Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Man of the Cloth

The lady burst out laughing. “This is frankness, indeed, Miss Austen! Have you learnt to admire Lyme less, now you have suffered it the more.” She slid her arm through mine and urged me along a gallery, painted pale yellow and overlaid with plaster figures and garlands in the best Adam manner, designed for the parade of portraits of people utterly unrelated to my hostess. She seemed to think nothing of living amidst another family's ancestors, though / should find it decidedly strange. The stern faces in oils might have been so many objets d'art on a shop-keeper's wall, for all the mind she paid them. “I fancy we are of the same opinion, more often than not; for though you profess the usual proprieties, and are careful to keep your face as demure as any chit of fifteen, the most delicious absurdities will escape your mouth, whenever you open it!”

I felt I had only echoed her declared sentiments, and said so.

“But that is the wonder of it! Can you be insensible that the majority of ladies should have ignored my obvious dislike of this place, and uttered some commonplace phrases in praise of its ugliness, and avowed themselves blessed in such an habitation? But pretence and hypocrisy are not for Miss Austen. You are a valuable acquaintance indeed; and to your friends, must be irreplaceable.”

We had come to a staircase, and ascended it to a broad landing, with a window in the style of Palladio that rose to the height of several storeys.

“This must be lovely in fine weather,” I ventured.

“Indeed. It overlooks the rear of the house, and the walled garden, and to the right, in the distance, Mr. Barnewall's stables. Or rather, the owner's stables, which Mr. Barnewall has seen fit to employ rather more fully than has been their wont.”

I was reminded sharply of my purpose in paying this call, which object had been overlaid with a surprising level of agreeability, so unexpected in such a quarter, and lulled to quiescence by the warmth of my companion. But I shook myself from complaisance, and turned to a subject of nearer interest than my own frankness and value as an acquaintance, however delightful those observations had been.

“Mr. Barnewall, I understand, is an avid horseman.”

“Oh! Avidity is too gentle a descriptor, I assure you. It was at the races that I was first introduced to my future husband; at the races that he proposed marriage to me; and at the races, very nearly, that we were married — Mr. Barnewall having a horse in the running on the very morn he was to be at the church, and most anxious to know the outcome of the match. Our wedding trip was rather an excursion about the breeding capitals of Europe, and instead of Sevres, or a trunkful of dresses, I returned from my three-months’ tour in possession of several cunning little mares. We are all for horses in Ireland, I assure you, and while in Dorset must spend the better part of every afternoon riding out to visit one or another of the local stock farms. Whenever I do get to London next, I am sure I shall be amusing myself in whatever fashion allowable, while Mr. Barnewall eats, drinks, and sleeps in Tattersall's arms.” [69] Tattersall's was the most famous of the horse auction houses in the London of Austen's day; it was also known for its betting book, kept in an anteroom, and forming the secondary occupation of the gentlemen who frequented the place. — Editor's note.

The view beyond the window, which on a good day should have offered so much for my edification, remained resolutely blank. Blacksmiths by the score there might be, all pounding away at the hooves of a veritable herd of horses, and the cloud of fog that enveloped the Barnewall stables should reveal none of it to my sight

“Such a hobby must require a considerable retinue for its maintenance,” I observed circumspectly.

“And a fortune in expense,” my companion returned, with a knowing glance. “I am sure you are too good to voice such a thought aloud; but it remains true, nonethe-less.

“How many animals have you at present?”

“Some thirty mares, and two or three stallions, and one or two foals. But that is nothing, I am afraid, to what we maintain at Ireland.”

“How extraordinary! And what shall you do with them when you depart for that country?”

Mrs. Barnewall shrugged. “As we are to renew the lease of Wootton House, we shall engage to keep the horses here, and their stable boys with them. Our manager, Mr. Farnsworth, is a true gem — or so my husband says; and in our absence he shall ensure that every possible measure is taken for the animals’ comfort”

“But what consideration must be given, to every aspect of the horse's life!” I cried. “What supplies of fodder, and attention to tack, and endless trips to the farrier and the blacksmith!”

“As to the farrier, he comes to us, my dear,” Mrs. Barnewall replied in some amusement, “and the estate has its own smithy. But enough talk of horses, or you shall be wanting a visit to the stables; and I confess my slippers are unequal to the remains of the black frost. You shall have to endure your impatience regarding the beasts, another day.”

I cared little for the denied stable visit; it was enough to know that the means to make a shoe existed on the property, and that Mathew Barnewall was indeed a desperate addict of horseflesh in all its forms. But I could not yet see him resorting to murder, however important a horse might be, in order to obtain it. For tho’ Geoffrey Sidmouth's goods might be forfeit, and Satan sold, were he condemned for a murder that Barnewall committed, it seemed a circuitous route to the business.

If murder had been done, and a horse from Wootton House its agent, then the motive must be far more serious and deadly indeed. Nothing less than Barnewairs entire manner of living must be at stake — and there, were he indeed the Reverend, I might find a reason for Captain Fielding's killing.

“And now, Miss Austen, will you take some refreshment in the morning room? Though I confess it bears a rather chilly aspect today.”

I assented to the suggestion with alacrity, and descended the stairs in Mrs. Barnewairs train. After a passage through a central hall, from which several corridors sprang, and the selection of one of these, we proceeded past the open doors of several drawing-rooms and a dining-parlour before achieving the morning room. It was a cheerful place, being painted a pale green, and draped in a flowered stuff of a similar hue, and bearing about its cornice the figures of several cherubs, all engaged in staring down at us with the most puckish of expressions; it was at once more intimate, and less formal, than the part of the house in which I was originally received. Here Mrs. Barnewall should conduct her correspondence, and have her second cup of breakfast chocolate, and say yea or nay to the cook's choice for the day's dinner, and take up what needlework or sketchbook should suit her fancy. A pianoforte stood at one end, backed by an excessively large pier glass, that whichever performer chose to essay the keys, might have an admiring audience of at least herself. I could not help an involuntary exclamation as I perceived the instrument, for my music had been denied me throughout the length of our travels; and my delight did not go unnoticed by my hostess.

“You are a proficient, I presume?”

I shook my head regretfully. “An aspirant only to that title, and sadly in want of practise from a summer's worth of neglect.”

“Pray, delight me with your skill, Miss Austen. Music is above all things my preferred activity.”

“Then I should rather hear yourself, and avoid embarrassment.”

“Oh! I never learnt, I am afraid — and so should hardly stand in censure upon your performance.”