Jane and the Man of the Cloth (34 page)

I recollected, then, the midnight landing from the smugglers’ cutter, and the muffled burden borne up the cliffs at Seraphine's direction. Was an unknown fellow even now recovering from his wounds beneath the Grange's roof? Was this why Seraphine could not desert her post in Sidmouth's absence?

“As you wish, my dear,” my father said, with a mild nod, “but may we offer you
some other
relief?”

“Pray for me, my good sir,” Seraphine replied, “and for my cousin, Mr. Sidmouth. I fear that neither of us shall be long for this world.”

I glanced at my father, and motioned the maid from the doorway. “Fetch a pot of tea for the mademoiselle, and be quick about it,” I said. “How long should the lady have lain here, without a drop of restorative by her? I cannot believe you did not think of it before.”

“There's no tea to be had,” the maid replied, without shifting from her place. “Stores'uv been low these three days past, and what wit’ the ‘quest today, tea'uv been all drunk up.”

“Then do you run to a shojp and purchase some, you stupid girl,” I said briskly, and handed her a few shillings. “Be off with you.”

The slattern dropped a curtsey, and scurried away, her expression turned sour. I seized the opportunity of her absence to close the chamber door as firmly as I might. I did not choose for the entirety of Lyme to overlisten my conversation with the mademoiselle.

“Your cousin's circumstances are so very bad,” I observed, as I turned back towards the bed with an effort at complaisance—for I was curious how my apparent indifference might provoke the lady, and what turn of conversation it should bring. “I wonder that he bothered to deny his guilt at all, considering how many are the proofs against him.” Without waiting for a reply, I looked to my father. “When, sir, did you declare to be the next sitting of the Assizes?”

“I did
not,
that I can recall,” the poor man replied, in some surprise, “but I believe I heard them to be held in Dorchester, in but ten days’ time.”

“So Sidmouth must endure another ten days in the Lyme gaol,” I said thoughtfully. “Unless it be, of course,that
some other
comes forward, and admits a part in the Captain's murder. But who else can have had so much reason to kill the man? It does not seem very likely. We may take it, then, that Sidmouth has but a few weeks more to live; for the Assizes once concluded, his trial and execution shall be speedily achieved. You know that they are in the habit, at Newgate, of hanging the convicted only a day or two following their condemnation.”

“Jane!” my mother cried. “Remember where you are, my girl! Have you lost all sense?”

But Seraphine's attention was gained—her expression more pained, and less remote—and so my cruel object was won. Her face, always pale, was almost translucent, and her eyes were gone glassy from shock.

“Get out,” she said, her fingers clenched upon the bedsheet. “Get out, before I serve you with violence.”

“As you did Captain Fielding?” I replied, drawing forward a chair, and seating myself companionably by her side, to my parents” consternation. “Was that the thought of the moment as well—or did you
plan
your assault upon his person?”

Seraphine's beautiful face was working, lost between outrage and confusion, and I hastened to profit from the moment.

“I have the idea of it well,” I continued. “Yourself on a horse, perhaps in pursuit of a surgeon for one of the smuggling men kept hidden in your attic—you will recall that I could not help but hear their movements, the day I visited you at the Grange, the very day your cousin was seized by Mr. Dobbin.” At this, a redoubled expression of shock seized her features, and something very like fear. (I saw no reason to mention the wounded man borne from the beach the night of Sidmouth's arrest, for
his
appearance was well after Fielding's death, and my knowledge of him
must
be explained. It was enough to alert her that I knew of the attic's use.)

“You are coursing down the Charmouth road, intent upon your purpose, but with one ear cocked for sounds in the underbrush—for you, a woman alone in a lonely place, should not like to encounter a brigand. It was in consideration of this that you carried with you one of the Grange's pistols, and kept it hidden beneath your cloak. Imagine it,” I said dreamily, my eyes fixed upon Seraphine's countenance. ‘The moonlight—on the wane, but strong enough for a general glow, as the night before, when we all dined together at Darby—and the sudden appearance of Fielding's horse, from the entrance to his drive. It is a white horse, is it not? He rode it to call upon us at Wings cottage one day, and looked every inch
le Chevalier.
At this, Seraphine could not contain a shudder. “The horse and rider must have shone in the moonlight like an apparition.

“Did he hail you, eager for the conversation you had denied him the night before? Did you pull up in alarm? And at what moment did you fire the ball, so clear into his heart? When he leaned close to kiss you?”

“This is madness,” Seraphine hissed. “You know it is madness.”

“Do I?” I replied, with a look for my father. “I know only that Geoffrey Sidmouth would rather die than reveal what might clear his name—and I can think of no one for whom he might offer such a sacrifice but
you,
mademoiselle. Who better than yourself, to have taken a horse from the Grange's stables, and counted on the stable boy's silence—for that Toby adores you, is readily apparent. He might even now believe that you simply went for the surgeon, as you had intended—and as you undoubtedly did, once the Captain lay dead upon the road, and his horse fled for home. And so Toby said nothing to the justice, Mr. Dobbin, regarding your midnight errand—for the fact of the men's existence in your attic is something to keep hidden. Is it not?”

“I see that you know altogether too much about our affairs, Miss Austen,” Seraphine rejoined. She had pushed herself upwards on the pillows, and looked at me direcdy, without animus or anger. “But I think you do not know quite enough. You make leaps before you know the distance to be covered, and so you fall into the abyss, yes?”

“Jane was ever a foolish, fanciful girl,” my mother broke in. “And she is forever writing her fancies in a little book, and secreting it beneath a table linen whenever I enter the room. She is not to be thought of, I assure you, mademoiselle, so pay her no mind.”

“But I fear that I must,” Seraphine replied, with a sudden smile for my mother. “Your daughter's fancies might be taken for truth, did I fail to address them. And so, good sir, and gende madame, would you be so good as to leave us alone for a time? It is best that we speak in private.”

I cocked an ear towards the passageway, and gave a look to my father. “If I am not very much mistaken,” I said, “that is the maid returned with the Green Leaf I bade her purchase. Do you go, my dear father, and take some tea with my mother. I shall not detain you above a quarter of an hour.”

“Very well,” my mother said grudgingly. “I cannot deny that I should relish some refreshment But, Jane,” she whispered low in my ear as she passed, “do you be careful. She
is
French, after all, and may very well be a murderess, and must possess arts you can know nothing of.”

“I SHALL. NOT KEEP YOU ABOVE VOtJR QUARTER-HOUR,” SERAPHINE began, without meeting my gaze. “I like your company too little to prolong its enjoyment.”

“Our
tete-a-tete
might be concluded in a moment. A word alone shall suffice to end it Did you kill Captain Fielding, Seraphine?”

She permitted herself the briefest of laughter. It was a brittle, a heartbreaking sound. “And what, now, do I answer? If I say no, you will not believe me; and if I say
yes,
I will not believe myself. But I cannot avoid the one or the other; so
no
it must be, Miss Austen. I did not kill the Captain.”I expected her to look at me then, to convey the sincerity of her words; but she did not. The very sight of my countenance must be odious to her. “I have been moved to wish for his death in the past; and I admit that his death, once achieved, caused me no pain. —Until, that is, my cousin was taken for it.”

“And why should I believe what you say?” I enquired gently.

She shrugged. “Why should you believe otherwise?”

“Because I am committed to a pursuit of the truth,” I replied, “and must consider every possible alternative. I will leave no stone undisturbed, until I have found the meaning behind Fielding's death, and may know whether your cousin is guilty or no. My heart whispers that he is not; he had not the look of wilful deceit, in all his assertions to the coroner—his was rather the appearance of intentional restraint.”

“And so you would have me stand in his place.” Her expression of amusement was scathing. “I would gladly take it for him, if he would let me. I would give my life for Geoffrey, Miss Austen!” she cried, with a passionate look. “And even you, who must bear him some love, could never say as much.”

“I? Low? That is absurd,” I replied, excessively stung. “I am merely an Englishwoman, who pays the notion of justice the most profound respect I would not have your cousin falsely accused, and hang for a crime he did not commit”

“Noble words,” Seraphine said, with something like a sneer, “but false words nonetheless. You Englishwomen are all the same—cold, and unwilling to admit in the brain what the heart knows to be truth. Well, Miss Austen, I am
French.
And I say you are in love with my cousin. I am not afraid to look the truth full in the face. But I hate you for it.”

“Hate me if you will, Mademoiselle. Believe what you will. It is no concern of mine,’” I rejoined, with an effort at calm. “I care only for the facts. Were you within the Grange's walls, the night of Fielding's murder?”

“Why should I answer you?”

“Because the more knowledge I have, the more likely that I will find the truth; and that can only help us all. Even did I prove your cousin guilty, we might draw comfort from the certainty. Would you rather continue in ignorance, and allow blind luck to determine the outcome?”

“No,” she said reluctandy. “Though you will understand that the truth makes not a particle of difference to
me.
I care nothing for your justice. I care only for Geoffrey. But if the world believes him guilty, he shall certainly die. I am not so wilful I do not see the danger.”

“Will you answer me, then?”

The need for hope and the desire to thwart me struggled for mastery in her face. “I was within the Grange all night. I did not stir beyond its doors, as the housekeeper, Mary, may vouch. You were correct, when you said we had guests abovestairs. She and I were much occupied in tending to them.”

“A smuggler's crew?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. You saw yourself what a friend my cousin has been to them.”

“A friend? Not their leader?”

She did not answer.

“How many horses are stabled at the Grange, Mademoiselle?”

“Eight,” she answered, without hesitation. “A matched pair for the curricle, and Satan, of course; four draft horses for the farm; and my own mount.”

“And do all bear the same sort of shoes?”

“Stamped with Geoffrey's initials, you mean? Of course. Any of the horses might have left those prints.”

“Any, that were the same size, and bore the same weight,” I replied thoughtfully, “for the height of the horse and the heft of its mount, must severely affect the impressions.”

“That is true!” she cried. “Geoffrey is a tall, well-built fellow, and Satan the same. Not every horse could make a print like that stallion's, when Geoffrey is upon him.”

“Not, for example, yourself.”

“No,” she replied, with a bitter smile. “My Elf is a dainty lady. The draft horses, however, with a man astride, might manage it”

“There is also the curious affair, Mademoiselle, of the white lily.”

“Yes,” she murmured, her gaze shifting. “It is curious, indeed.”

“Have you any notion what it might signify?”

“I fear that I do not. It is simply one more confusion amidst all that is bewildering.”

“I wondered if it might not refer to the Captain's name.”

“His
name?”

“Yes.
lje Chevalier.
The tide Fielding won from his service to you.”

She winced. “I do not pretend to understand you, Miss Austen.”

“A French flower for a French knight,” I said patiendy. “Is not the
fleur-de-tys
a white lily?” A symbol of a country's trampled greatness, like the absurd tide Fielding bore. But what, then, was the significance of the flower left by the hanged Bill Tibbit?

“I wonder, Miss Austen, that you think you might affect the odds in this way,” Seraphine said, breaking into my thoughts. “For what can a woman do, in a proceeding so determined by men? Had not Geoffrey better stand his chance, in a world in which he is at least an equal, unlike ourselves?” But for the steadiness of her sombre gaze, I might almost have believed her to be mocking me.

“I have never been willing to admit that inequality,” I told her. “I spend the better part of my life endeavouring to redress it. But no matter. If
all
did but bend their efforts to determining your cousin's guilt or innocence, some resolution might speedily be found. I do but contribute my part, as I am sure Mr. Crawford will, and even Mr. Dagliesh.”

“I have seen enough of their parts today.”

“Their hands were tied.”

“Then I do not want their hands further in the matter,” she rejoined with animosity.

“Very well,” I said. “But that cannot prevent you from sharing what you know with
me.
I cannot emphasise enough, Mademoiselle, that some part of the conviction of your cousin's guilt arises from the general perception that he hated Captain Fielding. What possible reason can he have had, for doing so?”

In her look of contemptuous dismissal, I fancied I read the same disdain her long-dead mother must have shown the guillotine. “I am not inclined to tell you, Miss Austen, and certainly not without Geoffrey's approval. It would seem too great a betrayal.”