Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

“Perhaps Mr. Grey possesses talents of which we know nothing.”

“I quite pity the little Francoise,” Lizzy said idly. “There is no end of steel beneath his reserved exterior; he should be a formidable adversary. Hardly congenial for one bent on having her own way, and wild for amusement. I wonder she did not desert him long since.”

“For the Comte?”

“Ah, the Comte.” My sister smiled. “He is thoroughly reprehensible, is he not? Too clever for his own good; too careless of his morals for safety; and too intrigued by the effect of his meddling in the peace of others.”

“Whether he cared a jot for Francoise or no,” I agreed, “he should attempt to destroy Grey's happiness for the sheer satisfaction of it. The contest, I suspect, has always been between the two gentlemen; the lady was merely a token. Grey first won a critical round, in securing Franchise's hand, and the Comte thought to rout him entirely by eloping with her at the last.”

“Penfleur is not a man who endures his losses, Jane. He will have his satisfaction in everything — including the matter of the horses.”

“I tremble for Henry, does he attempt to offer for Josephine.”

“What ridiculous creatures men are.” She sighed. “As tho' honour were a stuff one could fashion and discard, like the latest modes! Poor Neddie will be dozing in Mr. Grey's sweep for most of the night, in terror of a dawn meeting.”

I was only half-attending to her, for a lone figure traversing the iron bridge had caught my eye. “Is that Henry come in search of us? Or — yes, it is Mr. Grey!”

“You are far too intrigued by the man for safety, Jane,” she observed. “He is possessed of a deep and impenetrable character; and such an one will always prove of fascination to yourself. Take care.”

“Perhaps he shall presently strike into another path,” I suggested.

But the gentleman did not; he strode through his pleasure grounds as tho' intent upon a single object— the retrieval of ourselves. “I believe our time in Paradise is at an end.”

“Then do you go to meet him, my dear,” Lizzy said, “and turn back for me at the ferry landing. I am far too fatigued to walk back to the bridge, and you know these slippers should never support it. Detestable Mr. Grey — he is far too correct about everything; and for that, I shall not forgive him.” She turned her sunshade towards the offending apparition, and gazed out over the lake.

And thus was I thrown to the wolf.

“THE LARCHES IS A REMARKABLE ACHIEVEMENT, Mr. Grey. I must congratulate you most sincerely.”

If my faltering words were inadequate to the beauty everywhere around us, my companion did not choose to quarrel. Indeed, all trace of his former belligerence had fled; his countenance was as easy as a child's released from illness. Whatever the nature of his interview with Neddie, the result had proved of benefit. Or perhaps he derived such solace from his grounds, that more melancholy considerations were banished.

“I can never be unhappy while the park remains,” he replied, as tho' reading my thoughts. “It is a peace unparalleled, a balm for wounded spirits, a little paradise on earth, Miss Austen — and when I am away, I long always to return.”

“How unfortunate, then, that your business calls you so frequently to Town,” I rejoined. “For when we leave what is precious to the care of others, we endure a peculiar pain.”

He frowned at that, and studied my countenance for some falseness — a desire to prick his vanity, perhaps, by alluding to the dalliances of his wife, of which all of Kent must be aware. But my aspect did not betray me; I had uttered the sentiment as a simple truth; and Mr. Grey at last accepted it as such.

He offered me his arm, and we continued along the path towards the ferry.

“Mrs. Austen was overcome by the heat, you say?”

“Nothing so grave. Elizabeth is a stout walker, but her slippers are less equal to these paths than my more sensible boots. I came prepared to admire The Larches, from the praise I had heard everywhere of these grounds; and to admire, one must first be able to see.”

A faint smile was my reward. “I have known any number of fools to praise from utter blindness, Miss Austen.”

“That will always be the general case,” I said calmly, “but with very great luck, Mr. Grey, you may occasionally encounter a taste as brilliant as mine. I blush to admit it — it is most unwomanly, I own — but I have never been called a fool. I have long suspected it is the chief reason that no sensible man will marry me.”

To my gratification, Mr. Grey laughed aloud. “Men of sense, whatever you may say, do not wish for silly wives.”

“How mortifying,” I replied. “And I had doted on the notion! You force me to the conclusion, sir, that some other charm is lacking.”

“Then I should be horsewhipped, Miss Austen. How may I make amends?”

“By conveying me to that little temple on the hill. I failed to achieve it with my sister.”

“—who even now awaits us anxiously.”

“It must be her deprivation, then, for adopting fragile shoes.”

“Very well. The prospect of the house from that vantage is magnificent.”

He led me swiftly to the portico of the domed Temple of the Arts, and we stood in silent amity, with all of The Larches falling away before us. Here was no oppression of August heat, no desiccated air of a season wearied beyond imagining; all was verdant and singing with the voices of a thousand birds.

“How glorious!” I cried. “I wonder you can bear to live within four walls, Mr. Grey, when all this beauty lies without them.”

He did not reply, and his expression was remote.

“And all this you have done, in the space of a few years,” I continued.

“I cannot claim so much,” he returned abruptly. “The Larches was my father's passion before me. The construction of this valley — the lake you observe — are entirely his own. Such growth of trees could never be accomplished in a few years, as you must know. What I have done is small, indeed, compared to my father's accomplishments — I have pruned where his hand was excessive, and added what his sensibility could not envision.”

“Mr. Sothey, I believe, was your consultant?”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You are acquainted with Sothey?”

“A little. We dined with him last evening, at Eastwell Park. The Finch-Hattons are old friends.”

“And what did you think of him?”

I hesitated. His tone imparted nothing of his own opinion. “I thought him a man of understanding and wide knowledge of the world, possessed of considerable taste. But I can judge no further; his character wants openness, and of deeper qualities I could form no opinion.”

“Reserve must be natural in a fellow whose every expectation was blasted by an unworthy father,” Mr. Grey observed. “I must assure you that Julian Sothey is the very best of men, Miss Austen. I esteem him as a friend, naturally; but as a man of education and honour, I can place none other before him. If there is anything of real beauty to be found at present in The Larches, I am sure it is due entirely to Mr. So they.”

“Then you are fortunate, indeed, sir.” That I managed a reply at all was remarkable; my thoughts were in a state of discomposure. I had suspected that Mr. Grey should despise Julian So they as his wife's paramour; but this heartfelt testimonial must blast my assumptions. “You have been acquainted with Mr. Sothey for some time, I collect?”

“No, indeed. His family and mine moved in very different circles. I might have had the purchase of his father's notes at one time or another, but any ties of a social nature were not to be thought of.” [51] It was common for creditors holding notes of indebtedness to sell the paper at a deep discount. Those who purchased the notes on such terms did so as a sort of speculation on the eventual repayment. — Editor's note.