“He was too much engrossed in play, to lend Mr. Bridges more than half an ear,” Henry returned, enjoying the moment hugely, “but I believe he took the point under consideration; for I observed him not a half-hour later, in a frightful rage, with poor Captain Woodford as his object. Lord Forbes was displeased, it seems, with the general knowledge of his manoeuvres. All of Kent may command it; and if we are apprised of the Guards' plans, can Napoleon's spies be in ignorance? While the General marches to Deal, the Monster will throw his troops quite elsewhere.”
“I doubt it was Captain Woodford who published the intelligence,” I mused, “but I should not vouch for Lady Forbes. She has quite the look of a woman who enjoys a sensation — and herself at the centre of it, above all things.”
“She is quite the persecution of poor Woodford,” Lizzy murmured. “Were it not for the deference he owes his commanding officer, I am sure he should shake her off in a trice; but she will hang upon his arm, and regard him as her personal pug-dog, to be petted and spoilt for show.”
“You observed once that Lady Forbes was intimate with Mrs. Grey,” I said. “On what was their friendship founded?”
Lizzy waved her fan, a gleaming arc of ivory in the darkness. “On a mutual love of finery — of spending more than they ought — and of a desire for shared confidences. There is little that occurred in the Army's Officer Corps, I am sure, that was not known at The Larches an hour later. Lady Forbes is the kind of woman who delights in confiding secrets.”
“And Mrs. Grey, in possessing them?” I added thoughtfully. The notion of blackmail was never far from my mind, when I considered of that lady. What might she not have known regarding Captain Woodford, for example, that should thwart his career in the Army? — Or of the spendthrift curate, Edward Bridges, whose luck proved so ruinous at her card-table? She should be unlikely to toy with them for money; she possessed enough of it herself. What, then, had been her object? What form of pressure had she employed? And was her interest merely a malicious delight in the unhappiness of others — or had she a greater object in view?
“Mrs. Grey's relation is a secretive sort, as well,” Neddie observed from his corner, as the carriage jolted down the road. “I could not make the Comte out at all; but I quite liked him, all the same.”
“The Comte de Penfleur! A very elegant gentleman, indeed.” Lizzy was all approval. “But I cannot think it the wisest thing you have ever done, Neddie, to closet yourself fully an hour in his company. All of Canterbury must be alive to the interest of your tete-a-tete; and all of Canterbury will be chattering even now.”
“It is clear, at least, that the Comte attended the Assembly solely with our conversation in view. He is greatly distressed at Mrs. Grey's death, and cannot feel sanguine with Grey's management of it.”
“Grey's management? — But Grey is not the Justice responsible,” I cried.
“No more he is,” my brother replied comfortably, “and the Comte de Penfleur was relieved to hear of it. He was circumspect enough, for the first quarter-hour; but he unbent a great deal, and intimated almost too much, for the remaining three. I should judge him much attached to Francoise Grey; profoundly distrustful of her husband; and anxious that her murderer should not go unpunished.”
“As he believes Denys Collingforth will,” I added.
“He cares nothing for Collingforth, unless he be guilty — and it is quite clear, from his manner of speaking, that he cannot believe him so. Mr. Grey is too eager to charge poor Collingforth with the murder, for the Comte's liking.”
“How very intriguing, to be sure.” Lizzy sighed. “It has quite a Continental flavour to it, Jane, almost of a tragic opera. I am sure the stage shall be littered with the dead and dying, before the final curtain is rung down — do not neglect to inform me of how it all ends. For the present, however, I must implore you, Neddie, not to forget that the Finch-Hattons are to be at dinner tomorrow. We cannot neglect what is due to our friends, however tedious they might prove, merely because of invasion and murder.”
My brother laughed aloud, and kissed his wife's gloved hand, and was content to pass the remainder of the drive in reflective silence.
But I very much wondered, as the shades of night flitted disconsolately past the carriage windows, how greatly the Comte had been attached to his adoptive sister — and whether it was he who had written that letter, in agonised French, to urge a meeting at Pegwell Bay.
Chapter 10
A Desperate Diversion
Thursday,
22 August 1805
I SET DOWN MY ACCOUNT OF THE BALL IN THE EARLY hours of the morning. Once in bed, I tossed and turned until the rain broke before five o'clock, and brought a cooling breeze through the open window. I rose not three hours later and took tea in my room, where I might collect my thoughts before the rest of the house had stirred.
Breakfast at Godmersham is never before ten o'clock, although the children are served in the nursery far earlier. By the time our indolent Lizzy is dressed and abroad, her numerous infants are long since out-of-doors — under the supervision of Sackree, the nurse, or the long-suffering Miss Sharpe. There had been talk yesterday of an expedition with the gamekeeper, in search of wild raspberries; we should have clotted cream and fresh fruit for the Finch-Hattons at dinner.
I found the breakfast parlour quite deserted of life when at last I descended, and was allowed the consumption of tea and toast unmolested. Afterwards I hied myself to the little saloon at the back of the house, which serves the ladies of Godmersham as a sort of morning-room; here my sister Lizzy keeps a cunning little marquetry desk, well-supplied with a quantity of paper, pens, and sealing-wax. I settled myself to compose a letter to my mother — who has been happily established these several weeks in Hampshire with our dear friends, the Lloyds. She was to come to us in September, and together we intended a visit to the seaside at Weymouth. I very much feared, however, that the pleasure-trip would be put off, from a superfluity of French along the Channel coast — but saw no reason to alarm my mother. She is given to the wildest fancies at the best of times, and should require no spur at present from her youngest daughter. One source of consolation I found at least: the Lloyds took no London paper. Mrs. Austen should thus be preserved in ignorance of the sailing of the French fleet, a circumstance devoutly to be hoped. Did the rumour of invasion happen to reach her ears, she should demand her daughters' immediate removal into Hampshire — a prospect I could not regard with composure. The society of Kent was too beguiling, and the matter of Mrs. Grey's death too intriguing, to permit of a hasty departure.
My letter, as a result, was full of a great deal of nothing — a recital of the delights of Race Week, absent the interesting events of the meeting itself. I spoke of Henry's horse, of Henry's disappointment, of the scene at the grounds and the Assembly soon after — all without the slightest mention of the scandalous sensation that had torn Canterbury's peace. Such a letter, being a complex of subterfuge and delicate evasion, required considerable effort; I devoted a half-hour to the task, and had just determined to spend the rest of the morning with the admirable (if tiresome) Sorrows of Young Werther, when my industry was abruptly interrupted.[27]
The sound of a horse's hooves galloping to the door — a man's voice, raised in anger — the protest of the servants — perhaps it was another constable, come posthaste with news? I threw down my volume and stepped into the back passage.
A gentleman I had never seen before was crossing the chequered marble of the hall with a rapidity that argued extreme necessity, or a violence of temper. He must pass by where I stood to achieve the library — his obvious intention, as my brother Neddie was generally to be found within after breakfast — but aside from the briefest glance at my face, he offered no acknowledgement or courtesy. Tho' hardly above medium height, the stranger was powerfully-built, with a beautifully-moulded head and greying hair trimmed far shorter than was fashionable. Something of the regimental was writ large in his form; or perhaps it was the a
ir of battle he wore upon his countenance. I should judge him to be about the age of forty; but perhaps it was the weight of care that had traced years upon his looks.
The manservant, Russell, sped desperately in his wake, protesting, “But, sir! I cannot be assured that Mr. Austen is at home.”
“And where else should he be, man?” the stranger cried. “For he is certainly not about his duty!”
He paused by the closed library door, however, and allowed Russell to thrust it open.
“Mr. Grey, sir, to see you.”
I suppose I should have surmised as much; but, in fact, I was quite thoroughly routed in my expectation. How anyone in Kent might describe this man as a naif — or even remotely under the thumb of his young wife— was beyond my comprehension. Valentine Grey was not a man to be bent to any woman's pleasure; he would never be dismissed to his lodgings in London, and made a fool of, the length of Kent; nor was he to be whipped into submission, as Francoise Grey had managed with at least one gentleman at the Canterbury Races. Here was a figure of energy and decision, a formidable adversary and partner. Had she quailed in her heart, the wild French miss, when presented with the man who was her husband?
Valentine Grey, in short, was not what I had expected.
The library door snapped shut behind him.
I slipped out of the saloon and made my way through the passage to the kitchens, and from thence to the still-room, where a stout garden trug and shears sat innocently on a table by the garden door. I took them up, as though intent upon the culling of flowers for this evening's dinner — and stepped outside quite unremarked.
After the dim quiet of the saloon, the force of morning sunlight was like a blow against the cheek. I had come away without my bonnet. It was this sort of behaviour, my mother was forever reminding me, that brought freckles to the neatest complexion. But I cared little for such things at present; my complexion was spoilt beyond repair, and had been these three years at least. I hastened towards the swath of cornflowers and lavender that ran riot on either side of the library's French windows, pausing to clip a stem or two from each nodding plant. Neddie had thrust open a window to admit of the breeze; and the murmur of voices rose and swelled before ever I attained my object.
“You can be at no loss to understand why I have come.”
“Indeed, Mr. Grey, I am unable to account for the honour of seeing you here. Pray sit down.”
“Thank you — but I prefer to stand.”
There was the sound of a man pacing; an impatient expulsion of breath; and I had an idea of Valentine Grey come to rest before the barren hearth, and staring unseeing into the grate.
“Then pray tell me how I might be of service,” Neddie said, “for I perceive that you are greatly distressed.”
“Who would not be, circumstanced as I am?” From the sound of it, Mr. Grey had wheeled to face my brother. His next words had all the viciousness of a challenge. “You have spoken with the Comte de Penfleur, sir!”
“I was so fortunate as to make the Comte's acquaintance last evening — yes,” my brother acknowledged.
“And what sort of lies has he been telling you?”
“Lies?” Neddie could affect astonishment as readily as any of the Austens. “I cannot think why the Comte should lie to me, Mr. Grey — a virtual stranger, and one charged with the resolution of his ward's murder. But perhaps you may enlighten me.”
“Because he is a blackguard of the worst sort — a cunning insinuator, a seducer of other men's wives, a man without scruple or bar to his malice. Because he hates me as surely as he breathes, Mr. Austen, and has made it his object in life to destroy me.”
In another man, such language might have sounded preposterous — the stuff of a Cheltenham tragedy. Grey's quiet vehemence, however, spoke all his conviction; he said nothing more than what he believed to be the truth, and had suffered beyond endurance. — Or so I concluded, as I bent low over a clump of lavender.
“You speak of the Comte de Penfleur who is even now resident in your house, Mr. Grey?” My brother's voice was incredulous.
“I do.”
“You welcome such a man into your home — a man you regard with contempt and abhorrence, a man you acknowledge as your enemy?”
“My wife is dead, Mr. Austen, and will be buried tomorrow.” Grey's words fell with infinite weariness. “I cannot deny the head of her family admittance to the rites. The Comte arrived, I may assure you, with the intention of removing Francoise to the Continent for burial. It is only due to the extreme heat of the weather, and the advanced decay of the corpse, that she is allowed to remain here. Indeed, had the Comte been capable of swaying his father a year since, Francoise should never have left France at all. Hippolyte has charged me most bitterly with neglect, in the event of her death.”
“The Comte, I must conclude, was against your marriage?”
“The Comte is in the pocket of the Buonapartes, Mr. Austen, and despises everything to do with monarchy and England. He is too short-sighted to perceive the advantage of financial ties with this Kingdom.” Mr. Grey, it seemed, had commenced to pace again — a rapid, purposeful sound that conveyed all his anxiety. “His father, however, understood that progress was impossible, absent the judicious flow of capital throughout Europe — and promoted the marriage between myself and his ward with that end in view. The first Comte de Penfleur, Mr. Austen, was an excellent man. He died but six months ago. His son shall never do him credit.”
“I quite liked the Comte,” Neddie offered mildly.
If I expected an oath or a blow — some form of brutal denial — I was disappointed. Valentine Grey laughed.
“Everyone does,” he said. “They cannot fail to find Hippolyte everything that is charming. Even those who have cause to know him well — to understand the extent of his depravity — choose not to see the truth. Francoise—”
Grey broke off, and there was a heavy silence.
“Yes, Mr. Grey?” Neddie enquired politely. “You were speaking of your wife?”
“The Comte de Penfleur has what we English sometimes call address — the air of authority, of refinement, of self-restraint and confidence. It never deserts him, even in the most hideous of places. And I have seen him in any number of hells, Mr. Austen, to which a respectable man like yourself should never descend.”
There was the briefest of pauses, as my brother assessed his visitor across an expanse of mahogany desk. “Why do you tell me all this, Mr. Grey?”
“Because I hope it will persuade you to divulge your conversation with the Comte last evening.”
“To what end?”
“The elucidation of his motives.”
“You have said yourself that he came to pay his last respects.”
“And perhaps to put paid to the delicate balance now existing between our two banking houses. I believe, in short, that he means to ruin me.”
Neddie drew breath. “For the crime of allowing your wife to be murdered?”
“—Or for making her my wife in the first place.”
“I was never very good at the taking of hints,” Neddie observed. “I much prefer a plain-spoken man to a riddling one.”
That for Neddie, I thought. It was not for nothing that his patron, Mr. Knight, had seen him schooled in the art of fencing.
“I believe the Comte to have a purpose in discovering how much you know.” Grey's voice was as taut as a violin too-strenuously tuned. “He is adept at the drawing-out of the unwitting, through subtle ploys of which they are unaware. He may have learned much from the most trifling of your remarks — and will move in the greatest unease, or the greatest security, depending upon what he believes.”
“Indeed? Then he moves in a sharper light than I!” Neddie's exasperation was obvious. “If the Comte is aware of how much I know, then he is in possession of the dearest intelligence in all of Kent, not excepting the intended landfall of the French! To what, exactly, would you refer, Mr. Grey? The facts of your wife's murder? Her liaison with
Denys Collingforth? The state of your own marriage? Or her affection for her adoptive brother, the disreputable Comte de Penfleur?”
“Remember to whom you are speaking, Austen,” Mr. Grey retorted ominously. “I am not a man to be insulted, in your home or my own.”
“Then perhaps you might tell me what it is you seek.” From the sound of his movements, Neddie had thrown himself into his favourite chair — a wing-backed fortress drawn up near the cold hearth. Grey, however, paced restlessly to the very edge of the room, and peered unseeing through the French windows. The sight of his compact and powerful form looming near my own had the power to strike terror into an eavesdropping heart — and so I threw my back into snipping flowers as tho' my very life depended upon it. I might have been a sheep cropping grass, or an under-gardener tilling earth, for all the attention Grey paid me.
“Appearance to the contrary, Mr. Austen, I loved my wife. My feeling for her was against the force of all reason — I had long known what she was. A spendthrift, a libertine, an unprincipled creature who lived only for pleasure. But I had waited perhaps too long to marry— and when I fell in love, I did so with utter heedlessness. I threw caution to the winds. I sacrificed everything— pride, principle, even common sense — to win Francoise from her family, and at length I prevailed.”
“And your wife, sir?” Neddie enquired drily. “She met your passion with an equal ardour?”
“She accepted it as a familiar token; men had been driving themselves mad about her since she was sixteen. But Francoise cared for no one but herself. Herself— and her guardian's son.”
“The present Comte.”
Grey must have nodded assent, for no sound fell upon my ears.
“It was in part to separate them that her guardian— the late Comte — betrothed Franchise to me. He must have known that once united in marriage, Hippolyte and his ward would destroy the Penfleur heritage. They are — or were — both selfish, headstrong, dissipated characters; neither restraint nor prudence would survive in their household. They could not be allowed to ruin what he jealously nurtured through revolution and the Empire's rise. And so Francoise was despatched to England.”
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