Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Man of the Cloth

“What is it, Jane?” came Cassandra's sleepy voice behind me. “A fire?”

“Nothing so general in its destruction,” I said slowly, “though perhaps as inexplicable.”

WHEN I HAD DRESSED, AND BADE THE HOUSEMAID, JENNY, TO SUPPLY Cassandra with tea and toast, I slipped on my bonnet— which was Leghorn straw, quite new, with an upturned brim and violet ribbons — and ventured out of doors. I had told my mother I wished to purchase a pair of gloves, my own being unhappily spotted from the effects of Monday night's rain; but, in truth, I intended to find what the townsfolk might tell me, of the body at the end of the Cobb.

I opened the picket gate, and turned onto Broad Street, making my way with care towards the linendraper's on Pound. Harding and Powell's is a bow-fronted building with a cheerful entry, much frequented by the Austens the previous year; indeed, the fifteen yards required for Cassandra's pink muslin, which I should wear this very evening, were purchased in the shop. But beyond the delights of its lengths of silk and lawn, its ravishing soutaches and braids, its pretty little bunches of purple grapes, ideally suited for the adorning of a straw hat with violet ribbons — the shop was the centre of gossip, according to the temper of its principal clerk, a fellow by the name of Mr. Milsop.

A bell tinkled prettily as I thrust open Harding's bottle-green door and stepped inside. The interior was pervaded with a peculiar mixture of scents, of the sneeze-inducing variety — part camphor, part dried roses, part good new cloth. I glanced quickly about, and found my eye drawn to a sprigged muslin exactly the colour of clotted cream, a shade I may pass off with a fair measure of success; but turned away with some regret, mindful of my errand.

A group of three very fine ladies was gathered at the counter, desirous of service — or perhaps of conversation; for I perceived the very Milsop, waspishly thin, and resplendent in a sky-blue tailcoat, striped breeches, and stiff white cravat, one elegant hand at rest upon the counter's edge, and the other holding high a quizzing glass [18] This was a long-handled lorgnette, with a single magnifying lens, that hung about fashionable necks. — Editor's note. , the better to study his fair audience — with the occasional glint of sunlight, in catching the glass unawares, completing the dazzling effect.

And thus we have the caricature of our age — a gentleman of weak understanding, who apes the form of gentility in an effort to supply his want of substance. But I was not to be afforded further moments for contemplation, or assays of philosophy; the bell had drawn notice; I was seen and — to my great surprise — remembered. The paragon stiffened; the quizzing glass dropped on its silken cord; and condescension gave way to beatific pleasure.

“Can it be ? Is heaven so benevolent? Do I see before me the very Miss Austen — Miss Jane Austen — who brightened the tedious hours of an endless September past; whose delicate step, and dulcet voice, could lift my heart with her every visit — whose taste remains so far above Lyme, that I wonder at her repairing once more to these sadly dismal shores; whose understanding, penetration, and cunning ways with hat-trimming are not to be equalled? Or should I say,” — with a sudden recollection of the aforementioned audience — “equalled only by the ladies who stand before me now? And by her own sister as well, the lovely Miss Austen — but can it be?”

To stem a further efflorescence of this kind, I hastened forward, the embodiment of womanly virtue, and extended a gloved hand to Mr. Milsop. It was decidedly spotted, and a delicate frown twitched about the draper's eyes as he bowed gallantly low.

“I am come, as you see, Mr. Milsop,” I began, with a nod to the ladies, whose company had parted coolly for my admittance, “under the direst necessity of a new pair of gloves. I was incommoded by a dreadful storm Monday last; and my things were all quite ruined with rain and mud. But I trust you shall have something that will answer.”

“Answer? Answer? I have gloves that are ravishing, Miss Austen, gloves whose charms could never be denied. Silk gloves, in lilac and peach blossom; doeskin gloves, in day and evening lengths; knitted silk, or knitted cotton— Ah!” he cried, bending low over a counter and pulling open the glass, “these, perhaps? Or would silk serve better?”

Held out for my inspection were a delicately-netted pair, of the finest cotton lace. “Valenciennes,” Mr. Milsop said, with the profoundest satisfaction; “and very dear.”

“Then I fear they shall not do, for a seaside resort, where one is much exposed to the elements,” I replied, with regret. “Such dust and sand, as fly about these streets, should have them soiled in a moment” I scanned the counter's array, and selected a pair of simple cotton gloves, undoubtedly the cheapest on offer in the establishment, and very like the ones I presently wore. Mr. Milsop's face fell; but he rallied, as was his wont, and found a virtue in simplicity.

“Such retiring taste — such a repugnance of show! Not for Miss Jane Austen the vulgarities of Spanish lace; she is the very soul of delicacy! I quite agree. Indeed, I applaud your choice. With consideration, one sees that no other glove in the world could be so suited to your hand. That will be four shillings.”

There was a murmuring behind me, while the little show of exchanging coins occurred; and with a pricking of my ears, I knew the three ladies whose privilege I had displaced, were discussing the very incident of which I wished to learn more.

“His face was quite ghastly,” said the eldest — a bold, queer-looking woman in her middle thirties, with the accent of an Englishwoman raised in Ireland. That accounted for the boldness, and perhaps the queerness as well — which must be said to have begun with her height, which was considerable, and her dress, a vivid green and white drapery in the Greek style, which swooped low across bosom and back, and was held at the shoulders by polished-steel clips in the form of heraldic arms. Quite unsuitable for day, unless I am hopelessly behindhand in my fashions; but her independence of attire was exceeded only by that of her slanting dark eyes, which roved everywhere, and drew back from no one.

“You cannot mean to say you saw it, Mrs. Barnewall!” ejaculated one of her companions — a sharp-featured girl of perhaps four-and-twenty, with ginger hair and an incompatible taste for pink.

“Saw it — alas, I had not the pleasure. I had the news of my tyger [19] A tyger was a small boy arrayed in livery, almost as a mascot, whom the fashionable set employed to ride on the exterior of their carriages. — Editor's note. , who ran up to the gibbet when he should have been holding the horses.”

“The violence of the lower orders is not to be credited,” the ginger-haired girl observed. “Why, only last week, Father ordered a tenant of ours be hanged; for you know that Father is a justice, and the man had poached one of our deer. Only imagine! So brazen! But it was an example, for the fellow had seven children, and his widow is turned out; so that now I fancy our deer shall run unmolested in the park.”

“For heaven's sake, Letty,” the youngest of the three rejoined faintly, “do not talk so about the odious Cogginses. It quite turns my stomach; and you know I have not been at all well today. I think I shall have some of that yellow muslin, with the scattered border; I am sure it should improve my spirits immeasurably.”

“You have spent your purse already, and Father shall have my head for it,” ginger-haired Letty replied; and tucking her sister's arm beneath her own, she exited the shop in all the complacency native to the possessor of a deer-park, however many unfortunates might be hanged to ensure its continuance.