Stephanie Barron: Jane and the Genius of the Place

“—Unless they have already accepted one of Mrs. Grey's dangerous card-parties,” Lizzy retorted. “You can have no notion, Jane, of the fascination the woman exerts. My own brother has fallen victim to her charms; and yet, she cannot be more than two-and-twenty!”

“—With all the cunning of a Countess Jersey,” I mused. [5] Frances, Countess Jersey, was finally deceased by August 1805; but not before her ruthless methods had once enslaved the much younger Prince of Wales. — Editor's note. “And Mr. Grey? He cares nothing for his wife's reputation?”

“Mr. Grey is often from home on business. He maintains a house in Town, and spends the better part of his time there. He is certainly not in evidence today.” Lizzy's gaze roved restlessly among the crowd, and her attention was immediately diverted. “Only look! Captain Woodford and my brother!”

“Captain Woodford! Uncle Bridges!” little Fanny cried, and sprang up from her perch near Miss Sharpe, waving a napkin at the pair. “Do come and tell us! How do the horses appear? Is the Commodore stamping to be off?”

“They have not yet approached the starter's mark, Miss Fanny,” Captain Woodford called jovially as he achieved the barouche, “but I have called upon your champion in his stall, and must declare him in excellent form! As worthy of the plate as any horse lately born. Ladies, your humble and devoted.” He swept off his hat with a smart military bow, and we murmured our salutations.

Captain Woodford is a favourite with Lizzy — and did I not believe calculation and cunning quite beneath the daughter of a baronet, I should declare that she intends to secure him for her little sister Harriot. Though well past his first youth and decidedly not handsome, being marred by an eye patch that covers half his brow, the Captain is blessed in possessing a sunny nature that renders all misfortune delight, and cannot fail of finding solace in the simplest of pleasures. In Captain Wood-ford's company one is always assured of good sense, good humour, and honest feeling. I like him the better for his eye patch, as being the outer mark of a life lived honourably in the service of his country.

The Captain is all admiration for Harriot Bridges's fresh countenance, while she is wont to blush at the first glimpse of his red coat. And as to rank or fortune, there can be no objection — for she is the daughter of a baronet, and must be possessed of a competence; while the Captain is the second son of a viscount, and holds an excellent commission in the Coldstream Guards, presently quartered at Deal against the advent of the French.

“Lord, Lizzy, but it is hot! Give me some ginger beer like a good sister, and pray do not be telling our mother in what state you found me.” Mr. Edward Bridges, Lizzy's younger brother, mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief by way of a courtesy, and accepted the glass that Miss Sharpe proffered. “Woodford and I are just come from a capital little cocking ring set up on the edge of the course, and a pretty penny we lost there, too. I shall depend upon your Commodore to restore our fortunes.”

“I might almost hope that you depend in vain,” Lizzy retorted, “but that you should apply to my husband for relief from any debts of honour. In either case, win or lose, the Austens must be the making of you.”

Her brother smiled roundly, as though Lizzy had uttered nothing like a reproach; and there the matter ended.

Mr. Bridges is a very different sort of gentleman from his companion in cocking, the gallant Captain. A well-made, high-coloured fellow of five-and-twenty, he is bent on spending his purse entire in pursuit of a sporting life. No London fashion may be heralded by The Gentleman's Magazine without first being seen on Mr. Bridges's back; no cricket match may be bruited in the neighbourhood, without Mr. Bridges laying a guinea against the odds; no pack of hounds loosed upon the trail of some unfortunate vixen, without Mr. Bridges hot in pursuit on the back of his latest hunter. I relish his absurdities, and find him lively company enough — but I cannot approve him. Long the favourite of his indulgent mother, and lingering still in the single state, he kicks his heels at Goodnestone Farm to the exasperation and expense of all his excellent family. Lizzy, at least, is anxious for her brother's prospects — and has declared that a taste for gaming and fast company will lead him to ruin e'er long.

Despite these storied charms, Mr. Bridges may support at least one claim to sobriety and good conduct — for he is ordained a clergyman in the Church of England, having taken Holy Orders some few years past. He is at present the fortunate beneficiary of two livings: perpetual curate of Goodnestone, which fell in his late father's gift; and very lately, rector of Orlingbury, a parish in Northamptonshire — and one he never visits. In this we may read the reverence of our age: Mr. Edward Bridges, determined Dandy and half-hearted curate!

But perhaps I am too severe. I am quick to detect a convenience, and call it hypocrisy, where another might divine only the usual way of the world.

“You have seen the Commodore, Uncle?” Fanny enquired of Mr. Bridges excitedly. “Is he mad to be off?”

Mr. Bridges then delighted us with the intelligence that the lamentable animal had spent a tolerable half-hour cooling down in his shed between heats; that he had been walked to admiration; and that the quality of his dung was said to be unassailable. Only the famed Eclipse himself could display a sweeter action. [6] Eclipse, a chestnut horse with a white blaze and one white leg, was foaled for the Duke of Cumberland in Windsor Park in the year of the great eclipse: 1764. He was one of the greatest racehorses of all time, and his bloodline is arguably the most important male line in the world of horse racing. — Editor's note. A description of the Commodore's chief competitors — who must all be lame, spavined, or doltish in the extreme — then followed, to the delight of Fanny, who declared that Uncle Henry must be the champion of the day. Only Captain Woodford saw fit to ruin her hopes.

“I should agree with Mr. Bridges in everything excepting Mrs. Grey's little filly,” he said. “In respect of Josephine, I cannot be sanguine. She is a fine-stepping goer, and over such a distance — a heat of two miles;—might give the Commodore a fair run for the plate. We shall have some excellent sport when the horn is blown. But enough of racing! You look very well this morning, Mrs. Austen — and your sister might be Diana the Huntress herself, established over the picnic hamper in that becoming habit.”

I blushed, for my riding dress was a cast-off of Lizzy's made over to suit myself, and I feared the truth might be blurted out by Fanny, to the mortification of us all. It is a lovely summer thing of lilac muslin, with a high collar and scalloped sleeves ending just at the elbow; the train is fashioned long for the accommodation of a lady's posture when riding sidesaddle, a sad encumbrance in the present confines of the barouche, and I am sure that Fanny has trampled it on several occasions at least. My hair had been cut and arranged for Race Week by Mr. Hall, Lizzy's modish London hairdresser, who has been resident at Godmersham for over a fortnight. I had thus abandoned my usual cap, and wore a dashing lilac top hat tied round with a sheer green silk scarf. However cast off by my brother's fortunate wife, the ensemble was ravishing; and I felt distinctly elevated in my borrowed feathers. I shall not know how to bear the deprivation when once I am returned to Bath.

“Do not flatter me, Captain Woodford,” I managed, “or like Diana I shall prove the ruin of masculine ardour.”