Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

“He is not so very much our relation, Jane, as to make me forget what is due to propriety,” Cassandra said with some distress. “Do not think that I am ignorant of his object. He hopes to secure my affections — and he has made himself repugnant in the process! Where once I might have found his gallantries flattering — his poses amusing — his wit even tolerable — he is become entirely disgusting! There is a lack of sincerity in all he says that has made his society intolerable.”

“Poor Mr. Bridges! — To have lost that interest he particularly hoped to secure. Did I not feel moved to laugh at him heartily, I should pity him a good deal.”

“I was much taken with the import of your last letter,” my sister confided, in a lowered tone. “I must assure you, Jane, that Mr. Bridges has hardly been easy since Mrs. Grey's death. He barely speaks a word, and never leaves the house, unless it is to accompany myself or Harriot on some trifling errand. And yet, you know he was never to be found within doors if he could help it! There were weeks on end, when no one at the Farm had the slightest idea of his whereabouts, or whether he should be home to dinner! The change is very marked.”

“Perhaps he cannot bear to be parted from you , my dear.”

“Do not teaze me, Jane. It is very unkind in you, I am sure.”

I pressed her hand in apology and said, “You believe the change in his behaviour to date from Mrs. Grey's murder. Can you detect any reason for his seclusion? Has he let fall the slightest syllable that might explain his extraordinary conduct?”

“He moves as tho' in the grip of fear,” Cassandra replied, with utter seriousness, “and I have even thought, indeed, that he half-expects to suffer Mrs. Grey's fate.”

My eyes widened. “Mr. Bridges, to be torn from his riding habit and strangled with his own hair-ribbon? Impossible!”

“Jane!”

“Forgive me. I could not suppress the notion. But what could possibly give rise to such a fanciful dread, Cassandra? Who should wish to murder Mr. Bridges?”

My sister glanced knowingly about the room before she answered. “Mr. Valentine Grey.”

That the reserved and ill-humoured banker should have the slightest idea of the curate's existence, was amusing in the extreme; and I confess I laughed out loud.

“Is it not obvious?” Cassandra cried. “You told me yourself that Mr. Bridges was found in the lady's saloon, on the very night of her murder, rifling the drawers of her writing-desk. He was desperate to secure the letter discovered between the pages of the scandalous French novel — the letter that proposed a meeting at midnight on the shores of Pegwell, and a subsequent flight to the Continent.”

“But does Mr. Bridges possess a passable command of French?”

“Naturally! All the Bridgeses are most accomplished in that line!” In her enthusiasm for her theory, Cassandra abandoned the last of her ice and leaned towards me eagerly. “I am certain that he believes himself the agent of Mrs. Grey's end — that his dangerous passion for the lady precipitated her death at the hands of her husband, and that Mr. Grey merely awaits a suitable opportunity to serve vengeance, in turn, upon her lover! Mr. Bridges cannot know that his letter was found among the lady's things. He fears only that he is discovered by the husband, and dares not stir beyond the Farm's threshold.”

“—Except to attend the inquest,” I amended slowly. “He would desire to learn everything that was known of her end, of course.”

“Is it not a delightful idea?” my sister prodded.

“It is not without its merits, Cassandra. But why, then, should Mr. Bridges quarrel with Captain Woodford? Or stand idly by, while Mr. Collingforth is charged with murder?”

“As to that, I cannot tell,” she replied with a shrug. “I cannot solve all your mysteries for you, Jane. I am placed to disadvantage, marooned at the Farm. I shall hope to do better, when once we have exchanged our places.”

“It is quite a settled matter, then, that I shall go to Goodnestone Farm? Pray — when is the delightful prospect to take place?”

“Whenever Mr. Bridges has proposed, and been refused,” Cassandra said wickedly. “I cannot be expected to remain within the bosom of the family, once that regrettable episode is sustained.”

“When may we expect the elegant curate to come to the point? I have my packing to consider.”

A sudden stiffening in Cassandra's looks alerted me to a subtle change. Her gaze was fixed a few inches above my head, and that the self-same Mr. Bridges now hovered there, all civility and attention, I immediately surmised. I turned and found his good-natured, slightly anxious face bent upon us both. I say bent — for the height of his collar points, and the stiffness of his cravat, rendered any but the most exaggerated movements from waist to neck impossible.

“Miss Austen!” he cried. “And the delightful Miss Jane Austen! How well you both look this evening, I declare. That such beauty and wit should be united in one lady surpasses all experience … but that two such, and claiming the same family name, should so subjugate us all to their charms…”

“Mr. Bridges,” Cassandra broke in, “I must suppose you are come to tell us that the carriage is called. You are very good.”

“Not at all! A decided pleasure — and only exceeded by the honour of escorting you home at the close of these delightful festivities. Or should I say — back to the Farm, which, although not your home, must be, I hope, very nearly as dear to you as though it were. That it might prove even dearer in future, through the accomplishment of a certain change…”

Cassandra's countenance, I fear, offered no encouragement to the gallant performer; and so he was suffered to dwindle into silence under the glacial influence of her gaze. He merely bowed to me, and offered my sister his arm, and thus the unfortunate pair moved off through the thinning crowd. I pitied Cassandra, but reserved some measure of the feeling for myself— for that Mr. Bridges would soon bring the matter to a point, and as speedily earn his refusal, I little doubted. It would be but a matter of days, then, before I should be despatched to the Farm in Cassandra's stead. And I should hardly meet Mr. Bridges's attentions with my sister's steady tranquillity. I had not the recourse to a headache complaint; for I was commonly acknowledged to be in riotous good health.

“LIZZY,” HENRY BEGAN AS WE SETTLED OURSELVES WITH some exhaustion in the Godmersham carriage a quarter-hour later, “have you heard what your young brother is up to? He has actually waited upon Major-General Lord Forbes in the card room, in a matter of pheasant-shooting! — Was pleased to bring the General's attention to a rumour of the Guards' troop movements, and expressed his concern that the marching men might entirely rout his birds! The cheek of it all! Can not you put a word in your brother's ear?”

“I am sure the General gave him a dressing-down,” Lizzy returned languidly.

“In too subtle a manner, I fear, for Mr. Bridges's understanding. Lord Forbes informed him that if only the birds were routed, he should consider all of Kent but too fortunate.”

Neddie's sharp bark of laughter cut through the darkness of the coach. “And how did the young popinjay take it?”

“He suggested an alternative route for the troops— through the hayfields to the west, which he represented as a course that might save several miles.”

“And ensure the crops' ruin,” Neddie said with satisfaction. “I am sure the General knew how to express his gratitude for young Edward's sage advice.”

“He was too much engrossed in play, to lend Mr. Bridges more than half an ear,” Henry returned, enjoying the moment hugely, “but I believe he took the point under consideration; for I observed him not a half-hour later, in a frightful rage, with poor Captain Woodford as his object. Lord Forbes was displeased, it seems, with the general knowledge of his manoeuvres. All of Kent may command it; and if we are apprised of the Guards' plans, can Napoleon's spies be in ignorance? While the General marches to Deal, the Monster will throw his troops quite elsewhere.”