Jane and the Genius of the Place

by Stephanie Barron

  I set down my wineglass with an attempt at ease, but the quickness of the blood in my cheek surely betrayed a deeper sensibility. “And hashord Harold, then, an intimate friend? Such a singular intelligence must certainly astonish!” I had not received a word from my Dark Angel in fully eight months, beyond a brief message of condolence at the death of my father this January last. A gentleman never writes to a lady of his acquaintance, of course, unless there is an understanding—an open or a secret engagement of marriage—and despite Lord Harold’s perpetual disregard for convention, he should be unlikely to expose me to censure through a careless impropriety. But he might have paid a call while yet we remained in Bath—he might even have sought me out in Kent, had his regard or his necessity warranted such attention. His evident disinclination, tho’ only to be expected from a gentleman of his solitary habits and elusive purpose, had fallen like a shower of coldest rain upon an unguarded head.

  I will confess here in the privacy of my little book that I have missed our conversations—the intimacy of shared thought, and the ready understanding, so rare between a man and a woman. Lord Harold has never taught me to entertain expectations of a deeper interest on his side— our manner of living is so different, and the disparity of birth too great—:but I had come to depend upon the notion of his friendship. This was foolish, perhaps, in respect of a man whose heart and mind are opened to no one; Trowbridge is the sort to profit by an acquaintance, as occasion dictates, and move on without a backwards glance. I had been thrown off, in short, when my utility to His Lordship was done; and I resented the change.

  Mr. Emilious, I found, was studying me narrowly as I turned the stem of my wineglass between my fingers; and so I strove for the appearance of composure. “I knew His Lordship a litde in Bath last winter. His niece, Lady Desdemona Trowbridge—the Countess of Swithin, rather—and I were thrown much together.”

  “On account of that dreadful business with the Theatre Royal,” Mr. Emilious returned. “You rendered the entire Wilborough clan an inexpressible service, Miss Austen. Trowbridge himself could not say enough of your understanding—and from such a quarter, that must be the highest praise, indeed.”

  What exactly Mr. Emilious had heard of my adventures in Bath the previous Christmas—which had come nearer to compromising my reputation than any of my impetuous forays to date—was left in doubt.2 I surveyed his countenance for the slightest hint of excessive familiarity—for an odious approach to the indelicate— and could discern nothing but respectful admiration. I drew breath, accordingly, and enquired, “His Lordship is well?”

  “My intelligence of Lord Harold is no more recent than March,” my companion replied. “We dined together but two days before his departure for the Russian court—and he then appeared much as he always does: a trifle weary of the world and his place in it, but whether due to excessive application, or excessive boredom, who can say? I saw him into the Portsmouth coach the following morning. He was to embark on a Navy frigate, since travel across the Continent is made so perilous for an Englishman. But I am forgetting—no doubt you are well-acquainted with His Lordship’s route.”

  “Well-acquainted? IV Astonishment very nearly deprived me of speech. “But I have not met with Lord Harold these eight months at least.”

  “I am excessively surprised,” Mr. Emilious cried. “I had understood from his latest communication that you were completely in his confidence; that he regarded you, indeed, as one of the few among his friends who might wholly be trusted.”

  I flushed. “Trust, Mr. Emilious, is a suspect quality in Lord Harold’s hands.”

  “So I comprehend.” He was silent an instant, his gaze fixed absentfy on Lady Elizabeth’s hideous candelabra. A faint breeze—or the current of conversation in the room, perhaps—stirred its flames fitfully.

  “Are you at liberty to disclose the nature of His Lordship’s errand to Russia?” I enquired delicately. “Or does discretion forbid the particulars?”

  Mr. Emilious regarded me with calculation, a fine line between his brows; his easy manner was entirely fled. “I am told it is impolite to mention politics before a lady,” he said slowly, “but I intend no disrespect to yourself, Miss Austen, in declaring that you have never been accorded that fragile status by Lord Harold. He assures me that you possess the keenest understanding in the world, and are conversant in everything that one must, from convention, reserve solely to the affairs of men.”

  “I cannot admit to having bagged a grouse, Mr. Finch-Hatton, nor to having sported a pipe of Virginia tobacco; but I may confess to a glancing acquaintance with the London papers.”

  “You have heard, then, of the Anglo-Russian accord?”

  I stared at him indifferently. “Is there anyone who has not? It was ratified, I believe, but a few weeks ago.”

  Mr. Emilious had the frankness to smile; he glanced involuntarily at his niece, Miss Louisa, and said: “Few ladies, Miss Austen, have the strength to tear their gazes from the fashion plates of La Belle Assemblee, in support of news from abroad. I doubt that one in an hundred could tell me what you clearly apprehend— that the Tsar of all the Russias, Alexander the First, has at long last admitted to a distrust of Napoleon, and pledged to stand with England against the French.”

  “I shall value His Imperial Majesty’s pledges the more when once they are put to the test,” I observed. “My naval brothers assure me that we must benefit from the exchange, in gaining freedom for our ships in northern waters; Mr. Pitt has long since struck a bargain with Gus-tavus of Sweden towards this very end—but what good can England hope to return, to the Tsar of all the Russias? Did the French purpose to acquire his snowy steppes, we should hardly intervene.”

  “But we may serve to further Alexander’s dearest interest,” Mr. Emilious countered. “The Tsar has long desired the conquest of Ottoman lands to the south of his present borders; and in this, he rivals the French. A year ago he recalled his ambassador from Paris; as recently as May, he was made distinctly uneasy by Buonaparte’s seizure of the Italian crown. The fall of the Lig-urian Republic this summer has further excited his anxiety. But he bears us no love, for all that; in clasping the hand of the English, Alexander has chosen the lesser of the evils available to him.”

  “I must believe that the Russian mind is forever closed to the open heart of an Englishman.”

  “—unless that Englishman be Lord Harold Trowbridge.”

  I smiled involuntarily. Mr. Emilious was correct; in the Gentleman Rogue, Tsar Alexander’s ministers would meet the most inscrutable of adversaries. “His Lordship was instrumental in the accord’s completion, I collect?”

  “He was—tho’ the credit shall go publicly to another. That is only as he would wish; he has quitted the Russian court already some weeks, and at present exerts his delicate influence with the Hapsburg Emperor. For an alliance to stand firm against the French, Mr. Pitt must secure the Austrians at any cost.”3

  “But of course,” I murmured, as though the subtlety of the Prime Minister’s conduct could never be lost on so keen a female mind. “I must wonder, sir, whether any coalition might avail us comfort, when the French are rumored to have left Boulogne.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Emilious returned; and his eyes glinted. “And yet you will perceive, Miss Austen, that I credit rumour so little, I remain as yet in Kent.”

  “As do we all. Town can offer few delights in August.”

  “I hope that I may call upon you one day this week? You are quite fixed for the present at Godmersham?”

  “Until Monday, sir, when I shall pay a visit to Lady Bridges, at Goodnestone Farm.”

  The footmen then appearing to carry out the remove, and unfurl the clean cloth, all discourse was at an end.4 I had litde doubt that Mr. Emilious intended no idle pleasantry in his last remark. He had approached me with a purpose this evening, and had set about to sound my depths. Whatever Lord Harold’s intention in directing his friend to my door, it was not of a sort to be broached over the dinner table; and I f
ound myself impatient to know what it was. Indeed, my thoughts were entirely in a whirl: for I exulted—there could be no other word—in the knowledge that I had not been entirely forgot. Lord Harold elusive at so small a remove as Town, was cause for pain; Lord Harold despatched to remotest Russia, was quite another instance. My spirits, of a sudden, had soared ridiculously; Mr. Sothey, the murdered Francoise Grey, even the invading French—all consigned to oblivion in respect of Mr. Emilious’s words.

  Patience was to be my trial in the present instance, however. Having devoted the entirety of the first course to the amusement of Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton, I should accord my elegant phrases to the gentleman seated at my left, Mr. Brett, during the second. When the covers were settled upon every square inch of the table’s surface, I turned, and found the poor man’s gaze fixed pensively on Miss Louisa Finch-Hatton.

  That young lady was seated farther up the table, as suited the eldest daughter of the house; she was placed between my brother Henry and Mr. Sothey, whose interest she had tenaciously engaged, and refused to give up despite the appearance of the second course. Poor Henry looked quite put out, and in the throes of boredom, since his companion to the right was Miss Anne Finch. I perceived that that excellent lady was presently in full flood upon the subject of whalebone corsets, and the mortification of their creaking, particularly for a gentleman. This might be considered a daring launch in Miss Anne Finch’s mind. One look at Henry’s face reminded me of my duty to Mr. Brett.

  “And how do you find the practise of law in Kent, Mr. Brett?” I began, my fascinated gaze fixed firmly on his profile.

  He tore his eyes from Louisa and sought my countenance almost blindly. “I beg your pardon? I fear I was not attending.”

  “You are a solicitor, I believe?”

  “I am.”

  “Then pray tell me, sir—-what sense can you make of my brother’s unfortunate business with Mrs. Grey?”

  “I should rather have called it Mrs. Grey’s unfortunate business,” he observed, with a quelling look, “and your brother’s duty, Miss Austen.”

  “But of course,” I murmured, “as who better than an Austen should know?”

  Mr. Brett, I made no doubt, was burdened by an inclination to find all women dangerously forward in the expression of their opinions, excepting his delightful Louisa—who could be counted upon to voice nothing more challenging than a view of the weather, or the latest rage among the ton. “Then you have escaped the general fit of curiosity, Mr. Brett, as to the nature of Mrs. Grey’s end?”

  “If you mean the morbid preoccupation with her death—I can think of nothing less seemly. Curiosity in such a cause must be abhorrent.” His eyes strayed involuntarily to Mr. Sothey and Louisa, and of a sudden, I considered the utility of the Green-Eyed Monster. Many a man might be goaded by jealousy, where a judicious reserve should counsel otherwise. I should be very much surprised if Mr. Brett had not already acquainted himself with the chief failings of his rival, the better to combat the latter’s power.

  “You are entirely correct, of course,” I offered mildly, “and I must admire your forbearance. An attorney must be but too susceptible to an avid interest in such crimes; natural inclination would lead you to it, and your talents admirably suit you to the task. The temptation to indulge in theories and solutions must be nearly overwhelming— a temptation that Mr. Sothey, for example, could not be expected to feel.”

  “No, indeed,” Mr. Brett vehemendy declared, “Mr. Sothey’s temptations must lie in an entirely different quarter. Neither reason nor propriety can be known to such a man.”

  “You do not esteem a landscape designer?”

  Mr. Brett turned upon me an eloquent eye. “It makes no matter what Sothey styles himself. A scoundrel with neither character nor feeling to recommend him may go by any name he chooses. I hope that I may never esteem a shameless poacher on the preserve of his betters, Miss Austen—a man who would take money for the expression of his merest opinion, and a few dab-blings in watercolour! He should be run out of the country on a wood plank; and the sooner, the better, for all concerned.”

  If Mr. Sothey caught a syllable of Mr. Brett’s indignant words, he betrayed not a hint of it; Miss Louisa, I am certain, was too engaged in admiring his voice, to attend to any other in the room.

  “What can Mr. Sothey have done, to merit such opprobrium?” I enquired.

  “Only such as must make him the enemy of every respectable man in the Kingdom! That he has the impudence to show his face at this table, when the history of his connexion with that regrettable woman must be known to the entire country, surpasses belief! And yet, there he sits, in the most open coquetry with an innocent young lady, as tho’ all the sins of lechery did not proclaim themselves in his countenance!”

  I allowed his wrath to subside a litde, and then ventured, “If you would allude to Mrs. Grey—I had understood that Mr. Sothey was engaged in the household in much the capacity that he is entertained here. As a landscape designer, and the intimate friend of Mr: Grey.”

  Mr. Brett laughed abrupdy—an unlovely sound. “That will be the tale he tells, no doubt. But I have seen the evidence of his cunning with my own eyes, and the memory of it is seared upon my brain. I would not call that fellow friend, for any amount of money in the world. He cannot apprehend the meaning of the word; friend must be as open to injury as enemy, to Mr. Sothey. He is not a man to be trusted.”

  “If what you would imply is true,” I persisted, “I must wonder at Mr. Grey’s permitting him the liberty of his household. Mr. Sothey only quitted The Larches this week, I believe.”

  “As recently as the day of Mrs. Grey’s death. I must think the coincidence quite telling.”

  “You cannot mean—”

  “—that he was somehow responsible?” Mr. Brett hesitated; but even the goad of jealousy, it seemed, was inadequate to a charge of murder. “I cannot know of what Mr. Sothey is capable. But I was privileged to witness his arrival here the day of the race-meeting—having ridden over to pay my respects to the ladies, unaware that the Finch-Hattons were as yet detained in Canterbury. The impression of haste and trouble Mr. Sothey then conveyed was unmistakable. He seemed in flight from the Devil himself, if you will pardon the expression; his hat gone, his appearance wild, with a great weal standing out on his neck; his baggage in disarray, and his manservant decidedly put out at the suddenness of the removal. ‘Good God!’ I cried, upon first perceiving them, ‘have the French indeed made landfall in Kent? Has the alarm been sounded?’—for their appearance, Miss Austen, must give rise to every anxiety. Sothey attempted a laugh, but it came out queerly, and with entirely the opposite effect of ease he had intended. ‘Merely a brush with a footpad, Mr. Brett,’ he declared, ‘who visited this injury upon me, before Frick bade him be off, with the persuasion of a pistol.’ I saw the manservant, Frick, look swiftly at his master, as if to call him liar; and wondered at the tale. The two disappeared into the house as freely as tho’ it were their own, and I turned my mount towards the Canterbury road. But later, when I learned of Mrs. Grey’s death, and remembered Mr. Sothey’s conduct in that house, I formed my own conclusion.”

  “You believe that Mr. Grey turned him away from The Larches?” I hazarded. “But surely Mr. Grey was in London?”

  “Of course it was not Grey!” Mr. Brett declared, all astonishment. “He was too indifferent to his wife’s conduct, Miss Austen, to lose the services of so valuable a consultant as Mr. Sothey. No; I should imagine it was the lady herself who ran Sothey off, because of his infamy.”

  This last put me entirely at sea. “You suspect Mr. Sothey of having wronged her?”

  “But of course! That is what I have been telling you!” Mr. Brett abandoned the last of his buttered prawns and set down his cutlery. “I had arranged to call upon Mrs. Grey a few days before her death, on a matter of business—”

  So even the probity of Mr. Brett was open to conjecture. Had the business been horse-trading? Or a pressing debt of honour, c
ontracted under Mrs. Grey’s hand?

  “—and found the lady from home. I was surprised that she had forgot our engagement, but was told by the housekeeper that a courier had come of a sudden from France, and that Mrs. Grey could not avoid the necessity of riding out to Canterbury to meet him. I was about to leave my card in the entry and depart, when the sound of footfalls in the gravel of the stableyard alerted me. Perhaps Mrs. Grey had returned! I took the liberty of entering the little saloon—” he hesitated. “Do you know The Larches?”

  “Not at all,” I admitted.

  “There are three principal rooms on the ground floor—a drawing-room, a dining-parlour, and a little saloon that gives out on the stableyard. The latter was Mrs. Grey’s favourite room, because of her fondness for the stables; she delighted in all the comings and goings of the yard, and might observe them as she conducted her correspondence.”

  “I perceive that you were an intimate friend, Mr. Brett. You have my deepest sympathies/’

  He looked surprised—seemed about to speak—and then thought better of what he had almost said. “I cannot admit to a liking for either of the Greys, Miss Austen. They were neither of them the sort to encourage intimacy. But Mrs. Grey could command a remarkable fascination—and the interest of her card-parties was undeniable, particularly for a man without family, like myself.”

  “I see. And in the little saloon, Mr. Brett? Were you so fortunate as to find Mrs. Grey returned?”

  “I was not,” he resumed. “Imagine my surprise, when I observed Mr. Sothey—whom everyone had acknowledged as her lover these several weeks—crossing the yard with a lady’s gown hanging over his arm. He peered around at the stable door, as tho’ conscious of my eyes upon him; but I fancy that the fall of light was unsuitable to the detection of my figure in the saloon window. He vanished within the stable; and something about his manner cautioned me to remain. I had no wish to call for my horse at that moment, and disturb Sothey about his business. I waited, accordingly, some moments— and when the door opened again, it revealed not Mr. Sothey—”