“Improbable, perhaps — unpardonable, even; but impossible? Not at all. The Larches' housekeeper — an excellent woman, one Mrs. Bastable, and a deft hand at blood pudding, as Henry may attest — informed us directly we arrived that the master was called to Town in the early hours of morning. He is expected at home this evening, however — so your visit of condolence cannot be put off.”
“How extraordinary!” Lizzy exclaimed. Her countenance was less composed than I had ever had occasion to remark it. “To ride into Town, when one's wife is as yet unburied, and without the slightest regard for public opinion!”
“We can know nothing of Mr. Grey's regard for public opinion,” Neddie objected. “It might be quite strenuously excited by his demonstration of poor taste. Indeed, his concern for the feelings of his neighbours on this point might even deprive him of sleep. You should not judge harshly, Lizzy, without a full knowledge of the particulars.”
“Excuse me, my dear, but I know exactly how I may judge,” Lizzy rejoined tardy. “Such nice distinctions between intention and action, belong solely to the province of the Justice, who must stand above reproach. His wife may indulge all the force of prejudice, and declare Mr. Grey an unfeeling brute.”
“Did his housekeeper confide the reason for this sudden journey?” I enquired.
“According to Mrs. Bastable, the master received an express from Town just before dawn, presumably on a matter of business. His journey necessarily resulted from it. To suppose more than this, would be sheer conjecture.”
“A pressing matter of business, then, to prevent his attending his wife's funeral. I should imagine it the sort of summons that might not be denied — from a person whose powers must command even Grey.”
“There can be very few of those,” Henry remarked. “A summons from Prime Minister Pitt himself, perhaps? — Who requires another loan to fund the ambitions of Lord Nelson and our brother?”
“Perhaps we should peruse the London papers,” I suggested with a smile, “and find in their subtle hints the reason for so much haste. The Comte, I suppose, was in evidence?”
“He might have been the bereaved husband himself, for all his display of anguish,” Neddie replied.
“You thought him insincere?”
“No, Jane — merely less restrained than an Englishman might be. His grief bore every appearance of arising from the deepest sense of loss. He accepted the sympathies of the assembled mourners with becoming grace, and begged us all to take some refreshment in the house, when once the service was over.”
“He took nothing himself, however,” Henry supplied, “and said even less.”
“Did you press him, Neddie, on the subject of Mr. Grey's flight?”
“I did not,” my brother replied, “but the Comte suggested freely that he thought Grey's absence arose not from a matter of business, but from a persistent disregard for what was due to his wife — a distaste for the scandal her death had caused — and a general desire to place events behind him.”
“The Comte will return very soon to France, I suppose.”
“If Grey's wishes are consulted, I am sure the fellow would presently be at the ends of the earth! Not even Grey, however, may entirely control the disposition of forces. A fleet action in the Channel may forestall the departure of his unwelcome guest; and then we may observe how the two chessmen play.”
“Provided the one does not place the other in check,” I observed — and ran away to dress.
Chapter 13
Talking Politics to a Lady
Friday, 23 August 1805,
very late in the evening
WE ARE ONLY JUST RETURNED FROM OUR VISIT TO Eastwell Park, and tho' it is nearly midnight now, my head is so filled with all that I have seen and heard, that I cannot sleep without setting down a few words in my little book. A roving owl calls spectrally through the darkness while the rest of the great house falls silent; monstrous shapes, born of my candle-flame, dance against the yellow walls. The maid, stifling a gape, has undone my best dinner gown and brushed out my hair. She is gone thankfully now to her bed under the airless rafters, while I sit at the dressing table in only my shift, desperate for a breeze that never comes. Another midnight I should be overwhelmed with loneliness, and dwell upon the follies of my past. But a circle of faces presently whirls before my eyes, caught in a shaft of memory; best to capture something of their outline, before it is dulled with sleep.
It was a large and stimulating party — for in addition to Mr. Finch-Hatton, Lady Elizabeth, and their five children (two of them very engaging little boys), we were treated to all the Finch-Hatton relations. This included the Miss Finches, Anne and Mary, both unmarried and as voluble as Lady Elizabeth is silent; Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton, the younger brother; and Harriet, Lady Gordon, the one Finch sister so fortunate as to achieve the wedded state.[35] Her husband, Sir Janison, I liked too little to cultivate; his manner was haughty, as befits a baronet, and he gave way to the temptation to sneer at the foolishness of the Miss Finches more than once. I cannot love a man who despises a spinster.
Of Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton, however, I formed a better opinion. I was so fortunate as to be seated next to him at dinner, and found him a stimulating companion — but more on that point later.[36]
In addition to our two families, there remained a pair of bachelors: Mr. Thomas Brett, an attorney with expectations of a prettyish estate near Wye, called Spring Grove, whom I believe to be sadly in the thrall of Miss Louisa Finch-Hatton; and the remarkable Mr. Julian Sothey.
Tho' we had journeyed the four miles towards Ash-ford in expectation of a meeting with the Gendeman Improver, it was in fact several hours before he was introduced to the ladies' attention. Upon our arrival at Eastwell just after two o'clock, Lizzy and I were immediately conveyed to a pleasantly airy saloon, with French windows surmounted by an Egyptian frieze, done in quite an extraordinary plasterwork — as tho' Robert Adam had witnessed the excesses of Napoleon's campaign, and thought to reproduce all of Alexandria in a single room. The saloon's prospect gave out onto the garden, which my brothers were rapidly traversing in company with the male Finch-Hattons. They were bound for the stables and a pony-trap, in which they intended to tour the park.
Lady Elizabeth and her eldest daughter were reclining indolently on a pair of sofas, apparently overcome by the oppressive weather and the vexation of dressing for dinner; it was not in their power to rise at our entrance. The Miss Finches, in their neat, spare fashion, were industriously at work upon an extensive fringe, apparently divided between them; little George and Daniel were engaged in playing at spillikins, while Lady Gordon read aloud from a novel. (It was, alas, The Sorrows of Young Werther; and perhaps my countenance fell upon perceiving it, for the excellent woman set aside the volume directly we were announced.)
“Mrs. Austen!” Mary Finch cried.
“And Miss Jane Austen!” her sister Anne echoed.
The two ladies abandoned their work and bustled forward, ail anxiety for our comfort, as though we had arrived in the midst of a terrible storm, or were fainting from three days' hunger. In the fuss that generally ensued, the quieter salutations of the others were entirely overwhelmed.
“To think,” Miss Mary began, “—such excellent friends — travelling all this distance, and in such heat and dust! Entirely too amiable! You find us quite at home — reduced to utter stupidity by the oppressive weather — although Harriet has been so good as to amuse us with Werther — tho' perhaps amusing is not the properest word, for it is a trifle tedious in passages — Louisa was quite reduced to tears of boredom for entire chapters together, although I am sure it is very instructive. It is all the rage in Town.”
“Had we only possessed Mrs. Edgeworth's works, or even Mrs. Palmerston's,” Miss Anne added, “when Mary and I were girls — but, then, we were very fortunate to be taught so much as a syllable of French, or anything of geography, for it was hardly considered suitable to send girls to fashionable boarding establishments, such as ou
r little Louisa has been treated to — and quite the fine miss she has returned, with such elegant taste, and her fingers so harmonious — they quite fly about the keyboard, as I am sure you will agree when she consents to play for us, after dinner. I am certain that Mr. Brett intends to teaze her on the subject of performance, blush how she might—”
“Pray allow the ladies to sit down, Mary,” Lady Elizabeth commanded in a quelling tone, “and ring for Hopkins with some punch. I trust your journey was uneventful, Mrs. Austen?”
“Entirely, Lady Elizabeth, I thank you.”
“You did not bring your eldest daughter. I had hoped she might be a companion for George.”
“How unfortunate, then, that she remained at home! She was excessively disappointed, I assure you. But Fanny's governess thought the journey too unhealthful in such heat, to permit of the treat.”
Lady Elizabeth inclined her head, and returned to fanning herself with a rush paddle; from Louisa we received not a word. She appeared engaged in studying the prospect of the garden — or perhaps she was hoping for a glimpse of its improver.
“Pray tell me, Miss Austen, how your lovely sister Cassandra does?” Miss Mary Finch cried. “We had hoped to have the pleasure of seeing her at Eastwell. It has been some months since we were so fortunate. Like yourself, I suppose, she yet retains the single state?”
“She does, ma'am,” I managed without loss of countenance. “Her recent period of mourning for my father rendered any change in domestic situation abhorrent.”
Miss Mary's expression turned so anxious at this, that I feared she might suffer a fit. “But of course — your excellent father — any change would be entirely out of the question for either of you girls — nothing so ideally suited to the comfort of a widow, as to have her children about her — I had entirely forgotten — that is, not forgotten, exactly, for who could ignore the loss of so admirable a soul, as the Reverend George? But, then, you are yourself no longer in mourning, Miss Austen, and I confess that your blooming looks put all thought of the dear departed quite out of my head. A charming man — and your brothers so very much like him — we shall have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Henry Austen, I hope, tho' my brother has quite stolen him away for the nonce. You will not take my little enquiry regarding your sister in an unamiable light, I hope?”
“Miss Austen is from Godmersham at present, I believe?” Miss Anne interjected, with a conscious look for her sister.
And so I related how Cassandra had gone to Harriot Bridges, with a view to assisting in the care of the invalid Bridges sister, Marianne; how she was expected at Godmersham on Monday, and appeared to be suffering herself from a return of the head-ache complaint that had troubled her ever since her unfortunate carriage accident in Lyme.[37]
“So Miss Cassandra Austen went to Goodnestone Farm!” Miss Anne exclaimed. “That is very good of her, to be sure, when she must deny herself all the superior pleasures that your brother's estate may offer. But I shall hope that she has not found her time there entirely devoid of interest.”
“I believe my brother Edward intended to make her visit as stimulating as possible,” Lizzy remarked, without even the hint of a smile. “He is quite a slave to Cassandra's enjoyment, and shall presently turn his devotion to Jane. Jane is to make her own visit, you know, upon Cassandra's departure.”
In such asides, punctuated by strenuous Finch monologues and virtual silence from the other ladies in the room, nearly an hour and a half were suffered to pass away, before a nuncheon of cheese and fruit materialised upon a tray. After this was consumed, I gave way to the entreaties of the litde boys, and joined them in the establishment of cribbage. Daniel and I had just succeeded in winning several hands from Miss Mary and his elder brother, when an exclamation from the languorous Louisa alerted all our attention.
“Mamma! They are coming across the odious ha-ha! I see Mr. Sothey to the fore.”
She rose and crossed to the pier-glass, surveying her reflection critically; then with a complete absence of consciousness, plucked at her golden curls and bit some colour into her full lips. Lady Gordon nearly choked on what might have been a giggle, and I observed the Miss Finches to exchange a significant look — but forbore from betraying my amusement. Lizzy, as ever, was a study in cultivated indifference; and so the Austens acquitted themselves more nobly than Miss Louisa's dearest relations.
A turmoil in the entry announced the gentlemen arrived; a hubbub of voices, and the tramp of feet — and the door was thrown open by one who was a stranger to me, and yet not entirely a stranger at all. I felt in an instant that this must be Julian Sothey, a gentleman of whom I had known nothing but a week before; and yet his face was hauntingly familiar. I studied his figure in vain for a hint as to the scene, the moment of our meeting, and found memory elusive.
Slight, narrow-shouldered, and lithe in all his movements, he conveyed an immediate impression of grace, like a superlative dancing master; but his coat of superfine wool, in a respectable shade of blue, was too well-made to permit of such an impertinence. His reddish hair fell unbound to his shoulders; his wide grey eyes were keen, and heavily-lashed; and a droll expression, as of inward laughter at some private joke, played about his lips. He seemed entirely easy at Eastwell Park — so very easy with his position and circumstance, as to precede his host into the saloon. This must argue a degree of self-importance that could not but be repugnant; but I am prone to form a hasty view on very little knowledge, and urged myself to reserve judgement in the case. Mr. Sothey, after all, was the son of Lady Elizabeth's oldest friend — and must be claimed almost as one of the family.
He was followed immediately by Mr. Brett, an acquaintance of Neddie's of many years standing, and then by my two brothers. The Finch-Hatton gentlemen brought up the rear.
“Julian!” Louisa Finch-Hatton cried breathlessly. “You have been an age in the garden, I declare! And I longed to finish my portrait today!”
She appeared an ill-bred and disappointed child, with her lower lip protruding dangerously, but Mr. Sothey chose to disregard Miss Louisa's manner, and approached her directly.
“You know, my dear Miss Finch-Hatton,” he said with a bow, “that I move at your father's whim. I exist at East-well only to serve him, and true pleasure must await the disposition of his needs. But you have been amply engaged in amusement, I am sure — with such interesting friends about you! Might I beg an introduction?”
This last was directed at Lizzy and myself; and recovering her pretty ways, Miss Louisa performed the office of making Mr. Julian Sothey known to the Austens. The unfortunate Mr. Brett — a tall, gawkish gentleman with sparse fair hair and dull blue eyes — hovered like a shade at Sothey's rear, unable to yield the hope of Louisa Finch-Hatton's favour. I saw in an instant that it was heavy work, and pitied him.
“I had the very great pleasure of engaging Mr. Henry and Mr. Edward Austen in conversation, ma'am,” Sothey told my sister easily, “while we toured the grounds of the park; and I must rejoice at the chance to further my acquaintance with the rest of the family.”
Lizzy inclined her head coolly. “I am to learn in a moment, I suppose, that Mr. Austen has contracted the fever for improvement — and that all of Godmersham is to be thrown in an uproar.”
“I cannot conceive that a place which has served as your home for so many years, could require any further embellishment of taste or beauty,” Mr. Sothey replied. “And certainly none that was within my power to achieve.”
My sister looked at him archly.
“I am only sorry that we are denied the pleasure of meeting your children,” Mr. Sothey added. “Lady Elizabeth was quite determined upon that point — that at least the eldest should accompany you, along with a lady whom I believe is her governess. The child is not indisposed, I trust?”
“How very kind in you to enquire. Fanny is entirely well, I thank you. She enjoys the most robust constitution. I am afraid Miss Sharpe is hardly equal to her.”
“Miss Sharpe?”
“The governess. A charming young woman. It was at her suggestion that we denied Fanny the expedition; she feared the state of the roads, and the present uncertainty in the weather, might prove too much for her; and I could not disagree.”
“I see. You accord a governess's opinion so much weight, Mrs. Austen?”
“In the matter of my child's well-being? Naturally, Mr. Sothey. It is expressly to attend to such things, that I engage Miss Sharpe. And now if you will excuse me—” Lizzy turned towards her husband, who stood to one side of the open French windows in earnest conversation with Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton. A slight breeze stirred the white muslin of Lizzy's dress as she moved to join them, and fluttered the ribbons of her rose-coloured sash; the fall of her dark curls about the nape of her neck was as exquisite as the slight pulse beating at the base of her throat. She embodied the sort of elegance that only years of study may attain; but for all her art, Lizzy invariably appeared artless. It was impossible to imagine her a girl of five, with blackcurrant jam trailing down her apron; impossible to envision her quarrelling to the point of tears with a despicable younger brother. Impossible, even, to form an idea of her in the throes of childbirth — tho' she had accomplished it some nine times. She is the sort of woman who seems cut from whole cloth — a perfection from infancy — intended for nothing lower than the graceful passage of a well-proportioned room. I saw in my sister the unconscious fulfillment of an ideal, and knew it forever beyond my grasp.
But it was Mr. Sothey who put in words what I had only thought in silence. “There is something in a face,” he said, ”'An air, and a peculiar grace / Which boldest painters cannot trace.' ”
I caught my breath. “I am unfamiliar with the author of those lines, sir.”
“William Somerville,” he replied briskly. “A much-neglected poet. Dr. Johnson was pleased to dismiss him as writing very well — 'for a gentleman.' Being the son of an Earl, Miss Austen, I am often placed in a similar category — accorded merit only in as much as I transcend the general mediocrity of my class. Artists, you know, should never possess the distinction of birth; it ruins them for genius.”[38]
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