Jane and the Genius of the Place

by Stephanie Barron

  Neddie and I both frowned in perplexity.

  “He may have spoken no more than the truth,” Henry persisted.

  “Regarding what or whom?” Neddie cried.

  “Speak plainly, Henry, for the love of God,” I added, in exasperation.

  “In perusing the Times, Jane—which you admirers of country life only rarely look into—I have been powerfully reminded that we have entirely ignored the fact of Mrs. Grey’s courier.”

  Neddie threw up his hands in disgust.

  “Her courier?” I prompted.

  “—The elusive fellow from France, in green and gold livery, who was charged with the most pressing intelligence. The courier who arrived on the very morning of her death, and may unwittingly have precipitated it.”

  “I like your theory not half so well as my own,” Lizzy murmured, and stretched as comfortably as a cat. “It lacks simplicity.”

  “We believed it possible that the courier came to warn of a French invasion.” Henry waved his furled newspaper like a martial baton. “But no invasion has occurred. The watchtowers stand unfired. Evacuation is put off. Has it not occurred to you, Neddie, that the news for Mrs. Grey must have been entirely otherwise?”

  “Grey himself has said that her family often chose to communicate with her in such a fashion. Perhaps the man was charged with delivering the Comte’s final letter—the proposal of elopement we discovered in La Nouvelle Helotse.”

  “Or perhaps it was in your friend Mr. Grey’s interest to suggest as much.”

  “I do not understand you, Henry. Why should Grey conceal the nature of his wife’s intelligence?”

  “Because it threatened the security of his banking concern, his reputation, and, indeed, his very life.”

  “What do you know?” Neddie reached unconsciously for his clay pipe, and felt in his pockets for a pouch of tobacco. Lizzy took the pipe from his hand without a word and set it aside.

  “I know nothing at all, I assure you,” Henry protested, “—but I might suggest a good deal. Grey is certainly involved in a very deep game, as the Comte has observed. Did you learn nothing from the state of his household?”

  “The Larches? I thought it charming.”

  Henry snorted. “Charming. Perhaps it was. But I should very much like to know, brother, what sort of difficulties the man has incurred, and how he hopes to extricate himself without the most public scandal!”

  “Scandal?” Lizzy echoed. “I should have thought the murder of his wife scandal enough for the present.”

  “I refer to the conduct of Mr. Grey’s business,” Henry retorted. “I had not spent above an hour at The Larches, before I knew that his firm is extended to the breaking point.”

  “How can you say so?” I enquired. “Certainly Mr. Grey maintains a considerable estate. The maintenance of the grounds at least must exact a fortune. But his circumstances appeared quite easy.”

  “And yet he employs no housemaids,” Henry observed. “Mrs. Bastable is required to perform the slightest office. The condition of the stables, moreover, is appalling—the boxes have not been mucked out since Mrs. Grey’s death. When I enquired as to the cause, I was told that the master had refused an order for bedding, and turned away the better part of the stable lads. As a result, it was impossible to discover anything of Julian Sothey’s assignation with an unknown lady in the stableyard. No one with the slightest pretension to knowledge had been retained in service.”

  “Such a dismissal of staff might be very much to Mr. Grey’s purpose, did he intend the sale of Mrs. Grey’s string,” I argued, “but I cannot see how it reveals his circumstances to be hopeless.”

  “Have you any idea of the quality of the blood in Grey’s stables? It will be the sale of the decade. He stands to make thousands of pounds. And from the look of things, I should say that he is desperate for funds.”

  “Perhaps he cannot bear to be reminded of his wife’s passion for horseflesh,” Lizzy observed, “and merely hopes to dispose of her stock in the most efficacious manner possible. I see nothing of scandal in this.”

  “Then perhaps the London papers shall convince you.” Henry tossed the Times onto the sofa beside us. “Examine the notice at the bottom of page three, I beg. It concerns Mr. Grey closely.”

  Neddie, Lizzy, and I bent our heads over the sheet, and endeavoured to make it out.

  ” ‘Dutch banks fail to back French securities’ “I read slowly.” ‘Government loans feared in default.”

  “Read on,” Henry said.

  ” ‘The Secretary of the Treasury, Mr. Pitt, is gravely concerned by yesterday’s decision on the part of the House of Hope, Scots bankers resident in Amsterdam, to refuse the French government further security.2 While the confusion of our enemies is devoudy to be wished, in the halls of commerce as well as on the batdefield, the delicate state of the Imperial treasury must threaten relations of finance throughout Europe, and devolve to this kingdom’s ultimate disadvantage. In light of this consideration, Mr. Pitt has sent an envoy to Amsterdam for consultation.’ “

  I raised my head from the broadsheet. “And how might Mr. Pitt’s conduct of business concern Mr. Grey, Henry?”

  He rolled his eyes in impatience. “Grey is allied to a French banking family, Jane, and his resources must in part be theirs. If Buonaparte has gone to Amsterdam for credit, and been deniedby so great a house as Hope, then we must assume that the French banking establishment has exhausted its capital. Furthermore, the government itself can offer nothing as security for its desired loan— or nothing that Hope will accept. The Comte de Penfleur must be aware of that much. As to what else he knows or suspects, I cannot say.”

  “You believe Grey to have invested heavily in the French government, at the behest of his wife—funds that Buonaparte has presendy exhausted?” Neddie demanded.

  Henry shrugged helplessly. “Who can say? But if Grey’s stables appear so neglected, only consider the state of the Emperor’s!”

  “But Buonaparte has a stranglehold on much of Europe,” I cried, in disbelief. “Surely he might plunder any number of coffers.”

  Henry hesitated, then shrugged. “I cannot undertake to say. I have heard rumours in the City that the French government is bankrupt, but I dismissed such talk as a mixture of bluster and hope. I can dismiss it no more.”3

  “The French, bankrupt?” Lizzy’s voice was a study in disbelief. “But I have seen the plates of the Empress’s coronation gown, Henry. She did not appear in rags, I assure you.”

  “The cost of the coronation, and the building of some two thousand ships, might well beggar a greater nation than France. Add to all this, the maintenance of an army left standing nearly two years along the coast, in readiness for a Channel crossing; the necessity of defending a far-flung border; and the spirit of excess that has animated the French court now these many months—and I think you may look for a bankrupt quite easily.”

  “It is something,” I mused, “that the Monster should ruin himself with England as his object. All of Europe must thank us for the issue; and I for one shall wish Buonaparte thrown into a debtor’s gaol. But, Henry— if Buonaparte is bankrupt, the war must be very soon at an end! Only think what that might mean for our brothers!”

  “An end to all advancement up the Navy list,” Henry said brutally.4 “But do not be so hasty, Jane, to dismiss His Imperial Majesty. Buonaparte has saved himself a thousand times before, and in far worse circumstances.”

  “Perhaps he looks to improve his fortunes through an assault on the Bank of England,” Neddie said idly.

  “Perhaps.” Something of heat had died out of Henry’s countenance, and been replaced by an expression of care. “I dearly wish that we knew how it was. I fear I shall have to desert you tomorrow, and return to Town.”

  “Sunday travel, Henry?” I teazed. ‘You have lived too long with the Comtesse Eliza, and her careless regard for propriety.”

  “Go to Town, in August?” Neddie cried. “Surely nothing can be so serious a
s that!”

  “Mr. Pitt certainly believes so. This news will already have affected the ‘Change; securities will be all a-hoo by Monday morning, and every man of finance intent upon reading the world’s tea-leaves. I dare not linger another day.”

  I rose and extended my hand to my favourite brother. “It seems that Mr. Pitt knows what he is about. I expect you shall be off before dawn—but pray send us word, Henry, if any whisper of Mr. Grey’s perilous affairs should reach your ears.”

  “I should never fail you in a matter of gossip, Jane,” he returned, with something like his usual charm; and so we parted.

  1 It was common for creditors holding notes of indebtedness to sell the paper at a deep discount. Those who purchased the notes on such terms did so as a sort of speculation on the eventual repayment.—Editor’s note.

  2 The Prime Minister always held the portfolio of Secretary of the Treasury. As a member of the cabinet as well as its leader, he was thus primus inter pares—first among equals.—Editor’s note.

  3 The ears of the City’s businessmen, in this instance, were keener than Henry Austen knew. By mid-August 1805, Bonaparte’s funds were completely exhausted. No relief, either from bankers or allies, was forthcoming.—Editor’s note.

  4 The navy list was a ranking of commissioned officers, the lowest being post captains, that showed their relative seniority. One moved up the list by rote, as vacancies occurred above through retirement or death. The list also contained the names of commissioned ships, their class, number of guns, and complement. —Editor’s note.

  Sunday,

  25 August 1805

  THE ILL EFFECTS OF YESTERDAY’S RAIN HAVING COMpletely disappeared by nine o’clock this morning, we walked through the venerable old avenue of limes and yews, called Bentigh, to St. Nicolas Church for services. The air under the spreading boughs was light and refreshing, and spoke at last of the turn towards autumn; a meadowlark sang of the summer’s decline; and our family party—a considerable parade, comprising children, some part of the servants, Mrs. Salkeld, Caky, Miss Sharpe, Neddie, Lizzy, and myself—was unreasonably gay. The little ones skipped and turned somersaults, until returned to a sense of their duty by the imprecations of nurse, governess, and mother; I felt almost compelled to run behind them, and sing aloud of the glorious day. It was to be my last at Godmersham for a time; on the morrow I departed for Goodne-stoneFarm.

  “And to think that Mr. Sothey would have our avenue down!” I cried to Neddie. ‘You shall defend it, I hope, at sword’s point if necessary.”

  “We cannot know what Mr. Sothey intends for the park, until he has toured its extent, and offered his opinion,” my brother returned. “Do not be in such a haste to despise the man, Jane, before he has partaken of Sunday dinner!”

  “Sunday dinner?” Miss Sharpe enquired, in a low voice.

  I turned swiftly and regarded her. “I had forgot, of course. Poor Miss Sharpe. It seems you are the last to learn of everything! Mr. Sothey, the estate improver presently at Eastwell Park, intends to visit Godmersham this morning. He is to tour the grounds.”

  I kept my voice deliberately free of any peculiar emphasis, but the governess was too little mistress of her feelings to disguise her discomposure. She drew a sharp breath and halted in her steps. Had an opportunity of escape presented itself, I am sure she would have seized it; but a recognition of the oddity of her behaviour presendy impressed itself, and she walked on. No word did she offer in explanation; Anne Sharpe was clearly disinclined to bestow any confidence regarding the Gentleman Improver. I supposed she might take her secret to her grave.

  The old churchyard of St. Nicolas is a quiet, peaceful place. The edifice itself is Norman, dating to the thirteenth century, and is perched on the bank of the Stour above what had once been that river’s principal ford. The ancient stones lean crazily over the humped earth of the graves; the wind sighs in the willow trees, and the murmur of water calls like a nymph from beyond the leaded windows. I have grown to love the little church, so unlike the bustle of Bath’s imposing edifices; in as humble a house as this, one might feel closer to God Himself. But Anne Sharpe seemed impervious to the place’s charms; her countenance was utterly wretched.

  “I am sure you will approve of Mr. Sothey, once you are a litde acquainted with him,” I said, as we reached the vestibule, and the children fell decorously into line behind Fanny. “He is everything that is charming; and so decidedly possessed of genius! I quite liked him.”

  “There can be no occasion for my meeting with him,” the governess replied. “He will be abroad with Mr. Austen in the park for much of the day, and I have a great deal yet to attend to in the schoolroom—the threat of invasion is hardly passed. And Fanny must be heard, in the reading of her Sunday lesson; then there are the little ones’ dinners to attend to—I cannot fall in his way.”

  I affected puzzlement. “Have you some cause to dread this meeting, Miss Sharpe? You cannot have heard ill of Mr. Sothey!”

  She looked me full in the face at last, with such an expression of anguish that I felt myself a very false friend, indeed. “I neither know nor care what Mr. Sothey is, Miss Austen,” she said clearly. “I ask only to be allowed to care for my charges in peace. Now let us go into the service, if you please; everyone will be remarking upon our absence.”

  “Of course,” I replied, and allowed her to pass.

  “JANE,” MY BROTHER CALLED, AS I WALKED TOWARDS THE litde saloon after breakfast. “Might I beg an indulgence?”

  “How might I be of service, Neddie?”

  He steered me into the library and quiedy closed the door. “I would dearly love your assistance in the matter of Mrs. Grey’s correspondence. It has been years since I had occasion to translate any French, and I find that I progress only slowly.”

  “My own French is indifferent—I make no promises— but I should be happy to exert my wits in the attempt.”

  “If you do not find the duty loathsome—” He studied me anxiously.

  “Loathsome? I should find it diverting in the extreme.”

  “Very well. I thought it only wise to enquire. Lizzy was so decidedly put off by the idea of disturbing another lady’s privacy, that I thought perhaps you …”

  “I am not a baronet’s daughter, Neddie,” I replied firmly, “and have looked into correspondence not my own, on more than one occasion heretofore.” If the ashes of Anne Sharpe’s letters rose accusingly in my mind, I did not betray as much to my brother. I setded myself near one of the great tables that divided the room, and looked at him expectandy.

  “I have arranged them by date, a tedious job in itself; there must be nearly thirty of them, Jane, running from the month of Mrs. Grey’s arrival in Kent—that would be just after her marriage, in February—until the middle of August.”

  “Seven months of correspondence from the Comte de Penfleur,” I mused. “Let us call it one letter per week, with an occasional bonus of two. Hardly the ardent work of a lover; more the perfunctory stuff of a business arrangement. Perhaps Mr. Grey is correct in his fears. Have you read any of them?”

  “I managed to decipher these”—he waved several sheets of creased paper vaguely—“but the writing is so fine, and what with the crossing of the lines … I shall be weeks perusing the rest.”

  I took the letters and leafed through them. Neddie was in earnest; most of the pages had been narrowly inscribed, with the sheet turned to the horizontal, and the original message crossed with a second text. I should not have suspected the Comte of economy in the matter of paper; but perhaps he feared the suspicions of Mr. Grey, did his wife’s demand for postage mount too high.1 All the sheets were signed, I observed, with merely the letter H. So that Mrs. Grey might dismiss her correspondent as an old schoolfriend, still resident in France?

  “And what have you discovered?”

  “He speaks a great deal of millinery,” Neddie said unexpectedly. “There is a quantity of talk about Spanish lace, and whether Mrs. Grey should be able to find
it; some discussion of Dutch woollens, as well, and whether the quality is so reliable as English. It seems Spanish lace and Dutch cloth are devilish hard to come by in France at present; tho’ I cannot think why.”

  “But it is France herself that embargoes such goods from trade with England!” I exclaimed. “Can you possibly have read it aright?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps my French is more lamentable than I thought.”

  “Or perhaps Mr. Grey is mistaken in the identity of his wife’s correspondent. Recollect that we have only his assertion these letters were written by the Comte at all.”

  “As to that—” Neddie searched among the papers on his desk, and retrieved another sheet of paper, slighdy soiled and equally creased. The seal was identical to those already laid before me, and the hand could not be more like. “This is the letter discovered in Mrs. Grey’s French novel, which—”

  “—Mr. Grey has also chosen to identify as the Comte’s.”

  “—which matches the writing on this scrap of paper, Jane,” Neddie persisted patiently, “given to me by the Comte. It bears the direction of his inn at Dover, the Royal.”

  “Very well. The Comte has chosen to style himself ‘H,’ and speak only of millinery to his ladylove. I suppose there are histories recorded that are yet more extraordinary. We must assume it is a sort of code.”

  “Pray examine the letters yourself, Jane, and attempt to form an opinion. I shall be greatiy in your debt.”

  “Do not deceive yourself, Neddie. It is /who am under the greatest obligation. I have not been so diverted by a puzzle since the weeks before our father’s death; and I make no apology for profiting so grossly by Mrs. Grey’s murder. This will be the first disinterested service she has rendered to anyone, in life or death.”

  TWO FULL HOURS WERE REQUIRED FOR THE REVIEW OFthe correspondence. It was a tedious business; the Comte—our duplicitous “H”—was possessed of a fiendish hand, very nearly indecipherable. The elegance of his phrasing further confounded his despoilers; we were at pains to untangle the ravishing verbs from their dependent clauses, and must own to a headache after only a part of our work was done. But it proved, in the main, to be as Neddie had said—repeated discussions of lace and wool, and the most efficacious arrangements for the procuring of each. On rare occasions, the Comte commended his Francoise for her management of this friend or that—I am pleased to observe the progress you have made in securing the affection of Mr. Collingforth, for example; or, more interesting still, Captain Woodford appears unsuited to his task; I would suggest you discourage his visits. And gradually, about the month of June, another name crept into the letters: that of Julian Sothey.