Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

“You astonish me,” I said, over my teacup. “I thought nothing could turn them from laying bets on the fate of Mr. Collingforth.”

My brothers set out for The Larches a quarter-hour later, for the service was to be at eleven o'clock, and they would require every moment of the interval. In respect of the mire, they went mounted on two of Neddie's hunters, who might gallop over hill and hedgerow if the road proved impassable. I watched their progress some few moments from the breakfast parlour window— Neddie's easy hands and graceful seat, and Henry's scrabbling dash. The elder brother could never look anything but the country gentleman; the younger, nothing but a man of Town.

“The post is come, Jane,” Lizzy informed me from the door, “and you have a letter from Cassandra. Pray do not stand on ceremony with me; I beg you would read it.”

The packet's direction was written remarkably ill; my sister had undoubtedly scrawled it in considerable discomposure of mind. I broke the seal without further apology, and endeavoured to make out the hasty lines.

Mr. Edward Bridges, Cassandra reported, had been besieged yesterday morning by creditors at the very doors of the Farm itself, to the embarrassment of his sisters and the extreme displeasure of his formidable mother. Lady Bridges had dismissed the harried men encamped upon her door, with instructions to apply for recompense to her Canterbury solicitor, a Mr. Bane; and then was closeted with her errant son for several hours. Mr. Bridges emerged, looking utterly wretched, and having furnished his mother with a complete list of his tradesmen's debts, and obligations of honour; his losses at race-meetings, cockfights, cricket wagers, and so on. He was made so thoroughly uncomfortable by Lady Bridges's discovery, that he threw himself on Cassandra's mercy, and begged forthwith for an interview. It seems that Lady Bridges had offered her son little choice: He must marry sensibly, and respectably, and quite soon; and he must marry a lady of whom his mother could approve. Mr. Bridges relied upon Cassandra's compassion — her interest as a friend — her unselfish devotion to the welfare of his family, which all of them had frequently remarked — in short, he drove my sister into the drawing-room corner with the energy of a cattle-herder intent upon his dinner.

Cassandra was thus placed in a most dreadful position. She had been a guest in the Bridges household nearly a month, and had received nothing but kindness at their hands; she had always looked with affection upon the entire family; and she was conscious, moreover, of the peculiar tie that existed between her generous brother, Neddie, and his wife's relations. A sense of obligation must very nearly overwhelm; but she recovered her senses before any hasty betrothal might be forced upon her; expressed her gratitude to Mr. Bridges for his esteem — and refused him.

She wrote to inform me that she would be returning to Godmersham on Monday.

I read the bulk of this letter aloud to Lizzy. To her credit, she retained a tolerable measure of composure, and expressed her feelings most eloquently in the determined shredding of a piece of toast. When I had concluded, she said briskly, “And I suppose that this letter” — pointing with a butter knife to the sealed packet lying next to her plate — “will be a summons from Mamma.”

“A summons?”

“For yourself.” She broke the seal and unfolded a single sheet of determined script, underlined in places and closed with several flourishes. A moment sufficed to peruse it; Lizzy was familiar of old with her mother's style and purpose.

“It is as I suspect, Jane. You are to return to the Farm in Cassandra's carriage; it shall wait only five minutes to deposit your sister, before flying away with yourself. The coachman's instructions are quite explicit; he is not to return from Godmersham, without he carries you as his passenger.”

“Your mother is very nearly terrifying, Lizzy. How did you manage to survive your infancy?”

“She would not have had it any other way, I assure you. We were fairly beaten or cajoled out of every dangerous illness, and never suffered to put on airs. Shall you detest the visit very much, Jane?”

“Not at all. Tho' I dislike being driven from my Yellow Room without even the slightest consultation of my wishes, I think I shall find ample scope for enjoyment. Captain Woodford's troops, you know, are to march directly past the Farm on their highly-secret deployment from Chatham to Deal; I expect a skirmish, or at least a protest, from the assembled pheasant-hunters of the neighbourhood.”

“Now be, be , serious, my dear Jane. Tho' your visit would do much to soften the blow of Edward's ruin— and ease his relations at home immeasurably — I cannot urge you to go.”

“I assure you, Lizzy, that I shall account the favour as the merest trifle. I cannot undertake to accept your brother's proposal of marriage, however. I was always inclined to follow Cassandra's lead in everything, you know; and at the advanced age of nearly thirty, I should not like to diverge from her example.”

Lizzy was almost provoked to laughter; she expressed once more her sense of my goodness; and went off to the morning-room to write to her mother. I was left in all the shame of one who knows that her private motives are hardly so noble as her public professions; for I intended to profit from my visit to Goodnestone, in a thorough study of Mr. Bridges's uneasy circumstances. He had earned Denys Collingforth's public contempt, fallen out completely with Captain Woodford, and had moved in fear since Mrs. Grey's murder; now creditors hounded his very door. Such a parade of misfortune could hardly arise from coincidence. I was determined to know the reason for it.

But if I was to quit Godmersham in a few days' time, I must avail myself of its beauties while yet they remained to me. I glanced out the window and perceived that it had ceased to rain. Pale sunshine was drifting lightly over the damp meadow grasses, and glinting along the parapet of the bridge; the prospect was more inviting than it had been in days.

I fairly ran from the breakfast parlour, retrieved my little sheaf of papers and a well-mended pen, and walked out in the direction of the Doric temple. Most of the morning and evening should be taken up in the visit to Eastwell; tomorrow we were to pay our visit of condolence at The Larches; and Sunday could offer only the forced inactivity of a Christian observance, punctuated by the packing of trunks for the removal on Monday. Lady Susan had been too long neglected; I should find I had forgot how to put words to paper, did I not exercise my fingers soon.

I SETTLED MYSELF IN THE COOL SHADE OF THE PORTICO,and embarked upon a thorough appraisal of my cunning heroine. I must confess that time has taken its toll on her drolleries; she is too much the figure of the previous decade — indeed, the previous century! — and should hardly please the devotees of the modern , like Lady Elizabeth, who prefer their heroines fainting, modest, and utterly stupid. But I write entirely for my own amusement, and Lady Susan persists in her influence over my heart and mind; I cannot quite give her up, tho' I should never subject her to the ruthless eyes of the world, by attempting publication. The censure her activities should win, would then be all my own; and I cannot bear a public tongue-lashing.

I had just taken up my pen to write I am now satisfied that I never could have brought myself to marry Reginald; am equally determined that Frederica never shall — when I observed with an inward sigh that Lizzy, Fanny, and Miss Sharpe were toiling up the gentle rise that led to my cherished retreat. I tucked my papers between the leaves of a novel, secured the volume firmly in my hand, and rose to greet them.