I affected a carelessness I could not feel. “Over some trifle discovered among Mrs. Grey's belongings. A letter, I believe, and written in the French language. Whatever the missive contained, my brother believed Mrs. Grey intended flight — and so incensed her husband at the suggestion, that he demanded satisfaction. It ended, however, in nothing. The heat of argument must be deferred, in respect of the search for justice.”
“Naturally,” Captain Woodford murmured. But he said it as an afterthought, his mind clearly bent upon other things — this letter, perhaps, of which he might know nothing, or everything. Had it been the letter he sought, in Mrs. Grey's saloon the night of her murder? — Or did he suspect something of the author's identity, that must turn his soul to ice?
Regardless, he neither moved nor spoke, while all around us the couples drifted away. At length I said gently, “Captain. Captain!”
He came to his senses, then, and offered his arm; but as I slipped my own within it, I found that the superfine wool was damp with sweat. From the heat of his exertions? Or the weight of apprehension? “Are you quite well, Captain Woodford? Perhaps you should benefit from some punch.”
“Forgive me, Miss Austen — but my mind is so much taken up with the claims of duty — the threat of invasion—”
“And the niceties of a public ball,” I rejoined with a smile. “At such a time, I cannot think it the wisest thing the Guards have done. But I suppose Lord Forbes believes it necessary to his officers' comfort — or his lady's.”
Captain Woodford's lips twitched. “It is not in my power to support the General where his lady is concerned. He should require the strength of several, I fear. But in truth we are meant to serve as example to the populace, Miss Austen. While an officer is engaged in so honourable a duty as the dance, can the Kingdom's security be in question? Never!”
“Did you dance on the shores of Pegwell Bay, Captain, I might better believe you.”
To my surprise, the Captain's countenance turned suddenly grave. “Pegwell Bay? Of what interest should Pegwell Bay be to me?”
“Is it not the expected landing-place of the French navy?” I enquired, surprised. “I had always heard that it was. Indeed, my brother — Captain Frank Austen, of the Canopus—was tasked with the drafting of a report to that effect not two years ago. He surveyed the Kentish coast, and hit upon Pegwell as the very place for invasion. There are no heights for the enemy to gain there, you know, and the tides, I believe, are favourable for a landing.”
When Captain Woodford still said nothing, however, I added in a more subdued tone, “—But perhaps the Army's calculations have undergone a change.”
His single dark eye narrowed; then a slight confusion overcame him. The Captain had, perhaps, heard Peg-well spoken of — had thought that any number of places along the coast might serve the French equally well— was not aware that the environs of Ramsgate had fallen so much into general expectation — and would caution me against a too-free canvassing of military affairs.
“For if the entirety of Kent expects the French to land at Pegwell — and the intelligence makes its way to Boulogne — how much better for the Emperor, Miss Austen, if he should land to the south while we are all massed in the north! Better to leave him in doubt of our intentions, as a cat will do with a mouse. We cannot say too little upon the subject. Particularly with a Frenchman in our midst.”
It seemed that I had stepped where a lady should not — into the deep waters of strategy and deception— but I could not retreat without a final bold strike. “It may be dangerous, indeed, to speak too freely in such times as these. Mrs. Grey, you know, was quite familiar with Pegwell — and we would none of us wish to suffer her Fate, Captain, now would we?”
Chapter 9
A Matter of Movements
21 August 1805, cont'd.
I WAS NOT THE ONLY PARTY WHO BANTERED TOO FREELY this evening, on subjects military and otherwise. The entire Assembly was conversant with a rumour to which I had barely attended — regarding the projected movements of the Coldstream Guards.
It was Cassandra who told me of it, as we sat established over our ices during the ball's waning hour. I must say that my sister did not look very well this evening, but perhaps the duties of the sickroom at Goodnestone Farm would tell upon anyone, particularly when coupled with the necessity of packing for evacuation.[25] But she had put on her best pink gown — a colour I should never attempt, given the habitual flush of my cheeks— and her hair, though deprived of the ministrations of Mr. Hall, had been curled and arranged by Harriot Bridges's maid to admiration. Nothing was wanting, in fact, except animation and spirit. I saw the lack, and felt a stirring of anxiety. Perhaps the assiduity of Mr. Bridges's attentions had at length worked upon even so steady a heart as Cassandra's! Perhaps she was even now in an agony of doubt — uncertain whether to accept him or no. In light of my father's death, any match might appear as salvation, for one of Cassandra's limited resources.
We had fought our way towards one another through a sea of exhausted and overheated bodies — ladies with drooping headdresses and soiled white gloves, and gentlemen with florid complexions and dampened brows. However hard it might seem to endure such festivities in winter, when one is scantily clad and subject to every window's draught, I must own that I prefer a January reel to the most elegant August country dance. A roaring fire and a vigourous turn about the floor will entirely make up the deficit in natural warmth — but not even the excellent ices of Canterbury may relieve the insipidity of a Race Week ball.
“It is the talk of the neighbourhood,” Cassandra confided, her spoonful of ice arrested in mid-air. “The Grenadier Guards are to march from Deal to Chatham, while Captain Woodford's First Coldstream Guards, and the First Scots — or is it the Second? — are to march in turn from Chatham to Deal.”[26]
“I suppose it shall make a change from dancing,” I replied, “but I cannot think what they mean to effect, by the simple exchange of men. Is the appearance of soldiers about the fields of Kent intended to impress the Emperor Buonaparte, as he surveys us from the Channel? Shall we seem to be awash in red-clad men, and drive him back upon the shores of France out of terror at the sight?”
“They will pass within a stone's-toss of Goodnestone in their way,” Cassandra added, ignoring my barbs. “The country is all alive with what it might mean, Jane— sudden intelligence, perhaps, from France, of the Monster's landfall. If it were to be near Deal, only seven miles from the Farm — if dear Lady Bridges and all her household were to be driven from their beds — I do not think I could bear it! But, of course, I shall assist them in any way that I am able, with Marianne and the packing.”
“You had much better bring them all to Godmersham and leave the packing to the French,” I said crisply. “I wonder Neddie did not consider of it before. But we have been served with our own plan of evacuation, my dear, and only yesterday morning. The gallant Captain Woodford brought it himself.”
“Captain Woodford! I cannot help but like and admire him,” she said with a sigh. “There is such an expression of goodness in his looks — and the severity of his wounds must argue for the nobility of his character.”
“Does Harriot admire him as much as her whole family?” I gazed out over the floor, where a few straggling couples clung determinedly to the final measures of a dance. Among them were certainly Lizzy's little sister and the Captain, her white dress a delicate counterpoint to his dashing military colours.
“I wish it were in my power to say,” Cassandra mused. “On this subject, Harriot cannot be open. There is too great a difference in our ages — nearly ten years — and tho' much thrown together of late, we have never enjoyed the intimacy of sisters. But I suspect her heart to be a little touched. It would be unfortunate if the Guards were to be ordered out of Kent entirely.”
25
Harriot Bridges's elder sister, Marianne (1774–1811), was an invalid from childhood, and was at this time bedridden. Much of Harriot's time was spent attending her, and Cassandra was assisting in the duty while resident at Goodnestone Farm. —
26
The projected troop movements took place on August 30, 1805, as Jane reported in a letter later written from Goodnestone Farm. —