"Jane and the Genius of the Place" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barron Stephanie)Chapter 1 The Figure in ScarletMISS JANE AUSTEN — LATE OF GREEN PARK BUILDINGS, Bath, but presently laying claim to nowhere in particular, given her esteemed father's recent death, and the subsequent upheaval in domestic arrangements — might never be accused of dissipation. Not for Jane the delights of the Unless, I observed to myself with satisfaction on the present occasion, the more materially-fortunate brethren determine our Jane to be worthy of a little dissipation-on-loan. A visit to a race-meeting, perhaps, in all the glory of a barouche-landau excellently placed for viewing the horses, a picnic hamper overflowing with good things, and attendant footmen stifling in their livery. There can be few pursuits so conducive to the flutter of an ivory fan or the delicate flirtation of a muslin sunshade. And where but at the Canterbury Races, in the very midst of August Race Week, might one find all the excesses of human folly so conveniently placed to hand? Within the compass of my sight, I assure you, were any number of incipient scandals. The countenance of more than one gentleman was flushed with wine and the course's promise, or perhaps the anxiety attendant upon heavy betting — for in the decision of a moment, fortunes might be made or lost, reputations sacrificed, and ruin visited upon more than merely the horse. From the vantage of their gay equipages, ladies young and old flirted with every passing swain, and offered raspberry cordial or spruce beer to such as were overcome by the heat. Our friends the Wildmans, from nearby Chilham Castle; the Edward Taylors, from Bifrons Park; and the Finch-Hattons, of Eastwell Park, in their elegant green barouche, all chattered gaily across the distance separating their parties. Footmen unpacked the heaviest of the hampers, and decanted the spirits from an hundred bottles, while stable lads walked the patient carriage horses under whatever shade might be found. One dark-haired young woman, tricked out in a very fetching habit of red bombazine, with a tricorn hat and feathers, held pride of place on the box of her own perch phaeton — a daring gesture in so public a gathering, and not for the faint of heart. It was a cunning little equipage, built for speed and grace, and possibly not unsuited to a lady's use in St. James Park — but a rare sight, indeed, among the serviceable coaches of Kent. She drove a pair of matched greys, and led a snorting black gelding behind — or rather, her tyger did. He was a diminutive, crab-faced fellow with a bent back, stifling in gold braid and livery, who sat hunched at the phaeton's rear, awaiting his mistress's commands, and feeding an occasional bit of greenstuff to the snorting black. As I watched, the figure in scarlet drew a whip-point from her collar and tossed it to an admirer standing at the phaeton's wheel. He caught it neatly and held it to his lips like a spoil of victory; In June, my sister Cassandra and I shook off the dust of Bath and descended upon Kent, and all the splendour of Godmersham, my brother Edward's principal estate.[1] The change in circumstance has been material, I assure you. My excellent father having passed from this life in the last days of January, the subsequent months were overshadowed by all the gloom of bereavement; and the black hours were hardly improved by my mother's heartfelt wish of quitting Green Park Buildings, in the hope of an establishment more suited to her purse and widowed estate. February, and then March, and even April were allowed to pass away in pursuit of cheaper pastures; but the sensibilities of three women being so far divided on the question of what was vital to our comfort, we could none of us agree. And so we resigned the abominable duty at the first opportunity — my mother embarking upon a visit to Hampshire, and her daughters stepping thankfully into their brother's chaise, sent expressly from Kent for the purpose. In the great house at Godmersham, no expense is too dear for the achievement of my comfort. All is effected with ease and style, for an elegant mode of living is the primary object of Elizabeth, my brother's wife. There are not many uses for a baronet's daughter, but the steady management of a gentleman's household may safely be described as one of them; and in this, and in the rearing of a numerous progeny, Lizzy gives daily proof of her goodness. At Godmersham I may revel in the solitary possession of the Yellow Room (the bedchamber at the head of the stairs, set aside for my use whenever I am come into Kent), and while away a rainy afternoon with a good book and a better fire in the library's shadowed peace. Here I may be above vulgar economy, and drink only claret with my dinner, despising the orange wine that usually falls to my lot. When Edward's excellent equipages await my every whim, I need not rely upon the hack chaise for the conduct of my business; and if seized by the fever of composition, I have no cause to hide myself away, in constant apprehension of discovery. The grounds at Godmersham are very fine, and include in their compass at least one summerhouse I find my condition in general so enviable, and so entirely suited to my taste, as to make me think with wonder on a certain event of nearly three years ago. Can I have been in full possession of my senses, indeed, to have refused Mr. Harris Bigg-Wither — a man of wealth and easy circumstances, despite his numerous imperfections — simply because I could not esteem him? Utter folly! The indulgence of a fanciful mind! And its bitter reward is orange wine and hired lodgings for the rest of my days. Edward — handsome, carefree, and debonair despite the fine beads of sweat starting out on his brow — leaned into the open carriage and kissed his wife. “You look a picture, my dear. Shall our defection make you desolate?” My brother burst out laughing at this sally of his wife's, and kissed her again, to the astonishment of the raven-haired little governess, Anne Sharpe; but all of Kent might observe the pair without contempt, for the Austens' was always acknowledged a love-match. Indeed, Neddie is so amiable, so honestly “May not I accompany you, Papa?” My niece Fanny bounced impatiently on the barouche seat opposite. She is Edward's eldest child, and very nearly his favourite — a pretty little thing of twelve, with all the advantage of birth, fortune, and connexion to recommend her. “I long to see the Commodore's action!” “His action, is it? Lord, Fanny, how you do go on. I suppose we have you to thank, Miss Sharpe, for this cunning miss's tongue!” A look of horror suffused Miss Sharpe's flushed cheeks, and she searched in vain for a word. Fanny's governess cannot be more than two-and-twenty, and however proficient in French and instruction on the pianoforte, is possessed of a delicate constitution. She holds my amiable brother in something very like terror. “I should not have thought you equal to the mortification of the governess, Neddie,” Lizzy interposed quietly. “You are usually possessed of better taste.” “I believe Henry deserves the credit of schooling Fanny's tongue,” I quickly supplied, while Miss Sharpe sank back into her seat in confusion. “The children have acquired all manner of cant expressions in the short time he has been with us. I was treated to a sermon on the art of boxing this morning, from little George — who offered to show young Edward “But, Papa — may not I accompany you to the rail?” Fanny persisted, having heard not above a word of the abuse visited upon her favourite uncle. “The Commodore's action shall hardly be worth viewing, my dear,” Neddie said easily, “after the three heats he has already survived. We shall be in luck, does he finish the race at all.” “Nonsense!” Henry cried. “The horse was never fitter!” “But, Papa—” “Now, do not teaze, Fanny. You know it would never do. We shall return directly the race is run, for there is sure to be a crush in leaving the field, and the oppression of the weather is fearsome. I will not have your mother tired.” And with a forage into the picnic hamper for some bread and cheese, the two men set off for the rail. Fanny burst into tears and buried her head in Lizzy's lap. “I suppose,” Lizzy observed distantly, while one hand smoothed her eldest's bedraggled curls, “that a finer lady would lament the ruin of her best muslin at such a moment, and shriek for Miss Sharpe to come to her aid. But I have never been very fine in my ways, Jane.” “No,” I fondly replied, “only born to an elegance that is as natural as breathing, and that must serve as a lesson to all who meet you. The muslin shall survive, Lizzy, without the intervention of Miss Sharpe.” The governess was in no danger of hastening to her mistress's aid, however, for her interest was entirely claimed by a scene unfolding well beyond the limits of the barouche. As I watched, Miss Sharpe drew a sudden breath, and clasped her gloved hands together as tho' desperate for control. I glanced over my shoulder to discover what had so excited her anxiety — and found myself arrested in my turn. The lady in scarlet, whom I had remarked some time earlier, now stood upright in her elegant perch phaeton. Her countenance — which in easier moments might well have been judged lovely — was contorted with rage, and she held a whip poised in her right hand. A gentleman stood calmly at her carriage mount, as tho' braced for the issue of her fury; and as I watched, the whip lashed down with a stinging sigh upon his very neck. Beside me, Anne Sharpe cried aloud, and then stifled the sound with her hand. Lizzy's green eyes narrowed. “Whatever has Mrs. Grey got up to now?” “Mrs. Grey?” “The banker's wife. She is capable of anything, I believe—” “She has just struck the gentleman by the phaeton with her riding whip. Are you acquainted with him?” “Not at all.” Lizzy sounded intrigued. “I have never seen him before in my life. A gentleman from Town, perhaps, come down to Kent on purpose for the races.” “He is possessed of the most extraordinary countenance,” I whispered. “But why should she abuse him in so public a manner? I cannot believe he offered her an insult — there was neither heat nor drunkenness in his looks.” Not a commanding figure, to be sure — for he was slight and taut as a greyhound, in his elegant coat of green superfine and his fashionable high-crowded hat. A young man of perhaps thirty, whose auburn hair fell loose to his shoulders, like a cavalier's of another age. In these respects, he looked very much like any other gentleman of breeding who strolled about the race grounds; but in his aspect there was something more: an air of nobility and unguessed powers, that demanded a second glance. “Perhaps he has declined the offer of Mrs. Grey's favours,” Lizzy murmured, “and she could not abide the affront. It would be in keeping with her reputation, I assure you.” As we watched, the scarlet-clad woman pushed angrily past the man she had injured, and hastened from the phaeton. He gazed after her a moment, his countenance devoid of expression, and then drew a handkerchief from within his coat. This he applied to a great weal standing out above the line of his neckcloth; and then, rather thoughtfully, his eyes shifted towards our own. He held our gaze some few seconds, and then, quite deliberately, raised his hat in acknowledgement. “Yes, Jane,” Lizzy breathed, “self-possession and nerve are in all his looks. I would give a great deal to know his name.” “Fanny,” Anne Sharpe said abruptly from the seat opposite, “you are crumpling your mother's dress. Do come and sit by me, dear, and partake of the jellied chicken. I am sure this litde fit of temper is entirely due to your nerves. They cannot withstand such heat, you know, if you refuse Cook's excellent luncheon.” “Some jellied chicken, Lizzy?” I enquired. “Every feeling revolts,” she said dismissively. Her eyes were still trained on the elegant young man, who had moved off through the crowd in the direction opposite to Mrs. Grey. “I shall never make a patroness of the turf, my dear Jane, for I find the stench of dust and dung very nearly insupportable. Without the parade of fashion that always attends such events, I should be bored to tears.” “Are you perhaps increasing again?” I enquired delicately. “Lord, no! That is all at an end, I am quite sure,” she retorted; but I thought her voice held a note of doubt. Lizzy's ninth child is as yet a babe in arms; but at the age of two-and-thirty, she might expect any number in addition. “Perhaps some raspberry cordial.” I secured her the collation. “Fanny? Miss Sharpe? Some cake and cordial, perhaps?” My niece raised a tear-stained cheek. “I could not stomach a bite, Aunt Jane, from all the anxiety attendant upon his prospects.” “His “I believe she means the horse, ma'am,” Miss Sharpe supplied in her gentle voice. “Such elevated language! You have been lending Fanny your horrid novels, Miss Sharpe, I am certain of it.” “Indeed not, I assure you, madam — merely Mrs. Palmerstone's edifying letters to her daughters.”[3] Anne Sharpe raised eyes full of amusement to my own, and I could not suppress a smile — for we had debated the merits of such writers as Mrs. Radcliffe and Madame D'Arblay for nearly an hour in the schoolroom, with Fanny pleading to borrow my subscription volumes of Particularly since the Commodore had come to plague us all. A fearsome, snorting chestnut steed of nearly sixteen hands, the Commodore might be termed my brother Henry's latest folly. Being a man of some means, well-established in banking circles, and possessed of an elegantly-aristocratic wife in my cousin Eliza, Henry aspires to the habits of the Sporting Set, and has gone in for horse-racing in its most vicious form. Not content with losing breathless sums at Epsom and Newmarket, he has gambled his all on a dearer stake — the possession of an actual beast. Knowing little of horseflesh, and still less of such points as action or blood, I have been rendered mute in almost every conversation since Henry's arrival in Kent a week ago. He is full of nothing but the subject; and it has been all a matter of furlongs and oat mash and Tattersall's betting room for a se'nnight.[4] The children have caught a dose of the fever; Neddie himself is hardly immune; and never have I found dear Henry's company so profoundly tedious. The flight of his wife, the little Comtesse Eliza, to a shooting party in the North, suggests that she is as impatient for the fad's decline as any of us. And so I prayed that the Commodore might stumble to his ruin in the present race, or perform as wretchedly as a carter's nag, and thus save us all the trouble of adoring him. “It is too bad!” Fanny was craning over the carriage's side for a view of the course. “In sitting at such a remove, we shall be denied the smallest glimpse of the Commodore's triumph. I believe my heart shall break!” “My dear Fanny.” Miss Sharpe laid a gloved hand on her charge's arm. “We are privileged in attending the meeting at all. Recollect that ladies must never approach the rail — it is not the done thing, and is left to the province of such hoydens as may claim neither rank nor breeding among their charms.” “Mrs. Grey may claim rank and breeding, Sharpie, and yet And, indeed, the child spoke no more than the truth. The dark-haired beauty in the scarlet riding habit was strolling freely among the assembled carriages, with the eye of more than one gentleman lingering upon her wistfully. As we watched, she caught the banter of one and returned it playfully, her countenance alive with laughter. The brutal cut of a few minutes earlier was plainly forgotten. She appeared a ravishing young lady of exuberant spirits — forward, perhaps, but entirely in command of her circumstances. “Perhaps we should read a little of Palmerstone aloud,” Miss Sharpe suggested, with a slight note of reproof. She drew a volume from her reticule and patted the empty seat beside her. “Sit down by me, and endeavour to attend. I believe we left off at letter number twelve.” “Mrs. Grey has never read Palmerstone,” Fanny retorted darkly, but she sank down next to Miss Sharpe. “Mrs. Grey is not the pattern I should choose for your conduct, Fanny.” Lizzy's words had the tenor of a scold, but I observed her mouth to twitch. “However dashing in moments, Mrs. Grey has Miss Sharpe commenced to read, in a quiet tone; and at that moment, I caught a glimpse of scarlet as Mrs. Grey passed to the rear of the governess's bent head. As Lizzy and I watched her wordlessly, she approached a shabby-looking chaise but a hundred feet from our own. It was equipped with neither footman nor tyger, and but for its sweating team of matched bays, appeared all but deserted. At Mrs. Grey's swift knock, however, the carriage door was thrust open by an unseen party within. With a swift glance about, the lady disappeared into the darkness, and the door closed softly behind her. “Good Lord!” Lizzy murmured. “So Laetitia Colling-forth makes Franchise Grey her friend. “Has she so little acquaintance among the neighbourhood?” “I am afraid that Kent has not embraced the Greys as it should,” Lizzy replied. “But, then, Mrs. Grey is very young—” “—and very French,” I concluded. Lizzy nodded abstractedly, her eyes still fixed on the shabby chaise. “That cannot be agreeable, at such a time.” The London papers have been full of nothing but the rumour of invasion the entire summer. Buonaparte's dreaded army, which is said to number some one hundred thousand men, sits but a stone's toss across the Channel from Kent, and many of the less stalwart families among our acquaintance have quitted the neighbourhood for safer regions far from the sea, until the danger should be passed. “A lesser woman than Mrs. Grey might find her situation awkward,” I observed, “and adopt a retiring appearance; but that has hardly been the lady's choice.” Lizzy laughed abruptly. “Retirement would never be Mrs. Grey's preference. I fear she endures our company better than we suffer hers!— Tho' I cannot think why she remains in Kent; London should prove a better field for her appetites and pursuits. Perhaps the country air suits her — or, more to the point, her horses.” “She has set up her stable?” I enquired. “—And is passionate about the turf. Some one of her racers is entered in the Commodore's heat, no doubt, and thus we may account for her extraordinary behaviour in strolling about the meeting-grounds. She considers herself quite one of the Sporting Set, and spends a fortune, it is said, on the comfort of her mounts.” “Her husband must be in possession of easy circumstances, then.” “Mrs. Grey has never had the appearance of a pauper,” Lizzy observed enviously. “I, for one, cannot afford her “Well, well.” I sighed. “The French are known for their ruinous habits, I believe. Perhaps she shall run through her husband's fortune, and serve as spectacle for us all. We cannot do without a little amusement, the news from the Channel being so very bad.” Lizzy threw me a mocking glance. “We are not all without resources, Jane. Some little money attaches to the lady herself. She is said to be the ward of a French banking family — de Penfleur by name, although her own was Lamartine. Grey married her for her connexions, I believe.” The judgement was callously expressed, but was no more than Lizzy should serve upon any number of her acquaintance. It is rare to marry for love, as my brother has done. Calculation is the more general advocate of worldly alliance, as every baronet's daughter must know. “She must be new to the neighbourhood,” I replied, “for I cannot think I have ever met her before.” “She has been resident in Kent but seven months, and her husband, Mr. Valentine Grey, acceded to his estate only three years ago. You may have heard me speak of it — The Larches. It is one of the finest places in England, Jane. Perhaps we shall pay a call there, one day, if you persist in your fascination for the lady.” I frowned. “The Larches! But is not that only a few miles from Goodnestone? How have we never come to meet them before?” Lizzy's childhood home, Goodnestone Park, is a lovely old place some seven miles from Godmersham. Her elder brother, Sir Brooke-William Bridges, acceded to the tide nearly fifteen years ago, and at his marriage to a respectable young woman, Lizzy's mother retired to Goodnestone Farm a mile distant from the great house. My sister Cassandra has been gone on a visit to Lady Bridges and her unmarried daughters this fortnight, but her letters have made no reference to any neighbours, near or far. “The Greys do not mix very much in Society, Jane. He is the principal member of a great banking firm— and however genteel a profession, it remains one that many still consider to be “No,” I rejoined with a touch of irony, “for that he should have been forced to endure his infancy here, and have married the daughter of a local worthy — a Miss Taylor of Bifrons Park, perhaps, or one of the Wildmans of Chilham Castle.” Kent, for all its wealth and easy manners, can be a very closed society; it suffers from a touch of the provincial, as every country neighbourhood must. “Perhaps I have not done as much for Mrs. Grey as I ought,” Lizzy admitted, “but I like her too little to further the acquaintance. She is far too young, far too pretty, and far too much of a temptation to the local bloods to stand my friend; such a woman must always be seen in the light of competition. I confess, Jane, that I have withdrawn from the field, rather than tilt with such an adversary.” “Lizzy! You may command any number of dashing young gentlemen with the slightest curl of your finger! You know it to be true!” “—Unless they have already accepted one of Mrs. Grey's dangerous card-parties,” Lizzy retorted. “You can have no notion, Jane, of the fascination the woman exerts. My own brother has fallen victim to her charms; and yet, she cannot be more than two-and-twenty!” “—With all the cunning of a Countess Jersey,” I mused.[5] “And Mr. Grey? He cares nothing for his wife's reputation?” “Mr. Grey is often from home on business. He maintains a house in Town, and spends the better part of his time there. He is certainly not in evidence today.” Lizzy's gaze roved restlessly among the crowd, and her attention was immediately diverted. “Only look! Captain Woodford and my brother!” “Captain Woodford! Uncle Bridges!” little Fanny cried, and sprang up from her perch near Miss Sharpe, waving a napkin at the pair. “Do come and tell us! How do the horses appear? Is the Commodore stamping to be off?” “They have not yet approached the starter's mark, Miss Fanny,” Captain Woodford called jovially as he achieved the barouche, “but I have called upon your champion in his stall, and must declare him in excellent form! As worthy of the plate as any horse lately born. Ladies, your humble and devoted.” He swept off his hat with a smart military bow, and we murmured our salutations. Captain Woodford is a favourite with Lizzy — and did I not believe calculation and cunning quite beneath the daughter of a baronet, I should declare that she intends to secure him for her little sister Harriot. Though well past his first youth and decidedly The Captain is all admiration for Harriot Bridges's fresh countenance, while “Lord, Lizzy, but it is hot! Give me some ginger beer like a good sister, and pray do not be telling our mother in what state you found me.” Mr. Edward Bridges, Lizzy's younger brother, mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief by way of a courtesy, and accepted the glass that Miss Sharpe proffered. “Woodford and I are just come from a capital little cocking ring set up on the edge of the course, and a pretty penny we lost there, too. I shall depend upon your Commodore to restore our fortunes.” “I might almost hope that you depend in vain,” Lizzy retorted, “but that you should apply to my husband for relief from any debts of honour. In either case, win or lose, the Austens must be the making of you.” Her brother smiled roundly, as though Lizzy had uttered nothing like a reproach; and there the matter ended. Mr. Bridges is a very different sort of gentleman from his companion in cocking, the gallant Captain. A well-made, high-coloured fellow of five-and-twenty, he is bent on spending his purse entire in pursuit of a sporting life. No London fashion may be heralded by Despite these storied charms, Mr. Bridges may support at least one claim to sobriety and good conduct — for he is ordained a clergyman in the Church of England, having taken Holy Orders some few years past. He is at present the fortunate beneficiary of two livings: perpetual curate of Goodnestone, which fell in his late father's gift; and very lately, rector of Orlingbury, a parish in Northamptonshire — and one he never visits. In this we may read the reverence of our age: Mr. Edward Bridges, determined Dandy and half-hearted curate! But perhaps I am too severe. I am quick to detect a convenience, and call it hypocrisy, where another might divine only the usual way of the world. “You have seen the Commodore, Uncle?” Fanny enquired of Mr. Bridges excitedly. “Is he mad to be off?” Mr. Bridges then delighted us with the intelligence that the lamentable animal had spent a tolerable half-hour cooling down in his shed between heats; that he had been walked to admiration; and that the quality of his dung was said to be unassailable. Only the famed Eclipse himself could display a sweeter action.[6] A description of the Commodore's chief competitors — who must all be lame, spavined, or doltish in the extreme — then followed, to the delight of Fanny, who declared that Uncle Henry “I should agree with Mr. Bridges in everything excepting Mrs. Grey's little filly,” he said. “In respect of Josephine, I cannot be sanguine. She is a fine-stepping goer, and over such a distance — a heat of two miles;—might give the Commodore a fair run for the plate. We shall have some excellent sport when the horn is blown. But enough of racing! You look very well this morning, Mrs. Austen — and your sister might be Diana the Huntress herself, established over the picnic hamper in that becoming habit.” I blushed, for my riding dress was a cast-off of Lizzy's made over to suit myself, and I feared the truth might be blurted out by Fanny, to the mortification of us all. It “Do not flatter me, Captain Woodford,” I managed, “or like Diana I shall prove the ruin of masculine ardour.” “I await your worst, madam,” he replied, with an inclination of the head, “for it cannot be more severe than Buonaparte's cannon — and I have steeled myself to “Perhaps we should establish Miss Austen at the headlands at Deal,” Edward Bridges suggested, “with a sword in one hand and a martial light in her eye, the better to forestall invasion — for a whole company of French cavalry could hardly ignore such loveliness. It must halt them in their tracks, and preserve the nation inviolate.” At my failure to reply, Mr. Bridges threw out his most engaging smile. “I might rescue you then in a dashing manner, my dear Miss Austen, and the both of us be celebrated throughout the country.” The determined silliness of these remarks was entirely in keeping with Mr. Bridges's character; but I adopted a tragic air, as befit a noble heroine. “Not even the prospect of rescue by yourself, sir, shall be deemed too great a sacrifice for my country. But tell me: How does my dearest sister in your wretched hands?” “Miss Cassandra Austen, when last I had the pleasure of meeting her over the breakfast table, was in excellent looks — tho' entirely cast down at the loss of this race-meeting. She was to remain at the Farm, you know, in attendance upon my sister Harriot, who cannot abide horses in any guise. I offered to smuggle Cassandra out of the house in my curricle, but she affected the vapours at the mere notion of such a scheme, and quitted the breakfast parlour directly.” I could not suppress a laugh at this telling picture. “You are in wine again, Edward, I am sure of it,” Lizzy said in mock exasperation. “Have you led him astray, Captain Woodford?” “I? Astray? Quite the reverse, I assure you.” “Mamma! Mamma! Only look — there is Mrs. Grey!” The Commodore momentarily forgotten, Fanny had jumped up from her seat and was craning for a view of the rail. “Sit “Do observe, Mamma,” Fanny persisted, “she has gone quite forward in all the bustle, and intends to o'erlook the race. There is her scarlet habit, not far from Papa and my uncle.” I followed my niece's outflung arm and saw again the dashing figure, late of the perch phaeton. Mrs. Grey had abandoned her equipage and secured a place of advantage quite close to the rail. She was mounted, as though she meant to follow the heat on horseback.[7] Extraordinary! She should be the only lady in the midst of the crush, and exposed to every sort of coarse behaviour— for a race-meeting is hardly the most select, being at liberty to the common labourer as readily as a lord. But at least she displayed a little sense, in adopting a veil, the better to shield her countenance from the impertinent. Or perhaps the better to invite their gaze — for the black illusion netting, however suited to the disguise of her features, hung jauntily enough from the tricorn hat. Hers was a tall, womanly figure astride the mettlesome beast — the jet-black gelding I had last seen tied to the phaeton. However unseemly her behaviour, however determined her flaunting of convention, I could not fail to admire Mrs. Grey. And pity her, too. Such an one must be “Come, Mr. Bridges,” Captain Woodford said, “we must bid the ladies These words had scarce fallen from his lips, when the blowing of a horn announced the horses arrived at the starter's mark, and a murmur of expectation arose from the assembled throng. Mr. Bridges surged forward towards the rail, Captain Woodford in pursuit; Fanny clambered onto the barouche box next to the coachman, Pratt; and even Lizzy gained something in animation. “They are off!” Fanny cried, “but I can see nothing — only a sea of hats, and the flash of horses' heads. Oh, you darling Commodore!” Despite myself, I caught something of the clamour of the moment, and rose to my feet, swaying slightly with the springs of the coach and Fanny's determined energy. A cloud of dust, turned gold in the August sun, announced the vanguard of the horses — they were fast upon our portion of the rail, and I thought that even my disinterested gaze might discern the Commodore's narrow Arab head vying for pride of place with a bay mare. Then, in a flash of scarlet, Mrs. Grey leapt the rail on her fleet black horse. A cry of “Mrs. Grey!” and “Huzzah!” seemed to break from an hundred throats, and that suddenly, every man in possession of a mount had thrust his way onto the course behind the lady. Like a company of mounted cavalry, top hats blown backwards by the wind, they pounded in the wake of the racing pack — and disappeared around the course's bend. “Good God!” ejaculated Miss Sharpe. I turned from the course to see the governess pale and trembling, her hazel eyes fixed on the dust-clouded rail. Presumably she was unaccustomed to such exploits. “More than one unfortunate shall be unhorsed, Miss Sharpe, depend upon it,” I told her. “But do not trouble yourself on a fool's account. They are all very nearly insensible with drink, and shall not mind the bruising.” “Mrs. Grey shall keep her seat, never fear,” said Lizzy drily. “She will be safely home and established upon a sofa before the half of them have circled the field.” But Miss Sharpe seemed not to have attended to either of us. Her gaze was still fixed on the course, where the distant splash of scarlet proclaimed the sole woman at the head of the cavalcade. To discern much else was impossible; the Commodore, Josephine, and their competitors in the heat, were swallowed entire in a cloud of dust. “Are you quite well, Miss Sharpe?” I enquired gently. “You have grown too pale. Perhaps the heat has overcome you. It is well that we are very near to ending so tiresome an amusement — I am sure we should all prefer to be at home.” She sank back down into her seat, and drew a kerchief from her reticule. “Forgive me. A trifling unsteadiness The unmounted spectators, like my brothers, had commenced to run along the rail in pursuit of the pack; an idiot's errand, for the pack itself had very soon rounded the final bend of the course, and was bearing down upon the starter's mark. Our heads turned as one— the pounding of hooves announced the approaching triumph — and the bay mare Josephine swept foaming across the finish, with the Commodore hard on her heels. “Ohhh!” cried Fanny in disappointment. “Thank God it is over at last,” murmured her mother. And from the trembling Miss Sharpe, came something like a sob. IT WAS A CHASTENED AND DESPONDENT HENRY WHO rejoined the Godmersham party a half-hour later. “I am sure that some great mischief has befallen the poor beast.” He sagged against the seat cushions and accepted a glass of ginger beer. “He looked off in the near hind. Perhaps the weights—” “He looked off for the duration of the heat, my dear brother,” said Neddie sourly. He was quite winded, and much put out at the devil's chase he had run. “Although I confess my position was too poor to permit of a good view. We should better have gone mounted, like Mrs. Grey.” As tho' conjured by my brother's thought, the figure in scarlet pranced into view near the stylish perch phaeton. She dismounted with a flourish, and thrust the reins at her tyger. Behind her, at a discreet pace, advanced the filly Josephine and her jockey — both looking whipped by the very hounds of Hell, as perhaps they had been. It cannot be comfortable or easy to race in a determined heat, with most of Kent at one's heels. Mrs. Grey tossed a beautiful gold plate — Canterbury's Race Week prize — into the perch phaeton, with as much disregard as tho' it were a pair of old shoes. She handed a small leather coin pouch to the jockey, and reached a gloved hand to pat the filly's lathered flank. Then, with an insouciance possible only for one who moves under an hundred eyes, she stepped into her carriage, took up the reins, and snapped them smartly over the matched greys' necks. Several of the watching gentlemen cheered. The tyger touched his cap as she turned, his expression wooden; then he and the jockey led their mounts slowly through the milling crowd, in the direction of the stableyard. “What did I tell you?” Lizzy said languidly. “She shall be established on her sofa while the rest of us are still trapped on the Canterbury road. Detestable woman.” “Do not speak of her, pray.” Henry took a long draught. “My dear Eliza will have it that there is nothing like a Frenchwoman for winning, you know — and I declare I begin to be of her opinion. Did you see that grey-eyed jade, Neddie, spurring her mount for all she was worth?” “I believe Mrs. Grey's eyes to be brown, Henry,” my brother absently replied. “Grey — brown — but upon my word, the Furies ain't in it! I might almost believe her to have cursed the Commodore as he rounded the rail. She has quite the look of the witch about her, however much she affects a veil.” “Now, Henry.” I patted his hand. “Let us have no conduct unbecoming to a gentleman. You are to be an example for the children, in this as in so many things. Your disappointment may serve as a cautionary chapter in the annals of the Sporting Life. I see the illustration now, in my mind's eye: A Gentleman Unbowed by the Vagaries of Fortune.” “—However driven upon the poorhouse,” he muttered, unreconciled. “The poorhouse!” I smiled at him conspiratorially, and dropped my voice to a whisper. “Then take comfort, Henry. You shall not travel there alone. The excellent Mr. Bridges is to cheer your solitude, for he named the Commodore as the salvation of all his hopes.” “Am I then to encompass others in my ruin?” Henry groaned in mock despair. “The reproaches that shall be mine! And how am I to face Lady Bridges, his redoubtable mother? I suppose we may expect the unfortunate curate to wait upon us at Godmersham before the day is out?” “He had better wait upon Mrs. Grey,” said Neddie, who had caught something of our conversation. “She is undoubtedly more amenable to charity at present.” “A debt of honour is a debt of honour.” Lizzy picked desultorily at the points of her gloves. “No lady would forgive what a gentleman would exact; it does violence to the equality of the sexes.” “You have been reading that wretched Wollstonecraft again,” my brother said in exasperation. “I shall burn the volume tonight.”[8] “May we leave now, Papa?” Fanny implored. “I am most dreadfully hungry.” “Hungry!” Neddie searched in the depths of the picnic hamper. “And not a scrap of jellied chicken left for your fainting father? Scamp!” He pinched his favourite's dimpled cheek. “We shall take to the road directly I secure a draught of ale, Fanny. I have a thirst upon me that would parch the Stour itself.” And so he moved off, intent upon a tankard. Most of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood were roving about the meeting-grounds, exchanging tales of woe or victory; some had placed their money on Mrs. Grey's filly, others on Henry's horse, still others on one of the mounts deep in the pack, who had fared no better than the Commodore. A great deal of hearty laughter and slapping of backs ensued, for which I had little temper; I was fatigued and overheated myself, and longing to be out of my ravishing lilac habit. “There is my brother Edward,” Lizzy observed, “looking bound for the gallows before sunset. You have much to answer for, Henry; I am not sure I should admit you to Godmersham this e'en! Look at the poor fellow — so chapfallen and mumchance! Were it not for the support of Captain Woodford's arm, I doubt he could place one foot before the other!” And, indeed, Mr. Bridges looked very unwell. His countenance was flushed, his fashionable coiffure disarranged, and his cravat askew. He clutched at his head — which ached, no doubt, from an unfortunate blend of spirits and wine — and muttered indistinguishable words in Captain Woodford's ear. A glance for his sister, and it seemed as tho' he might approach our barouche — until a third man came up with him suddenly, and tore at Mr. Bridges's arm. He was a burly gentleman, with sweeping whiskers and a raffish air; a gentleman I knew of old. Denys Collingforth, of slim means and illiberal temper, who was held in general disfavour by the whole neighbourhood. We should have seen much of the Collingforths, had they proved more genteel, for they lived but a few miles from Godmersham, at Prior's Farm. He was fond of using his fists at the slightest provocation, and was even said to have struck his wife — the unfortunate Laetitia, whose carriage Mrs. Grey had entered only an hour or so before. I had seen Denys Collingforth in more than one unsavoury moment, during my many sojourns in Kent; and his present appearance argued the immediate precipitation of another. He twisted the sleeve of Mr. Bridges's elegant coat, all choler and ill-humour in a single motion. The curate gasped, and attempted to shake him off; but he succeeded only in securing both of Mr. Collingforth's hands firmly about his lapels. The gallant Captain Woodford attempted to intervene — and was thrust heavily to one side. “LizzyI” I half-rose from my seat. “What Her elegant head came swiftly round, and caught the scene at a glance. “Contemptible blackguard,” she spat out, “he will draw Edward's cork in a moment.” Not only the children had proved susceptible to Henry's fighting cant. And draw Mr. Bridges's cork, Collingforth did. A wide, swinging arc of his fist, and the curate fell backwards, blood spurting from his nose. Captain Woodford fell on his adversary immediately, and the three disappeared in a whirling knot of flailing limbs and brightly-coloured breeches. In a moment, however, Neddie had perceived the difficulty — he and Henry raced to the aid of their friends, along with half a dozen others who had no cause to love Collingforth; and the bully was deftly wrenched from the melee. Muttering an oath, he retired to nurse his wounds. A man I did not recognise — I suppose I may call him a gentleman — threw an arm about his shoulders and said something softly into his ear. The newcomer was dressed all in black, and wore an expression of contempt on his countenance; but his words seemed to calm his friend. “There'll be the Devil to pay,” Collingforth shouted at Mr. Bridges's dusty back; and then shaking his fist, he moved off through the crowd towards his shabby black chaise. If his wife was within, she did not dare to show her face. “Well, Lizzy,” my brother said as he pulled himself into the barouche, “I believe it is time we turned towards home. This meeting is become almost a brawl, and I will not have Fanny treated to such scenes.” Lizzy's answer, did she contemplate one, was forestalled by a fearful cry. It was a man's voice, torn with suffering and revulsion, as though he looked upon the face of evil and knew it for his own. It came from somewhere behind us. I turned, aghast, to enquire of Neddie, and saw my own confusion mirrored in my brother's countenance. And then our entire party was on its feet, and the gentlemen had sprung from the barouche, all fatigue and acrimony forgotten. A crowd had gathered at the open door of Collingforth's chaise. I looked, and then turned swiftly to gather Fanny to my breast. Death is not a sight for the young, however sporting-minded. For spilling from the carriage doorway, arms out-flung in supplication, was the figure of a woman. Her streaming hair was dark, her eyes were staring, and tho' the veil and scarlet habit had been torn from her body, leaving her pale and child-like in a simple cotton shift, I knew her instantly for Mrs. Grey. And knew, with a chill at my heart, that she would never ride again. |
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