Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

“Aunt Jane! We are taking a tour of the park, for the express purpose of finding out what is wrong with it,” Fanny cried. She ran up the last few yards of the slope, grown brown with the heat and intermittent rain, and tumbled panting at my feet.

“I have had a letter in the morning post from Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton,” Lizzy informed me, as she, too, achieved the temple. “She abjures us most strenuously to visit Eastwell this evening, with the object of introducing Mr. Julian Sothey. We are to be treated to dinner— that is very handsome, since she would take none of ours — but I daresay you shall not like it, Jane. Lady Elizabeth's cooks are as modern as her taste in architecture, and Neddie rarely comes away anything but famished. We shall take a hamper and picnic somewhere along the road, before we are obliged to sit down. How tedious, to travel such a distance in fashionable dress! The roads are certain to be dirty with this morning's rain; we shall be stifling in the closed barouche the entire four miles.”

“And what to wear, in respect of both a tour of the grounds and dinner?” I wondered.

“That settles it,” Lizzy rejoined immediately, “we shall convey ourselves sensibly in carriage attire, and send our evening things with Sayce in a coach to follow. She may dress us both.”

“And what have you learned from your tour, Miss Fanny?” I enquired, with a kiss to the little girl's flushed cheek.

“Mamma is of the persuasion that nothing might be saved — but I do not care two straws for an improver!” she declared hotly. “They are all for swelling brooks into lakes, and stocking them with nasty fish — and I prefer the shallows of our own dear Stour. I like our trailing willows — I think them quite romantic! Do not you agree, Sharpie? Is not a tree that weeps more romantic than anything in the world?”

“It is certainly easier to endure than a lady who does so,” Miss Sharpe replied, as she achieved the portico. Her own eyes, to my surprise, appeared puffed and reddened from recent tears. “Good morning, Miss Austen. We are come to destroy your privacy, I fear.”

“What is privacy, if not to be destroyed?” I replied with a smile. “Had I known you intended the disposition of the entire park, I should have insisted upon being one of the party. I like nothing better than to strike down an ancient avenue for the sake of a whim. And by all means, let us set the common footpaths in the most winding and artistic — not to mention least convenient — fashion, so that the townsfolk are exceedingly put out in their travels from place to place. One cannot disturb one's dependents too much for their own good, I believe.”

“Exactly so,” Lizzy agreed, “nor the pilgrims, neither, who must benefit from a certain arduousness in their way. [32] The ancient path of pilgrimage toward Canterbury cathedral ran through the meadows of Godmersham in Austen's day. — Editor's note. I am forever telling Neddie he disconcerts them far too little. He should consider his deer and pheasant as having a far greater claim than a herd of trespassing strangers; and as for the value of a Horrid Prospect— something as like The Castle of Otranto as one may make it — I am sure we might sacrifice an avenue or two for the achievement of such a paragon.” [33] This 1765 Gothic by Horace Walpole was read and enjoyed by most of Austen's family in her youth. It was the sort of book she later lampooned in Northanger Abbey. — Editor's note.

“We may do Mr. Sothey an injustice,” I warned. “He may be discovered a man of perfect sense and unimpeachable taste, when once we survey his plans for Eastwell.”

“Mr. Sothey?” Anne Sharpe enquired. The climb had certainly not agreed with her; she had gone exceedingly pale.

“The improver, my dear. The gentleman improver,” Lizzy amended. “I spoke of him only a moment ago. We drive to Eastwell this morning on purpose to meet him. I had hoped that you and Fanny would consent to be of the party.”

“Lady Elizabeth is the proud mamma of several little boys, who might teaze and amuse Fanny at once,” I added, “unless your abhorrence of improvers, my dear, extends so far as to preclude the delights of a roadside picnic, and a change of dress to follow.”

“I believe Miss Fanny has a great deal of study left uncompleted,” replied Miss Sharpe hurriedly. “The tumult of packing has thrown the schoolroom into confusion, and we have not applied ourselves in days. Indeed” — with an anxious, unseeing look over the peaceful countryside — “I believe we should make our way back to the schoolroom now. The weather is too oppressive to endure for long; and I would not have Miss Fanny the worse for the exercise.”

“Or yourself, my dear Miss Sharpe,” I observed. “We must not bring on another head-ache. Where is your parasol? That bonnet cannot shield you enough!”

“Indeed, it is quite adequate at present. The rain has proved most refreshing. But I am afraid that the weather in general does not agree with me of late,” she faltered. “It has been at once so dry, and so hot, that I am forever sneezing. My eyes have not stopped watering for days — only observe how reddened they have become.”

“You must lie down for an hour this morning with cold compresses of cucumber,” Lizzy told her, “and forgo your needlework for a time.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Miss Sharpe murmured, and dropped a curtsey. “Come along, Fanny.”

“But I should like to go to Eastwell above all things!” the girl protested, as her governess dragged her down the hillside. “I long for a picnic in the woods!”

“It would prove exceedingly damp, I am sure.”

“But I should not care a jot for that! Please say that I may go, Sharpie…”

I watched them idly for a moment, and then turned to my sister. She was perched on one of the temple's chairs, and looked as cool and elegant in her sky-blue muslin as though she lingered in a mountain glade.

“And what do you make of the governess's secrets, Lizzy?” I asked her. “For she certainly guards them jealously.”

“You astonish me, Jane. Can you believe little Sharpie to have a deceitful bone in her body?”

“Not, perhaps, deceitful,” I amended, “but retiring. She is a woman who keeps her own counsel, my dear— and at the moment, that is enough to make her ill.”

Lizzy said nothing for a moment, her green eyes following the diminishing pair. “Mrs. Metcalfe suggested that there might be something in her nature — unreconciled, perhaps — to her present situation.”

“Mrs. Metcalfe?”

“An excellent woman, and an old friend of my mother's. She was the instrument of Miss Sharpe's engagement at Godmersham.”

“I see. Miss Sharpe had been employed in the Metcalfe family?”

Lizzy shook her head. “She was brought up from a girl by Mrs. Metcalfe's sister, Lady Porterman. General Sir Thomas Porterman was a great friend of Miss Sharpe's parents, I believe — who died abroad, in a carriage accident, and left the child quite unprovided for. She was raised as almost a sister to Miss Lydia Porter-man, but on the latter's marriage last year, Lady Porter-man felt it was incumbent upon herself to arrange a situation for Miss Sharpe.”

“Raised as almost a sister,” I said slowly, “in a very elegant situation; and now descended to a position only slightly above that of a servant. What a sad reversal of Miss Sharpe's fortunes! I cannot wonder that she is unreconciled. It is only through the good offices — and generous purses — of my dear brothers, that Cassandra and I have escaped a similar fate.”

“It was improbable, you know, that she should remain with the Portermans forever; she must make her way in the world one day; and the sooner the break was forced, the more quickly she might recover.”