WE MADE OUR WAY DOWN THE CANTERBURY ROAD UNDER a blazing sky, with the Stour very low in its banks, and a haze of insects hovering over the bent heads of the meadow flowers. Already a shelf of cloud hung over the Kentish downs, replete with the false promise of a shower; I knew these clouds of old, and dismissed them as false friends. If Napoleon's hordes had truly embarked for Kent, as the London papers would have it, then Fortune sailed with them. No furious wave should guard the chalk cliffs, or howling wind send the flotilla to oblivion; the French might make the crossing unharassed but for the few leaking, timeworn vessels of the Royal Navy's Channel fleet.
As Neddie's bays jingled their harness, and snorted at the dust, I considered of my brother Frank, and the daily perils he endured. His circumstances must be uppermost in my thoughts, far more than the invasion's threat to Kent; for if the Navy were overwhelmed, and Frank cut down by a French gun, it mattered little what hole we bolted to. The Kingdom would capitulate in a matter of days.
Such a surge of melancholy was unlike my usual spirits, and I detected the effect of the oppressive weather — the lurking, ominous portent of the heat, as though even the air above Kent awaited the thunder of cannon. Activity was the best remedy for such thoughts; but the fever of packing was done, the delights of dressing for the Assembly still ahead; I could hardly do better than to expend my energies in a trip to town.
Canterbury is a place that I have known and admired for almost half my life. Its soaring fortifications, so thick that ten men might walk abreast, and the spires of its venerable cathedral rising above its prosperous shops and houses, must proclaim its storied place in English history. Crowds of the penitent and the hopeful still choke the narrow streets on high holy days, while those who would profit by the pious, hawk their relics and bits of the True Cross under the shadow of the cathedral gates.
It was to the West Gate we proceeded this morning, for tho' the Canterbury gaol is some miles distant, in Longport, the constabulary's offices are housed hard by the gate, in a crabbed and swaybacked Tudor building desperately in want of whitewash. A few steps along the street stood the Hound and Tooth, where the inquest was to be held.
“We shall call for you at White Friars, in two hours' time,” Henry assured me. This was the elegant house belonging to Mrs. Knight, Neddie's adoptive mother, not far from the cathedral close. I was always happy to visit Mrs. Knight, who had shown such good sense in reverting Godmersham to my brother well in advance of her own death; for she had been willed a life interest in the estate, and might have presided in Lizzy's place a decade or more. In Canterbury, however, she might learn all the news of her friends without stirring a step from her door; she had the comforts of ready provision, without the care of an estate.
“White Friars, in two hours' time,” I repeated, and Henry handed me from the barouche. I watched the coachman's impatient progress down the crowded High Street, until the carriage had turned in at the Hound and Tooth's stableyard; then my gaze drifted back along bow-windowed shopfronts and came to rest upon the curtained first floor of Delmar's Rooms. Here was the scene of this evening's ball — where Mrs. Grey, and all her deceits, should be forgot for a time. Tho' my purse had grown thin from so protracted a visit in Kent, I intended to make as fine an appearance as my means and years would allow. A new pair of long silk gloves, at the very least, was quite essential — and perhaps an ornament for my hair. I turned with a little skip of pleasure, and went in search of the linendraper.
“MISS AUSTEN! JANE!”
The voice was Harriot Bridges's — so very like Lizzy's, and yet lacking her languid elegance. Harriot, tho' four-and-twenty, retained all the claims of youth, and might betray the breathlessness of sixteen in her accent. She hastened down the length of the draper's shop, still clutching a card of lace, and embraced me as an old friend.
“Harriot! You are blooming. And does my sister accompany you?” I enquired, with real pleasure. All resemblance to Lizzy ended in her sister's voice; for Harriot's hair was a light brown, and her eyes were blue — where Lizzy was a graceful column, Harriot was a cheerful rolling-pin.
“She does not, I am sorry to say. You find me quite alone — excepting my brother, Mr. Bridges, who consented to drive me into town. But how delightful to find you here! Have you completed your purchases? And what do you think of this lace? I confess it is rather dear — but quite bewitching, when I consider of my drab old gown. I might sew it along the flounce in a quarter-hour, and feel myself the queen of the Assembly!”
I had learned long ago that Harriot rarely required an answer, or valued an opinion; she was content to swim in an easy flow of conversation that was as unconsidered as it was constant; and so I merely smiled, and nodded, and hovered at her elbow, while she flitted among the shop's fine stuffs like a bee in a full-blown border. It was part of her enchantment to be as wanting in guile as a child; men found her rosy plumpness and inveterate good humour utterly bewitching; she was constantly in request among the wide acquaintance she cultivated in Kent. It was merely a wonder, I thought as I found her laughing over a length of sprigged muslin, that she had not been snatched up by Captain Woodford long ago.
“And how does Mr. Bridges?”
Harriot pulled a face. “Very ill, indeed. He is fretful and tiresome and hovers about the house until I think I shall run mad! It would be one thing if my brother managed some pleasant conversation — if he endeavoured, at least, to be charming — but he mutters barely a word, and only then when he is spoken to. I thought Cassandra might have the taming of him — he was prodigiously civil to her last week, and seemed to exert himself a little, as he rarely does when we are just a family at home — but he has fallen mumpish of late, and can barely be stirred to exercise his horse. Did I not know Edward, indeed, I should think him to be suffering from a Dreadful Presentiment.”
“A Dreadful Presentiment?”
Harriot looked over her shoulder, and attempted an air of gravity. “He seems a man goaded past endurance, Jane. He can neither submit to the confinement of the Farm, nor find courage to venture beyond it. He has not been farther than the lane into the Park, in fully two days!”
“How extraordinary.” Mr. Bridges was the sort of gentleman who was never to be found at home. Fishing, playing at cricket, cocking, or riding were his usual pursuits; but Harriot's description suggested he was ill. “He consented to drive you into town today, however?”
“On account of Mrs. Grey's inquest. My brother was most insistent that he should attend — the duty of a clergyman, he said, tho' I believe that is so much stuff. When has Edward ever considered the duties of a clergyman before his own comfort?”
There would be no proper answer to such a comment; and the speaker being Harriot, happily none was expected. But her words must give me cause to wonder. Edward Bridges was behaving like a man in fear for his life — and his behaviour might be marked from the very day of Mrs. Grey's death. He bore watching.
“Does Mr. Bridges intend the Assembly this evening?”
“Oh, yes — as does Captain Woodford!” Harriot cried, her countenance reddening.
“Captain Woodford? You astonish me, Harriot. From his aspect yesterday, I was certain he should be mounted in a beacon post somewhere along the coast, searching the horizon with his one good eye, and single-handedly in defence of the French.”
“How can you speak of him so?” she said reproachfully. “I am sure I can offer him nothing but respect. Such wounds as he has suffered—”
“Yes, yes,” I rejoined, “but only consider how ludicrous, Harriot! At one moment the Guards would have us dismantle entire estates, and in the next, they are dashing about the floor of Delmar's Rooms, as tho' Buonaparte might be bested in a quadrille!”