Jane and the Man of the Cloth (37 page)

The lady burst out laughing. “This is frankness, indeed, Miss Austen! Have you learnt to admire Lyme
less,
now you have suffered it the
more't”
She slid her arm through mine and urged me along a gallery, painted pale yellow and overlaid with plaster figures and garlands in the best Adam manner, designed for the parade of portraits of people utterly unrelated to my hostess. She seemed to think nothing of living amidst another family's ancestors, though / should find it decidedly strange. The stern faces in oils might have been so many
objets d'art
on a shop-keeper's wall, for all the mind she paid them. “I fancy we are of the same opinion, more often than not; for though you profess the usual proprieties, and are careful to keep your face as demure as any chit of fifteen, the most delicious absurdities
will
escape your mouth, whenever you open it!”

I felt I had only echoed her declared sentiments, and said so.

“But that is the wonder of it! Can you be insensible that the majority of ladies should have ignored my obvious dislike of this place, and uttered some commonplace phrases in praise of its ugliness, and avowed themselves blessed in such an habitation? But pretence and hypocrisy are not for Miss Austen. You are a valuable acquaintance indeed; and to your friends, must be irreplaceable.”

We had come to a staircase, and ascended it to a broad landing, with a window in the style of Palladio that rose to the height of several storeys.

“This must be lovely in fine weather,” I ventured.

“Indeed. It overlooks the rear of the house, and the walled garden, and to the right, in the distance, Mr. Barnewall's stables. Or rather, the
owner's
stables, which Mr. Barnewall has seen fit to employ rather more fully than has been their wont.”

I was reminded sharply of my purpose in paying this call, which object had been overlaid with a surprising level of agreeability, so unexpected in such a quarter, and lulled to quiescence by the warmth of my companion. But I shook myself from complaisance, and turned to a subject of nearer interest than my own frankness and value as an acquaintance, however delightful those observations had been.

“Mr. Barnewall, I understand, is an avid horseman.”

“Oh! Avidity is too gende a descriptor, I assure you. It was at the races that I was first introduced to my future husband; at the races that he proposed marriage to me; and at the races, very nearly, that we were married—Mr. Barnewall having a horse in the running on the very morn he was to be at the church, and most anxious to know the outcome of the match. Our wedding trip was rather an excursion about the breeding capitals of Europe, and instead of Sevres, or a trunkful of dresses, I returned from my three-months’ tour in possession of several cunning little mares. We are all for horses in Ireland, I assure you, and while in Dorset must spend the better part of every afternoon riding out to visit one or another of the local stock farms. Whenever I
do
get to London next, I am sure I shall be amusing myself in whatever fashion allowable, while Mr. Barnewall eats, drinks, and sleeps in TattersalFs arms”
²

The view beyond the window, which on a good day should have offered so much for my edification, remained resolutely blank. Blacksmiths by the score there might be, all pounding away at the hooves of a veritable herd of horses, and the cloud of fog that enveloped the Barnewall stables should reveal none of it to my sight

“Such a hobby must require a considerable retinue for its maintenance,” I observed circumspectly.

“And a fortune in expense,” my companion returned, with a knowing glance. “I am sure you are too good to voice such a thought aloud; but it remains true, nonetheless.

“How many animals have you at present?”

“Some thirty mares, and two or three stallions, and one or two foals. But that is nothing, I am afraid, to what we maintain at Ireland.”

“How extraordinary! And what shall you do with them when you depart for that country?”

Mrs. Barnewall shrugged. “As we are to renew the lease of Wootton House, we shall engage to keep the horses here, and their stable boys with them. Our manager, Mr. Farnsworth, is a true gem—or so my husband says; and in our absence he shall ensure that every possible measure is taken for the animals’ comfort”

“But what consideration must be given, to every aspect of the horse's life!” 1 cried. “What supplies of fodder, and attention to tack, and endless trips to the farrier and the blacksmith!”

“As to the farrier, he comes to us, my dear,” Mrs. Barnewall replied in some amusement, “and the estate has its own smithy. But enough talk of horses, or you shall be wanting a visit to the stables; and I confess my slippers are unequal to the remains of the black frost. You shall have to endure your impatience regarding the beasts, another day.”

I cared little for the denied stable visit; it was enough to know that the means to make a shoe existed on the property, and that Mathew Barnewall was indeed a desperate addict of horseflesh in all its forms. But I could not yet see him resorting to murder, however important a horse might be, in order to obtain it. For tho’ Geoffrey Sidmouth's goods might be forfeit, and Satan sold, were he condemned for a murder that Barnewall committed, it seemed a circuitous route to the business.

If murder had been done, and a horse from Wootton House its agent, then the motive must be far more serious and deadly indeed. Nothing less than Barnewairs entire manner of living must be at stake—and
there,
were he indeed the Reverend, I might find a reason for Captain Fielding's killing.

“And now, Miss Austen, will you take some refreshment in the morning room? Though I confess it bears a rather chilly aspect today.”

I assented to the suggestion with alacrity, and descended the stairs in Mrs. Barnewairs train. After a passage through a central hall, from which several corridors sprang, and the selection of one of these, we proceeded past the open doors of several drawing-rooms and a dining-parlour before achieving the morning room. It was a cheerful place, being painted a pale green, and draped in a flowered stuff of a similar hue, and bearing about its cornice the figures of several cherubs, all engaged in staring down at us with the most puckish of expressions; it was at once more intimate, and less formal, than the part of the house in which I was originally received. Here Mrs. Barnewall should conduct her correspondence, and have her second cup of breakfast chocolate, and say yea or nay to the cook's choice for the day's dinner, and take up what needlework or sketchbook should suit her fancy. A pianoforte stood at one end, backed by an excessively large pier glass, that whichever performer chose to essay the keys, might have an admiring audience of
at least
herself. I could not help an involuntary exclamation as I perceived the instrument, for my music had been denied me throughout the length of our travels; and my delight did not go unnoticed by my hostess.

“You are a proficient, I presume?”

I shook my head regretfully. “An aspirant only to that title, and sadly in want of practise from a summer's worth of neglect.”

“Pray, delight me with your skill, Miss Austen. Music is above all things my preferred activity.”

“Then I should rather hear yourself, and avoid embarrassment.”

“Oh! I never learnt, I am afraid—and so should hardly stand in censure upon your performance.”

After a moment's hesitation, I drew off my gloves, and seated myself at the piano, and attempted one of the simple airs I so loved to play for my sister, of a quiet morning in Steventon, so many years ago.

“It
is
a plaintive melody,” Mrs. Barnewall observed, when I had done; “but perhaps you merely echo the weather.”

“Perhaps,” I said with a smile, and rose from the instrument “I may confess to a longing for my sister, who is the dearest creature in the world to me, and denied me by the misfortunes of which I know you have heard.”

“Indeed!” Mrs. Barnewall cried, as she threw herself carelessly into a settee. “The famous overturning. An event almost as thoroughly discussed by the Lyme worthies as Mademoiselle LeFevre's unfortunate accident only a few weeks before.”

“Her unfortunate accident?’” I replied, feigning bewilderment. “What accident was this?”

“Why, my dear, you
must
have heard of it—the Miss Schuylers talked of little else the length of their stay. Not that they are possessed of such faculties as should provide them with frequent diversion, it is true—they were much dependent upon the affairs of others for their edification and amusement. But I recollect.
Your
business of the overturning, and the hanging of the man on the Cobb, quite put all thought of the mademoiselle and Captain Fielding out of our minds for a time.”

“It was the Captain who caused Mademoiselle LeFevre's accident?”

“No, no—-it was
he
who rescued her. Hence his affectionate name of
le Chevatier.”
My confidante reached for an exquisite porcelain box that sat upon a Pembroke table near her seat, and to my amazement, drew forth a pinch of powder on the tip of her forefinger, which she inhaled as elegandy as it was possible to do. At my inability to conceal my surprise, she smiled devilishly. “Would you care for some snuff, Miss Austen? Or is the daughter of a clergyman a stranger to this, as to so many other vices?”

“I do not believe I should find it agreeable.” My voice sounded priggish, even to my own ears. “How can you find it so?”

“It clears the mind wonderfully,” she said, and sneezed.

“Indeed?” I confess the practise is new to my experience. Though my brothers James and Edward are both fond of their clay pipes, they take care never to smoke them within doors, and as it is my fathers view that tobacco is a dangerous addiction, I was hardly exposed to the fumes in my infancy. Even Henry, however—charming, foolish, light-hearted Henry—has avoided the fashion for snuff. Though there are some who have partaken of the substance for years, I may fairly state that only recently has it become the rage to carry the little boxes about, and change them according to whether one is at home or in society, or abroad of a morning or an evening. I had
never
witnessed a woman consuming snuff— even my flamboyant sister Eliza.
³

“I failed to discover the meaning behind
le Chevalier”
I said, with an effort to appear rueful. “I fear I have not your penetration, Mrs. Barnewall, and the Captain
did
appear indisposed to discuss the matter.”

“That is like his natural reticence,” she replied sofdy, and sighed, her snapping dark eyes momentarily clouded. I had not considered that the lady might consider herself in mourning. Such obtuseness should be unforgivable, had I not believed her too light in her attachments to regard the poor Captain with anything like tenderness. But T am too prone to a hasty judgment of the characters and impulses of others; it may be fairly declared my chief failing.

“The tale does him no dishonour, 1 trust?”

“Hardly.” She adjusted a cushion at her elbow, and sctded in for a long chat. “It was a few weeks before your arrival, Miss Austen, about the middle part of August, I should say. We had ail been in attendance at the Thursday night Assembly, though the crowd was rather thin, the summer people in general having departed for country estates to the north. There was nothing like a moon that night, as I recall, and so for those of us who travelled into town by carriage, the drive home was a slow business. Captain Fielding had
not
been in the rooms—indeed, I had thought him away from Lyme on some business—and his absence deprived the ball of a good part of its gaiety.

“Mr. Barnewall and I had agreed to follow Mr. Crawford to Darby, for a late supper and some cards, being little inclined to retire early, despite the ball's having closed a full hour before its usual two o'clock. And so our carriages travelled in train, up the Charmouth road towards Mr. Crawford's estate—until with a ‘Whoa!’ the equipage in front was pulled up, and in a moment Mr. Crawford had descended, and then my husband must be impatient to know what was toward, and we were all out in the road in the middle of the night, with only the light of a Ian thorn to show the scene.

“And what a scene!”

“Mademoiselle LeFevre?”

She shook her head. “Captain Fielding, unhorsed and with the lady quite insensible in his arms. What a picture they made! Her long red cloak, trailing from unconscious limbs, and the fall of her extraordinary hair across his arm; his face bruised and weary, and himself standing upon a wooden leg, and endeavouring to bear her homeward, without benefit of assistance or even his horse! Had we not arrived at the very moment, I cannot think how things should have gone; but we did, and commended him for his gallantry, and managed them both to their respective houses.”

“But what
had
occurred?” I cried, in some exasperation.

“We had it from the Captain—whom we chose to convey homeward, while the Crawfords took the mademoiselle—that the lady had been abroad on horseback, well after midnight, about some errand of her cousin, Mr. Sidmouth—only fancy!—and that her horse had starded, and bolted, and thrown her to the ground; at which point she was fortunate in the Captain's happening upon her on the road, at his return very late from business in Dorchester. Only think! Our carriages might have run over her body in the dark, as she lay insensible, had he not appeared to act as saviour!”

“Perish the thought!” I said, with suitable fervour. “But why, then, had the Captain's horse
also
run off?”

Mrs. Barnewall leaned closer, her eyes once more brilliant with animation. “I understood from Fielding that he was unhorsed in the animal's act of leaping over the mademoiselle's still form, as the beast came upon her in its way. It was thus he made the discovery of her.”

“I suppose Mr. Sidmouth was very grateful,” I observed, with conscious stupidity, “to have his cousin so safely restored.”

“Mr. Sidmouth seemed rather to despair of his errand's having gone awry,” Mrs. Barnewall replied, “but that is ever his way. He should rather have all the world trampled underfoot, than have his own business interrupted; and the poor little Frenchwoman is but a cog in his larger affairs. She is capable, I suppose, and dutiful in her bidding, and there her utility ends. But we knew of this only later, when it became apparent that there was a grudge between Sidmouth and the Captain—the result of which we have all unfortunately seen.”