Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Man of the Cloth

“And why do you tell me of all your plans, Mr. Cavendish?” I enquired, my heart sinking.

“Because, Miss Austen,” he replied, rising and crossing to my side, “Fielding gave me to understand that you were an intimate of High Down Grange. It was his belief — and his anxiety, if I may speak frankly — that Sid-mouth meant to seduce you as he has seduced his unfortunate cousin. The Captain's benevolence on your behalf was very great, young woman, and you should be cold-hearted indeed, did you turn from the memory of his goodness!”

This last was delivered in so abrupt a tone, as to make me jump where I sat; but I quelled my indignation, though my flushed cheeks surely betrayed my perturbation.

“You overreach the bounds of propriety, sir,” I said, in a lowered tone. “1 beg you will desist/’

“Not until I have won your consent, Miss Austen, in a scheme of some importance to His Majesty.”

“What can such schemes have to do with me?”

“Nothing — or everything, did you bear the Captain's memory some gratitude.”

“Speak less of gratitude, and more of sense!” I cried.

“Very well.” Roy Cavendish turned to pace before my chair, his head bent and his hands clasped behind him. “You are acquainted with High Down Grange. You have met, I think, Mademoiselle LeFevre.”

“I have.”

“It is in your power, then, to visit the household — to press your advantage — to discern the movements of its inmates, and discover, perhaps, the night of an expected meeting between Sidmouth and his henchmen.”

I could make no reply.

Cavendish wheeled and gazed at me with penetration. “You, Miss Austen, might fill Captain Fielding's place — and with less danger to yourself, in that your gentler sex, and the inevitable presumption of good on your part, would render suspicion unlikely. You might venture where a man could not. And in so doing, you should perform a service very dear to the Crown, and to the memory of the excellent fellow who died in its service.”

“You wish me to turn informer,” I said clearly; but my hands clutched at the arms of my chair.

“No such despicable term as that,” Mr. Cavendish rejoined, his thick lips curving in an unfortunate attempt at a smile. “You should serve rather as handmaiden to justice.”

“A handmaiden,” I said. “You are so convinced of Mr. Sidmouth's guilt?”

“I am. As surely as I stand before you now, Miss Austen, I may state that Sidmouth's mind alone has directed the foulest of deeds. The cleverness of the smugglers’ work; the killing of Bill Tibbit upon the Cobb, so publicly and yet so secretly done; and now, the felling of the Free Traders’ chief adversary, Captain Fielding — it cannot be coincidence only. Surely your heart cries out in a similar vein, Miss Austen. The Captain had moved close to his prey; and his prey turned predator in an instant. You cannot witness his death and be unmoved by a desire to avenge it.”

I sat as though turned to stone, my eyes upon the sitting-room fire; and gave a few moments to contemplation. My despairing wish for Sidmouth's innocence met at every turn conviction of his guilt. Only a few nights previous, at the Lyme Assembly, Captain Fielding had declared him to be the very Reverend, and declared that the man was nearly in his grasp. He had believed himself assured of Sidmouth's taking; but his assurance was as dust. The master of High Down was a formidable foe indeed. Could I muster the courage to contest his mastery? Was the prize worth the risk — to my heart as well as my person?

And with this last thought, a wave of revulsion overcame me. It was impossible that I should harbour any sort of tenderness towards a man so recognised as lost to all morality — a man whose every energy was given over to the pursuit of wealth and unrestrained passion, regardless of law, regardless of cost. But I did harbour such an emotion; and I detected within it the refusal to credit Mr. Sidmouth's guilt. Much had been laid at his door — but still I could not find it in me to abandon him entirely. Was Mr. Crawford likely to exhibit such affection for a man whose reputation was entirely ruthless? And what of Seraphine? That she regarded her cousin as the source of all goodness was decidedly evident, regardless of the calumnies that surrounded them both.

If I were to settle the contest within my soul, however — if doubt and disapprobation were to be banished — I must have the truth. And Roy Cavendish's plan was as good an one for procuring it as any. The proof of my own eyes should serve to silence the warring voices within my heart. A delicate balance must be achieved, however, if my own pursuit of knowledge were not to run afoul of the Crown's.

I raised my head and gazed at the Customs agent evenly. “I shall do as you wish, Mr. Cavendish, on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That I direct my own efforts. Your scheme depends upon my discretion; and a too-public converse between ourselves should ignite the suspicions of those we least wish to rouse.”

He bowed his head.

And what if I discovered that Mr. Sidmouth was indeed capable of anything? Having gained the knowledge, how was I to act? I thrust aside that dilemma as trouble enough for another day.

“And one thing more, Mr. Cavendish.” I rose to convey to him that our meeting was at an end.

“Miss Austen?”

“If you honour my reputation as a lady, you must never reveal the source of your information, do I succeed in obtaining it” I knew myself in that moment, and called myself a coward. For if I embarked upon a program of spying at High Down, and determined Mr. Sidmouth's guilt, I should be the means of bringing him to the scaffold, for the sake of all that I valued in society. But I could never bear to confront him, at his final day, with his knowledge of my betrayal full upon his face.

19 September 1804

ALL THROUGH THE LENGTH OF YESTERDAY THE WIND TORE ABOUT Wings cottage — shuddering at the casements, howling around the corners, and rattling the very door frames — while the rain lashed at the roof, and sheets of salty spray cascaded over the Cobb. I have never known what it is to sail the seas, and feel the tossing of a fragile vessel in the maw of a storm; and having witnessed the raging tide so close upon my stoop, I am happy to leave such adventures to my hardier brothers. The only consolation in foul weather is to turn one's lock upon the street, and settle in by the fire with tea and a good book — and hope that Cook will devise a meal that comforts, as the day fades into night.

But that meal, once taken, reveals itself as the high point of an unendurably dull day; and the slow mounting of stairs, while one's candle flickers in the turbulent air, affords a moment to attend to the voices in the wind. My sleep was certainly marked by their ceaseless crying— though sleep itself was long in coming, and my tossing and turning amidst the bedclothes a parody of the frenzied trees beyond my window. Such thoughts as roiled within my brain — of murder, and deceit, and a sinister smiling frog — would not be stilled, and required the full compass of the night for their consideration. I awoke from a fitful dreaming not an hour past dawn, and found the daylight sky turned peaceful, with the tattered remnants of cloud fading blackly at the horizon. Rivulets of water ran down Lyme's steep high street, to end in the calmer basin of the bay; and the first carters bound for the market were busy about the cobblestones. Peace after tumult, and with it, a clearing of the mind; I should take up the errand of returning Mr. Sidmouth's cloak, which he had placed about my shoulders some ten days before, and all but forgotten in a corner of my clothes press. I would attempt the few miles’ walk to the Grange that very morning.