Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

“I see. A pity, George, that we have so little time.”

“But I thought…”

“It is quite impossible for us to stay above a quarter-hour. We are expected at Eastwell tonight. An engagement of Mr. Finch-Hatton's—”

Expected at Eastwell! When they had been expected here for dinner! It was quite extraordinary behaviour— almost indicative of a desire to snub my brother. But no — in that case, they should simply have sent a note, filled with regret at the necessity of despising his hospitality. Perhaps it was a family matter, too private for explanation; or perhaps our embroilment in the affairs of Mrs. Grey … I dismissed the last notion as absurd.

“I see,” I said with an effort, and crossed to the bell-pull. “Perhaps I should summon Mrs. Austen, so that you do not escape her altogether. She would never forgive me.”

“If you would be so good—”

It was fully eight minutes by Mr. Finch-Hatton's pocket-watch, I am sure, before my brother and his wife hurried through the door. I endured the interval as gamely as I might — but with little pleasure, I confess. The Finch-Hattons are never a talkative family; in such circumstances, each seemingly lost in a private reverie, they were as mute as sybils. It was impossible to introduce the subject that must be uppermost in all our minds — Mrs. Grey's death; delicacy forbade it. But each of my forays into conversation proved disappointing. Neither the subject of Race Week, nor last evening's Assembly, nor even the prospect of long sleeves for winter dress, could animate the ladies; and as for Finch-Hatton himself— he was preoccupied with pacing off the length of the drawing-room, a habit acquired, I suppose, from his intimacy with architects.

For if the Finch-Hattons are impoverished in speech, they are rich in the passion for improvement. Their estate at Eastwell is never suffered to remain long in one condition — a team of builders must be permanently installed somewhere in the deer park, I believe, as feudal lords once commanded a host of vassals; and there a legion of gardeners is perennially in pursuit of the last word in landscape fashion. The present house — the third to be built on its site — is a fantastical thing, half riding-school and half-Parthenon. [28] Eastwell Park sat four miles south of Godmersham on the road to Ashford, now the A20. It was the home of the Finch-Hattons until 1893. The house designed by Bonomi was razed in 1926, and its successor is presenuy operated as a hotel. — Editor's note. Mr. Joseph Bonomi had the designing of it, and managed it in so outlandish a taste — which he persuaded the Finch-Hattons to believe was at once classical and modern —that it is quite the talk of the neighbourhood, though perhaps not in the manner his patrons intended.

Conceive, if you are able, a largish white block of a building, divided along its front with pilasters and capitals set into the facade; exactly three great windows on one side of the entry and three on the other, and an immense arched portico, nearly three storeys in height, dominating the whole. Cumbersome, inelegant, unlovely, and awkward — but classical and modern enough in its expression, that Lady Elizabeth might believe herself a citizen of Rome. I have visited the family at Eastwell several times, and can never find that the place has grown in my estimation. It is peculiarly suited to the humours of its inhabitants, however, who are in general as awkward and inexpressive as their walls. The Finch-Hatton ladies never speak if they can help it, and then only in plaintive tones; the Finch-Hatton men, when not looking at their pocket-watches, prefer to be out-of-doors.

“Lady Elizabeth!” my sister Lizzy cried from the doorway. “What is this I hear of your not intending dinner? Is it possible? And I have had white soup enough for an army simmering in the kitchens!”

“It may yet serve, dear madam, if Buonaparte has his way,” Mr. Finch-Hatton observed drily, and thrust his watch at last into his pocket. Perhaps he had placed an idle bet or two as to the time required for Lizzy's preparation. “You look well, Austen,” he said to my brother with a bow; “surprisingly well, under the circumstances.”

“You mean the evacuation orders?” Neddie enquired smoothly, as though Mrs. Grey had never lived, much less died. “I cannot take them in earnest, however diligently I set the servants to packing.”

“Then I pray the Monster may land on my doorstep rather than yours,” Finch-Hatton returned. “I hope I shall know how to receive the renegade! I have been drilling my tenants these two months at least; and there is powder and shot enough in the stores to hold off an entire brigade of cavalry!”

“I applaud your foresight, sir,” Neddie said, “but I cannot expect so little of our gallant Navy. With an Austen and a Nelson scouring the Channel, the Monster shall not pass beyond a nautical mile from Boulogne.”

“But tell me, Lady Elizabeth,” my sister broke in, “must you certainly go on to Eastwell tonight? If it is the lateness of the hour that concerns you, I am sure there are bedchambers enough.”

“Lateness of the hour! It is not above six o'clock. I am sure that at Eastwell we dine fully as late as you do at Godmersham, Lady Elizabeth returned frostily. “We are never behindhand, you know, in matters of elegance.” [29] Those who possessed country manners (like Jane Austen's parents) generally dined around three or four o'clock in the afternoon. But stylish, fashionable people accustomed to the habits of London adopted the practise of dining at seven. It was considered dreadfully old-fashioned to do otherwise. Hence Lady Elizabeth's sense of slight. — Editor's note. Lady Elizabeth is the daughter of an earl, a fact she would have no one forget — particularly the daughter of a baronet

“You! Behindhand! As though anyone could think it,” Lizzy returned, with that pale green gleam in her eye that suggested an inner amusement “I believe that everything at Eastwell is in the first rank of taste — would not you agree, Jane?”

“Entirely,” I murmured. Knowing my opinion of the place all too well, Lizzy was cruelly impertinent; but I endured the test to perfection, and betrayed nothing in my countenance.

“Pray tell me,” Neddie persisted, “what improvements do you presently undertake about that remarkable place? Not that it could be said to require improvement, but I know your artistic spirit too well. It will never rest while the least suggestion of beauty remains at bay.”

Well put , I silently commended my brother. He had got the notion in one. At bay would beauty forever remain, however desperately the Finch-Hattons pursued it.

“The interior of the house is quite nearly complete,” Lady Elizabeth confided, unbending a litde, “but for the trifling matter of some painted Chinese papers that are intended for the drawing-room, and are shockingly delayed en route. And then there is the matter of the dining-parlour's draperies — I could never be sanguine regarding the shade of pomegranate silk; it seemed to me to border on the tawdry.”

“That is often the way with pomegranate,” Neddie remarked, with a compelling command of countenance. “One may meet it anywhere — and not always in the best company.”

“Exactly! I believe I shall change it out for green,” Lady Elizabeth said complacently. “But it must await Mr. Finch-Hatton's present passion, which quite consumes our energies.”

Lizzy's brow furrowed slightly in an effort to discern which , of the numerous Finch-Hatton projects, Lady Elizabeth intended. “The construction of the foyer's free-floating dome?”

“The dome!” Finch-Hatton himself cried out, as if in pain. “No, no, my dear lady — the dome is quite complete, the most marvellous thing you shall ever observe! St. Peter's is nothing to it! Although it might be accused of wanting in frescoes — but I shall attend to that presently, when the necessary Florentines may be shipped with safe-passage.”