Breakfast at Godmersham is never before ten o'clock, although the children are served in the nursery far earlier. By the time our indolent Lizzy is dressed and abroad, her numerous infants are long since out-of-doors — under the supervision of Sackree, the nurse, or the long-suffering Miss Sharpe. There had been talk yesterday of an expedition with the gamekeeper, in search of wild raspberries; we should have clotted cream and fresh fruit for the Finch-Hattons at dinner.
I found the breakfast parlour quite deserted of life when at last I descended, and was allowed the consumption of tea and toast unmolested. Afterwards I hied myself to the little saloon at the back of the house, which serves the ladies of Godmersham as a sort of morning-room; here my sister Lizzy keeps a cunning little marquetry desk, well-supplied with a quantity of paper, pens, and sealing-wax. I settled myself to compose a letter to my mother — who has been happily established these several weeks in Hampshire with our dear friends, the Lloyds. She was to come to us in September, and together we intended a visit to the seaside at Weymouth. I very much feared, however, that the pleasure-trip would be put off, from a superfluity of French along the Channel coast — but saw no reason to alarm my mother. She is given to the wildest fancies at the best of times, and should require no spur at present from her youngest daughter. One source of consolation I found at least: the Lloyds took no London paper. Mrs. Austen should thus be preserved in ignorance of the sailing of the French fleet, a circumstance devoutly to be hoped. Did the rumour of invasion happen to reach her ears, she should demand her daughters' immediate removal into Hampshire — a prospect I could not regard with composure. The society of Kent was too beguiling, and the matter of Mrs. Grey's death too intriguing, to permit of a hasty departure.
My letter, as a result, was full of a great deal of nothing — a recital of the delights of Race Week, absent the interesting events of the meeting itself. I spoke of Henry's horse, of Henry's disappointment, of the scene at the grounds and the Assembly soon after — all without the slightest mention of the scandalous sensation that had torn Canterbury's peace. Such a letter, being a complex of subterfuge and delicate evasion, required considerable effort; I devoted a half-hour to the task, and had just determined to spend the rest of the morning with the admirable (if tiresome) Sorrows of Young Werther, when my industry was abruptly interrupted.[27]
The sound of a horse's hooves galloping to the door — a man's voice, raised in anger — the protest of the servants — perhaps it was another constable, come posthaste with news? I threw down my volume and stepped into the back passage.
A gentleman I had never seen before was crossing the chequered marble of the hall with a rapidity that argued extreme necessity, or a violence of temper. He must pass by where I stood to achieve the library — his obvious intention, as my brother Neddie was generally to be found within after breakfast — but aside from the briefest glance at my face, he offered no acknowledgement or courtesy. Tho' hardly above medium height, the stranger was powerfully-built, with a beautifully-moulded head and greying hair trimmed far shorter than was fashionable. Something of the regimental was writ large in his form; or perhaps it was the air of battle he wore upon his countenance. I should judge him to be about the age of forty; but perhaps it was the weight of care that had traced years upon his looks.
The manservant, Russell, sped desperately in his wake, protesting, “But, sir! I cannot be assured that Mr. Austen is at home.”
“And where else should he be, man?” the stranger cried. “For he is certainly not about his duty!”
He paused by the closed library door, however, and allowed Russell to thrust it open.
“Mr. Grey, sir, to see you.”
I suppose I should have surmised as much; but, in fact, I was quite thoroughly routed in my expectation. How anyone in Kent might describe this man as a naif — or even remotely under the thumb of his young wife— was beyond my comprehension. Valentine Grey was not a man to be bent to any woman's pleasure; he would never be dismissed to his lodgings in London, and made a fool of, the length of Kent; nor was he to be whipped into submission, as Francoise Grey had managed with at least one gentleman at the Canterbury Races. Here was a figure of energy and decision, a formidable adversary and partner. Had she quailed in her heart, the wild French miss, when presented with the man who was her husband?
Valentine Grey, in short, was not what I had expected.
The library door snapped shut behind him.
I slipped out of the saloon and made my way through the passage to the kitchens, and from thence to the still-room, where a stout garden trug and shears sat innocently on a table by the garden door. I took them up, as though intent upon the culling of flowers for this evening's dinner — and stepped outside quite unremarked.
After the dim quiet of the saloon, the force of morning sunlight was like a blow against the cheek. I had come away without my bonnet. It was this sort of behaviour, my mother was forever reminding me, that brought freckles to the neatest complexion. But I cared little for such things at present; my complexion was spoilt beyond repair, and had been these three years at least. I hastened towards the swath of cornflowers and lavender that ran riot on either side of the library's French windows, pausing to clip a stem or two from each nodding plant. Neddie had thrust open a window to admit of the breeze; and the murmur of voices rose and swelled before ever I attained my object.
“You can be at no loss to understand why I have come.”
“Indeed, Mr. Grey, I am unable to account for the honour of seeing you here. Pray sit down.”
“Thank you — but I prefer to stand.”
There was the sound of a man pacing; an impatient expulsion of breath; and I had an idea of Valentine Grey come to rest before the barren hearth, and staring unseeing into the grate.
“Then pray tell me how I might be of service,” Neddie said, “for I perceive that you are greatly distressed.”
“Who would not be, circumstanced as I am?” From the sound of it, Mr. Grey had wheeled to face my brother. His next words had all the viciousness of a challenge. “You have spoken with the Comte de Penfleur, sir!”
“I was so fortunate as to make the Comte's acquaintance last evening — yes,” my brother acknowledged.
“And what sort of lies has he been telling you?”
“Lies?” Neddie could affect astonishment as readily as any of the Austens. “I cannot think why the Comte should lie to me, Mr. Grey — a virtual stranger, and one charged with the resolution of his ward's murder. But perhaps you may enlighten me.”
“Because he is a blackguard of the worst sort — a cunning insinuator, a seducer of other men's wives, a man without scruple or bar to his malice. Because he hates me as surely as he breathes, Mr. Austen, and has made it his object in life to destroy me.”
In another man, such language might have sounded preposterous — the stuff of a Cheltenham tragedy. Grey's quiet vehemence, however, spoke all his conviction; he said nothing more than what he believed to be the truth, and had suffered beyond endurance. — Or so I concluded, as I bent low over a clump of lavender.
“You speak of the Comte de Penfleur who is even now resident in your house, Mr. Grey?” My brother's voice was incredulous.
“I do.”
“You welcome such a man into your home — a man you regard with contempt and abhorrence, a man you acknowledge as your enemy?”
“My wife is dead, Mr. Austen, and will be buried tomorrow.” Grey's words fell with infinite weariness. “I cannot deny the head of her family admittance to the rites. The Comte arrived, I may assure you, with the intention of removing Francoise to the Continent for burial. It is only due to the extreme heat of the weather, and the advanced decay of the corpse, that she is allowed to remain here. Indeed, had the Comte been capable of swaying his father a year since, Francoise should never have left France at all. Hippolyte has charged me most bitterly with neglect, in the event of her death.”