Jane and the Genius of the Place jam-4

by Stephanie Barron

  I studied her narrowly. The beautiful face was serene and unruffled as always — but graced with a palpable gleam of humour. “You enjoy this too much, Lizzy.”

  “I suggest that you do the same,” she countered, “for my sister Harriot and the long-suffering Cassandra are even now entering upon Mr. Bridges's arm. Forewarned is forearmed, is it not? Allow me to introduce you, Jane, to Mr. George Farquar, a gentleman of my acquaintance.”

  And so I took a splendid turn with the engaging Mr. Farquar, the second son of a baronet who, like most of the Fashionable World, had once loved Lizzy Austen, nee Bridges, to distraction. In honour of that vanished passion, he was kind enough to engage me for the next two dances — and in return I submitted to a maddening discourse on the finer points of racing. Mr. Farquar was mad for horseflesh in any form — kept a string of hunters and coursers himself — would be gratified to learn my opinion of Doncaster versus Newmarket, et cetera, et cetera. He had come up from London especially for Race Week, and would be gone again in a few days' time for the next round of meetings at Epsom — and thus spared me the trouble of caring for him at all. With Mr. Farquar I might flirt with impunity, and little danger to either of our hearts. He was so obliging as to commend my style of dress and the manner of my dancing; and so we parted a half-hour later, with approbation on either side.

  The interval between the final strains of one dance, and the commencement of another, was marked by a little excitement — a ripple of conversation that went round the room, and died away into nothing, at the entrance of a gentleman and a stranger, dressed all in black. If I thought immediately of the elusive Mr. Everett, the comparison must be odious — for the stranger was possessed of considerable countenance, where Everett was not, and carried himself with an air of easy self-assurance that argued superiority of rank and fortune. Within moments of his appearance, a report was in general circulation about the room — he was Monsieur le Comte de Penfleur, the heir to a considerable French banking fortune, and raised as a brother to the late Francoise Grey. He had arrived only lately at The Larches, in readiness for Friday's funeral rites; and despite the deepest mourning, had insisted upon seeing something of Canterbury society.

  Mr. Grey had not elected to accompany his guest.

  I watched him move across the room — a slim, elegant figure with a knife-thin nose, ash-blond curls falling across his brow, and disconcertingly pale eyes. There he stood near a potted plant, and bent low over the hand of a bashful young lady — there, by the table of ices, he clicked his heels at a puffed-up worthy — but correct and elegant as his appearance must be, I could not ignore the arrogance of his manner. Monsieur le Comte might move freely among the enemy, but he loved us not at all. Whatever his purpose in coming to the ball, he was under no illusion as to his reception; politesse from the English was all very well, but he had known Francoise Grey, and must be aware of her treatment at the hands of Kentish society. We should not be too easily forgiven.

  A quarter-hour of idling among the throng that lined the walls must bring the Comte at length to my brother, Neddie — and there, I espied a subtle change in the Frenchman's manner and countenance. Gone was the supercilious air; a certain rigidity, as of discomfort, now marked his movements; he was become guarded and circumspect. I surmised an eagerness to speak that must be at war with a natural reticence; and knew him to be taking Neddie's measure, even as my brother took his in turn. At length the two gentlemen moved off towards one of Delmar's anterooms, where the self-absorption of the card-players might serve as foil for conversation.

  Only one woman at the Assembly, I observed, had worn black in respect of the departed — young Lady Forbes, the bride of the Guards' commanding general. She was a pretty litde thing, not much above nineteen, with the golden hair and sweet blue eyes of a china doll. But the innocence of her features was quite at variance with her dress — which was a daring costume more suited to a woman of the world. A circlet of black satin wound becomingly across her brow, and her dusky silk gown — as sheer as a mourning veil — fell in dramatic folds to the floor. She might have been Electra, or some other queen of tragedy, and a certain consciousness of effect was evident in the way she clung about Captain Woodford. In one hand she held a square of lawn, the better to dab at her eyes; in the other, a vinaigrette, in event of sudden swoons. Of her husband Major-General Lord Forbes there was not a sign. Perhaps he was a slave to the card-room.

  Captain Woodford's single-eyed gaze, now bent upon his fair companion, now roving the room in search of some means of escape, came to rest at last upon myself. He smiled in acknowledgement, and nodded; I returned the courtesy. Just then I espied Lizzy, with her sister Harriot in tow, idling along the edge of the dance floor near the Captain — and his attention was immediately seized. Woodford abandoned Lady Forbes with a bow, hastened to Lizzy's side, and begged Harriot's hand for the dance just then commencing. With a blush and an averted gaze — but no apparent disinclination — she followed him to the floor.

  “Miss Austen?”

  I tore my eyes from the interesting pair, and was presented with one of Captain Woodford's fellow officers.

  “Might I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  To my delight and surprise, I discovered that I was much in request, and that full two hours went by before I had a moment to consider of the rest of my party, or indeed of my sister Cassandra. That she was less happy in her experience of the ball was evident from the pained expression with which she greeted Mr. Edward Bridges's attentions. He had elected to station himself by her side, her constant and insidious acolyte; he would fetch her a fresh glass of punch, or see her well-supplied with muffin, and she was utterly martyred to his cause.

  The reason for my constant solicitation on the dance floor was soon made plain, however, by the repeated suppositions, cunning asides, and barefaced questions about Mrs. Grey's murder to which I found myself subjected. Neddie's role as Justice had rendered the entire Godmersham party the object of general fascination and enquiry. We were all to be besieged; no one was immune; and so, with an inward bubble of amusement, I set out to learn at least as much as I divulged.

  Mr. Goldsmith tells us, that when lovely woman stoops to folly, she has nothing more to do but die; but when she stoops to be an object of scandal, murder is equally to be recommended as a clearer of ill-fame. Much of Kent was at pains to find Mrs. Grey more amiable in death, than they had ever acknowledged her in life; and I must wonder if the elegance of the Comte de Penfleur's address, and the loftiness of his title, must do away entirely with his adoptive sister's reputation. Collingforth, on the other hand, was everywhere declared the worst of fellows — his wife too foolish even to be pitied; and by the end of my third dance, it was evident that he had been judged already and despatched to the gallows by the neighbourhood at large.

  Mr. Valentine Grey, however, was decidedly the object of general pity — the sort of pity that is as much knowing contempt, and that must render all condolence an outrage. As to Mr. Grey himself, the reports of his character I was afforded this evening were so at variance with one another, I could not make him out at all. Some would have it he was a shrewd and cunning fellow, too deep to have his measure taken; others that he was a naif who cared for nothing but his remarkable grounds at The Larches. As to his banking concern and its practises, the neighbourhood opinion was even more divided; and I was forced to conclude that the Greys, however fascinating, were very little known in Kent.

  Except, perhaps, by one person: Captain Arthur Woodford.

  I had consigned the first dance after supper to the gallant Captain. As the supper-room crowd began to thin, I looked about for his battle-scarred figure. He was so much the object of the ladies' attention — single men of excellent family and a respectable commission being hardly thick upon the ground — that I was surprised to find him deserted by the fair sex. He stood, rather, in the closest conversation with Mr. Edward Bridges.

  My first assumption — that the two had made up their
quarrel — was swiftly dispelled. Mr. Bridges hardly looked easy; he was awkward in his stance, and white about the mouth; while the Captain, whose words were too discreet to be overheard, spoke with a vehemence that argued some heat. On catching sight of me, however, he broke off abruptly, and parted from the curate without the slightest farewell. Mr. Bridges fairly flung himself from the room, as tho' all the imps of Satan were upon him.

  “I have not forgot you, Miss Austen, as you see,” the Captain cried.

  “I am gratified, Captain, that the French have not monopolised all your attention,” I returned with a curtsey. “I thought you should have been despatched to the coast, to talk peace or exchange prisoners, as the occasion demanded; and yet here I find you, as fine and easy as tho' Buonaparte had never been born!”

  “Lord Forbes should choose poorly in sending me to the coast, Miss Austen,” he replied, “for I never talk peace, particularly in French, and I rarely take prisoners.” He bowed, and held out his arm; I slipped my own beneath it, and allowed him to lead me to the floor.

  “You despise the French language? Then I suppose you have been denied the acquaintance of the Comte de Penfleur,” I said as we took our places in the line of couples. A poor command of Mrs. Grey's native tongue might have inhibited the Captain's intimacy with the lady — and surely precluded him from having authored the letter concealed in La Nouvelle Heloise.

  “I was so fortunate as to make the gentleman's acquaintance this morning, on a visit of condolence to The Larches,” Woodford replied, “but happily, his English is most accomplished.”

  “And have you made it a policy to abhor an enemy tongue?”

  “I have kicked my heels twice in a French prison, Miss Austen, awaiting the necessary exchange,” he replied, “and on both occasions, my lamentable efforts at the mastery of French were the despair of my captors.[24] Indeed, I was returned to England post-haste that they might no longer have the burden of hearing me — and thus have never felt compelled to augment the lack.”

  I laughed at him then, and abused his stupidity like the coquettish Miss I presumed to affect; and wondered all the while whether the Captain might be believed. A man who had endured the tedium of capture, in the company of French officers of equal rank (for so Wood-ford presumably was housed), should hardly have failed to learn something of the language. Was this a subterfuge, intended for the benefit of the Justice's sister? Had the Captain written the interesting letter, and suggested a flight to Pegwell Bay? And had his friend Mr. Grey discovered the whole, and murdered his wife in a jealous rage?

  I could not determine whether Captain Woodford was the sort of man to make love to his oldest friend's wife; or to shield that friend, in a matter of murder. But perhaps he knew nothing of Francoise Grey's end — perhaps he merely suspected her husband guilty of a horror — and hoped that Denys Collingforth might hang for all their sins.

  But I had been too long silent; it was not done, in the midst of a dance; and so I clutched at the thread of our conversation.

  “And what did you think of the Comte de Penfleur?”

  The Captain's countenance turned, if anything, too careful. “He is all right in his way, I suppose — for a Frenchman.”

  I laughed in delight. “So much praise for an enemy, from a captain of His Majesty's Guards, may be termed a veritable encomium! And may I ask, sir, upon what grounds this weighty judgement was formed?”

  “A little conversation only, I confess. I conveyed my sentiments of condolence, of course — assured the Comte of my affectionate respect for the late departed — and expressed my outrage at the manner of her death. He was almost overcome at such a demonstration of goodwill— I saw the tears start out in his eyes, Miss Austen — and could not speak for several moments. But he then assured me that he bore the people of Canterbury no ill-will on account of the murder; that such shocking episodes might be met with daily in the streets of Paris, and one accepted one's Fate as it was served. We exchanged a few pleasantries — the dry weather, the state of the roads — and then I took myself off.” He hesitated. “I pray you will not relate what I have said to any of my colleagues, particularly my commanding officer. Lord Forbes should be most put out, was he aware I had met with a Frenchman recently disembarked from the Channel, and yet had failed to learn the state of the French flotilla from his very lips. I could not think it likely, however, that the Comte had observed anything to the purpose — he had crossed in the night — and I did not like to encroach upon his mourning.”

  “I admire your delicacy of feeling, Captain,” I murmured. “It must be unusual in a seasoned campaigner. You were at The Larches some little while, I collect?”

  “Not at all,” he replied hastily, as tho' to admit otherwise might be to court censure. “I had not been sitting with Mr. Grey a quarter-hour when the Comte arrived, and in considerable style, too — a coach and four, shipped over from Calais, with liveried servants mounted behind. After the exchange of remarks I have already recounted, I thought it best to make my adieux and leave them together; Grey was very much put out, I believe, at the Comte's descent upon the place. He had not been taught to look for it.”

  If Mr. Grey had murdered Francoise, he should hardly welcome a visitation from the Penfleurs. Questions impossible of answer might well be asked, and the comfortable resolution the widower desired, tediously deferred.

  “I had not understood that Mr. Grey was on poor terms with his late wife's family,” I hazarded.

  Captain Woodford would have shrugged, I think, but for the movement of the dance. As it was, he half-began the gesture, and arrested it only awkwardly. I suppressed a smile. Many a gallant fellow may move without hesitation on horseback, and be completely undone by a line of couples. “I should say rather that he was disconcerted, Miss Austen. He had had no word of the Comte's intentions. Are you at all acquainted with Mr. Grey?”

  “I am not.”

  “He dislikes surprises acutely, and has done so from a boy. The pleasure of an event is never increased, he says, and the inconvenience must be considerable.”

  “Then he is a man of whose sense I must approve,” I said. “But perhaps the Comte prefers to disconcert. I have observed him to effect it on several occasions this evening.”

  “His adoptive sister was much the same,” the Captain replied; and not without a wry amusement. It was the first instance of real feeling I had glimpsed through Woodford's facade, and it intrigued me greatly. Here was the affection that he had professed so carefully; here was the regret I had half-expected.

  “I observe that you are wearing a black armband, Captain. I commend you for it,” I said. “Mrs. Grey may have found more champions in death than she ever claimed in life, but the sincere among us shall always know her true friends.”

  “Thank you,” he returned quietly, “but you do me too great honour. I was less Mrs. Grey's friend than perhaps she deserved — or certainly, than she had reason to expect. I believe I thought always of Grey before his wife; and the claims of one friendship may have superseded the other.”

  “Was it so impossible to be a friend to both?”

  He hesitated. “Not impossible, perhaps — but fraught with difficulty. The Greys were not in accord, Miss Austen, and allegiance to the aims of one might often be perceived as betrayal of the other.”

  “It is a common wisdom to find attraction in divergent characters, but I have always believed that like minds are the most compatible. The world in general exists to divide the sexes; every convention of society and employment must render them strangers the one to the other. Let us pray, then, at every wedding, for a union of heart and purpose.”

  He smiled almost apologetically. “It is possible to be too much alike, Miss Austen. When a lady of strong character and implacable will is forced to live in harness with a gentleman of equal temperament — and when those two must divide their loyalties between warring countries— no, Miss Austen, they cannot be in accord.”

  “And so you wear the crepe in respe
ct of your friend, and not his late wife?”

  “I suppose I honour them both — and the difficult choices they sustained. It is a tragic story, however one regards the deceased. And the public scandal alone must be a trial to one of Grey's retiring temperament—” The Captain broke off, and bit his lip. “I have heard that the London papers are already come into Kent — that they have flocked to the race grounds, and have bent their draughtsmen to the depiction of lurid scenes — a representation of the corpse tumbling out of the chaise, under the startled gaze of the crowd.”

  “Can it be?” I cried, incensed. “Only think what all her family must suffer!”

  “I confess I can think only of Grey,” Captain Woodford said heavily. “He must feel his wife's loss most acutely.”

  Must he, indeed? Nothing in the Captain's previous words, nor yet my brother's report of the banker, had led me to suspect real feeling for his wife.

  “Your friend might be allowed to feel the burden of tragedy, Captain,” I observed, “and perhaps the weight of scandal; but knowing as little of Mr. Grey as I do, I cannot presume to read his heart. What he feels in respect of his late wife must be closed entirely to me.”

  He studied my countenance with a slight frown. “You speak as tho' he were a man without heart, Miss Austen. I may assure you that is not the case. A truer man than Valentine Grey never lived.”

  “Forgive me. I intended no disrespect of your friend. But I find that he has moved so little in Kent — and his character is so little understood — that in general I can form no opinion of him. I know that he is possessed of a sharp temper, and stands ready to challenge even so mild a gentleman as my brother to a duel; but beyond this, I can say nothing.”

  Captain Woodford came to a halt opposite, as the tune wound to a close. He bowed abstractedly, and I curtseyed. Then he said, “Mr. Grey has actually challenged your brother to a duel?”