“Anyone might do for a little moonlight,” she said, shrugging carelessly. “It conceals a host of sins, and lends an aura of grandeur to the most common physiognomy. Take my brother, Mr. Bridges, for instance — he can look quite well-made with a little shadow to lend him substance.”
“I understood from your sister Harriot that Mr. Bridges was indisposed. But perhaps it has passed off, if he truly intends the ball this evening.”
“My brother is nothing if not inconstant. He considers it as chief among his charms — being of a turn to mistake an unpardonable weakness for an amiable disposition.”
“You are severe upon him.”
“The Reverend Brook-Edward Bridges is the sort of man I cannot help but despise,” she rejoined sharply. “He believes the world exists to sustain his follies, and ask nothing of him in return. My brother was spoilt as a youth, and age has merely made him indolent. He sponges on my mother and my husband for the relief of his debts, and is foolish enough to believe that he might prevail upon an excellent woman to make his fortune in marriage. Yes, Jane, I am severe upon him — for he has disappointed me these fifteen years at least.”
I smiled, catching at but a part of her diatribe. “And which lady is so fortunate as to deserve the honour of Mr. Bridges's attentions? She cannot possess less than ten thousand pounds, I daresay — tho' as the son of a baronet, he might endeavour to look still higher.”
“Oh, Jane — have you not seen? Have you not understood?” Lizzy was too well-bred to cry out in exasperation, but the murmured words carried a singular vehemence. “My brother intends that either you or Cassandra shall be his bride. If Cassandra's visit to Goodnestone fails of the desired result, you shall be sent for next week, as a second string to his fiddle. It matters not to Edward which of your hearts he engages; it merely suffices to secure one or the other.”
I could not reply for fully five seconds. My heart pounded in my chest with indignation, and the blood rose to my heated cheeks, while speech was left entirely at bay. Lizzy, for her part, retained the serenity of her air — I imagine she might as easily plot regicide behind that extraordinary countenance — and murmured a greeting to a passing acquaintance.
“There is Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton,” she observed, “shockingly underdressed as usual. I cannot think what she finds to admire in the spectacle of her own bosom. Her husband certainly does not — he will already be settled at whist. And there is her daughter, the feckless Louisa — a not unpretty sort of girl, but distressingly wanting in understanding. I expect them to descend upon Godmersham tomorrow — did I mention as much? They always take us in on their return to East-well Park; it has become quite the Race Week custom. I shall have to order a good dinner, regardless of the threat of the French.”
“You cannot have spoken seriously just now, Lizzy,” I muttered purposefully in her ear. “You can only have intended it as a poor sort of jest.”
“—You would refer to my brother's hopes? I should never sport with those, my dearest Jane. I find them too tedious to provide of much wit. But I suspect I have distressed you. I did not intend it. I thought that one of your penetration would have marked Edward out long ago.”
“Mr. Bridges is certainly a gallant gentleman,” I managed, “but as for having the slightest pretension to the affections of either Cassandra or myself—”
“I must confess that in making you both his object, my brother has not simply consulted himself. The alliance is my mother's dearest wish — and this has, in great measure, served to guide him.”
“Lady Bridges desires the match?”
Lizzy's superb green eyes glanced at me sidelong. “I perceive that you are all astonishment, Jane. But you must know that as to fortune, my mother is hardly particular. Her anxiety is all for Edward's welfare. She fears he will end by fleeing to the Continent, pursued by his numerous creditors, does he fail to secure a sensible wife. Lady Bridges is aware that, however slim their resources, the Austens have always been possessed of sense. She could not fashion a better helpmeet out of whole cloth, did she even possess the power, than yourself or Cassandra.”
“But we have barely a pound to spare between us!” I protested. “How can we be expected to secure Mr. Bridges's fortunes?”
“Ah.” Lizzy sighed. “How, indeed? I have represented as much to Mamma. But she will hear nothing against either of you. My brother's circumstances, however presendy involved, shall be speedily arranged by Lady Bridges herself, once his betrothal is announced. Provided, of course” — and here the green gaze turned calculating as a cat's — “that Mamma approves of his choice.”
“Good God!” I cried. “Can it be possible? Mr. Bridges to marry an Austen, simply for the relief of his debts?”
“Neddie gives the preference to you, Jane,” Lizzy said by way of reply, “because you are merely five years Edward's senior, and because Cassandra is so tenacious in the single state. She might have had our good friend Mr. Kemble, of Chilham, these three years for the asking; and yet she shows not the slightest inclination to marry.”
“And where do you place your wager, Lizzy?”
“I consider that you are far less likely to be cozened by a popinjay than any woman alive,” she replied, “and from the accounts I receive of poor Edward's progress with your sister, I cannot think that Cassandra will yield. It is a hopeless case, is it not? My brother must look to the Continent by and by.”
I studied her narrowly. The beautiful face was serene and unruffled as always — but graced with a palpable gleam of humour. “You enjoy this too much, Lizzy.”
“I suggest that you do the same,” she countered, “for my sister Harriot and the long-suffering Cassandra are even now entering upon Mr. Bridges's arm. Forewarned is forearmed, is it not? Allow me to introduce you, Jane, to Mr. George Farquar, a gentleman of my acquaintance.”
And so I took a splendid turn with the engaging Mr. Farquar, the second son of a baronet who, like most of the Fashionable World, had once loved Lizzy Austen, nee Bridges, to distraction. In honour of that vanished passion, he was kind enough to engage me for the next two dances — and in return I submitted to a maddening discourse on the finer points of racing. Mr. Farquar was mad for horseflesh in any form — kept a string of hunters and coursers himself — would be gratified to learn my opinion of Doncaster versus Newmarket, et cetera, et cetera. He had come up from London especially for Race Week, and would be gone again in a few days' time for the next round of meetings at Epsom — and thus spared me the trouble of caring for him at all. With Mr. Farquar I might flirt with impunity, and little danger to either of our hearts. He was so obliging as to commend my style of dress and the manner of my dancing; and so we parted a half-hour later, with approbation on either side.
The interval between the final strains of one dance, and the commencement of another, was marked by a little excitement — a ripple of conversation that went round the room, and died away into nothing, at the entrance of a gentleman and a stranger, dressed all in black. If I thought immediately of the elusive Mr. Everett, the comparison must be odious — for the stranger was possessed of considerable countenance, where Everett was not, and carried himself with an air of easy self-assurance that argued superiority of rank and fortune. Within moments of his appearance, a report was in general circulation about the room — he was Monsieur le Comte de Penfleur, the heir to a considerable French banking fortune, and raised as a brother to the late Francoise Grey. He had arrived only lately at The Larches, in readiness for Friday's funeral rites; and despite the deepest mourning, had insisted upon seeing something of Canterbury society.
Mr. Grey had not elected to accompany his guest.
I watched him move across the room — a slim, elegant figure with a knife-thin nose, ash-blond curls falling across his brow, and disconcertingly pale eyes. There he stood near a potted plant, and bent low over the hand of a bashful young lady — there, by the table of ices, he clicked his heels at a puffed-up worthy — but correct and elegant as his appearance must be, I could not ignore the arrogance of his manner. Monsieur le Comte might move freely among the enemy, but he loved us not at all. Whatever his purpose in coming to the ball, he was under no illusion as to his reception; politesse from the English was all very well, but he had known Francoise Grey, and must be aware of her treatment at the hands of Kentish society. We should not be too easily forgiven.