“But the trusty did not learn the courier's intelligence himself?”
“Are you suggesting,” Lizzy enquired in a menacing tone, “that all this effort at removal is so much parade and poppycock?”
“Not at all,” Neddie assured her hastily. “Tho' hardly brilliant, Lord Forbes is a careful man. His devotion to his duty is legendary. He believed the moment ripe for a plan of evacuation, in the event that Buonaparte is upon the seas; but nothing certain can be known of the Emperor's movements.”
“The General regards this trusty as so worthy of credence?” I asked.
“That I cannot say, being ignorant of the particulars. But I should guess that Lord Forbes has drawn a hasty conclusion, in the belief that no French courier might achieve these shores without the assistance of an invading fleet. He suspects our Navy is routed — but I cannot believe so much. Grey himself assures me that any number of couriers might traverse the Channel with letters of safe passage; and what a man of the world regards as commonplace, a gentleman farmer should never question.”
“Then are we to live in this suspense,” Lizzy cried, “never knowing whether we are to be turned from our beds?”
Neddie shrugged. “Such are the vagaries of war, my dearest. We might have removed to Town like our more fearful neighbours, several months since, and viewed the present chaos from a position of comfort; but we placed our faith in the protection of the Guards. Wood-ford informs me that if the French are sighted, the Canterbury beacon tower shall be fired. Until the flames go up in the night, we have nothing to fear; but if the faggots are lit, we must be ready to fly.”
“Everything but our writing desks and the silver plate must remain.” Lizzy glanced around with regret “Oh, that I might strangle the fiend Buonaparte myself upon the shores of Pegwell! To think, that he shall have the run of our home — his officers plundering our cellars, his men butchering our pigs, and the rest scrawling careless French boot-blacking in great streaks across our marble floors!”
“If the Emperor chooses to take up residence,” Neddie advised, “we may consider ourselves fortunate. He might as easily set fire to the place. Content yourself with a minimal removal, my dear, and pray that we shall find ourselves unpacking the lot, in a few weeks' time. We shall all of us strip to our shirtsleeves, and throw our backs into the endeavour. A few hours may see the worst of it behind us.”
“Not if I hope to carry myself with credit at the Assembly tomorrow evening,” Lizzy retorted. “A little of the work must be deferred. I cannot expect to do you justice, Neddie (pray forgive the unfortunate pun), without I spend some time under Mr. Hall's hands. Only consider the state of my hair!”
Since Lizzy appeared to distinct advantage, the slight blush of her exertions merely adding to her charms, I could not suppress a smile. “As I have long been the despair of the fashionable Mr. Hall,” I told her, “I shall take myself off to the nursery at once, and see to the children's things.”
I FOUND THE UPPER STOREYS IN THE THROES OF packing — and a fretful business it was, with far too many female voices raised in a quest for primacy. Mrs. Salkeld, the housekeeper, thought it necessarily her province to carry out Elizabeth's instructions — except in milady's own apartments, where Sayce, milady's maid, was adamant in claiming pride of place. The pitch of argument ran perilously high until milady herself, in her languid voice, banished both women to the ground floor of the house under threat of imminent dismissal.
When I went in search of Anne Sharpe, I found the case no better served in the attics — for among the children's things, Mrs. Salkeld had both the governess and the nursemaid, Sackree, to contend with. I drew Miss Sharpe firmly into the schoolroom and left the two older women — well-matched adversaries of longstanding — to sort out the playthings and smallclothes of nine different children, along with their trunks, bedding, keepsakes, and sundry animals, a menagerie that included three kittens, two grass snakes, and an ailing hedgehog.
“My dear Miss Sharpe,” I said, “you must allow me to assist you with the backboards and the instruction books. Surely you cannot expect to manage all this alone!”
The schoolroom is a sparsely-furnished, whitewashed, sloping-roofed apartment tucked into a dormer of the great house. A shelf of stout books was ranged under one window; several samplers lay cast aside on a little stool, and a paint-box — probably Fanny's — sat forgotten on a table. A rage for transparencies several years back had left the windowpanes dotted with a scene or two, and a similar passion for silhouette-drawing had made of the walls an indifferent family portrait gallery — but otherwise the space can have few charms, particularly for one of Anne Sharpe's native elegance. Its windows too small and warped to permit of much air, and its grate insufficient for the extent of the space, the schoolroom is perishingly hot in summer and draughty in winter. Such healthful conditions, I believe, are considered necessary to the rearing of children — who must not be coddled in their formative years, or encouraged in the practise of luxury. I should never charge Neddie or Lizzy with a want of interest in their children's welfare — the number of persons consigned to the little ones' care is testament to their parents' liberality — but I might regard them as suffering from a certain lack of imagination. They rear their children as they themselves were raised — or, perhaps I should say, as Lizzy was raised. Her childhood was a progression from nursemaid to governess and thence to a fashionable school in Town — a period spent almost entirely in the upper floors of Goodnestone Farm. A child of privilege might live the better part of its life in a warren of nursery rooms, sleeping, playing, learning, and dining, all without descending the stairs! Thus are the scions of a baronet raised, in a world quite removed from their parents.
Neddie's case, until he came to Godmersham in his sixteenth year, was very different, indeed — for tho' in our infancy my mother put us all out to nurse with a woman in the village, our childish days were spent in a splendid hurly-burly of crowded rooms and shared beds.
When I gaze at these attics, I cannot help but think that a sensitive little soul might shrink under their influence, as a delicate plant will wither in a gale. How much more might be accomplished, for the enlargement of a young mind, in an atmosphere of cheerful contentment!
“Indeed,” objected Anne Sharpe, “you are too solicitous, Miss Austen. I am sure to manage these few things very well alone, and must beg you to turn your energies where they might be of greater use. Pray offer your assistance to Mrs. Austen, who must greatly require it, and allow me to order my province.” And then, with a little hesitation— “It is hardly of such moment, you know, if a few primers fall in the hands of the French.”
“I only thought that you might be feeling unwell,” I returned, “and might require a partner in your endeavour. I suffer myself from the head-ache on occasion, and must pity any of its victims.”
Miss Sharpe blushed, and turned away. “I am quite recovered, I thank you. The necessity of quitting this place has entirely revived me. I cannot be low when so much of an urgent nature is toward. And we shall be leaving quite soon! I should not like Mr. Austen to find me behindhand in my work, when the moment for departing Kent is upon us.”
I regarded her curiously. There was a slight feverishness to her looks — a hectic tumble to her words — that seemed at variance with their sense. She spoke of duty, to be sure — she expressed herself as under an obligation that might not be deferred — but from her aspect it almost seemed that she was wild to be free of Kent. Were the associations of this place, then, entirely unhappy?