“It is clear, nonetheless, that despite her husband's protests, there is a man in Mrs. Grey's case,” I declared. “That man is hardly Denys Collingforth. Wildman's groom should have recognised so near a neighbour. We must apply ourselves, Neddie, to learning the name of the Unknown Cicisbeo without further delay.”
“Why should you exert yourself, Jane, for a rogue like Collingforth?” my brother asked me curiously. “He is dissolute, nearly ruined by gaming and drink, and he is said to treat his wife abominably. You are hardly even acquainted, and can certainly bear him no affection.”
“But I am increasingly convinced that someone has endeavoured to place his neck in a noose,” I replied, “and I cannot bear to think that such malevolent cunning should go undetected, much less unpunished. That is all. Call it a simple desire for justice, if you will.”
“Or the desire to outwit a foe,” he retorted. “I swear you might almost be a man at times. No wonder you are the despair of our mother, Jane.”
“She may have Cassandra to console her,” I said. And smiled.
Chapter 8
At Delmar's Rooms
21 August 1805, cont'd.
HOWEVER RIDICULOUS I MIGHT FIND THE GUARDS' decision to attend the Race Week Assembly, I could see nothing reprehensible in my own participation. I dearly love a ball. And the crowd that moves so indolently through the smart Delmar's Rooms, tho' hardly as fine as the most select society of London, is nonetheless a glittering parade. There is that about the company — a liberality of means, a refinement of experience, an elegance of conduct and expression — that must lift the meanest participant to a more elevated plane. It is all too likely that such delights will prove depressingly rare in my future life; my father's death can only reduce my modest fortunes still further; and as the decade of my thirties opens, I must be but too sensible of the continuing diminution of my looks. It is a melancholy picture — one that might thrust me entirely into despair, were I not possessed of those inner resources without which a woman is nothing. However retired my future days, I will have my wit to sustain me — the secret sarcasms of my pen, that must subject even the greatest to my power, unbeknownst to themselves. I shall have long walks in sun and shadow with my dearest sister, Cassandra. I shall have desultory hours of practise on a hired and indifferent piano. And on occasion, courtesy of Neddie and Lizzy, I shall have the illicit pleasure of a Canterbury ball.
While life may still offer a good-size room, braced with roaring fires and a plethora of wax candles — while “The Comical Fellow” or “The Shrewsbury Lasses” still thread their delightful chords through the babble of conversation — while some hundred couples of a nodding acquaintance, and a full detachment of the Cold-stream Guards, exist as it were for my pleasure alone — I cannot fail of enjoyment. Let melancholy be banished for another day, when I am too-long marooned in the rains of Bath, and the regrets of my vanished youth.
And thus, heedless of murder and the threat of invasion both, I pinned the shoe-roses to my slippers this evening, adjusted my muslin shawl, and allowed myself to be borne away to yet another scene of dissipation. I had not been arrived five minutes, before I felt my morals to be thoroughly corrupted.
That this was the result of gallantries easily paid, from at least three gentlemen in my general acquaintance, might readily be imagined. I entered upon the scene in the company of the Godmersham party — Neddie, Henry, Lizzy, and myself — with every expectation of pleasure. I wore a borrowed gown, made over in respect of the current season, that became me almost as much as it had graced Lizzy two summers before; my hair had been cut and dressed in curls all about my forehead, courtesy of the obliging Mr. Hall; and despite the closing of that decade beyond which a woman is commonly believed to cherish few hopes, I knew myself to be presently in good looks. I shall never again possess the bloom of eighteen; the bones of my face have sharpened of late, particularly about the nose, as tho' the flesh is stretched too tightly over it, and my complexion is coarser than it was ten years ago. But several months' trial of the air of Kent, taken in daily doses through long country walks, will have their effect; and despite the worry of advancing French hordes, and a commensurate anxiety for the safety of my naval brothers, my eyes were as bright as though I were embarked upon my very first ball.
“The Godmersham party! At long last!”
Mr. Edward Taylor advanced upon us with arms outstretched, as befits a very old acquaintance. Those dark eyes I had so long ago celebrated, and mourned upon his betrothal to another, were alight with anticipation and scandal; little else of his former self could be traced in the present figure. Age will take its toll, even among the wealthy of Kent; and the object of my girlhood dreams was become florid and balding. But his ample waistcoat was a testament to the excellent management of his household at Bifrons Park — and so I judged Edward Taylor happy, and excused his fall from grace.
“You have had us all on tenterhooks, man! Thank God that you did not forgo the Assembly.” Mr. Taylor seized my brother Neddie's arm. “Is the fellow Collingforth laid by the heels? The matter quite resolved already? Or shall you have recourse to the authorities in London?”
“Don't look so dull and stupid, my dear,” Lizzy murmured in Neddie's ear. “He is enquiring about the Grey woman's murder.”
“I had perceived that much, Lizzy,” Neddie returned, and bowed to Mr. Taylor with careless grace. “You astonish me, Edward. I had hoped that at least you — who care nothing for horseflesh, and never venture farther than your own spring in such heated weather — might have escaped the tide of Race Week gossip. But if even Mr. Taylor is not immune, I must resign myself to being the object of every eye.”
“So that's the way of it, is it?” Mr. Taylor rejoined, not to be deterred. “You intend to tell us nothing?”
“The ways of Justice, like the secrets of the marriage bed, are best enshrouded in silence,” Neddie intoned.
Mr. Taylor merely snorted at this, while Lizzy laid a hand caressingly on my brother's shoulder. “Poor lamb,” she crooned, “you shall be led to the slaughter. I give you a quarter-hour, my dear, at the hands of your dearest friends — and then we shall see how enshrouded your tongue may be. Come along, Jane.”
And so I fled in Lizzy's bewitching train, bobbing and nodding to a multitude on either side, to take up a position just below the musicians, where we might observe the gathering company. I expected my sister Cassandra, and Harriot Bridges, among them; and was impatient to converse at long last with the former.
Lizzy snapped open her ivory fan — a gift from my brother Charles, when Endymion was in the Mediterranean — and began to waft a humid air about our faces. I do not believe there is a lady living who can carry off dark grey silk so becomingly as Lizzy. The new gown — so long expected from her modiste — had been ordered a month previous, during a flying visit to London; and with its cap sleeves, fitted bodice, and extraordinary turban of jet and feathers, it looked admirably suited to the wardrobe of a queen. Lizzy is in the last days of mourning for her eldest sister, Fanny Cage, who departed this life in May; but her dark colouring makes even the dusky shades of grief appear to advantage.
“Good God, it is hot,” she murmured. “Every sensible young lady will be slipping into the garden for a turn in the moonlight before the hour is out. How unfortunate that such a recourse is denied to me. You, however, might avail yourself — having neither a husband to detain you, nor an anxious regard for your reputation.”
“And with whom would you have me take a turn, Lizzy?”