Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Man of the Cloth

“What is the meaning of this, Crawford?” he burst out, as Captain Fielding turned from the fire with a low bow — and at his poor host's bewilderment, and Miss Crawford's stiffened form, betrayed all his consternation.

There was a moment's shocked silence, with the party utterly at a loss for words. I observed Mr. Sidmouth narrowly, and knew that he struggled for self-mastery. Above the sharp hook of his nose, his eyes had gone cold with indignation, and the dark brow was decidedly furrowed. Whatever could it mean?

“Forgive me,” he finally said, in a tone that was anything but penitent; “but I fear my cousin is indisposed. It will not be in our power to remain in your company this evening.”

And indeed, Seraphine's complexion had lost all brilliancy, and her golden head drooped like a swan's. One hand clung to the door frame for support, and the other found strength on the arm of her cousin. At this last, however, she raised her head and gazed clear-eyed across the room at Captain Fielding.

“Whatever do you mean, Geoffrey?” she said, in a low but steady tone. “I am quite well, and only just arrived, and have no intention of departing so soon. It would be the grossest insult to the dear Crawfords’ kindness.”

“Are you certain, Seraphine?” Mr. Sidmouth enquired, in a voice I could barely discern.

The briefest of nods, and Mademoiselle LeFevre glided across the room to a chair near my own, at a safe distance from Captain Fielding's position by the hearth; and at the sudden appearance in the drawing-room of Miss Armstrong and her dreadful parents, just descended from their apartments upstairs, and the subsequent arrival of the Honourable Barnewalls, the attention of the company was thankfully diverted.

“My dearest Lucy!” Mrs. Barnewall cried, sweeping into the room before a gentleman I had never seen, and immediately concluded to be the elusive Mathew, heir to the viscountcy of Kingsland. “It cannot be true that you are leaving us! Sir—” she said, turning to a bewildered Mr. Armstrong with a pretty air of desperation undoubtedly assumed for the moment—“you could not be so cruel as to deny us your daughter's society! I declare, Miss Austen, is not he the cruellest of men?”

I was spared the dubious choice of an answer by Miss Armstrong's coming forward herself, to offer her thanks for such effusion in as collected a fashion as she was capable of. Mrs. Barnewall was clothed this evening in something resembling a Roman costume, which left one shoulder entirely bare and the other encased in masses of primrose-coloured silk; about her head she bore a circlet of silver leaves, the very likeness of Caesar. I had but a moment to take in the effect of this apparition; and then it was my occasion to be presented to the Honourable Mathew.

He is a curious fellow, ham-fisted and tongue-tied, with a decidedly red face and a figure made soft through dissipation. Just what I should wish for an Irish nobleman— part yokel, part dandy, in his fine wool breeches and gold-buckled shoes, the highest of white collars tucked up to his ears, and his hair worn raffishly short and curly about his broad, sweating brow. He drooped abrupdy over my hand with an indistinct mutter, his eyes shifting round the room, and as swifdy retreated to the company of Captain Fielding as decency would allow. I observed the two men in close confidence, tho’ the conversation appeared to be all on the Honourable Mathew's side. [60] Mathew Barnewall is described by Deirdre LeFaye, editor of the 1995 edition of Jane Austen's Letters, as having been a “missing heir” to the viscountcy of Kingsland, whose early life was spent as an illiterate potboy in the slums of Dublin. His claim to his property and title was in dispute at this time. Whether Austen was aware of Barnewall's history is unclear, but it probably accounts for her perception of the incongruities in his personal demeanor and character — a strange mix of crudity overlaid with hasty polish. — Editors note.

“Well, Sidmouth,” Mrs. Barnewall cried with some asperity, as that gentieman stood protectively by his beautiful cousin, “and so you have brought the ravishing Mademoiselle into society again, and only a few weeks after her mysterious trouble! And how well she looks, too!

I wonder what le Chevalier must feel on the occasion?” And with that she cast a knowing glance towards Captain Fielding, and awaited the effect of her words. But whatever their import, Seraphine proved equal to the tall Irishwoman.

“I feel very well, madame, I assure you,” she replied, and with a slight nod in Mrs. Barnewall's direction, moved delicately to the French windows that let out onto the garden, as though absorbed in the decline of the season. I looked to Mr. Sidmouth, and found his gaze already upon me, with an expression so torn between tenderness and pain as to arouse the deepest suspicion of his thoughts. I wondered that Mrs. Barnewall did not observe it; but the lady had turned already to Lucy's mother, the redoubtable Mrs. Armstrong, and was engaged in offering false compliments on the woman's shocking red gown.

But my own curiosity could not be gainsaid, and speculation hounded me like a nipping dog the remainder of the evening. Though Mademoiselle LeFevre sustained an admirable composure, and Mr. Sidmouth retreated into a mute gravity, all enjoyment of the party for themselves was at an end. It could not be merely that Captain Fielding's disapprobation of their domestic circumstance had inspired such strong dislike, such discomposure of manner; and that some other episode lay among the three, I was firmly convinced.

But all my idle thoughts must be deferred for social necessity, though Mr. Sidmouth would place himself at my right hand once we had followed the Honourable Barnewalls to the dinner table, utterly confounding the slower Captain Fielding, whose game leg in this instance proved a decided encumbrance. Mademoiselle LeFevre, I observed, was safely seated between my father and Mr. Armstrong (whom I suspected to be quite deaf); and so the gallant Captain had no choice but to place himself between Miss Lucy Armstrong and my mother, at the far end of the table where Miss Crawford held sway. I found myself breathing a sigh of relief.

“And so, Mrs. Austen, I find that your dear child has been torn from the maternal bosom,” Miss Crawford declared, in a very loud voice indeed, so that her words travelled the length of the table. “I do hope that you shall be blest with another sight of her. How you can find any enjoyment in Lyme, with the constant concern for Miss Austen's health that must daily plague you, I cannot think.” The officious woman appeared insensible of the start her words gave my poor mother, and swept on in an ill-considered tide.

“How melancholy one's thoughts, in parting from a child in decline! What terrors, what palpitations! I am sure that if I had been blest with a daughter of my own— had Fortune proved kinder — I could never have suffered her to be taken from me in such a parlous state. I should sooner have thrown myself beneath the carriage wheels, than submitted to a like parting!”

My mother's looks were very nearly apoplectic, as though she waited now only for poor Cassandra to be brought into the room, a cold and lifeless form, in retribution for her parents’ heedlessness; and so I hastened to interject some reason to the scene.

“We were so fortunate as to have very good news of my sister only a few days ago, Miss Crawford, and from Mr. Crawford himself,” I said, leaning towards the nether end of the table. “I wonder he did not tell you of it? He met with my brother, Mr. Austen, and his party in the very midst of Weymouth, just after the embarkation of the Royal Family, which I understand my sister failed to witness, being preoccupied with the finery in a neighbouring shop window.”