Jane and the Genius of the Place: Being the Fourth Jane Austen Mystery (38 page)

“Perhaps he shall presendy strike into another path,” I suggested.

But the gendeman did not; he strode through his pleasure grounds as tho' intent upon a single object— the retrieval of ourselves. “I believe our time in Paradise is at an end.”

“Then do you go to meet him, my dear,” Lizzy said, “and turn back for me at the ferry landing. I am far too fatigued to walk back to the bridge, and you know these slippers should never support it. Detestable Mr. Grey— he is far too correct about everything; and for that, I shall not forgive him.” She turned her sunshade towards the offending apparition, and gazed out over the lake.

And thus was I thrown to the wolf.

“T
HE
L
ARCHES IS A REMARKABLE ACHIEVEMENT
, M
R.
Grey. I must congratulate you most sincerely.”

If my faltering words were inadequate to the beauty everywhere around us, my companion did not choose to quarrel. Indeed, all trace of his former belligerence had fled; his countenance was as easy as a child's released from illness. Whatever the nature of his interview with Neddie, the result had proved of benefit. Or perhaps he derived such solace from his grounds, that more melancholy considerations were banished.

“I can never be unhappy while the park remains,” he replied, as tho' reading my thoughts. “It is a peace unparalleled, a balm for wounded spirits, a little paradise on earth, Miss Austen—and when I am away, I long always to return.”

“How unfortunate, then, that your business calls you so frequently to Town,” I rejoined. “For when we leave what is precious to the care of others, we endure a peculiar pain.”

He frowned at that, and studied my countenance for some falseness—a desire to prick his vanity, perhaps, by alluding to the dalliances of his wife, of which all of Kent must be aware. But my aspect did not betray me; I had uttered the sentiment as a simple truth; and Mr. Grey at last accepted it as such.

He offered me his arm, and we continued along the path towards the ferry.

“Mrs. Austen was overcome by the heat, you say?”

“Nothing so grave. Elizabeth is a stout walker, but her slippers are less equal to these paths than my more sensible boots. I came prepared to admire The Larches, from the praise I had heard everywhere of these grounds; and to admire, one must first be able to see.”

A faint smile was my reward. “I have known any number of fools to praise from utter blindness, Miss Austen.”

“That will always be the general case,” I said calmly, “but with very great luck, Mr. Grey, you may occasionally encounter a taste as brilliant as mine. I blush to admit it—it is most unwomanly, I own—but I have never been called a fool. I have long suspected it is the chief reason that no sensible man will marry me.”

To my gratification, Mr. Grey laughed aloud. “Men of sense, whatever you may say, do not wish for silly wives.”

“How mortifying,” I replied. “And I had doted on the notion! You force me to the conclusion, sir, that some other charm is lacking.”

“Then I should be horsewhipped, Miss Austen. How may I make amends?”

“By conveying me to that little temple on the hill. I failed to achieve it with my sister.”

“—who even now awaits us anxiously.”

“It must be her deprivation, then, for adopting fragile shoes.”

“Very well. The prospect of the house from that vantage is magnificent.”

He led me swiftly to the portico of the domed Temple of the Arts, and we stood in silent amity, with all of The Larches falling away before us. Here was no oppression of August heat, no desiccated air of a season wearied beyond imagining; all was verdant and singing with the voices of a thousand birds.

“How glorious!” I cried. “I wonder you can bear to live within four walls, Mr. Grey, when all this beauty lies without them.”

He did not reply, and his expression was remote.

“And all this you have done, in the space of a few years,” I continued.

“I cannot claim so much,” he returned abruptly. “The Larches was my father's passion before me. The construction of this valley—the lake you observe—are entirely his own. Such growth of trees could never be accomplished in a few years, as you must know. What I have done is small, indeed, compared to my father's accomplishments—I have pruned where his hand was excessive, and added what his sensibility could not envision.”

“Mr. Sothey, I believe, was your consultant?”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You are acquainted with Sothey?”

“A litde. We dined with him last evening, at Eastwell Park. The Finch-Hattons are old friends.”

“And what did you think of him?”

I hesitated. His tone imparted nothing of his own opinion. “I thought him a man of understanding and wide knowledge of the world, possessed of considerable taste. But I can judge no further; his character wants openness, and of deeper qualities I could form no opinion.”

“Reserve must be natural in a fellow whose every expectation was blasted by an unworthy father,” Mr. Grey observed. “I must assure you that Julian Sothey is the very best of men, Miss Austen. I esteem him as a friend, naturally; but as a man of education and honour, I can place none other before him. If there is anything of real beauty to be found at present in The Larches, I am sure it is due entirely to Mr. So they.”

“Then you are fortunate, indeed, sir.” That I managed a reply at all was remarkable; my thoughts were in a state of discomposure. I had suspected that Mr. Grey should despise Julian So they as his wife's paramour; but this heartfelt testimonial must blast my assumptions. “You have been acquainted with Mr. Sothey for some time, I collect?”

“No, indeed. His family and mine moved in very different circles. I might have had the purchase of his father's notes at one time or another, but any ties of a social nature were not to be thought of.”
1

“Was Mr. Sothey's father so very depraved?”

Grey smiled grimly. “I am too familiar with the more common forms of depravity, Miss Austen, to be a sober judge of it in others. Let us simply say that the Earl had offended deeply, among those whom it is not wise to offend, and placed himself outside the pale of good
ton
”

“I see. His son, however, is not so abandoned.”

“His son possesses such an amiable temper, as must endear him to everyone.” This was said without the slightest hint of irony, as might be natural in a cuckold; and again, I found cause for wonder.

“Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton certainly makes Mr. Sothey her protege,” I said. “I suppose you formed an acquaintance with the gentleman in just such an household.”

Mr. Grey hesitated, as tho' debating how much might be said. “I first met Sothey through a mutual friend, Miss Austen—Mr. George Canning, a present member of Government. No doubt you will have heard of him.”

Quite recently in fact, I thought in silence; and blessed my brother Henry. “Mr. Canning! He is a great enthusiast for exotic plants, I believe?”

Grey's careworn features lightened. “And something of an authority on landscape design. We share a love of the obscure and the exotic, Miss Austen—and Canning has directed me in the trial of many specimens rare in this northern clime. When I expressed a wish of cultivating the American azalea, it was he who commended Sothey as my greatest friend. I have never found occasion to regret the acquaintance.”

“I should have liked to have seen the azaleas in their season,” I said.

“You, too, are an admirer of the exotic?” my companion enquired seriously.

I coloured, and passed off the question with a laugh. “Not at all, I assure you. I merely find pleasure in the English landscape, sir, and all its myriad beauties.”

“Then perhaps you may be so fortunate as to return to Kent in April, when my azaleas are at their finest flowering.” He secured my hand within his arm, and led me firmly from the temple's steps. “But now, I fear, we must relieve Mrs. Austen's anxiety; the hour grows late, and her husband will be every moment expecting her.”

We descended once more by the hillside path, and found that Lizzy was already come in search of us. I was glad of her company on the return to the house; her elegant remarks were a foil for silence. Reflection, however, availed me nothing. I was plagued with questions on every side, for which experience could provide no answer.

“So
GREY CAN BE CHARMING WHEN HE CHOOSES,” NED-
die said thoughtfully, when the dinner things had been cleared away and we had assembled in the library. Henry had taken up the London
Times; Lizzy
was established over the teapot; and I had begun to pick desultorily at my work. Neddie, however, was restless; he paced before the empty hearth like a man who badly wanted occupation. Had he been of a reading turn, I should have instandy recommended
Werther.
It is remarkable how much service even a dissatisfying book might render— tho' not, perhaps, in the manner its author intended.

“How did you like him, Jane?” he enquired, coming to a halt by my chair.

“Very much. He is not a man to recommend himself on first meeting, perhaps—but one whose character rewards with more persistent application. He was gracious in conversation and frank in his remarks; there was neither haughtiness nor vulgarity to despise in his manners. I cannot believe him capable of a conscious deceit; but even had I witnessed nothing of the scene in the saloon, I should suspect him to be familiar with violence. He is ruthless in matters of principle, I should think, and in the safeguarding of his own concerns.”

“This is a formidable picture, indeed!” Neddie cried. “How, then, Jane, do you account for his ingenuous belief in Sothey's character?”

During the course of our return to Godmersham, I had conveyed the substance of my conversation with Grey. “Either Mr. Grey is more adept at dissimulation than I should give him credit for being, or he knew nothing of Mr. Sothey's dalliance with his wife.”

“We have only Mr. Brett's malicious tongue to credit for the idea, after all,” Neddie mused.

“Then why the whip against the neck, in the middle of the Canterbury Races?” Lizzy protested.

I shrugged. “Perhaps the lady was surfeited with the American azalea. But I admit, Neddie, that I cannot make the matter out at all. I must learn more of Mr. Sothey, before I mayjudge righdy.”

“And you, Lizzy?” my brother enquired, turning to his wife. “How did you find Mr. Grey?”

“I liked him well enough,” she said languidly, “for another woman's husband. He is too lacking in drollery and wit for my taste; but his coat was very well made, and the gloss on his Hessians unexceptionable.”

“Henry?”

My brother glanced up from his newspaper and frowned at us all. “To the praise of unexceptionable Hessians, what may I possibly add?”

“Very litde, of course,” Lizzy rejoined smoothly, “your own being incapable of comparison. No man who persists in valeting himself, can expect to rival Mr. Grey. Henry must take as his example my brother, Mr. Bridges— who has driven himself to the brink of ruin, in pursuit of a well-polished boot. I have quite lost count of the number of men Edward has engaged to dress him, or the various formulas of blacking and champagne, assured to bring his leathers to a mirror-brightness. It is not the most noble of callings, perhaps; but as a means of passing time, it may serve as well as any other.”

“Enough of Henry's boots,” I cried. “You delight in teasing us, Neddie. You know very well that we are all agog to learn how Mr. Grey received the news of Collingforth's murder. Did he betray any prior consciousness? Is it likely he was privy to the deed?”

“As to that—” My brother's eyebrow lifted satirically. “Mr. Grey had the poor taste to congratulate me on the unfortunate fellow's death, and said that he was very well pleased with the swiftness of English justice. He then offered me a brandy, despite the heat of the afternoon—as tho' we had accomplished nothing more dreadful than the blooding of a fox.”

“And how did you answer him?”

“I refused the brandy, of course.” Neddie threw himself into his favourite chair, not far from the open French windows, and raked one hand through his hair. “But truth to tell, Jane, I felt deuced uncomfortable. Grey's complaisance surpassed everything; he was as easy as tho' the wretched business were entirely resolved, despite the questions that must arise to torment one. I pointed out that Collingforth's guilt was in no wise proved—that the complications of the chaise and the timing of his wife's death could not be gainsaid, and urged Grey to be less sanguine. But he replied that he had no doubt that Collingforth was responsible, and had found his just deserts at the end of a knife.”

“And the Comte de Penfleur?”

“He served himself the brandy without recourse to Grey.”

“Neddie!”

“I observed his hand to tremble as he unstoppered the decanter. I should say that the Comte was greatly put out. He surmised that the matter would be concluded with Collingforth's murder, and the truth of Mrs. Grey's end remain forever uncertain.”

“He is determined in his belief that Grey was responsible,” I said, “tho' he is loath to accuse him direcdy.”

“Ah! Not so loath as you assume,” Neddie cried with satisfaction. “Now we come to the intriguing part—the scenes enacted with the gentlemen in private.”