I affected a carelessness I could not feel. “Over some trifle discovered among Mrs. Grey's belongings. A letter, I believe, and written in the French language. Whatever the missive contained, my brother believed Mrs. Grey intended flight — and so incensed her husband at the suggestion, that he demanded satisfaction. It ended, however, in nothing. The heat of argument must be deferred, in respect of the search for justice.”
“Naturally,” Captain Woodford murmured. But he said it as an afterthought, his mind clearly bent upon other things — this letter, perhaps, of which he might know nothing, or everything. Had it been the letter he sought, in Mrs. Grey's saloon the night of her murder? — Or did he suspect something of the author's identity, that must turn his soul to ice?
Regardless, he neither moved nor spoke, while all around us the couples drifted away. At length I said gently, “Captain. Captain!”
He came to his senses, then, and offered his arm; but as I slipped my own within it, I found that the superfine wool was damp with sweat. From the heat of his exertions? Or the weight of apprehension? “Are you quite well, Captain Woodford? Perhaps you should benefit from some punch.”
“Forgive me, Miss Austen — but my mind is so much taken up with the claims of duty — the threat of invasion—”
“And the niceties of a public ball,” I rejoined with a smile. “At such a time, I cannot think it the wisest thing the Guards have done. But I suppose Lord Forbes believes it necessary to his officers' comfort — or his lady's.”
Captain Woodford's lips twitched. “It is not in my power to support the General where his lady is concerned. He should require the strength of several, I fear. But in truth we are meant to serve as example to the populace, Miss Austen. While an officer is engaged in so honourable a duty as the dance, can the Kingdom's security be in question? Never!”
“Did you dance on the shores of Pegwell Bay, Captain, I might better believe you.”
To my surprise, the Captain's countenance turned suddenly grave. “Pegwell Bay? Of what interest should Pegwell Bay be to me?”
“Is it not the expected landing-place of the French navy?” I enquired, surprised. “I had always heard that it was. Indeed, my brother — Captain Frank Austen, of the Canopus—was tasked with the drafting of a report to that effect not two years ago. He surveyed the Kentish coast, and hit upon Pegwell as the very place for invasion. There are no heights for the enemy to gain there, you know, and the tides, I believe, are favourable for a landing.”
When Captain Woodford still said nothing, however, I added in a more subdued tone, “—But perhaps the Army's calculations have undergone a change.”
His single dark eye narrowed; then a slight confusion overcame him. The Captain had, perhaps, heard Peg-well spoken of — had thought that any number of places along the coast might serve the French equally well— was not aware that the environs of Ramsgate had fallen so much into general expectation — and would caution me against a too-free canvassing of military affairs.
“For if the entirety of Kent expects the French to land at Pegwell — and the intelligence makes its way to Boulogne — how much better for the Emperor, Miss Austen, if he should land to the south while we are all massed in the north! Better to leave him in doubt of our intentions, as a cat will do with a mouse. We cannot say too little upon the subject. Particularly with a Frenchman in our midst.”
It seemed that I had stepped where a lady should not — into the deep waters of strategy and deception— but I could not retreat without a final bold strike. “It may be dangerous, indeed, to speak too freely in such times as these. Mrs. Grey, you know, was quite familiar with Pegwell — and we would none of us wish to suffer her Fate, Captain, now would we?”
Chapter 9
A Matter of Movements
21 August 1805, cont'd.
I WAS NOT THE ONLY PARTY WHO BANTERED TOO FREELY this evening, on subjects military and otherwise. The entire Assembly was conversant with a rumour to which I had barely attended — regarding the projected movements of the Coldstream Guards.
It was Cassandra who told me of it, as we sat established over our ices during the ball's waning hour. I must say that my sister did not look very well this evening, but perhaps the duties of the sickroom at Goodnestone Farm would tell upon anyone, particularly when coupled with the necessity of packing for evacuation.[25] But she had put on her best pink gown — a colour I should never attempt, given the habitual flush of my cheeks— and her hair, though deprived of the ministrations of Mr. Hall, had been curled and arranged by Harriot Bridges's maid to admiration. Nothing was wanting, in fact, except animation and spirit. I saw the lack, and felt a stirring of anxiety. Perhaps the assiduity of Mr. Bridges's attentions had at length worked upon even so steady a heart as Cassandra's! Perhaps she was even now in an agony of doubt — uncertain whether to accept him or no. In light of my father's death, any match might appear as salvation, for one of Cassandra's limited resources.
We had fought our way towards one another through a sea of exhausted and overheated bodies — ladies with drooping headdresses and soiled white gloves, and gentlemen with florid complexions and dampened brows. However hard it might seem to endure such festivities in winter, when one is scantily clad and subject to every window's draught, I must own that I prefer a January reel to the most elegant August country dance. A roaring fire and a vigourous turn about the floor will entirely make up the deficit in natural warmth — but not even the excellent ices of Canterbury may relieve the insipidity of a Race Week ball.
“It is the talk of the neighbourhood,” Cassandra confided, her spoonful of ice arrested in mid-air. “The Grenadier Guards are to march from Deal to Chatham, while Captain Woodford's First Coldstream Guards, and the First Scots — or is it the Second? — are to march in turn from Chatham to Deal.”[26]
“I suppose it shall make a change from dancing,” I replied, “but I cannot think what they mean to effect, by the simple exchange of men. Is the appearance of soldiers about the fields of Kent intended to impress the Emperor Buonaparte, as he surveys us from the Channel? Shall we seem to be awash in red-clad men, and drive him back upon the shores of France out of terror at the sight?”
“They will pass within a stone's-toss of Goodnestone in their way,” Cassandra added, ignoring my barbs. “The country is all alive with what it might mean, Jane— sudden intelligence, perhaps, from France, of the Monster's landfall. If it were to be near Deal, only seven miles from the Farm — if dear Lady Bridges and all her household were to be driven from their beds — I do not think I could bear it! But, of course, I shall assist them in any way that I am able, with Marianne and the packing.”
“You had much better bring them all to Godmersham and leave the packing to the French,” I said crisply. “I wonder Neddie did not consider of it before. But we have been served with our own plan of evacuation, my dear, and only yesterday morning. The gallant Captain Woodford brought it himself.”
“Captain Woodford! I cannot help but like and admire him,” she said with a sigh. “There is such an expression of goodness in his looks — and the severity of his wounds must argue for the nobility of his character.”
“Does Harriot admire him as much as her whole family?” I gazed out over the floor, where a few straggling couples clung determinedly to the final measures of a dance. Among them were certainly Lizzy's little sister and the Captain, her white dress a delicate counterpoint to his dashing military colours.
“I wish it were in my power to say,” Cassandra mused. “On this subject, Harriot cannot be open. There is too great a difference in our ages — nearly ten years — and tho' much thrown together of late, we have never enjoyed the intimacy of sisters. But I suspect her heart to be a little touched. It would be unfortunate if the Guards were to be ordered out of Kent entirely.”
“Or the Captain himself run through with a French sword somewhere between Chatham and Deal,” I observed callously. “He might at least declare himself to Harriot before the unh
appy event, so that she might cherish her interesting state. A girl who is only the object of a hero's regard, has never the eclat of a bereaved intended.”
“Jane! How can you!”
Too late I remembered Cassandra's own condition— the loss of her betrothed some eight years before. I bit my lip, and wished my own bitter humour might be kept in better check. But too late! The words were said; and I should not declare them orphans now.
“I speak so because I must, my dear. A degree of general indifference is the only surety against peculiar pain. What a lot of people are killed in these wars, to be sure— and how fortunate that one cares for none of them! If Fly or Charles should be struck on the quarterdeck by a French twenty-four-pounder, a part of me would go over the rail at their side.”
“Do not speak of it, I beg,” Cassandra said softly. “I know that you have borne a great deal of late — the loss of Mrs. Lefroy, and our own dear Papa — but you mourn too much for them, Jane. They would not wish it so. Papa, I am sure, did not regret his life in leaving it.”
I nodded blindly, my gaze obscured by a sudden film of tears; and then turned the conversation with effort. “And so the Guards are to march from Deal! I wonder how much Major-General Lord Forbes really knows — and how much he merely hazards?”
“I am sure that all such manoeuvres are so much Blindman's Buff,” Cassandra replied, “tho' Buonaparte would have us all believe him omniscient, and as infallible as Rome. The gentlemen of the neighbourhood, including Mr. Bridges, are in an uproar over the intended troop movements — for it is rumoured they shall come but a day or two before the commencement of pheasant season. The sportsmen are all alive with the fear that the birds shall be disturbed — flushed from their manors, or poached out of hand for an infantryman's dinner.”
“It should not be surprising that the credit of our neighbours' game-bags must come before the safety of the Kingdom,” I said with conscious irony. “Apropos of manoeuvres, my dear, how have you fared in your skirmish with the sporting Mr. Bridges?”
Cassandra blushed and averted her eyes, a perfect picture of consciousness. “Mr. Bridges! Aye, you may well laugh at my persecution, Jane! I should like to know how you should fare against the weight of his blandishments, for a fortnight together! Mr. Bridges is excessively teasing. Did you observe that I was forced to stand up with him for full three dances this evening? I only escaped a fourth by pleading the head-ache.”
“Three dances! That is very singular, indeed,” I observed mildly. “Another man might consider it too particular — but perhaps he believes that his being Lizzy's brother must do away with such nice distinction.”
“He is not so very much our relation, Jane, as to make me forget what is due to propriety,” Cassandra said with some distress. “Do not think that I am ignorant of his object. He hopes to secure my affections — and he has made himself repugnant in the process! Where once I might have found his gallantries flattering — his poses amusing — his wit even tolerable — he is become entirely disgusting! There is a lack of sincerity in all he says that has made his society intolerable.”
“Poor Mr. Bridges! — To have lost that interest he particularly hoped to secure. Did I not feel moved to laugh at him heartily, I should pity him a good deal.”
“I was much taken with the import of your last letter,” my sister confided, in a lowered tone. “I must assure you, Jane, that Mr. Bridges has hardly been easy since Mrs. Grey's death. He barely speaks a word, and never leaves the house, unless it is to accompany myself or Harriot on some trifling errand. And yet, you know he was never to be found within doors if he could help it! There were weeks on end, when no one at the Farm had the slightest idea of his whereabouts, or whether he should be home to dinner! The change is very marked.”
“Perhaps he cannot bear to be parted from you, my dear.”
“Do not teaze me, Jane. It is very unkind in you, I am sure.”
I pressed her hand in apology and said, “You believe the change in his behaviour to date from Mrs. Grey's murder. Can you detect any reason for his seclusion? Has he let fall the slightest syllable that might explain his extraordinary conduct?”
“He moves as tho' in the grip of fear,” Cassandra replied, with utter seriousness, “and I have even thought, indeed, that he half-expects to suffer Mrs. Grey's fate.”
My eyes widened. “Mr. Bridges, to be torn from his riding habit and strangled with his own hair-ribbon? Impossible!”
“Jane!”
“Forgive me. I could not suppress the notion. But what could possibly give rise to such a fanciful dread, Cassandra? Who should wish to murder Mr. Bridges?”
My sister glanced knowingly about the room before she answered. “Mr. Valentine Grey.”
That the reserved and ill-humoured banker should have the slightest idea of the curate's existence, was amusing in the extreme; and I confess I laughed out loud.
“Is it not obvious?” Cassandra cried. “You told me yourself that Mr. Bridges was found in the lady's saloon, on the very night of her murder, rifling the drawers of her writing-desk. He was desperate to secure the letter discovered between the pages of the scandalous French novel — the letter that proposed a meeting at midnight on the shores of Pegwell, and a subsequent flight to the Continent.”
“But does Mr. Bridges possess a passable command of French?”
“Naturally! All the Bridgeses are most accomplished in that line!” In her enthusiasm for her theory, Cassandra abandoned the last of her ice and leaned towards me eagerly. “I am certain that he believes himself the agent of Mrs. Grey's end — that his dangerous passion for the lady precipitated her death at the hands of her husband, and that Mr. Grey merely awaits a suitable opportunity to serve vengeance, in turn, upon her lover! Mr. Bridges cannot know that his letter was found among the lady's things. He fears only that he is discovered by the husband, and dares not stir beyond the Farm's threshold.”
“—Except to attend the inquest,” I amended slowly. “He would desire to learn everything that was known of her end, of course.”
“Is it not a delightful idea?” my sister prodded.
“It is not without its merits, Cassandra. But why, then, should Mr. Bridges quarrel with Captain Woodford? Or stand idly by, while Mr. Collingforth is charged with murder?”
“As to that, I cannot tell,” she replied with a shrug. “I cannot solve all your mysteries for you, Jane. I am placed to disadvantage, marooned at the Farm. I shall hope to do better, when once we have exchanged our places.”
“It is quite a settled matter, then, that I shall go to Goodnestone Farm? Pray — when is the delightful prospect to take place?”
“Whenever Mr. Bridges has proposed, and been refused,” Cassandra said wickedly. “I cannot be expected to remain within the bosom of the family, once that regrettable episode is sustained.”
“When may we expect the elegant curate to come to the point? I have my packing to consider.”
A sudden stiffening in Cassandra's looks alerted me to a subtle change. Her gaze was fixed a few inches above my head, and that the self-same Mr. Bridges now hovered there, all civility and attention, I immediately surmised. I turned and found his good-natured, slightly anxious face bent upon us both. I say bent — for the height of his collar points, and the stiffness of his cravat, rendered any but the most exaggerated movements from waist to neck impossible.
“Miss Austen!” he cried. “And the delightful Miss Jane Austen! How well you both look this evening, I declare. That such beauty and wit should be united in one lady surpasses all experience … but that two such, and claiming the same family name, should so subjugate us all to their charms…”
“Mr. Bridges,” Cassandra broke in, “I must suppose you are come to tell us that the carriage is called. You are very good.”
“Not at all! A decided pleasure — and only exceeded by the honour of escorting you home at the close of these delightful festivities. Or should I say — back to the Farm, which, although not y
our home, must be, I hope, very nearly as dear to you as though it were. That it might prove even dearer in future, through the accomplishment of a certain change…”
Cassandra's countenance, I fear, offered no encouragement to the gallant performer; and so he was suffered to dwindle into silence under the glacial influence of her gaze. He merely bowed to me, and offered my sister his arm, and thus the unfortunate pair moved off through the thinning crowd. I pitied Cassandra, but reserved some measure of the feeling for myself— for that Mr. Bridges would soon bring the matter to a point, and as speedily earn his refusal, I little doubted. It would be but a matter of days, then, before I should be despatched to the Farm in Cassandra's stead. And I should hardly meet Mr. Bridges's attentions with my sister's steady tranquillity. I had not the recourse to a headache complaint; for I was commonly acknowledged to be in riotous good health.
“LIZZY,” HENRY BEGAN AS WE SETTLED OURSELVES WITH some exhaustion in the Godmersham carriage a quarter-hour later, “have you heard what your young brother is up to? He has actually waited upon Major-General Lord Forbes in the card room, in a matter of pheasant-shooting! — Was pleased to bring the General's attention to a rumour of the Guards' troop movements, and expressed his concern that the marching men might entirely rout his birds! The cheek of it all! Can not you put a word in your brother's ear?”
“I am sure the General gave him a dressing-down,” Lizzy returned languidly.
“In too subtle a manner, I fear, for Mr. Bridges's understanding. Lord Forbes informed him that if only the birds were routed, he should consider all of Kent but too fortunate.”
Neddie's sharp bark of laughter cut through the darkness of the coach. “And how did the young popinjay take it?”
“He suggested an alternative route for the troops— through the hayfields to the west, which he represented as a course that might save several miles.”
“And ensure the crops' ruin,” Neddie said with satisfaction. “I am sure the General knew how to express his gratitude for young Edward's sage advice.”
Jane and the Genius of the Place jam-4 Page 14