I could not determine whether Captain Woodford was the sort of man to make love to his oldest friend's wife; or to shield that friend, in a matter of murder. But perhaps he knew nothing of Francoise Grey's end — perhaps he merely suspected her husband guilty of a horror — and hoped that Denys Collingforth might hang for all their sins.
But I had been too long silent; it was not done, in the midst of a dance; and so I clutched at the thread of our conversation.
“And what did you think of the Comte de Penfleur?”
The Captain's countenance turned, if anything, too careful. “He is all right in his way, I suppose — for a Frenchman.”
I laughed in delight. “So much praise for an enemy, from a captain of His Majesty's Guards, may be termed a veritable encomium! And may I ask, sir, upon what grounds this weighty judgement was formed?”
“A little conversation only, I confess. I conveyed my sentiments of condolence, of course — assured the Comte of my affectionate respect for the late departed — and expressed my outrage at the manner of her death. He was almost overcome at such a demonstration of goodwill— I saw the tears start out in his eyes, Miss Austen — and could not speak for several moments. But he then assured me that he bore the people of Canterbury no ill-will on account of the murder; that such shocking episodes might be met with daily in the streets of Paris, and one accepted one's Fate as it was served. We exchanged a few pleasantries — the dry weather, the state of the roads — and then I took myself off.” He hesitated. “I pray you will not relate what I have said to any of my colleagues, particularly my commanding officer. Lord Forbes should be most put out, was he aware I had met with a Frenchman recently disembarked from the Channel, and yet had failed to learn the state of the French flotilla from his very lips. I could not think it likely, however, that the Comte had observed anything to the purpose — he had crossed in the night — and I did not like to encroach upon his mourning.”
“I admire your delicacy of feeling, Captain,” I murmured. “It must be unusual in a seasoned campaigner. You were at The Larches some little while, I collect?”
“Not at all,” he replied hastily, as tho' to admit otherwise might be to court censure. “I had not been sitting with Mr. Grey a quarter-hour when the Comte arrived, and in considerable style, too — a coach and four, shipped over from Calais, with liveried servants mounted behind. After the exchange of remarks I have already recounted, I thought it best to make my adieux and leave them together; Grey was very much put out, I believe, at the Comte's descent upon the place. He had not been taught to look for it.”
If Mr. Grey had murdered Francoise, he should hardly welcome a visitation from the Penfleurs. Questions impossible of answer might well be asked, and the comfortable resolution the widower desired, tediously deferred.
“I had not understood that Mr. Grey was on poor terms with his late wife's family,” I hazarded.
Captain Woodford would have shrugged, I think, but for the movement of the dance. As it was, he half-began the gesture, and arrested it only awkwardly. I suppressed a smile. Many a gallant fellow may move without hesitation on horseback, and be completely undone by a line of couples. “I should say rather that he was disconcerted, Miss Austen. He had had no word of the Comte's intentions. Are you at all acquainted with Mr. Grey?”
“I am not.”
“He dislikes surprises acutely, and has done so from a boy. The pleasure of an event is never increased, he says, and the inconvenience must be considerable.”
“Then he is a man of whose sense I must approve,” I said. “But perhaps the Comte prefers to disconcert. I have observed him to effect it on several occasions this evening.”
“His adoptive sister was much the same,” the Captain replied; and not without a wry amusement. It was the first instance of real feeling I had glimpsed through Woodford's facade, and it intrigued me greatly. Here was the affection that he had professed so carefully; here was the regret I had half-expected.
“I observe that you are wearing a black armband, Captain. I commend you for it,” I said. “Mrs. Grey may have found more champions in death than she ever claimed in life, but the sincere among us shall always know her true friends.”
“Thank you,” he returned quietly, “but you do me too great honour. I was less Mrs. Grey's friend than perhaps she deserved — or certainly, than she had reason to expect. I believe I thought always of Grey before his wife; and the claims of one friendship may have superseded the other.”
“Was it so impossible to be a friend to both?”
He hesitated. “Not impossible, perhaps — but fraught with difficulty. The Greys were not in accord, Miss Austen, and allegiance to the aims of one might often be perceived as betrayal of the other.”
“It is a common wisdom to find attraction in divergent characters, but I have always believed that like minds are the most compatible. The world in general exists to divide the sexes; every convention of society and employment must render them strangers the one to the other. Let us pray, then, at every wedding, for a union of heart and purpose.”
He smiled almost apologetically. “It is possible to be too much alike, Miss Austen. When a lady of strong character and implacable will is forced to live in harness with a gentleman of equal temperament — and when those two must divide their loyalties between warring countries— no, Miss Austen, they cannot be in accord.”
“And so you wear the crepe in respect of your friend, and not his late wife?”
“I suppose I honour them both — and the difficult choices they sustained. It is a tragic story, however one regards the deceased. And the public scandal alone must be a trial to one of Grey's retiring temperament—” The Captain broke off, and bit his lip. “I have heard that the London papers are already come into Kent — that they have flocked to the race grounds, and have bent their draughtsmen to the depiction of lurid scenes — a representation of the corpse tumbling out of the chaise, under the startled gaze of the crowd.”
“Can it be?” I cried, incensed. “Only think what all her family must suffer!”
“I confess I can think only of Grey,” Captain Woodford said heavily. “He must feel his wife's loss most acutely.”
Must he, indeed? Nothing in the Captain's previous words, nor yet my brother's report of the banker, had led me to suspect real feeling for his wife.
“Your friend might be allowed to feel the burden of tragedy, Captain,” I observed, “and perhaps the weight of scandal; but knowing as little of Mr. Grey as I do, I cannot presume to read his heart. What he feels in respect of his late wife must be closed entirely to me.”
He studied my countenance with a slight frown. “You speak as tho' he were a man without heart, Miss Austen. I may assure you that is not the case. A truer man than Valentine Grey never lived.”
“Forgive me. I intended no disrespect of your friend. But I find that he has moved so little in Kent — and his character is so little understood — that in general I can form no opinion of him. I know that he is possessed of a sharp temper, and stands ready to challenge even so mild a gentleman as my brother to a duel; but beyond this, I can say nothing.”
Captain Woodford came to a halt opposite, as the tune wound to a close. He bowed abstractedly, and I curtseyed. Then he said, “Mr. Grey has actually challenged your brother to a duel?”