Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Genius of the Place

“Was Mr. Sothey's father so very depraved?”

Grey smiled grimly. “I am too familiar with the more common forms of depravity, Miss Austen, to be a sober judge of it in others. Let us simply say that the Earl had offended deeply, among those whom it is not wise to offend, and placed himself outside the pale of good ton. ”

“I see. His son, however, is not so abandoned.”

“His son possesses such an amiable temper, as must endear him to everyone.” This was said without the slightest hint of irony, as might be natural in a cuckold; and again, I found cause for wonder.

“Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton certainly makes Mr. Sothey her protege,” I said. “I suppose you formed an acquaintance with the gentleman in just such an household.”

Mr. Grey hesitated, as tho' debating how much might be said. “I first met Sothey through a mutual friend, Miss Austen — Mr. George Canning, a present member of Government. No doubt you will have heard of him.”

Quite recently in fact, I thought in silence; and blessed my brother Henry. “Mr. Canning! He is a great enthusiast for exotic plants, I believe?”

Grey's careworn features lightened. “And something of an authority on landscape design. We share a love of the obscure and the exotic, Miss Austen — and Canning has directed me in the trial of many specimens rare in this northern clime. When I expressed a wish of cultivating the American azalea, it was he who commended Sothey as my greatest friend. I have never found occasion to regret the acquaintance.”

“I should have liked to have seen the azaleas in their season,” I said.

“You, too, are an admirer of the exotic?” my companion enquired seriously.

I coloured, and passed off the question with a laugh. “Not at all, I assure you. I merely find pleasure in the English landscape, sir, and all its myriad beauties.”

“Then perhaps you may be so fortunate as to return to Kent in April, when my azaleas are at their finest flowering.” He secured my hand within his arm, and led me firmly from the temple's steps. “But now, I fear, we must relieve Mrs. Austen's anxiety; the hour grows late, and her husband will be every moment expecting her.”

We descended once more by the hillside path, and found that Lizzy was already come in search of us. I was glad of her company on the return to the house; her elegant remarks were a foil for silence. Reflection, however, availed me nothing. I was plagued with questions on every side, for which experience could provide no answer.

“SO GREY CAN BE CHARMING WHEN HE CHOOSES,” Neddie said thoughtfully, when the dinner things had been cleared away and we had assembled in the library. Henry had taken up the London Times; Lizzy was established over the teapot; and I had begun to pick desultorily at my work. Neddie, however, was restless; he paced before the empty hearth like a man who badly wanted occupation. Had he been of a reading turn, I should have instantly recommended Werther. It is remarkable how much service even a dissatisfying book might render— tho' not, perhaps, in the manner its author intended.

“How did you like him, Jane?” he enquired, coming to a halt by my chair.

“Very much. He is not a man to recommend himself on first meeting, perhaps — but one whose character rewards with more persistent application. He was gracious in conversation and frank in his remarks; there was neither haughtiness nor vulgarity to despise in his manners. I cannot believe him capable of a conscious deceit; but even had I witnessed nothing of the scene in the saloon, I should suspect him to be familiar with violence. He is ruthless in matters of principle, I should think, and in the safeguarding of his own concerns.”

“This is a formidable picture, indeed!” Neddie cried. “How, then, Jane, do you account for his ingenuous belief in Sothey's character?”

During the course of our return to Godmersham, I had conveyed the substance of my conversation with Grey. “Either Mr. Grey is more adept at dissimulation than I should give him credit for being, or he knew nothing of Mr. Sothey's dalliance with his wife.”

“We have only Mr. Brett's malicious tongue to credit for the idea, after all,” Neddie mused.

“Then why the whip against the neck, in the middle of the Canterbury Races?” Lizzy protested.

I shrugged. “Perhaps the lady was surfeited with the American azalea. But I admit, Neddie, that I cannot make the matter out at all. I must learn more of Mr. Sothey, before I may judge rightly.”

“And you, Lizzy?” my brother enquired, turning to his wife. “How did you find Mr. Grey?”

“I liked him well enough,” she said languidly, “for another woman's husband. He is too lacking in drollery and wit for my taste; but his coat was very well made, and the gloss on his Hessians unexceptionable.”

“Henry?”

My brother glanced up from his newspaper and frowned at us all. “To the praise of unexceptionable Hessians, what may I possibly add?”

“Very little, of course,” Lizzy rejoined smoothly, “your own being incapable of comparison. No man who persists in valeting himself, can expect to rival Mr. Grey. Henry must take as his example my brother, Mr. Bridges— who has driven himself to the brink of ruin, in pursuit of a well-polished boot. I have quite lost count of the number of men Edward has engaged to dress him, or the various formulas of blacking and champagne, assured to bring his leathers to a mirror-brightness. It is not the most noble of callings, perhaps; but as a means of passing time, it may serve as well as any other.”

“Enough of Henry's boots,” I cried. “You delight in teasing us, Neddie. You know very well that we are all agog to learn how Mr. Grey received the news of Collingforth's murder. Did he betray any prior consciousness? Is it likely he was privy to the deed?”

“As to that—” My brother's eyebrow lifted satirically. “Mr. Grey had the poor taste to congratulate me on the unfortunate fellow's death, and said that he was very well pleased with the swiftness of English justice. He then offered me a brandy, despite the heat of the afternoon — as tho' we had accomplished nothing more dreadful than the blooding of a fox.”

“And how did you answer him?”

“I refused the brandy, of course.” Neddie threw himself into his favourite chair, not far from the open French windows, and raked one hand through his hair. “But truth to tell, Jane, I felt deuced uncomfortable. Grey's complaisance surpassed everything; he was as easy as tho' the wretched business were entirely resolved, despite the questions that must arise to torment one. I pointed out that Collingforth's guilt was in no wise proved — that the complications of the chaise and the timing of his wife's death could not be gainsaid, and urged Grey to be less sanguine. But he replied that he had no doubt that Collingforth was responsible, and had found his just deserts at the end of a knife.”

“And the Comte de Penfleur?”

“He served himself the brandy without recourse to Grey.”

“Neddie!”

“I observed his hand to tremble as he unstoppered the decanter. I should say that the Comte was greatly put out. He surmised that the matter would be concluded with Collingforth's murder, and the truth of Mrs. Grey's end remain forever uncertain.”

“He is determined in his belief that Grey was responsible,” I said, “tho' he is loath to accuse him directly.”

“Ah! Not so loath as you assume,” Neddie cried with satisfaction. “Now we come to the intriguing part — the scenes enacted with the gentlemen in private.”

We gazed at him expectantly. Even Henry set aside his paper.

“I was treated first to an interview with Valentine Grey. He was most uncomfortable, when it came to the point; and told me that he believed his information to be entirely de trop , now that Collingforth was dead; but in the interest of justice, he could do no more than his duty. What he would tell me must grossly expose his wife; indeed, the discoveries he had recendy made had quite astonished even himself, who must be thoroughly acquainted with her character—”