Stephanie Barron - Jane and the Man of the Cloth

24 September 1804, cont.

RATHER THAN HUGGING A LONELY STRETCH OF COASTLINE HIGH above the turbulent seas, bereft of civilisation and the comforts of humanity, as should befit a prison in Lyme, the gaol where Mr. Sidmouth was held sat in the very midst of the town, with a stock in front and a cubby for the watchman; I should move under the keenest observation as I approached the place, but could not find it in me to care, as my errand seemed too urgent to admit of delicacy. I knew not whether the gentleman was permitted visitors — but deemed it likely that what persuasion might not produce, the application of coin should speedily acquire.

The watchman — a smallish fellow clothed in nankeen, with a sharp nose, watery eyes, and a perpetual habit of sneezing — rose from his stool as swift as a street tumbler, and danced a bow before me.

“Gordy Trimble at yer service, ma'am, though what service ye might be seekin' here, ‘tis beyond me to say,” he offered by way of introduction.

“I am Miss Jane Austen,” I said with dignity, “and have come with a basket of victuals from St. Michael's Church — a gesture of charity towards the poor man detained within those walls.” I had retrieved my mother's basket from Miss Crawford after parting from James and Mr. Hurley, in the thought that the ladies’ auxiliary should hardly require it as mightily as I should. In making my way towards the gaol, I had tarried only long enough to purchase bread and cheese, and a few apples, to put in its depths.

“Poor man? Never thought as I'd hear His Worship called poor, ma'am, and that's a fact. And him been stylin’ hissel’ so fine. Ah, well — the world's gone topsyturvy, it has, and Gordy Trimble's not the one to make the right of it.” He reached a hand to the basket handle, and I saw with a start my mistake.

“I should like to deliver the goods myself,” I told him firmly.

“Eh, now, you'll not be thinkin’ I'll have the eatin’ of ‘em before him?”

“Assuredly not — that is to say — I should like to speak with Mr. Sidmouth a moment, since he is so soon to be taken away,” I faltered.

The little man's face creased in a wicked smile. “Sweet on him, are ye? Half o’ Lyme is in the same state, or I'm not Gordy Trimble. The parade o’ ladies as has been through that door would make a priest blush, it would. Not to mention the mademoiselle. Fair spends her days here, she does — though I'll not be lettin’ her sit by him that long. Leans in the doorway, mooning like a sick calf, until the sun's about down; then hies hersel’ off to the Grange, for to attend to the milking.”

“Is the mademoiselle within at present?” I enquired, in some apprehension. I had not thought to encounter Seraphine when I hastily undertook my errand.

“Nay — you'll be havin’ yer five minutes to yersel, I reckon,” the watchman replied. “But no more.” He peered into the basket and poked a finger around the victuals. “Wouldn't want you bringin’ a knife or a pistol to my prisoner, now would I?”

“Mr. Trimble!” I cried, “i am a clergyman's daughter.” I sailed past him to the door of the small keep — a square, whitewashed building with a thatched roof — and waited while he jangled his keys. Mr. Trimble retained a quantity of them for a man with only one room and one prisoner to guard. I could hear the slight sounds of scuffling, and a length of chain dragged along the floor, from beyond the heavy oak; Sidmouth must be alerted to visitors, and be rising to his feet.

The door swung open, and emitted a cloud of dust from the hay that served as flooring; I sneezed, and understood now the gaoler's streaming eyes. How did Sidmouth stand it? But I had not another moment to consider it, for the heavy door closed behind me, and I was thrown into the dimmest complicity possible with the man. A warm stillness to the air, and a slighdy sour smell, of too much humanity confined too long in so slight a space; it should surely drive one mad, for too many days together.

The hay rustled not five feet from where I stood. “Who is it?” he enquired, in a tone of some doubt; and I knew that backlit in the open doorway as I must have been, my features were obscured to him. “Not Seraphine. But a woman.”

“Miss Austen,” I replied — and was surprised to hear how strongly my voice emerged. My heart was aflutter, and the palms of my hands grown moist; such anxiety, over so simple a purpose! I had visited a prison far worse than this, and faced evils of a sterner nature; and yet, today, I might have been as weak as a child, and as ill-formed for such an experience.

A short laugh, harsh in that stillness, and yet tinged with amusement “Miss Jane Austen of Bath, in the very midst of Lyme gaol! To what a turn have matters come! I should rise and welcome you with a proper bow, madam — but that I cannot rise at all, at the moment I hope that you will forgive me, and ascribe my poor manners to the proper cause.”

A faint shaft of sunlight fell from a slit placed high in the wall to my back; and as my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, I discerned the darker shape against the stone that must be Sidmouth"s form. A manacle was clasped about each ankle, and bolted to the wall so that he was denied a range of movement, though his arms as yet were free. I took a step towards him.

“What possible reason can you have, for so exposing yourself to the opprobrium of Lyme society, in seeking me here?” the master of High Down continued easily.

“I have brought you some victuals,” I said, laying the basket at his feet, and sinking low myself. I dared not sit, for fear of the state of the straw, but rocked about on my ankles. “But I will not deny, Mr. Sidmouth, that this food is as a mere pretext, for gaining entry enough to speak with you. I am come on a matter of some urgency.”

“A welcome change,” he rejoined drily, “since all urgency, I fear, has fled from my days. It is extraordinary, is it not, Miss Austen, how the perception of time will shift, according to the measure of one's duties? In having none to perform, I find myself equipped with so much time, that I might effect a revolution in men's affairs, did I but have the freedom — for I pass a year in every day, or so it seems.”

“And yet the days still pass,” I said crossly, “and the number you command grows short. I myself have but five minutes. We must not waste them in philosophy, sir. But your talk of revolution does inspire a thought — not of war and tumult, but its alternative — a world of reason and order, however imperfect it might have been. Mr.Sidmouth, I have been turning over in my mind a welter of conflicting thoughts — for I have heard such varied accounts of your business, as confuse me exceedingly. Some would have you a smuggler, the very Reverend, in fact; while others would call you simply a rogue. Much time and penetration on my part has gone to find the meaning of the business. But T believe that I have.”

“Then pray enlighten me, Miss Austen, for I am told that a few sentences will suffice to sum up the matter.” I could not discern his expression; but I caught the flash of white teeth, and the glitter of his eyes, and imagined him smiling sardonically. “It seems that Captain Fielding was in love with my cousin, and that I grew so enraged at her indifference to me, that I killed the man. What better resolution could there be?”

“I must pay you the compliment, sir, of believing you more the master of your energies than such a construction will allow. That conclusion to the sad affair pays no attention to the presence of a white flower near Captain Fielding's body — a white lily, more to the point — nor does it incorporate the death of Bill Tibbit, hanged on the end of the Cobb, with another such bloom at his feet. When I discovered that Tibbit had run a ship aground — and that a number of Frenchmen had died as a result — I knew at last the nature of the Grange's trade.”