Jane and the Genius of the Place: Being the Fourth Jane Austen Mystery (21 page)

“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 FREELY
this 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?”

“They will pass within a stone's-toss of Goodnestone in their way,” Cassandra added, ignoring my barbs. “The country is all alive with what it might mean, Jane— sudden intelligence, perhaps, from France, of the Monster's landfall. If it were to be near Deal, only seven miles from the Farm—if dear Lady Bridges and all her household were to be driven from their beds—I do not think I could bear it! But, of course, I shall assist them in any way that I am able, with Marianne and the packing.”

“You had much better bring them all to Godmersham and leave the packing to the French,” I said crisply. “I wonder Neddie did not consider of it before. But we have been served with our own plan of evacuation, my dear, and only yesterday morning. The gallant Captain Woodford brought it himself.”

“Captain Woodford! I cannot help but like and admire him,” she said with a sigh. “There is such an expression of goodness in his looks—and the severity of his wounds must argue for the nobility of his character.”

“Does Harriot admire him as much as her whole family?” I gazed out over the floor, where a few straggling couples clung determinedly to the final measures of a dance. Among them were certainly Lizzy's little sister and the Captain, her white dress a delicate counterpoint to his dashing military colours.

“I wish it were in my power to say,” Cassandra mused. “On this subject, Harriot cannot be open. There is too great a difference in our ages—nearly ten years—and tho' much thrown together of late, we have never enjoyed the intimacy of sisters. But I suspect her heart to be a litde touched. It would be unfortunate if the Guards were to be ordered out of Kent entirely.”

“Or the Captain himself run through with a French sword somewhere between Chatham and Deal,” I observed callously. “He might at least declare himself to Harriot before the unhappy event, so that she might cherish her interesting state. A girl who is only the
object
of a hero's regard, has never the
eclat
of a bereaved intended.”

“Jane! How
can
you!”

Too late I remembered Cassandra's own condition— the loss of her betrothed some eight years before. I bit my lip, and wished my own bitter humour might be kept in better check. But too late! The words were said; and I should not declare them orphans now.

“I speak so because I must, my dear. A degree of general indifference is the only surety against peculiar pain. What a lot of people are killed in these wars, to be sure— and how fortunate that one cares for none of them! If Fly or Charles should be struck on the quarterdeck by a French twenty-four-pounder, a part of me would go over the rail at their side.”

“Do not speak of it, I beg,” Cassandra said sofdy “I know that you have borne a great deal of late—the loss of Mrs. Lefroy, and our own dear Papa—but you mourn too much for them, Jane. They would not wish it so. Papa, I am sure, did not regret his life in leaving it.”

I nodded blindly, my gaze obscured by a sudden film of tears; and then turned the conversation with effort. “And so the Guards are to march from Deal! I wonder how much Major-General Lord Forbes really knows— and how much he merely hazards?”

“I am sure that all such manoeuvres are so much Blindman's Buff,” Cassandra replied, “tho' Buonaparte would have us all believe him omniscient, and as infallible as Rome. The gentlemen of the neighbourhood, including Mr. Bridges, are in an uproar over the intended troop movements—for it is rumoured they shall come but a day or two before the commencement of pheasant season. The sportsmen are all alive with the fear that the birds shall be disturbed—flushed from their manors, or poached out of hand for an infantryman's dinner.”

“It should not be surprising that the credit of our neighbours' game-bags must come before the safety of the Kingdom,” I said with conscious irony.
“Apropos
of manoeuvres, my dear, how have you fared in your skirmish with the sporting Mr. Bridges?”

Cassandra blushed and averted her eyes, a perfect picture of consciousness. “Mr. Bridges! Aye, you may well laugh at my persecution, Jane! I should like to know how
you
should fare against the weight of his blandishments, for a fortnight together! Mr. Bridges is excessively teasing. Did you observe that I was forced to stand up with him for full three dances this evening? I only escaped a fourth by pleading the headache.”

“Three dances! That is very singular, indeed,” I observed mildly. “Another man might consider it
too
particular—but perhaps he believes that his being Lizzy's brother must do away with such nice distinction.”

“He is not so very much our relation, Jane, as to make me forget what is due to propriety,” Cassandra said with some distress. “Do not think that I am ignorant of his object. He hopes to secure my affections—and he has made himself repugnant in the process! Where once I might have found his gallantries flattering—his poses amusing—his wit even tolerable—he is become entirely disgusting! There is a lack of sincerity in all he says that has made his society intolerable.”

“Poor Mr. Bridges!—To have lost that interest he particularly hoped to secure. Did I not feel moved to laugh at him heartily, I should pity him a good deal.”

“I was much taken with the import of your last letter,” my sister confided, in a lowered tone. “I must assure you, Jane, that Mr. Bridges has hardly been easy since Mrs. Grey's death. He barely speaks a word, and never leaves the house, unless it is to accompany myself or Harriot on some trifling errand. And yet, you know he was never to be found within doors if he could help it! There were weeks on end, when no one at the Farm had the slightest idea of his whereabouts, or whether he should be home to dinner! The change is very marked.”

“Perhaps he cannot bear to be parted from
you
, my dear.”

“Do not teaze me, Jane. It is very unkind in you, I am sure.”

I pressed her hand in apology and said, “You believe the change in his behaviour to date from Mrs. Grey's murder. Can you detect any reason for his seclusion? Has he let fall the slightest syllable that might explain his extraordinary conduct?”

“He moves as tho' in the grip of fear,” Cassandra replied, with utter seriousness, “and I have even thought, indeed, that he half-expects to suffer Mrs. Grey's fate.”

My eyes widened. “Mr. Bridges, to be torn from his riding habit and strangled with his own hair-ribbon? Impossible!”

“Jane!”

“Forgive me. I could not suppress the notion. But what could possibly give rise to such a fanciful dread, Cassandra? Who should wish to murder Mr. Bridges?”

My sister glanced knowingly about the room before she answered. “Mr. Valentine Grey.”

That the reserved and ill-humoured banker should have the slightest idea of the curate's existence, was amusing in the extreme; and I confess I laughed out loud.

“Is it not obvious?” Cassandra cried. “You told me yourself that Mr. Bridges was found in the lady's saloon, on the very night of her murder, rifling the drawers of her writing-desk. He was desperate to secure the letter discovered between the pages of the scandalous French novel—the letter that proposed a meeting at midnight on the shores of Pegwell, and a subsequent flight to the Continent.”

“But does Mr. Bridges possess a passable command of French?”

“Naturally! All the Bridgeses are most accomplished in that line!” In her enthusiasm for her theory, Cassandra abandoned the last of her ice and leaned towards me eagerly. “I am certain that he believes himself the agent of Mrs. Grey's end—that his dangerous passion for the lady precipitated her death at the hands of her husband, and that Mr. Grey merely awaits a suitable opportunity to serve vengeance, in turn, upon her lover! Mr. Bridges cannot know that his letter was found among the lady's things. He fears only that he is discovered by the husband, and dares not stir beyond the Farm's threshold.”

“—Except to attend the inquest,” I amended slowly. “He would desire to learn everything that was known of her end, of course.”

“Is it not a delightful idea?” my sister prodded.

“It is not without its merits, Cassandra. But why, then, should Mr. Bridges quarrel with Captain Woodford? Or stand idly by, while Mr. Collingforth is charged with murder?”

“As to that, I cannot tell,” she replied with a shrug. “I cannot solve all your mysteries for you, Jane. I am placed to disadvantage, marooned at the Farm. I shall hope to do better, when once we have exchanged our places.”

“It is quite a settled matter, then, that I shall go to Goodnestone Farm? Pray—when is the delightful prospect to take place?”