Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

“Then he is a man of whose sense I must approve,” I said. “But perhaps the Comte prefers to disconcert. I have observed him to effect it on several occasions this evening.”

“His adoptive sister was much the same,” the Captain replied; and not without a wry amusement. It was the first instance of real feeling I had glimpsed through Woodford's facade, and it intrigued me greatly. Here was the affection that he had professed so carefully; here was the regret I had half-expected.

“I observe that you are wearing a black armband, Captain. I commend you for it,” I said. “Mrs. Grey may have found more champions in death than she ever claimed in life, but the sincere among us shall always know her true friends.”

“Thank you,” he returned quietly, “but you do me too great honour. I was less Mrs. Grey's friend than perhaps she deserved — or certainly, than she had reason to expect. I believe I thought always of Grey before his wife; and the claims of one friendship may have superseded the other.”

“Was it so impossible to be a friend to both?”

He hesitated. “Not impossible, perhaps — but fraught with difficulty. The Greys were not in accord, Miss Austen, and allegiance to the aims of one might often be perceived as betrayal of the other.”

“It is a common wisdom to find attraction in divergent characters, but I have always believed that like minds are the most compatible. The world in general exists to divide the sexes; every convention of society and employment must render them strangers the one to the other. Let us pray, then, at every wedding, for a union of heart and purpose.”

He smiled almost apologetically. “It is possible to be too much alike, Miss Austen. When a lady of strong character and implacable will is forced to live in harness with a gentleman of equal temperament — and when those two must divide their loyalties between warring countries— no, Miss Austen, they cannot be in accord.”

“And so you wear the crepe in respect of your friend, and not his late wife?”

“I suppose I honour them both — and the difficult choices they sustained. It is a tragic story, however one regards the deceased. And the public scandal alone must be a trial to one of Grey's retiring temperament—” The Captain broke off, and bit his lip. “I have heard that the London papers are already come into Kent — that they have flocked to the race grounds, and have bent their draughtsmen to the depiction of lurid scenes — a representation of the corpse tumbling out of the chaise, under the startled gaze of the crowd.”

“Can it be?” I cried, incensed. “Only think what all her family must suffer!”

“I confess I can think only of Grey,” Captain Woodford said heavily. “He must feel his wife's loss most acutely.”

Must he, indeed? Nothing in the Captain's previous words, nor yet my brother's report of the banker, had led me to suspect real feeling for his wife.

“Your friend might be allowed to feel the burden of tragedy, Captain,” I observed, “and perhaps the weight of scandal; but knowing as little of Mr. Grey as I do, I cannot presume to read his heart. What he feels in respect of his late wife must be closed entirely to me.”

He studied my countenance with a slight frown. “You speak as tho' he were a man without heart, Miss Austen. I may assure you that is not the case. A truer man than Valentine Grey never lived.”

“Forgive me. I intended no disrespect of your friend. But I find that he has moved so little in Kent — and his character is so little understood — that in general I can form no opinion of him. I know that he is possessed of a sharp temper, and stands ready to challenge even so mild a gentleman as my brother to a duel; but beyond this, I can say nothing.”

Captain Woodford came to a halt opposite, as the tune wound to a close. He bowed abstractedly, and I curtseyed. Then he said, “Mr. Grey has actually challenged your brother to a duel?”

I affected a carelessness I could not feel. “Over some trifle discovered among Mrs. Grey's belongings. A letter, I believe, and written in the French language. Whatever the missive contained, my brother believed Mrs. Grey intended flight — and so incensed her husband at the suggestion, that he demanded satisfaction. It ended, however, in nothing. The heat of argument must be deferred, in respect of the search for justice.”

“Naturally,” Captain Woodford murmured. But he said it as an afterthought, his mind clearly bent upon other things — this letter, perhaps, of which he might know nothing, or everything. Had it been the letter he sought, in Mrs. Grey's saloon the night of her murder? — Or did he suspect something of the author's identity, that must turn his soul to ice?

Regardless, he neither moved nor spoke, while all around us the couples drifted away. At length I said gently, “Captain. Captain!”

He came to his senses, then, and offered his arm; but as I slipped my own within it, I found that the superfine wool was damp with sweat. From the heat of his exertions? Or the weight of apprehension? “Are you quite well, Captain Woodford? Perhaps you should benefit from some punch.”

“Forgive me, Miss Austen — but my mind is so much taken up with the claims of duty — the threat of invasion—”

“And the niceties of a public ball,” I rejoined with a smile. “At such a time, I cannot think it the wisest thing the Guards have done. But I suppose Lord Forbes believes it necessary to his officers' comfort — or his lady's.”

Captain Woodford's lips twitched. “It is not in my power to support the General where his lady is concerned. He should require the strength of several, I fear. But in truth we are meant to serve as example to the populace, Miss Austen. While an officer is engaged in so honourable a duty as the dance, can the Kingdom's security be in question? Never!”

“Did you dance on the shores of Pegwell Bay, Captain, I might better believe you.”

To my surprise, the Captain's countenance turned suddenly grave. “Pegwell Bay? Of what interest should Pegwell Bay be to me?”

“Is it not the expected landing-place of the French navy?” I enquired, surprised. “I had always heard that it was. Indeed, my brother — Captain Frank Austen, of the Canopus —was tasked with the drafting of a report to that effect not two years ago. He surveyed the Kentish coast, and hit upon Pegwell as the very place for invasion. There are no heights for the enemy to gain there, you know, and the tides, I believe, are favourable for a landing.”

When Captain Woodford still said nothing, however, I added in a more subdued tone, “—But perhaps the Army's calculations have undergone a change.”

His single dark eye narrowed; then a slight confusion overcame him. The Captain had, perhaps, heard Peg-well spoken of — had thought that any number of places along the coast might serve the French equally well— was not aware that the environs of Ramsgate had fallen so much into general expectation — and would caution me against a too-free canvassing of military affairs.

“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?”