Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Man of the Cloth

“My apologies, Miss Crawford. I could not imagine you to have an interest in that quarter, and thus could not be expected to inform you of my plans.”

“Expected! Hardly. The young are never expected to treat anyone with consideration. But never mind. I see you have your mother's things in that basket.”

“I do, and I send them with her compliments.”

Miss Crawford paused to examine a tiny nightdress, of fine cambric, overlaid with my mother's excellent satin stitch; and sniffed audibly. “The seams might have been straighter; but then, one never gives as much care to things for the poor, as for one's own; and I suppose her eyes are weak, at her age.”

“I shall inform her of your gratitude,” I said drily, and turned for the door.

“Do you remember, Miss Austen, to tell her of the ladies’ tea, to be held at Darby on Saturday,” Miss Crawford called sharply after me. “It is meant as a kindness to the good-hearted women who do so much for the unfortunates of the parish. It is a vast deal of trouble, to be sure, but I count it as nothing. It is the least that I may do. It is to be a very fine tea.”

“Though, perhaps inevitably, tealess,” I observed.

“Whatever do you mean to say, Miss Austen?”

“I had understood there was not a leaf to be had, in all of Lyme.”

“But that is hardly the case at Darby, I may assure you.” Miss Crawford spoke with an air of smug complacency. “My dear brother is never at a loss for tea — but then, we may consider him as having resources, that should be denied a mere visitor, such as yourself.”

“Indeed we may,” I rejoined, in some amusement at her vanity, and quitted the church and Miss Crawford together.

I made my way to the little churchyard, and found James with his back against a headstone, and a burly man, quite ill-shaven, at his side. The latter discarded a bit of grass he had been twirling between his teeth, and pulled himself to his feet He had no hat to hold, and so stood with his head slightly bowed, awaiting my notice — a balding fellow, with a crooked nose, a perpetual dimple in one cheek, and a rough warmth to his gaze. Despite his attitude of deference, he had a confident air, as though life held no mysteries beyond his understanding.

“Miss Austen, miss,” James said, with the barest suggestion of anxiety in his aspect. “We thought as you weren't coming.”

“I was somewhat detained by church business,”I replied. “I take it you are Matthew Hurley?”

“Matty'll do just fine, miss.”

“I've been a-teliin’ Matty here how Maggie Tibbit'd have it ‘e owes her money,” James began, “and Matty — well, you tell Miss Austen, then.”

“I don't owe Bill Tibbit nothin’ nor a curse,” the fellow said comfortably, “and haven't done, since he ran the Royal Belle aground.”

“The ship's loss does seem to have turned all of Lyme against him,” I observed.

“It did that. He were paid to lose the Belle, and three fine young men o’ town was lost with it.” Mr. Hurley paused a moment to clear his throat, and as abruptly spat.

I glanced at James's untroubled countenance, then turned to his companion. “It was the Reverend's ship, I understand.”

“Now, 'oo be tellin’ you that?” Matty Hurley said, with a narrowed eye.

“Maggie Tibbit. She said that her husband had been a regular spotter for the smugglers’ crews, and that he lingered too long over his tankard, when he should better have been gone to Puncknowle and the signal tower.”

“It's right convenient she should think so,” the man replied, “but that warn't the truth of it. Bill were paid, and he met ‘is end fer it, as did the feller as paid ‘im.”

I looked from one to the other with a growing apprehension. “You cannot mean — that is to say — Mr. Hurley, would you have it that Captain Fielding paid the man to ground the Bella And that he lost his life as a result?”

“I ain't savin’ here nor there,” the fellow asserted, his eyes shifting. “It's a deep business, as no lady should concern hersel’ wit. But Maggie Tibbit oughter know better.”

This was a thought to give one pause, indeed. The Captain must have believed the ship to be engaged in smuggling, and attempted to thwart the trade in a ruthless manner, considering the consequences. And yet, if the doomed ship was not the Reverend's—

“How can you be so certain that the Belle was not the Reverend's, Mr. Hurley?”

“Let's jist say as I was a-waitin’ on the Chesnil beach for ‘er to land, and had the pulling of the bodies out o’ the surf,” he replied darkly. “I hope I may never see another such a sight, as long as I may live. Terrible it was, and Nancy Harding's boy but fifteen.”

“But what can a ship have been doing, in so clandestine a manner, if not to smuggle contraband?”

Matty Hurley shrugged, and flicked a glance at James, who turned back a bewildered countenance. “You'll be a stranger to Lyme, miss, and all our ‘fairs,” Matty offered. “I'm not sure yer needin’ to know. Just settle as it was a matter o’ some importance, as three young coves and a passel of Frenchies give their lives for, and not a thing to do with brandy barrels or kegs o’ snuff. Bill Tibbit was no good, and a traiter, and we're well quit of ‘im, whatever ‘is Maggie says. You can tell ‘er so for me.” He turned away, of a conviction, no doubt, that our discussion was at an end; but I could not suffer him to leave in so sybil-like a manner. A cloud of conflicting thoughts held converse in my mind, but through them ail I grasped at one. The man had declared that the boat was not the Reverend's; but I knew of one other household, at least, that was much given to signalling ships at sea.

“Matty,” I said, reaching a hand to detain him, “did the Royal BeUe belong to Mr. Geoffrey Sidmouth?”

The astonishment that overlaid his hardened features was a spectacle to behold, and should have elicited my delighted laughter, had not I perceived his underlying consternation, as having betrayed perhaps too much. “Never fear,” I assured him. “Your secret is safe with me — though from your words, I must declare it a rather open one, since most of Lyme seems admitted to it.”

“Just the folk o’ the Buddie district,” Matty said grudgingly, “and only them as are trusty.”

“So it was Mr, Sidmouth s ship that ran aground,” I said thoughtfully, “as a result of Bill Tibbit's carelessness, or design. And Bill Tibbit died for it, as did Captain Fielding. That does alter the complexion of Sidmouth's case. For his motives and his natural reticence about the matter, become all too clear.”

“I thought she come here on a matter o’ Maggie Tibbit's,” Matty protested, with a glare for James.

“She did!” the poor man rejoined, in natural dismay. “Miss Austen?”

“No matter,” I replied. “There is another of whom I had better enquire, and leave Mr. Hurley in the clear.” I turned and looked towards the horizon, in an effort to judge of the time — for of a sudden I had a notion to conduct a further piece of business in the hours remaining before dinner. It could not be far from half-past three; and we generally dined at five. It should just do.

“You have been very helpful, Mr. Hurley, and I thank you — for what you would not, as well as what you might, impart.” The wretched fellow shifted from one foot to the other, and looked desperate to be gone, his native confidence fled. I reached into my reticule and retrieved several coins, which I pressed upon the two men, who bobbed their thanks, however doubtfully. For my part, I affected a desire to return to the church, that they might be freed of my presence, and go about their business, as unmolested as I preferred to go about mine — for I had no desire to be observed, in making my way, as I must, towards the grim stone keep that served as Lyme's gaol.