“Or the Captain himself run through with a French sword somewhere between Chatham and Deal,” I observed callously. “He might at least declare himself to Harriot before the unhappy event, so that she might cherish her interesting state. A girl who is only the object of a hero's regard, has never the eclat of a bereaved intended.”
“Jane! How can you!”
Too late I remembered Cassandra's own condition— the loss of her betrothed some eight years before. I bit my lip, and wished my own bitter humour might be kept in better check. But too late! The words were said; and I should not declare them orphans now.
“I speak so because I must, my dear. A degree of general indifference is the only surety against peculiar pain. What a lot of people are killed in these wars, to be sure— and how fortunate that one cares for none of them! If Fly or Charles should be struck on the quarterdeck by a French twenty-four-pounder, a part of me would go over the rail at their side.”
“Do not speak of it, I beg,” Cassandra said softly. “I know that you have borne a great deal of late — the loss of Mrs. Lefroy, and our own dear Papa — but you mourn too much for them, Jane. They would not wish it so. Papa, I am sure, did not regret his life in leaving it.”
I nodded blindly, my gaze obscured by a sudden film of tears; and then turned the conversation with effort. “And so the Guards are to march from Deal! I wonder how much Major-General Lord Forbes really knows — and how much he merely hazards?”
“I am sure that all such manoeuvres are so much Blindman's Buff,” Cassandra replied, “tho' Buonaparte would have us all believe him omniscient, and as infallible as Rome. The gentlemen of the neighbourhood, including Mr. Bridges, are in an uproar over the intended troop movements — for it is rumoured they shall come but a day or two before the commencement of pheasant season. The sportsmen are all alive with the fear that the birds shall be disturbed — flushed from their manors, or poached out of hand for an infantryman's dinner.”
“It should not be surprising that the credit of our neighbours' game-bags must come before the safety of the Kingdom,” I said with conscious irony. “Apropos of manoeuvres, my dear, how have you fared in your skirmish with the sporting Mr. Bridges?”
Cassandra blushed and averted her eyes, a perfect picture of consciousness. “Mr. Bridges! Aye, you may well laugh at my persecution, Jane! I should like to know how you should fare against the weight of his blandishments, for a fortnight together! Mr. Bridges is excessively teasing. Did you observe that I was forced to stand up with him for full three dances this evening? I only escaped a fourth by pleading the head-ache.”
“Three dances! That is very singular, indeed,” I observed mildly. “Another man might consider it too particular — but perhaps he believes that his being Lizzy's brother must do away with such nice distinction.”
“He is not so very much our relation, Jane, as to make me forget what is due to propriety,” Cassandra said with some distress. “Do not think that I am ignorant of his object. He hopes to secure my affections — and he has made himself repugnant in the process! Where once I might have found his gallantries flattering — his poses amusing — his wit even tolerable — he is become entirely disgusting! There is a lack of sincerity in all he says that has made his society intolerable.”
“Poor Mr. Bridges! — To have lost that interest he particularly hoped to secure. Did I not feel moved to laugh at him heartily, I should pity him a good deal.”
“I was much taken with the import of your last letter,” my sister confided, in a lowered tone. “I must assure you, Jane, that Mr. Bridges has hardly been easy since Mrs. Grey's death. He barely speaks a word, and never leaves the house, unless it is to accompany myself or Harriot on some trifling errand. And yet, you know he was never to be found within doors if he could help it! There were weeks on end, when no one at the Farm had the slightest idea of his whereabouts, or whether he should be home to dinner! The change is very marked.”
“Perhaps he cannot bear to be parted from you, my dear.”
“Do not teaze me, Jane. It is very unkind in you, I am sure.”
I pressed her hand in apology and said, “You believe the change in his behaviour to date from Mrs. Grey's murder. Can you detect any reason for his seclusion? Has he let fall the slightest syllable that might explain his extraordinary conduct?”
“He moves as tho' in the grip of fear,” Cassandra replied, with utter seriousness, “and I have even thought, indeed, that he half-expects to suffer Mrs. Grey's fate.”
My eyes widened. “Mr. Bridges, to be torn from his riding habit and strangled with his own hair-ribbon? Impossible!”
“Jane!”
“Forgive me. I could not suppress the notion. But what could possibly give rise to such a fanciful dread, Cassandra? Who should wish to murder Mr. Bridges?”
My sister glanced knowingly about the room before she answered. “Mr. Valentine Grey.”
That the reserved and ill-humoured banker should have the slightest idea of the curate's existence, was amusing in the extreme; and I confess I laughed out loud.
“Is it not obvious?” Cassandra cried. “You told me yourself that Mr. Bridges was found in the lady's saloon, on the very night of her murder, rifling the drawers of her writing-desk. He was desperate to secure the letter discovered between the pages of the scandalous French novel — the letter that proposed a meeting at midnight on the shores of Pegwell, and a subsequent flight to the Continent.”
“But does Mr. Bridges possess a passable command of French?”
“Naturally! All the Bridgeses are most accomplished in that line!” In her enthusiasm for her theory, Cassandra abandoned the last of her ice and leaned towards me eagerly. “I am certain that he believes himself the agent of Mrs. Grey's end — that his dangerous passion for the lady precipitated her death at the hands of her husband, and that Mr. Grey merely awaits a suitable opportunity to serve vengeance, in turn, upon her lover! Mr. Bridges cannot know that his letter was found among the lady's things. He fears only that he is discovered by the husband, and dares not stir beyond the Farm's threshold.”
“—Except to attend the inquest,” I amended slowly. “He would desire to learn everything that was known of her end, of course.”
“Is it not a delightful idea?” my sister prodded.
“It is not without its merits, Cassandra. But why, then, should Mr. Bridges quarrel with Captain Woodford? Or stand idly by, while Mr. Collingforth is charged with murder?”
“As to that, I cannot tell,” she replied with a shrug. “I cannot solve all your mysteries for you, Jane. I am placed to disadvantage, marooned at the Farm. I shall hope to do better, when once we have exchanged our places.”
“It is quite a settled matter, then, that I shall go to Goodnestone Farm? Pray — when is the delightful prospect to take place?”
“Whenever Mr. Bridges has proposed, and been refused,” Cassandra said wickedly. “I cannot be expected to remain within the bosom of the family, once that regrettable episode is sustained.”
“When may we expect the elegant curate to come to the point? I have my packing to consider.”
A sudden stiffening in Cassandra's looks alerted me to a subtle change. Her gaze was fixed a few inches above my head, and that the self-same Mr. Bridges now hovered there, all civility and attention, I immediately surmised. I turned and found his good-natured, slightly anxious face bent upon us both. I say bent — for the height of his collar points, and the stiffness of his cravat, rendered any but the most exaggerated movements from waist to neck impossible.