“And thus sealed his death warrant,” I concluded, “for whoever killed Denys Collingforth had determined that he should not return unharmed. Such an eventuality could hardly serve the purpose of Mrs. Grey’s murderer. Better he should die, and the whole affair die with him.”
My brother went pale. I had spoken without consideration—and now regretted the callous words immeasurably. “Do not blame yourself, Neddie!” I cried hastily. “I would not have you to feel yourself in the slightest regard responsible. You acted as a reasonable man should always think best—and cannot have foreseen the outcome. We may yet discover, moreover, that Mr. Collingforth was killed by a common footpad.”
He did not reply, but sat staring at the small gilt table before him, as tho’ he saw the dead Collingforth’s ravaged face reflected in its surface. Lizzy went to him, and seized his hand; Henry looked at me speakingly, and I felt myself very much to blame. It is always Neddie’s way to harbour his injuries, where the rest of us might find relief in a single outburst; and I knew, from the cast of my brother’s countenance, that my unwitting blow had gone home.
“What shall you do, my love?” Lizzy gendy enquired.
He turned to stare at her blankly, and seemed to emerge from reverie.
“Why—as to that, my dear, I believe I have done all that I can, as Jane so righdy observes. I have despatched a messenger to London, with a request of the magistrates for any intelligence regarding Mr. Collingforth’s absent friend, Mr. Everett. I have ordered the constable at Deal to interrogate the captains still anchored in the Downs, in the hope of discovering whether Collingforth attempted to purchase a passage on Thursday night; and I have set another man on the trail of Mr. Grey.”
“Mr. Grey?” she exclaimed. “But Mr. Grey was gone to London on Thursday night!”
“—or so his housekeeper was informed,” Neddie sanguinely returned. His eyes met mine over the crown of his wife’s head. “But I have had cause to wonder, my dear, if his midnight messenger was not from London, but rather a man sent by Mr. Pembroke of Deal, who detained his friend so long over a bottle in the privacy of his rooms. Such an interval might allow of communication with The Larches. Perhaps Mr. Pembroke thought to retrieve tenfold the passage money lent to Collingforth, in a small service to Mr. Grey.”
IT WAS WELL AFTER NOON BY THE TIME NEDDIE’S REcital was done. He took a small nuncheon, exchanged his soiled clothes for fresh, and rang for Pratt around the hour of one o’clock. Some moments later we set off for The Larches and our call of condolence, in a carriage closed against the final showers of rain. Lizzy was a picture of fashionable decorum—her dark grey dress a trifle warm for the season, but perfectly suited to mourning; and just elegant enough, with a latticework of black satin running about the bodice, and a trim of jet beads capping her white shoulder, to proclaim it only recently delivered from the modiste’s. More black ribbon was twined among her auburn curls, and jet dangled from her ears. She had adopted a pert little illusion veil that slanted fetchingly over one eye, and her gloves were dove-grey lace.
For my own part, I had removed the traces of ash from my person; pinned up the straying fragments of my hair, and exchanged my very damp muslin for a dry one. The period of mourning undergone for my late father being so recently at an end, I boasted no less than three gowns suitable for the occasion—and detested every one of them. The sight of dusky cloth must always evoke the most painful memories. I spurned them all, and borrowed a lavender muslin from my sister’s store, left behind when she removed to Goodnestone.
“How far is The Larches, Lizzy?” I enquired, as the chaise slowed to skirt a daunting puddle.
“Not above five miles, I should think. We might achieve it in half an hour. You shall like to revisit the neighbourhood, Jane—it is not far from Rowling, a place you always regarded with affection.”
Rowling! I had not thought of it in an age; it might be a word from my vanished girlhood, and to speak it again thrust me swiftly back in memory. It is a smallish house— litde more than a cottage, in fact—that sits about a mile from Goodnestone Farm. Neddie and Elizabeth spent their earliest years at Rowling, before old Mrs. Knight made over Godmersham to Edward, and removed herself to White Friars. I had spent some weeks at Rowling when I was twenty; it was there I learned to admire Mr. Edward Taylor’s beautiful dark eyes, and tried to forget the hazel ones of a certain Tom Lefroy. I had danced the Boulanger at Goodnestone Farm, and walked home in the dark under a borrowed umbrella. At Rowling I had begun my work upon Elinor and Marianne, and struggled with the burlesque of Susan. Such a place must always linger in memory as fondly as dear Steventon—the scene of youthful hopes and dreams. So many of them dashed.1
“How I wish that we might have time to walk around the garden,” I said wistfully.
“You shall have walking enough at The Larches,” Neddie reminded me. “There is not a finer showplace in Kent.”
“Particularly now that Mr. Sothey has had his way with it,” I observed.
We proceeded then in silence, for Lizzy was not of a disposition for idle chatter, and my brothers were too weary to keep their eyes from closing. Tho’ I would have given much for their opinion of my morning’s discoveries—the curious fact of Mr. Sothey’s handwriting, on letters destroyed by the governess—I could not feel it wise to canvass the matter so soon. My own part in disturbing the ashes was suspect enough, and open to censure; but I hesitated to expose Anne Sharpe to the contempt of her employers. Lizzy should be unlikely to look with favour on a governess familiar with intrigue; she would not scruple to dismiss a woman whom she considered unsuitable for the instruction of her daughters; and that I might be the agent of Anne Sharpe’s ruin, was more than I could bear.
I could conceive a perfectly innocent explanation for the entire matter. Anne Sharpe had been taken much into Society during her years with the Portermans, and it was not incredible that she should have met Sothey somewhere, and formed an attachment. Fortune being scant on either side, the two might have considered it imprudent to marry, and determined to separate. Miss Sharpe came to my sister, in the regrettable role of governess, while Mr. Sothey was left to barter his talent for the arrangement of landscape. The gentieman might quickly have thrown himself into new things, new acquaintance—including his affaire with Francoise Grey. Miss Sharpe’s heart, however, may have proved unequal to her sense of duty.
She had borne with her disappointment tolerably well, until the morning of the Canterbury race-meeting. There she must have witnessed, in company with myself, Mrs. Grey’s stinging rebuke of her cicisbeo. The outrage! The betrayal! The mortification! And then, in the privacy of her own room, the desolation of loss. It should be enough to pique the sensibility of any well-bred young woman.
That Mr. Sothey had discerned his Anne in the Austen carriage, I little doubted—his marked interest in the Godmersham nursery, so evident during our conversation at Eastwell, was now explained. The mysterious letter that Fanny perceived on Wednesday would have been his communication; and no answer to it arriving— no Anne Sharpe appearing at the Eastwell dinner on Friday—he would necessarily have been at a high pitch of nerves. Whatever Sothey wrote to the governess, it had precipitated a different reply than he had expected, for she had ordered a fire as early as Thursday and destroyed the entirety of his correspondence.
But would a young lady, bred to the most delicate sense of duty, have consented to correspond with such a man, absent some private understanding of marriage? Had Anne Sharpe, in fact, been secretly engaged to Mr. Sothey?
Then his attentions to Francoise Grey—and the subsequent public rupture at the Canterbury race-meeting— were despicable, indeed. What if Anne Sharpe had somehow precipitated Mrs. Grey’s anger? And incited Julian Sothey to murder?
Fantastic as the notion might seem—the merest flight of fancy—one consideration must lend it weight: Mr. Brett’s disturbing glimpse of a woman with raven hair emerging from The Larches’ stables. If that lady had been Anne Sharpe—
I thrust aside Mr. Sothey and his amours—consigned Anne Sharpe and her secrets to a safe compartment in my mind—and prepared for delight.
NOTHING MY BROTHER HENRY HAD TOLD ME OF VALENtine Grey’s consequence had urged me to believe The Larches a modest little place. My brief impression of the late Mrs. Grey—bold, dashing, and devil-may-care—had done nothing to dampen expectation. A woman may only flout convention when she commands sufficient power, either of rank or fortune; Francoise Grey had commanded both. I knew that her home would be in the first style of luxury. To this I was indifferent—one great house richly furnished may be very much like another. It was the grounds of The Larches alone that utterly deprived me of speech.
One approaches the place by a winding drive, that runs for some time through rolling Kentish downs; clumps of trees, in the style of Capability Brown, dot the greenest meadows, and an arched bridge surmounts the river perhaps a mile before the house. In this, there is nothing to astonish—Stourhead or The Vyne2 might boast as much—and even the prospect of The Larches itself, first perceived around a turning of the drive, is only as noble as any other modern villa of its type. I could cry out in delight, and admire it as I have done any number of places, without feeling moved by a deeper beauty; it required a walk around the remarkable park, before I was completely overcome.
One enters the grounds from a terrace running perpendicular to one side of the house; a series of steps leads to a gravel path, that descends through a wood; and after a period of winding among larch tree, and beech, under-planted with the rarest specimens of rhododendron and azalea, the wood opens out to reveal a plunge of valley, its sides steeply planted with every variety of growing thing, massed in the most pleasing arrangement of colour and form. Below lies the river, now swelled to something greater—a lake, in fact, that is spanned at its narrowest points by first a bridge, and then a ferry. Emerging from the trees, on promontories of their own, and offering rival views of the valley’s charms, are three temples— dedicated to Philosophy, Science, and Art.
I rested several moments under the portico of the last, surveying the fall of ground before me, and the ferry boat plying its oars between the near shore and my own; and rather wondered that Mr. Grey had neglected to raise an altar to the god of Mammon—his consequence and his garden both being dependent upon it. But these thoughts seemed ungenerous in the face of such beauty; and besides, the gendeman in question stood silendy near me. It would never do to excite his contempt when we had progressed so admirably towards a better knowledge of one another.
But I forget myself, and proceed apace to Mr. Valentine Grey, when I had better have begun with his housekeeper.
Our excellent Pratt pulled up before the house in due course, and we found one Mrs. Bastable standing in the open doorway, as tho’ in expectation of our visit. She was quite magnificent in an old-fashioned gown of black lawn, a starched white apron, and a ribboned cap; and she bobbed a cold curtsey as Neddie handed my sister from the carriage.
“Good morning, madam,” she said, in a colourless voice, “it is very good to see you at The Larches again, and after so long a period. You have been well, I trust?”
“Perfecdy, Bastable, I assure you,” Lizzy said in a tone of faint amusement. The woman’s implication was hardly lost upon her; she had been rebuked for neglect of the dead mistress, and for descending like a vulture upon the funeral-baked meats. “You do not know my sister, Miss Austen, I believe.”
I was treated to a similarly chilly courtesy, and ushered into the house.
Immediately upon entering, my eyes were drawn to the figures of two men—Mr. Valentine Grey, who stood grim-faced and stalwart next to his friend, Captain Woodford; and the Comte de Penfleur, who was established almost indolendy upon a settee. Now that the rain had ended for good and all, a watery light played about his fair hair as tho’ in benediction. The Comte must have felt the weight of my gaze; his own came up, and searched the room—only to pass indifferendy over my unremarkable countenance and fix, with some earnest study, upon Lizzy’s glowing one. But I was denied further occasion to observe—some few of our acquaintance were present in respect of the dead, and demanded recognition. Charlotte Taylor of Bifrons Park was there, with her eldest daughter, tho’ not her husband; the Colemans, from Court Lodge, stood nervously in a corner; Nicolas and Anna-Maria Toke advanced immediately to pay their respects. It was heavy work, I own; a little awkwardness, in respect of the occasion and Neddie’s role, was inevitable. Cordial as the feelings of all towards our party might be, there was nonetheless a little reserve; my brother must be viewed in this house, above all others, in the capacity first of his commission— and only secondarily as a valued friend. We others, as probable parties to his counsel, were treated with an equal respect; and so we were left a little apart, while our neighbours eyed us sidelong, and hurriedly concluded their visits.
“Mrs. Austen!” Charlotte Taylor cried, “how very well you are looking, to be sure. Such a cunning employment of jet beads! I do not know when I have seen a more ravishing gown, to be sure. Pray pirouette a litde upon the carpet, that we might observe the flounce!”
“You are too kind, Charlotte,” Lizzy replied, without the slightest suggestion of a pirouette. “I am pleased to find you thriving. Mr. Taylor is well, I trust?”
“Oh, Edward is never less than stout,” she cried. “He quite puts me out of countenance. How am I to contrive a visit to Bath, when he will not suffer from the gout? Now tell me how you like my gown!”
Lizzy surveyed the apparition—a striped green silk, with a perilous quantity of soutache about the sleeves and hem, and smiled faindy. “It suits you admirably, Charlotte.”
“It is handsome, I think, but I do not know whether it is not overtrimmed; I have the greatest dislike to the idea of being overtrimmed; quite a horror of finery. I must put on a few ornaments, naturally; I should look naked otherwise; but my natural taste is all for simplicity. A simple style of dress is so infinitely preferable to finery.”
“Indeed,” Lizzy murmured.
Delicately, I began to edge away, in the direction of a fine Italian landscape that hung against one wall. Charlotte Taylor on the subject of simplicity was not to be endured; she was constitutionally unfit for the task, and mustbe insincere.
“But I am quite in the minority, I believe,” she went on. “Few people seem to value simplicity of dress—show and finery are everything. I have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will look well, Lizzy?”3
The landscape artist had captured a distant prospect of an ancient hillside, surmounted by Cyprus and a few tumbled columns; the mood was one of desolation and peace, a glorious past recalled, and now thankfully put to rest. Mr. Sothey should have found it admirable—the very soul of Picturesque—but whether congenial as a back garden, I could not presume to say. With a little start, I recollected that Mr. Sothey had probably known this picture well—he had frequented these rooms at The Larches for some months, and might almost have regarded them as his own. What had occurred between the Greys and the improver, to precipitate his hasty flight? And how did Mr. Grey regard Julian Sothey now?
“Lizzy,” my brother Neddie was saying to his wife, “you must allow me to introduce the Comte de Penfleur.”
I turned, and was in time to catch the Frenchman bending low over my sister’s hand. “It is an honour, madam,” he said. “Rarely have I seen such beauty and elegance united in the figure of a woman—particularly so far from Paris.”
“You are too kind, sir,” Lizzy replied coolly, “but I am afraid that your experience of England is regrettably narrow.”
“Au contraire. “He released her hand.
“And may I pr
esent my sister, Miss Austen,” Neddie said, with a faint frown for the Comte.
I curtseyed, and the Frenchman bowed. “I should have detected the family resemblance anywhere. You have quite the look of your brother Henry, Miss Austen, particularly about the eyes. His character, I imagine, is somewhat less deep; he has the look of a ban vivant, while your own aspect is more of reserve and understanding.”
“Indeed?” I replied, amused. “And are you a student of character, monsieur?”
“I am a student of humanity,” he replied with great seriousness. “The infinite variety of human expression and inclination is endlessly diverting, would not you agree? Particularly in England, where the national character is one of suppressed emotion. The necessity of schooling one’s impulses to conform with an imposed convention is accepted here without question; but the result must be a soul eternally at war with the self. One cannot find happiness without a disregard for convention, Miss Austen; in France, the Revolution has taught us this.”
“I see.” Such a philosophy at work on Franchise Grey might have done incomparable mischief, but from the glow of his looks and the ardour of his phrases, the Comte must intend only good. Thus are all revolutionaries formed. “It has been my observation, monsieur— and I, too, am a student of character—that the flouting of convention, particularly for a woman, may often lead to great unhappiness.”
“In England, perhaps,” he mused, “for there is little room for the expression of the self. In England, yes, such a policy might be difficult—and bring unhappiness, even, in the short term—but eventually the joy of living by one’s lights would undoubtedly prevail.”
“Provided one survived so long,” I murmured. “And have you travelled much in England, monsieur?”
“The hostilities have prevented me from visiting as often as I should have wished; but there was a time— around the year ‘two—when I nearly made England my home. I have the widest experience of the country and its Fashionable Set; and thus I may protest with some energy”—turning smoothly to Lizzy—“that you are too modest, Mrs. Austen.”
Jane and the Genius of the Place Page 25