As I considered the relative nature of peace and privilege, Pratt snapped the reins over the horses' backs, and the barouche rolled easily towards the turning for the park. Vivid green hills rose behind the house, shimmering and unvaried as velvet. Here and there a clump of trees broke the evenness of the landscape, rendering both hillside and clump more absolute in their disparity the one to the other. It was a style of beauty first brought to prominence in the last century — a paean to Naturalism, and quite in keeping with my sensibilities.
The Stour murmured a winding course through the meadow, and along its banks the willows trailed, restless in the slightest air. Swallows darted and swooped over our heads as we achieved the turning for the lodge, carriage wheels complaining at the paving's treatment, and little Fanny stirred and sighed. The slanting light of late August splashed gilt over her cheek — and over stone bridge, mown field, and rosy brick — as it turned the air to honey.
The whole was a scene of such measured beauty, in fact, that the horror of death seemed impossible, and the very notion of murder, absurd.
“Are we home, Jane?” Lizzy enquired, rousing herself. “It cannot be too soon. How Neddie must feel the burden of his duty, on such a day!”
“How happy you must be,” I returned impulsively, “to call these fields and hills your home! What richness, in the dull routine of a country life! Is there anything to compare with the peace and beauty of Kent?”
“The dust is intolerable,” Lizzy observed, as we pulled up at the door. “I am sure I shall have the head-ache.”
Her conviction bore fruit at the house's very entry, and so, calling for her excellent maid, Sayce, my sister was borne away to her room. The rest of us were not to be released without a trial, however — for shouting and jostling in their hurry to be seen, the young Austens tumbled down the steps from the nursery. They had been left behind at the day's outing, as being either too junior or too indisposed — for little Edward was troubled with a persistent cold, which refused to yield to all that the apothecary could advise. The others showed a dangerous inclination towards the same ailment, and with the commencement of their Michaelmas term looming, the older boys could not be too careful.[11] Lizzy had listened to the impassioned arguments of her children the previous night at bed-time. She had consulted with Mr. Green. And in the end, only Fanny — who might suffer a cold the autumn entire, and yet be schooled at home by Miss Sharpe — was permitted the treat of watching the Commodore run.
“Sharpie! Auntjane!” the children cried in a tumult. “Is it true? Was a lady murdered at the races, and is Father to find it all out?”
“Edward,” I said briskly — for Miss Sharpe appeared, if anything, worse for her journey than she had at its outset— “Miss Sharpe is greatly fatigued. Pray let her pass, and do not be plaguing her with your questions.”
Anne Sharpe looked all her thanks, and pressed a hand to her brow. She had been more overpowered by events than any of us. I concluded that she suffered a head-ache more severe than Lizzy's direst imaginings, and ordered her to bed.
“I am a little fatigued,” she admitted. “Perhaps a short interval — before the children require their suppers—”
“Sackree will see to the bread and milk,” I told her firmly. “Pray lie down for a while, Miss Sharpe. You look decidedly unwell.”
“I must believe it to be the shock,” she said feebly. “That woman—”
“So it is true!” Edward shouted triumphantly.
I sank down on the bottom step and set my elegant top hat by my side. “Wherever did you hear such a tale, Edward?”
“He had it from Cook,” said his brother George, hopping up and down on one foot, “—who had it from John Butcher, who met a man with the news on his way from the races.”
“It was not John Butcher, but Samuel Joiner had the news, and fomet the man in the road,” young Elizabeth, a stout girl of five, broke in hotly.
“That is what I said,” George retorted. “But—”
“Do not pinch your brother, Eliza,” I attempted.
“You did say it was so!” she insisted, “you said it was John Butcher. I heard the whole myself, while I was in the kitchen and Cook was in the yard. If you had gone for the pudding, Dordie, you would know it all, too.”
“And why were you gone for pudding while Cook was in the yard?” asked Miss Sharpe — suddenly stern and much the pinker for it. “It is the accepted practise to take your pudding at meals, Miss Eliza, and not behind Cook's back.”
Both culprits fell silent, their eyes on the ground. It was thus for Fanny to seize the triumphant moment.
“Of course the story is true,” she said scornfully, “tho' neither John Butcher nor Samuel Joiner were within a mile of the race-meeting. I saw it all, Edward, and if you will come into the schoolroom, I shall tell you how it was.”
The others fell back in awed silence — and little Eliza burst into tears.
“Come along, children,” I said in exasperation. “We shall both tell you the tale. And afterwards, George, perhaps we may have a game of shuttlecock. But you must be very quiet — for your mamma and Miss Sharpe are indisposed.”
I smiled at the governess, and bustled the children upstairs. But when I turned at the landing to glance at Anne Sharpe, she still stood with one hand on the rail, her thoughts quite fled and her pallor extreme.
MY DEAREST CASSANDRA, I WROTE, AS I SAT SOME HOURS later at my dressing table, in the solitary splendour of the Yellow Room — and then I hesitated, pen poised for the collection of my thoughts. The hour was late and the house entirely wrapped in slumber. I had opened a window against the still heat of the August night, and my candle's flame dipped and staggered with every stirring of the air. Something there was that hovered over Godmersham — a gathering of violence above my head, that stiffened the very draperies and turned the midnight light to sulphur. Relief might come with the rain— and afterwards, a little sleep; but until the storm should break, I must seek comfort in composition.
When I am parted from my dearest sister by the vicissitudes of Fate or the beguilements of pleasure, it is my inveterate custom to relate the particulars of each day in a newsy, comfortable letter. Two such women, of advancing years and modest society, may generally have very little of importance to communicate; but the habit of conversation, long deferred by absence, will find relief in the written word. A great deal of nothing, therefore, has flown back and forth between Goodnestone Farm and Godmersham Park during the interval of Cassandra's visit to Lady Bridges. I may attest to a voluminous correspondence, regarding such little matters as the progress of young Edward's cold; my continued improvement at the game of shutdecock; the opinion of Mr. Hall, the elegant London hairdresser, as to the best arrangement of my coiffure and several good jokes regarding Henry's infatuation with his lamentable horse.
But this evening I had matters of a far graver nature to relate, although some part of Mrs. Grey's sad history must already be known to Cassandra — for Mr. Edward Bridges, who could hardly be ignorant of it, should have borne the intelligence to the Farm before me. My sister must as yet be denied the full history of the lady's tragic end, however, for my brothers returned from the race grounds very late this evening, and the details of their grim work were imparted only to myself — Lizzy and the children having already retired.
You will know, I am sure, of the horrible events that occurred at our race-meeting, I wrote at last.
I have hastened this letter in the knowledge that you must be suffering under the gravest anxiety for the safety and well-being of all our dear family — but be assured that we are all perfectly well. Miss Sharpe, the governess, was taken ill at the sight of the corpse; but Lizzy and I were hardly tempted to the dramatic, and even Fanny comported herself with admirable coolness. Our brother Neddie was decision and probity itself; he was admirably supported by Henry, and bids fair to conduct the business with despatch. There are further particulars in the matter, however, that will affect those very near to you: Mr. Edward Bridges, his friend Captain Woodford, and, of course, our dear friend Harriot, who must feel for the welfare of both. I thought it wisest to apprise you of matters — and will trust to your discretion in this, as in all things.
11
Edward Austen Knight's male children attended Winchester College, some seventeen miles distant from his principal Hampshire estate, at Chawton. —