a curtsey.
“Good afternoon, Miss Austen,” that lady said sharply over her spectacles. “I understand you were at Wootton Fitzpaine on Saturday. You should have informed me of your visit prior to having paid it, and I should have charged you with enquiring of Mrs. Barnewall when she intends to make her contribution to the ladies’ auxiliary. My brother tells me she is to leave the country soon; and it should be a very shabby thing, if in all the bustle of making ready, St. Michael's were forgot. But no matter. I was not to know you were to go — and on such a foggy afternoon, too! — and so I shall have the trip to make over.”
“My apologies, Miss Crawford. I could not imagine you to have an interest in that quarter, and thus could not be expected to inform you of my plans.”
“Expected! Hardly. The young are never expected to treat anyone with consideration. But never mind. I see you have your mother's things in that basket.”
“I do, and I send them with her compliments.”
Miss Crawford paused to examine a tiny nightdress, of fine cambric, overlaid with my mother's excellent satin stitch; and sniffed audibly. “The seams might have been straighter; but then, one never gives as much care to things for the poor, as for one's own; and I suppose her eyes are weak, at her age.”
“I shall inform her of your gratitude,” I said drily, and turned for the door.
“Do you remember, Miss Austen, to tell her of the ladies’ tea, to be held at Darby on Saturday,” Miss Crawford called sharply after me. “It is meant as a kindness to the good-hearted women who do so much for the unfortunates of the parish. It is a vast deal of trouble, to be sure, but I count it as nothing. It is the least that I may do. It is to be a very fine tea.”
“Though, perhaps inevitably, tealess,” I observed.
“Whatever do you mean to say, Miss Austen?”
“I had understood there was not a leaf to be had, in all of Lyme.”
“But that is hardly the case at Darby, I may assure you.” Miss Crawford spoke with an air of smug complacency. “My dear brother is never at a loss for tea — but then, we may consider him as having resources, that should be denied a mere visitor, such as yourself.”
“Indeed we may,” I rejoined, in some amusement at her vanity, and quitted the church and Miss Crawford together.
I made my way to the little churchyard, and found James with his back against a headstone, and a burly man, quite ill-shaven, at his side. The latter discarded a bit of grass he had been twirling between his teeth, and pulled himself to his feet He had no hat to hold, and so stood with his head slightly bowed, awaiting my notice — a balding fellow, with a crooked nose, a perpetual dimple in one cheek, and a rough warmth to his gaze. Despite his attitude of deference, he had a confident air, as though life held no mysteries beyond his understanding.
“Miss Austen, miss,” James said, with the barest suggestion of anxiety in his aspect. “We thought as you weren't coming.”
“I was somewhat detained by church business,”I replied. “I take it you are Matthew Hurley?”
“Matty'll do just fine, miss.”
“I've been a-teliin’ Matty here how Maggie Tibbit'd have it ‘e owes her money,” James began, “and Matty — well, you tell Miss Austen, then.”
“I don't owe Bill Tibbit nothin’ nor a curse,” the fellow said comfortably, “and haven't done, since he ran the Royal Belle aground.”
“The ship's loss does seem to have turned all of Lyme against him,” I observed.
“It did that. He were paid to lose the Belle, and three fine young men o’ town was lost with it.” Mr. Hurley paused a moment to clear his throat, and as abruptly spat.
I glanced at James's untroubled count
enance, then turned to his companion. “It was the Reverend's ship, I understand.”
“Now, 'oo be tellin’ you that?” Matty Hurley said, with a narrowed eye.
“Maggie Tibbit. She said that her husband had been a regular spotter for the smugglers’ crews, and that he lingered too long over his tankard, when he should better have been gone to Puncknowle and the signal tower.”
“It's right convenient she should think so,” the man replied, “but that warn't the truth of it. Bill were paid, and he met ‘is end fer it, as did the feller as paid ‘im.”
I looked from one to the other with a growing apprehension. “You cannot mean — that is to say — Mr. Hurley, would you have it that Captain Fielding paid the man to ground the Bella And that he lost his life as a result?”
“I ain't savin’ here nor there,” the fellow asserted, his eyes shifting. “It's a deep business, as no lady should concern hersel’ wit. But Maggie Tibbit oughter know better.”
This was a thought to give one pause, indeed. The Captain must have believed the ship to be engaged in smuggling, and attempted to thwart the trade in a ruthless manner, considering the consequences. And yet, if the doomed ship was not the Reverend's—
“How can you be so certain that the Belle was not the Reverend's, Mr. Hurley?”
“Let's jist say as I was a-waitin’ on the Chesnil beach for ‘er to land, and had the pulling of the bodies out o’ the surf,” he replied darkly. “I hope I may never see another such a sight, as long as I may live. Terrible it was, and Nancy Harding's boy but fifteen.”
“But what can a ship have been doing, in so clandestine a manner, if not to smuggle contraband?”
Matty Hurley shrugged, and flicked a glance at James, who turned back a bewildered countenance. “You'll be a stranger to Lyme, miss, and all our ‘fairs,” Matty offered. “I'm not sure yer needin’ to know. Just settle as it was a matter o’ some importance, as three young coves and a passel of Frenchies give their lives for, and not a thing to do with brandy barrels or kegs o’ snuff. Bill Tibbit was no good, and a traiter, and we're well quit of ‘im, whatever ‘is Maggie says. You can tell ‘er so for me.” He turned away, of a conviction, no doubt, that our discussion was at an end; but I could not suffer him to leave in so sybil-like a manner. A cloud of conflicting thoughts held converse in my mind, but through them ail I grasped at one. The man had declared that the boat was not the Reverend's; but I knew of one other household, at least, that was much given to signalling ships at sea.
“Matty,” I said, reaching a hand to detain him, “did the Royal BeUe belong to Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth?”
The astonishment that overlaid his hardened features was a spectacle to behold, and should have elicited my delighted laughter, had not I perceived his underlying consternation, as having betrayed perhaps too much. “Never fear,” I assured him. “Your secret is safe with me — though from your words, I must declare it a rather open one, since most of Lyme seems admitted to it.”
“Just the folk o’ the Buddie district,” Matty said grudgingly, “and only them as are trusty.”
“So it was Mr, Sidmouth s ship that ran aground,” I said thoughtfully, “as a result of Bill Tibbit's carelessness, or design. And Bill Tibbit died for it, as did Captain Fielding. That does alter the complexion of Sidmouth's case. For his motives and his natural reticence about the matter, become all too clear.”
“I thought she come here on a matter o’ Maggie Tibbit's,” Matty protested, with a glare for James.
“She did!” the poor man rejoined, in natural dismay. “Miss Austen?”
“No matter,” I replied. “There is another of whom I had better enquire, and leave Mr. Hurley in the clear.” I turned and looked towards the horizon, in an effort to judge of the time — for of a sudden I had a notion to conduct a further piece of business in the hours remaining before dinner. It could not be far from half-past three; and we generally dined at five. It should just do.
“You have been very helpful, Mr. Hurley, and I thank you — for what you would not, as well as what you might, impart.” The wretched fellow shifted from one foot to the other, and looked desperate to be gone, his native confidence fled. I reached into my reticule and retrieved several coins, which I pressed upon the two men, who bobbed their thanks, however doubtfully. For my part, I affected a desire to return to the church, that they might be freed of my presence, and go about their business, as unmolested as I preferred to go about mine — for I had no desire to be observed, in making my way, as I must, towards the grim stone keep that served as Lyme's gaol.
Chapter 21
Final Confession…
24 September 1804, cont.
RATHER THAN HUGGING A LONELY STRETCH OF COASTLINE HIGH above the turbulent seas, bereft of civilisation and the comforts of humanity, as should befit a prison in Lyme, the gaol where Mr. Sidmouth was held sat in the very midst of the town, with a stock in front and a cubby for the watchman; I should move under the keenest observation as I approached the place, but could not find it in me to care, as my errand seemed too urgent to admit of delicacy. I knew not whether the gentleman was permitted visitors — but deemed it likely that what persuasion might not produce, the application of coin should speedily acquire.
The watchman — a smallish fellow clothed in nankeen, with a sharp nose, watery eyes, and a perpetual habit of sneezing — rose from his stool as swift as a street tumbler, and danced a bow before me.
“Gordy Trimble at yer service, ma'am, though what service ye might be seekin' here, ‘tis beyond me to say,” he offered by way of introduction.
“I am Miss Jane Austen,” I said with dignity, “and have come with a basket of victuals from St. Michael's Church — a gesture of charity towards the poor man detained within those walls.” I had retrieved my mother's basket from Miss Crawford after parting from James and Mr. Hurley, in the thought that the ladies’ auxiliary should hardly require it as mightily as I should. In making my way towards the gaol, I had tarried only long enough to purchase bread and cheese, and a few apples, to put in its depths.
“Poor man? Never thought as I'd hear His Worship called poor, ma'am, and that's a fact. And him been stylin’ hissel’ so fine. Ah, well — the world's gone topsyturvy, it has, and Gordy Trimble's not the one to make the right of it.” He reached a hand to the basket handle, and I saw with a start my mistake.
“I should like to deliver the goods myself,” I told him firmly.
“Eh, now, you'll not be thinkin’ I'll have the eatin’ of ‘em before him?”
“Assuredly not — that is to say — I should like to speak with Mr. Sidmouth a moment, since he is so soon to be taken away,” I faltered.
The little man's face creased in a wicked smile. “Sweet on him, are ye? Half o’ Lyme is in the same state, or I'm not Gordy Trimble. The parade o’ ladies as has been through that door would make a priest blush, it would. Not to mention the mademoiselle. Fair spends her days here, she does — though I'll not be lettin’ her sit by him that long. Leans in the doorway, mooning like a sick calf, until the sun's about down; then hies hersel’ off to the Grange, for to attend to the milking.”
“Is the mademoiselle within at present?” I enquired, in some apprehension. I had not thought to encounter Seraphine when I hastily undertook my errand.
“Nay — you'll be havin’ yer five minutes to yersel, I reckon,” the watchman replied. “But no more.” He peered into the basket and poked a finger around the victuals. “Wouldn't want you bringin’ a knife or a pistol to my prisoner, now would I?”
“Mr. Trimble!” I cried, “i am a clergyman's daughter.” I sailed past him to the door of the small keep — a square, whitewashed building with a thatched roof — and waited while he jangled his keys. Mr. Trimble retained a quantity of them for a man with only one room and one prisoner to guard. I could hear the slight sounds of scuffling, and a length of chain dragged along the floor, from beyond the heavy oak; Sidmouth must be alerted to visitors, and be rising to his f
eet.
The door swung open, and emitted a cloud of dust from the hay that served as flooring; I sneezed, and understood now the gaoler's streaming eyes. How did Sidmouth stand it? But I had not another moment to consider it, for the heavy door closed behind me, and I was thrown into the dimmest complicity possible with the man. A warm stillness to the air, and a slighdy sour smell, of too much humanity confined too long in so slight a space; it should surely drive one mad, for too many days together.
The hay rustled not five feet from where I stood. “Who is it?” he enquired, in a tone of some doubt; and I knew that backlit in the open doorway as I must have been, my features were obscured to him. “Not Seraphine. But a woman.”
“Miss Austen,” I replied — and was surprised to hear how strongly my voice emerged. My heart was aflutter, and the palms of my hands grown moist; such anxiety, over so simple a purpose! I had visited a prison far worse than this, and faced evils of a sterner nature; and yet, today, I might have been as weak as a child, and as ill-formed for such an experience.
A short laugh, harsh in that stillness, and yet tinged with amusement “Miss Jane Austen of Bath, in the very midst of Lyme gaol! To what a turn have matters come! I should rise and welcome you with a proper bow, madam — but that I cannot rise at all, at the moment I hope that you will forgive me, and ascribe my poor manners to the proper cause.”
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