Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Man of the Cloth

After a moment's hesitation, I drew off my gloves, and seated myself at the piano, and attempted one of the simple airs I so loved to play for my sister, of a quiet morning in Steventon, so many years ago.

“It is a plaintive melody,” Mrs. Barnewall observed, when I had done; “but perhaps you merely echo the weather.”

“Perhaps,” I said with a smile, and rose from the instrument “I may confess to a longing for my sister, who is the dearest creature in the world to me, and denied me by the misfortunes of which I know you have heard.”

“Indeed!” Mrs. Barnewall cried, as she threw herself carelessly into a settee. “The famous overturning. An event almost as thoroughly discussed by the Lyme worthies as Mademoiselle LeFevre's unfortunate accident only a few weeks before.”

“Her unfortunate accident?” I replied, feigning bewilderment. “What accident was this?”

“Why, my dear, you must have heard of it — the Miss Schuylers talked of little else the length of their stay. Not that they are possessed of such faculties as should provide them with frequent diversion, it is true — they were much dependent upon the affairs of others for their edification and amusement. But I recollect. Your business of the overturning, and the hanging of the man on the Cobb, quite put all thought of the mademoiselle and Captain Fielding out of our minds for a time.”

“It was the Captain who caused Mademoiselle LeFevre's accident?”

“No, no — it was he who rescued her. Hence his affectionate name of le Chevatier.” My confidante reached for an exquisite porcelain box that sat upon a Pembroke table near her seat, and to my amazement, drew forth a pinch of powder on the tip of her forefinger, which she inhaled as elegantly as it was possible to do. At my inability to conceal my surprise, she smiled devilishly. “Would you care for some snuff, Miss Austen? Or is the daughter of a clergyman a stranger to this, as to so many other vices?”

“I do not believe I should find it agreeable.” My voice sounded priggish, even to my own ears. “How can you find it so?”

“It clears the mind wonderfully,” she said, and sneezed.

“Indeed?” I confess the practise is new to my experience. Though my brothers James and Edward are both fond of their clay pipes, they take care never to smoke them within doors, and as it is my fathers view that tobacco is a dangerous addiction, I was hardly exposed to the fumes in my infancy. Even Henry, however — charming, foolish, light-hearted Henry — has avoided the fashion for snuff. Though there are some who have partaken of the substance for years, I may fairly state that only recently has it become the rage to carry the little boxes about, and change them according to whether one is at home or in society, or abroad of a morning or an evening. I had never witnessed a woman consuming snuff — even my flamboyant sister Eliza. [70] There were numerous varieties of snuff in Austen's day, rather as there are of herbal teas in our own, and different blends were chosen according to the mood of the consumer or the time of day. The Prince of Wales kept varieties from all over the world in his snuff cellar, though he disliked snulT itself, and contrived never to inhale it however many times a day he went through the ritual. His mother, Queen Charlotte, consumed from the age of seventeen only one blend — of tobacco, ambergris, attar, and bitter almonds. — Editor's note.

“I failed to discover the meaning behind le Chevalier” I said, with an effort to appear rueful. “I fear I have not your penetration, Mrs. Barnewall, and the Captain did appear indisposed to discuss the matter.”

“That is like his natural reticence,” she replied softly, and sighed, her snapping dark eyes momentarily clouded. I had not considered that the lady might consider herself in mourning. Such obtuseness should be unforgivable, had I not believed her too light in her attachments to regard the poor Captain with anything like tenderness. But T am too prone to a hasty judgment of the characters and impulses of others; it may be fairly declared my chief failing.

“The tale does him no dishonour, 1 trust?”

“Hardly.” She adjusted a cushion at her elbow, and settled in for a long chat. “It was a few weeks before your arrival, Miss Austen, about the middle part of August, I should say. We had ail been in attendance at the Thursday night Assembly, though the crowd was rather thin, the summer people in general having departed for country estates to the north. There was nothing like a moon that night, as I recall, and so for those of us who travelled into town by carriage, the drive home was a slow business. Captain Fielding had not been in the rooms — indeed, I had thought him away from Lyme on some business — and his absence deprived the ball of a good part of its gaiety.

“Mr. Barnewall and I had agreed to follow Mr. Crawford to Darby, for a late supper and some cards, being little inclined to retire early, despite the ball's having closed a full hour before its usual two o'clock. And so our carriages travelled in train, up the Charmouth road towards Mr. Crawford's estate — until with a ‘Whoa!’ the equipage in front was pulled up, and in a moment Mr. Crawford had descended, and then my husband must be impatient to know what was toward, and we were all out in the road in the middle of the night, with only the light of a Ian thorn to show the scene.

“And what a scene!”

“Mademoiselle LeFevre?”

She shook her head. “Captain Fielding, unhorsed and with the lady quite insensible in his arms. What a picture they made! Her long red cloak, trailing from unconscious limbs, and the fall of her extraordinary hair across his arm; his face bruised and weary, and himself standing upon a wooden leg, and endeavouring to bear her homeward, without benefit of assistance or even his horse! Had we not arrived at the very moment, I cannot think how things should have gone; but we did, and commended him for his gallantry, and managed them both to their respective houses.”

“But what had occurred?” I cried, in some exasperation.

“We had it from the Captain — whom we chose to convey homeward, while the Crawfords took the mademoiselle — that the lady had been abroad on horseback, well after midnight, about some errand of her cousin, Mr. Sidmouth — only fancy! — and that her horse had startled, and bolted, and thrown her to the ground; at which point she was fortunate in the Captain's happening upon her on the road, at his return very late from business in Dorchester. Only think! Our carriages might have run over her body in the dark, as she lay insensible, had he not appeared to act as saviour!”

“Perish the thought!” I said, with suitable fervour. “But why, then, had the Captain's horse also run off?”

Mrs. Barnewall leaned closer, her eyes once more brilliant with animation. “I understood from Fielding that he was unhorsed in the animal's act of leaping over the mademoiselle's still form, as the beast came upon her in its way. It was thus he made the discovery of her.”

“I suppose Mr. Sidmouth was very grateful,” I observed, with conscious stupidity, “to have his cousin so safely restored.”

“Mr. Sidmouth seemed rather to despair of his errand's having gone awry,” Mrs. Barnewall replied, “but that is ever his way. He should rather have all the world trampled underfoot, than have his own business interrupted; and the poor little Frenchwoman is but a cog in his larger affairs. She is capable, I suppose, and dutiful in her bidding, and there her utility ends. But we knew of this only later, when it became apparent that there was a grudge between Sidmouth and the Captain — the result of which we have all unfortunately seen.”