Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Man of the Cloth

“I am all astonishment,’” I said faintly, though I felt a ridiculous desire to laugh; and I remembered Mr. Sidmouth's tousled appearance, and my conviction he had been out all that night previous. Truly the man was despicable. His bravado, his dash, knew no limits.

“But we shall have our man,” Captain Fielding continued. “We have gained intelligence of a landing some few nights hence, and Cavendish will be waiting. A very little rope remains to Mr. Sidmouth, and I may fairly say there is a noose at the end.”

I understood the Captain's feeling of triumph; but I could not glory in his sentiments. The dance very soon thereafter being come to a close, I parted from the Revenue spy with something like relief, though I chided myself for the contrariety of my feelings. The weight of principle, of all that is right, must be said to be firmly on Captain Fielding's side. And yet I cannot be easy at his eagerness to place another man upon the scaffold. However much Geoffrey Sidmouth has cheated the Crown of its due, through years of clandestine importation, I do not think he deserves to die for it. But what do I see as the alternative? Is lawlessness to be permitted, simply because it is effected with a certain style? Jane, Jane! Where are your finer sensibilities? All o'erthrown, by a man with a golden tongue and a mocking glance?

I was sufficiently out of sorts with myself to summon my mother at the close of the dance, and plead with her for an early return home; and though I took comfort in the notion that I denied Mr. Sidmouth of my company as much as his was denied to me, by my quitting the rooms, I cannot suppose him to have felt equally wounded in the loss. Maddening man! Why will you not be banished from my thoughts?

Monday, 17 September 1804

MY HAND IS SHAKING AS I PEN THESE WORDS, AND I FEAR THEY MUST appear remarkably ill upon the page; I cannot credit the anxiety of my own mind, nor the truth of the news it has received — but steady, Jane! and consider your better self. Endeavour to be calm; to reason through events; to find amidst the discomposure of your senses, some resignation to all that has occurred—

I MUST RETURN IN THOUGHT, THEREFORE, TO MR. CRAWFORD'S Darby, and the excellent dinner that gentleman composed in honour of his niece, Lucy Armstrong — for I shall better comprehend the result of violence, only once I have considered its precipitation. Banish, then, the quiet of Sunday, and the gentle service at St. Michael's, in Church Street; forget yesterday's bright weather, and my walk into Up Lyme, blest with sunshine and the first turning of the leaves; banish, too, the strange happiness occasioned by Mr. Sidmouth's attentions during Saturday's dinner party at Darby, of which more anon — such quiet concerns are all o'erlaid by this morning's news, of so terrible an import!

My father engaged a chaise Saturday evening to convey us the few miles up the Charmouth road towards Darby, which revealed itself to our sight as a pleasant house of recent construction, tricked out in red brick and white mouldings, with windows that bowed to Palladio, and a gentle lawn bordered by an orchard on the one side, and a horse-filled paddock on the other. It was a gentleman's country estate, pretty and well-mannered, with the first candlelight of evening shining from the doorway.

“Reverend Austen! And Mrs. Austen! A pleasure, to be sure!” Mr. Crawford cried, as he descended the stone steps to offer his hand, his sister simpering in his wake. He was quite magnificent in a red waistcoat, and his sparse hair shone with grooming. Miss Crawford, I observed, kept steadfastly to her habitual black, although in deference to the party, she had exchanged bombazine for the finest silk.

“Welcome to Darby, one and all,” our goodly host continued with enthusiasm, “though I must declare myself quite put out at your skill with cards, Mrs. Austen — I suffered such a loss Thursday as must make me your sworn enemy at every future Assembly. Our differences shall be forgot, however, madam, for the length of this evening.”

“The credit must be all Captain Fielding's,” my mother replied with an effort at modesty; but I knew her to be quite puffed up at her success.

“Then Darby's card tables assuredly never shall be produced,” Mr. Crawford rejoined, “for the Captain is within, and I shall spend the better part of the evening in preventing a like collusion.”

The affable fellow helped me from the carriage and swept his eyes the length of my pale blue muslin. I confess to having taken especial care with my dress that evening, and of having abandoned my cap for the daring measure of a feathered turban very like my sister Eliza's, and obtained only a few days previous from Mr. Milsop.

“You are decidedly lovely this evening, Miss Austen. Darby shall be beside itself, we are all got up so fine! For you know,” Mr. Crawford confided, “I have prevailed upon Sidmouth to bring his cousin, the bewitching Mademoiselle LeFevre; and I perceive them even now at the turning of the drive.”

I looked over my shoulder, and espied a curricle [59] A curricle was a light, fast equipage that held only two people, and was usually drawn by one or two horses easily managed by a male passenger. It was considered a smart carriage, usually owned by young men, rather like the sports car of today. Austen, for example, has Henry Tilney drive one in Northanger Abbey, to the utter transport of his companion, Catherine Morland. — Editor's note. , with Mr. Sidmouth at the reins; a moment, and they were upon us. Mr. Crawford hastened to the curricle's side, the better to assist Seraphine from the conveyance, his aspect all admiration.

“Mademoiselle LeFevre! Darby is honoured indeed!”

“It is I who must profess myself to be so,” the lady replied, with a quiet smile and downcast eyes. And such a voice! Like the sound of cool water slipping over stones, with a depth of peace in its faintly foreign accent The drab garb of a common field labourer she had cast off, and the red cloak was left at High Down; tonight she stood arrayed in a sprigged white lawn with a modest train, as befit her age and station, her fair hair swept up and becomingly ringed about the brow. A circlet of pearls was twined in her hair, and a bright pink sash caught at her waist. I gazed, and admired, and strained despite myself for a glimpse of ethereal wings.

“Miss Austen, you will wish to be presented to Mademoiselle,” Mr. Crawford cried, quite ignorant of our previous meeting; I extended my hand, a tentative smile upon my lips, uncertain how I should be received. But my hesitancy was all unwarranted; the girl took my hand in her own, her face transformed by the gladdest of looks; and bobbed a curtsey.

“Miss Austen, Reverend Austen, Mrs. Austen — I am happy to see you once more,” she said simply; but I wondered at the change in her. Where once there had been coldness and indifference, a patent dislike of unwanted strangers, there was now an evident desire to please, and to be pleased in return. To what did we owe the warmth of such a reception? — the good offices of her cousin, perhaps?

But it required only the removal of our party from the stoop to the drawing-room, for a yet more astounding meeting to ensue. Our host led the way, and behind him ourselves, so that it was some few moments before Mr. Sidmouth and Seraphine observed the presence of Cap tain Fielding before Darby's ornate marble mantel — a delay that only sharpened the effect of surprise. I turned, in the act of taking a chair, and observed Mademoiselle LeFevre start and draw back, her cheeks overcome with blushes and her eyes at a loss for an object; Mr. Sidmouth's countenance whitened, and he stopped short in the very doorway, a wave of rage transforming his steady gaze.