Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

“Indeed,” Lizzy murmured.

Delicately, I began to edge away, in the direction of a fine Italian landscape that hung against one wall. Charlotte Taylor on the subject of simplicity was not to be endured; she was constitutionally unfit for the task, and must be insincere.

“But I am quite in the minority, I believe,” she went on. “Few people seem to value simplicity of dress — show and finery are everything. I have some notion of putting such a trimming as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will look well, Lizzy?” [49] Austen later ascribed almost exactly these words to one of her more insufferable characters, Mrs. Elton, of Emma. Perhaps her extended caricature of that lady is taken, in part, from Charlotte Taylor. — Editor's note.

The landscape artist had captured a distant prospect of an ancient hillside, surmounted by Cyprus and a few tumbled columns; the mood was one of desolation and peace, a glorious past recalled, and now thankfully put to rest. Mr. Sothey should have found it admirable — the very soul of Picturesque — but whether congenial as a back garden, I could not presume to say. With a little start, I recollected that Mr. Sothey had probably known this picture well — he had frequented these rooms at The Larches for some months, and might almost have regarded them as his own. What had occurred between the Greys and the improver, to precipitate his hasty flight? And how did Mr. Grey regard Julian Sothey now?

“Lizzy,” my brother Neddie was saying to his wife, “you must allow me to introduce the Comte de Penfleur.”

I turned, and was in time to catch the Frenchman bending low over my sister's hand. “It is an honour, madam,” he said. “Rarely have I seen such beauty and elegance united in the figure of a woman — particularly so far from Paris.”

“You are too kind, sir,” Lizzy replied coolly, “but I am afraid that your experience of England is regrettably narrow.”

“Au contraire. “ He released her hand.

“And may I present my sister, Miss Austen,” Neddie said, with a faint frown for the Comte.

I curtseyed, and the Frenchman bowed. “I should have detected the family resemblance anywhere. You have quite the look of your brother Henry, Miss Austen, particularly about the eyes. His character, I imagine, is somewhat less deep; he has the look of a ban vivant , while your own aspect is more of reserve and understanding.”

“Indeed?” I replied, amused. “And are you a student of character, monsieur?”

“I am a student of humanity,” he replied with great seriousness. “The infinite variety of human expression and inclination is endlessly diverting, would not you agree? Particularly in England, where the national character is one of suppressed emotion. The necessity of schooling one's impulses to conform with an imposed convention is accepted here without question; but the result must be a soul eternally at war with the self. One cannot find happiness without a disregard for convention, Miss Austen; in France, the Revolution has taught us this.”

“I see.” Such a philosophy at work on Franchise Grey might have done incomparable mischief, but from the glow of his looks and the ardour of his phrases, the Comte must intend only good. Thus are all revolutionaries formed. “It has been my observation, monsieur — and I, too, am a student of character — that the flouting of convention, particularly for a woman, may often lead to great unhappiness.”

“In England, perhaps,” he mused, “for there is little room for the expression of the self. In England, yes, such a policy might be difficult — and bring unhappiness, even, in the short term — but eventually the joy of living by one's lights would undoubtedly prevail.”

“Provided one survived so long,” I murmured. “And have you travelled much in England, monsieur?”

“The hostilities have prevented me from visiting as often as I should have wished; but there was a time — around the year 'two — when I nearly made England my home. I have the widest experience of the country and its Fashionable Set; and thus I may protest with some energy” — turning smoothly to Lizzy — “that you are too modest, Mrs. Austen.”

“A mother of nine cannot be thinking any longer of her own beauty,” Lizzy said indifferently. “She had far better look to her daughters'.”

“In such cases,” Neddie broke in somewhat tartly, “a lady has not often much beauty to think of.”

“Nine children?” cried the Comte. “But you must have been married very young!”

Lizzy merely inclined her head without reply — not for her, to be trapped into revealing her age — and turned the conversation without a flicker. “The late Mrs. Grey, monsieur, was a paragon of style. Nothing in Canterbury was equal to her; nothing, indeed, in all of Kent. She was an adept at conveying the thousand little differences between a French manner of life and the English; and we shall not soon forget her. You have my deepest sympathies.”

Admirable, I thought — she had managed to suggest a respect for the lady that she had never felt, without the slightest hypocrisy of word or look. Nothing she had said was open to dispute; and it might be heard in any number of ways, according to the inclination of the auditor.

“You are very good,” the Comte replied. “I was often troubled by the tone of my Francoise's correspondence — she appeared to live in such wretched loneliness and isolation — but to know that she was not entirely without friends is a considerable comfort. Indeed, in having made the acquaintance of your excellent husband, Mrs. Austen — and now yourself — I feel I have secured my hope that justice shall be done. Mr. Grey does not command the will of every gentleman in the country, I find.”

“Upon my word, Hippolyte, you place a great deal of confidence in your own charm,” Mr. Grey said wryly from behind the Comte's back. “Do you believe for a moment that by flattering his wife, you may convince the Justice that I murdered Francoise? This is not France, where insinuation will pass for statecraft, and influence suborn common sense.”

He spoke just loudly enough to be audible to most of the room, and the pleasant murmur of conversation among the assembled guests died abruptly away. We were left standing in a little island of quiet, with barely a head turned in our direction. No one should have dreamt of suggesting in public that Valentine Grey had ever raised a finger against his wife; to have the gentleman propose the worst himself, was indelicate in the extreme.

Then Captain Woodford laid his hand easily on Grey's shoulder, and drew his friend away; the two men adjourned to a decanter standing on a demi-lune side-table. Mr. Grey poured out a drink, and tossed it back; Woodford spoke low and urgently into his ear.

Charlotte Taylor rose to leave, her cheeks flushed and her eyes averted from Lizzy. She grasped her daughter's hand firmly in her own, and made her adieux in a breathless accent. Anna-Maria Toke was swift to follow.

“My apologies, madam, for this little unpleasantness,” said the Comte de Penfleur. “I have learned to expect it in Mr. Grey's household; but I shall not trouble him for very much longer.”

“You are returning, I collect, to France?” Neddie enquired.

“I hope to be able to cross from Dover early in the week, perhaps as soon as Monday. There remain a few… uncertainties, however. I might be prevented by circumstance from embarking for some time. But I believe I shall remove this evening to an hotel in that town, in expectation of my passage; it cannot do to remain in a house where I am regarded with so much suspicion and dislike.”

“Are you familiar with Dover, sir? I should recommend the York House among the coaching inns; the Ship cannot be relied upon.”