Jane and the Genius of the Place

by Stephanie Barron

  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 batde-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.1 Indeed, I was returned to England posthaste 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 Woodford 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 litde 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 litde 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 perha
ps 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 gready. 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 gendeman 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 respect 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 starded 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?”

  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 gen-dy, “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 Pegwell 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?”

  1 It was the practise during this period to hold enemy officers in lodgings that befit their status as gentlemen, and to exchange them for captured officers of one’s own army at the first opportunity. —Editor’s note.

  21 August 1805, cont’d.

  I WAS NOT THE ONLY PARTY WHO BANTERED TOO FREELYthis 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.1 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 gendemen 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.”2

  “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?”