by Syrie James
“He spoke a few words of French and Italian,” noted Cassandra.
“He must have many fascinating experiences to relate.”
“I wonder what occasioned his family to go abroad?”
“I wonder what occasioned him to return on his own?”
“Well I am glad he is back,” cried Charles with enthusiasm. “I think Edward Taylor the best young man I ever met in my entire life. Did you see how he rescued me?”
“And what of Mr. Payler?” teased Cassandra, nudging my brother. “Do not forget him. Was not it kind of him to help me down from the carriage?”
“Yes, but he should have carried you.” Charles made a face. “Your shoes are a terrible mess.”
“They are indeed. Jane took the better route; and I do think she enjoyed every minute of it.”
I felt colour rise to my face.
“Generally you are rather shy with strangers,” added my sister, “yet you chatted very easily with Mr. Taylor.”
“Did I? I suppose it was the excitement of the accident. I—I was not myself.”
“There is nothing to be ashamed of, Jane. Mr. Taylor is a dashing young man—many a girl would feel as you did if she jumped down into his arms.”
My cheeks now burned, recalling the rush of feeling which had enveloped me at that particular moment, feelings which I was not equal to revealing aloud, particularly in the presence of my little brother. I turned to the window and for the rest of the way remained silent, attempting to redirect my thoughts to the object before us: it would be my first glimpse of the family into which my brother was marrying, and I was eager and curious to meet the young lady who was to be his wife. Yet my attention continued to be drawn to the young man riding beside us. Edward Taylor presented a fine figure on horseback; watching him now, as he directed the postillion to avoid unseen hazards along the muddy lane, my stomach was again all in a flutter. What would happen when we reached Goodnestone? I wondered. Would Mr. Taylor and his cousin immediately take their leave? It seemed likely, for what business could they have at the Bridgeses’ house? Yet I hoped it would not be so—for I wished very much for our acquaintance to continue.
We travelled through fine and level open country, and reached our destination with no further mishap. The property was set in a beautiful situation adjoining the small but charming village of Goodnestone. We passed the church, the farm, and what appeared to be the dower house, then turned onto a narrow lane curving upwards towards the manor house, which sat majestically on a high rise of ground. A handsome, rectangular, brick Palladian mansion standing three stories high, Goodnestone was very grand. I gazed up in awe at the roof, where a massive, central stone pediment was situated between two chimneys. Beneath it were arranged three symmetrical rows of innumerable windows and a handsome front doorway flanked by apertures topped by elegant half-moons. On the other side of the gravel sweep, a flight of stone steps led down to a circular parterre with an imposing central column; beyond that lay an immense, open park bordered by distant, verdant woods.
Our noisy and deliberate approach brought us to the attention of the household, and by the time we halted in front of the door, a large and impressive assemblage of servants, dogs, and family members (including our brother Edward) had produced and arranged themselves for a formal greeting. As we disembarked, I observed that the Bridgeses were as numerous as promised, the six daughters and three young sons all richly attired. I did not yet perceive a woman who might fit with Lady Bridges’s description, but the young ladies bore a great family resemblance: all were pretty, possessing the same long, angular noses, rose-bud mouths, and smooth, pale complexions; and their heads were each a mass of long, embellished curls.
The man who could only be the formidable Sir Brook William Bridges came forward. A fat, amiable gentleman of fifty-seven years of age with a florid, jowled face, he walked slowly, his breathing was laboured, and his speech was accompanied by a deep, periodic cough; but rising above these infirmities, he met us with a smile as he shook our hands.
“Hello, young Austens! I am Sir Brook; how lovely to meet you all. You must be Cassandra—Jane—and Charles. Welcome; you are very welcome here.” As we bowed and curtseyed, he turned to our companions, and cried, “What ho, cousin Edward. Good day, Mr. Payler. What brings you hither, did you meet up with the Austens on the road?”
This remark was interesting indeed, for it elucidated a relationship I had not anticipated: just as Edward Taylor was a cousin of Mr. Payler’s, it seemed he was a cousin of the Bridges family as well!
“We did, sir,” replied Edward Taylor. “Their carriage half toppled over just passing Bifrons, from an unfortunate encounter with a quagmire. We pulled them out and shepherded them here to avoid any further calamities.”
“A quagmire, eh? Well, that explains why this poor vehicle, the animals, and your boots are all over in mud!” Before he could comment further, a pale, graceful, extravagantly attired woman strolled through the front door, remarking elegantly:
“Ah! Here you are at last. I was beginning to worry.”
Sir Brook sighed. “Please forgive my wife’s belated appearance. Lady Bridges is too fashionable—or fancies herself to be so—to be punctual.”
Lady Bridges was, I recalled, forty-four years of age; she still retained the handsome features which had made her a beauty in her youth. “Punctuality, I find, is a highly overrated quality in an individual,” said she, as she patted the fashionable white cap which adorned her long, dark curls. “I had much rather be calm and tardy, Sir Brook, than rush about madly as you do, to please a clock. Our guests’ arrival was delayed in any case.” Glancing at us (with a quick review of our dress, which she seemed to find wanting), she added, “Is everyone all right?”
“They are. They suffered a mishap on the road,” said Sir Brook. “Their chaise was rescued by my cousin Edward here, and thankfully all survived with heads and limbs intact.”
“Thank goodness for that.” As Lady Bridges’s glance touched on Edward Taylor, she briefly frowned—a reaction which puzzled me.
“Edward!” cried Sir Brook, “Now that you are here, you and Mr. Payler must stay for dinner.”
With dignity, Edward Taylor replied: “Thank you for the kind invitation, sir, but we are not dressed for dinner, and our boots are in no condition to enter your hall.”
“Nonsense! Your coats are easily brushed and pressed, boys, and Andrew will shine your boots while we play a game of billiards—I believe you owe me a chance to win back my half-crown.”
Mr. Taylor hesitated; but upon observing Lady Bridges’s silent acquiescence and Mr. Payler’s unspoken assent, he said, “Thank you, sir. We should be happy to stay.”
The riders dismounted and waved off the groom, insisting that they would stable their horses themselves; they then walked off deliberately, clearly familiar with the place.
I watched them go, unable to contain my smile.
To perceive that Edward Taylor was so well known to Sir Brook and Lady Bridges—indeed, was related to them, and apparently very well liked by him—was agreeable indeed; but most importantly: he was staying to dinner! If I was lucky, I might have a chance to converse with him again!
Further contemplations of Mr. Taylor were cut short when my brother Edward stepped forward to make the formal introductions, beginning with Lady Bridges.
“It is a pleasure to meet the sisters of our Elizabeth’s fiancé,” said Lady Bridges, holding out her hand to Cassandra and me. “It is a shame that your mother and Mr. and Mrs. Knight were obliged to put off their appearance; but I am thankful that you were able to arrive before the main festivities begin, and the neighbours descend on us.”
“We are grateful to you for your kind hospitality,” said Cassandra, a sentiment I echoed, and to which Lady Bridges replied:
“Sir Brook was not quite truthful when he said you suffered no casualties on the r
oad, my dear. Your slippers and stockings are a sight.”
“Sadly,” returned Cassandra, colouring, “the only other pair I brought are my dancing shoes.”
“A good pair of shoes will be procured for you—surely one of my daughters’ feet will be your size.” Turning to Charles, Lady Bridges said, “How do you do, little man? There is no doubt that you are Edward’s brother, for you greatly favour him. I have a son almost exactly your age, who has been anxious to meet you.” She called to her own boy, a well-behaved but grave little fellow who was introduced as “Edward,” to which Charles replied with a laugh,
“Not another Edward! My brother is Edward; Mr. Taylor is Edward; I shall never be able to keep all of you straight!”
“Well, I have two names,” responded the lad. “You may call me Brook Edward, if you like.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Charles. “That will do very nicely.”
From that moment on, and for several years after, I could think of Brook Edward Bridges with no other appellation.
Our trunks by now had been unfastened from the chaise, and as the vehicle was driven away to the stables, Lady Bridges glanced at it in some perplexity. “Where is your maid? Has not she come with you?”
“No, ma’am,” replied my sister. “We have no lady’s maid. We dress ourselves.”
“Indeed? Well, that will not do at Goodnestone.” (Her hand on her chest in dismay.) “Not in the home of the heiress to the title Baron Fitzwalter. But we have more than enough maids to go around, and will be happy to share.”
My brother Edward now introduced the daughters of the family. Fanny, the eldest at twenty, offered her hand to us with a faint smile. “I am flattered that you came all this way—from Hampshire, is it?—to honour me and my betrothal.” (An afterthought:) “And my sister’s. It is going to be quite a summer! I do hope our festivities will exceed all your expectations, and that you will go home with happy memories of your visit.”
This speech was extraordinary to me, as it was so self-satisfied, and so neatly encapsulated the entirety of our stay, while already anticipating our departure.
It was apparent, even before her name was pronounced, that the next young lady brought forward was my brother’s intended; for his broad smile, the deep affection in his gaze, and the manner in which he held her hand, proclaimed his adoration. It was not difficult to understand why Elizabeth had bewitched my brother. Although she was no prettier than her sisters, there was an air of elegance and confidence about her, which revealed her self-awareness of her own beauty, femininity, and charms, as well as the effect of those charms on others. That charm did not appear to reach great depths, however; for her soft voice appeared more to convey a discharge of a duty to appear welcoming, rather than a sincere reflection of the emotion.
The remaining Bridges daughters were very different from the first two, and all most amiable. Sophia was nineteen, and Marianne sixteen. Both possessed pleasant and cheerful dispositions, and an openness of manner which drew me to them immediately.
“Since we are soon to be sisters,” said Sophia with enthusiasm, “shall we dispense with the formalities and go by our Christian names?”
“That would be wonderful,” agreed I. “Surely it will make us feel like sisters ever so much sooner.”
We admired Louisa, age thirteen, and Harriot, ten, who looked very sweet. The lively dispositions of the youngest boys, John and George (who were eight and six) were betrayed by the great difficulty they had in standing still. The introductions being at an end, it was time to move within.
“Have you been told anything of Goodnestone’s history?” inquired Sir Brook as my sister and I followed the others into the house.
“We have not yet had that pleasure,” replied Cassandra.
“Oh! Do not bore these children with a tedious history!” warned Lady Bridges. “They have only just arrived, and are in need of refreshment.”
“I will be brief,” asserted Sir Brook with a smile. “Goodnestone has been occupied since Tudor times. During the reign of Queen Anne, the estate was sold to Brook Bridges, the first baronet, who demolished the Elizabethan structure and built this new Palladian house.”
“The date of its erection, 1705, is etched onto a brick just over there,” added Lady Bridges.
“Not 1705,” corrected Sir Brook, “1704. Since I took possession, I have enlarged and improved the house rather dramatically. Come, let us show you.”
We issued into an ante-room designed in an unusual oval shape and beautifully embellished with detailed crown moulding, a carved white marble fireplace, and a series of large niches beneath gracefully carved arches, wherein works of art were displayed. The walls were adorned with delicate, colourful paintings featuring floral patterns, cherubs, and scroll-work—designs which I had heretofore only seen in books.
“Oh!” exclaimed Cassandra in wonder.
“What an enchanting room,” remarked I. “And these paintings—are they Italianate in nature?”
“They are indeed, Miss Jane. As a young man, I travelled extensively on the Continent and spent a great deal of time in Italy, where I became enamoured of its architecture and art. This chamber is a small tribute to the Florentine masters.”
The ante-room was further distinguished by three mahogany-panelled doors leading to other parts of the house. Through the middle door, I perceived a central hall and a grand staircase; to the right, a formal dining-room; to the left, the drawing-room, into which we now progressed, to join the family who awaited us. The chamber was large, airy, and exquisitely furnished, with stunningly carved moulding crowning the high ceiling and doorway, and tall windows framed by shutters and heavy draperies. The walls were adorned with paintings, including a set of four views of Venice, a portrait of a young Lady Bridges, and two of Sir Brook as a young man, which (he proudly explained) had been painted by the celebrated, rival Italian artists Mengs and Bartoni.
“Robert Mylne himself designed and furnished this chamber,” proclaimed her ladyship with pride, as she arranged herself on a sofa. “It was a great coup on our part to retain him, for he has won a great many architectural awards, and designed a number of country-houses and city buildings, as well as bridges.”
Although I had never heard of Mengs, Bartoni, nor Mr. Mylne in all my life, I could not deny that the portraits were of superior quality, and the proportions of the room were very elegant indeed. “I presume,” said I teasingly, as I accepted a glass of lemonade from a footman’s silver tray, “that Mr. Mylne designed actual bridges, and not people by the name of Bridges?”
Lady Bridges, Fanny, and Elizabeth appeared to be either puzzled or taken aback by my comment, but everyone else laughed.
“Well well, you are a witty young thing, Miss Jane!” cried Sir Brook. “But surely you have heard of Mr. Mylne? He is from a remarkable Scots dynasty of architects and master-masons, famous for his beautiful interiors at Inveraray Castle, and of course the Blackfriars Bridge in town.”
Thankfully, I was not obliged to reveal my ignorance, for a general discussion now broke out concerning our mishap on the road, which seemed to be of great interest to everybody. In Charles’s retelling of it, the level of danger in the event, and the heroic efforts of our rescuers, rose to such great proportions, that when Edward Taylor and Thomas Payler at last entered the room (their boots freshly polished), they were treated like a pair of conquerors returning from battle.
Mr. Taylor laughed. “We are neither of us Sir Galahad, nor any other knight of the round table; far too much fuss is being made over a trivial incident.”
“Let us make a hero out of you, cousin,” cried Sir Brook, patting him on the back, “what is the harm in it? Lord knows we have little else to talk about.”
A tour of the gardens was proposed; but before the examination could begin, Lady Bridges insisted that my sister change her shoes and stockings.
“Wha
t do you say to that game of billiards in the meantime?” suggested Sir Brook to Mr. Taylor and Mr. Payler. As he led them away, Charles, declining the tour, dashed upstairs with Brook Edward and Louisa, with whom he seemed to have formed an immediate friendship.
I accompanied the ladies into the central hall, whose primary feature was the grand staircase, an elaborately carved affair of dark oak which made two turns in its upwards sweep towards the open first-floor landing. I felt like a princess as we issued up the wide steps, past the open string, paired balusters, swept and ramped hand-rails, and ornate panelling.
My sister and I were put in possession of a comfortable apartment, conveniently located near the chambers shared by the Bridges daughters. Cassandra conducted her toilette; several pairs of shoes and silk stockings were produced (in a style and quality superior to any my sister and I had ever possessed); a nearly perfect fit was attained; and the dirty articles taken away. Fanny and Marianne excused themselves, explaining that they would like to lie down before dinner. Her ladyship, Elizabeth, and Sophia alone now remained in our company; and retrieving our bonnets, we issued downstairs.
The distinctive sounds of a game of billiards in progress issued from a room just off the central hall. Lady Bridges remarked with a sniff,
“Sir Brook seems to spend all his time in the gun-room now, ever since he had that billiard-table installed. I really do not understand the appeal of—”
Although her ladyship continued speaking, the balance of her declaration was lost to me, for my full attention was captured by the sight of Edward Taylor within the chamber in question. As he leaned over the billiard-table with his cue, with his gleaming auburn hair casually falling over his forehead, and his dark eyes scrutinizing his shot, the picture he presented was so visually arresting, that I could not prevent myself from pausing in the doorway to watch. With a mighty crack, he struck one of the balls with his cue. Although I was unfamiliar with the rules of the game, from the enthusiastic reactions of the others, I deduced him to be skilled at the sport.