“Has she so little acquaintance among the neighbourhood?”
“I am afraid that Kent has not embraced the Greys as it should,” Lizzy replied. “But, then, Mrs. Grey is very young—”
“—and very French,” I concluded.
Lizzy nodded abstractedly, her eyes still fixed on the shabby chaise. “That cannot be agreeable, at such a time.”
The London papers have been full of nothing but the rumour of invasion the entire summer. Buonaparte's dreaded army, which is said to number some one hundred thousand men, sits but a stone's toss across the Channel from Kent, and many of the less stalwart families among our acquaintance have quitted the neighbourhood for safer regions far from the sea, until the danger should be passed.
“A lesser woman than Mrs. Grey might find her situation awkward,” I observed, “and adopt a retiring appearance; but that has hardly been the lady's choice.”
Lizzy laughed abruptly. “Retirement would never be Mrs. Grey's preference. I fear she endures our company better than we suffer hers!— Tho' I cannot think why she remains in Kent; London should prove a better field for her appetites and pursuits. Perhaps the country air suits her — or, more to the point, her horses.”
“She has set up her stable?” I enquired.
“—And is passionate about the turf. Some one of her racers is entered in the Commodore's heat, no doubt, and thus we may account for her extraordinary behaviour in strolling about the meeting-grounds. She considers herself quite one of the Sporting Set, and spends a fortune, it is said, on the comfort of her mounts.”
“Her husband must be in possession of easy circumstances, then.”
“Mrs. Grey has never had the appearance of a pauper,” Lizzy observed enviously. “I, for one, cannot afford her modiste. My pin money should never run to such sums. You observed the cut of that habit, I presume? The quantity of gold frogging about the neck and bosom? And having displayed it to all of Canterbury, she should never presume to wear it again.”
“Well, well.” I sighed. “The French are known for their ruinous habits, I believe. Perhaps she shall run through her husband's fortune, and serve as spectacle for us all. We cannot do without a little amusement, the news from the Channel being so very bad.”
Lizzy threw me a mocking glance. “We are not all without resources, Jane. Some little money attaches to the lady herself. She is said to be the ward of a French banking family — de Penfleur by name, although her own was Lamartine. Grey married her for her connexions, I believe.”
The judgement was callously expressed, but was no more than Lizzy should serve upon any number of her acquaintance. It is rare to marry for love, as my brother has done. Calculation is the more general advocate of worldly alliance, as every baronet's daughter must know.
“She must be new to the neighbourhood,” I replied, “for I cannot think I have ever met her before.”
“She has been resident in Kent but seven months, and her husband, Mr. Valentine Grey, acceded to his estate only three years ago. You may have heard me speak of it — The Larches. It is one of the finest places in England, Jane. Perhaps we shall pay a call there, one day, if you persist in your fascination for the lady.”
I frowned. “The Larches! But is not that only a few miles from Goodnestone? How have we never come to meet them before?”
Lizzy's childhood home, Goodnestone Park, is a lovely old place some seven miles from Godmersham. Her elder brother, Sir Brooke-William Bridges, acceded to the tide nearly fifteen years ago, and at his marriage to a respectable young woman, Lizzy's mother retired to Goodnestone Farm a mile distant from the great house. My sister Cassandra has been gone on a visit to Lady Bridges and her unmarried daughters this fortnight, but her letters have made no reference to any neighbours, near or far.
“The Greys do not mix very much in Society, Jane. He is the principal member of a great banking firm— and however genteel a profession, it remains one that many still consider to be trade.” Lizzy glanced sidelong at this, to see how I should take it; for banker or no, Henry has always been my favourite brother, and I have no patience with snobbery of any kind. “And as Mr. Grey has been resident in these parts only a little while, moreover, he cannot be said to be truly of the neighbourhood.”
“No,” I rejoined with a touch of irony, “for that he should have been forced to endure his infancy here, and have married the daughter of a local worthy — a Miss Taylor of Bifrons Park, perhaps, or one of the Wildmans of Chilham Castle.” Kent, for all its wealth and easy manners, can be a very closed society; it suffers from a touch of the provincial, as every country neighbourhood must.
“Perhaps I have not done as much for Mrs. Grey as I ought,” Lizzy admitted, “but I like her too little to further the acquaintance. She is far too young, far too pretty, and far too much of a temptation to the local bloods to stand my friend; such a woman must always be seen in the light of competition. I confess, Jane, that I have withdrawn from the field, rather than tilt with such an adversary.”
“Lizzy! You may command any number of dashing young gentlemen with the slightest curl of your finger! You know it to be true!”
“—Unless they have already accepted one of Mrs. Grey's dangerous card-parties,” Lizzy retorted. “You can have no notion, Jane, of the fascination the woman exerts. My own brother has fallen victim to her charms; and yet, she cannot be more than two-and-twenty!”
“—With all the cunning of a Countess Jersey,” I mused.[5] “And Mr. Grey? He cares nothing for his wife's reputation?”
“Mr. Grey is often from home on business. He maintains a house in Town, and spends the better part of his time there. He is certainly not in evidence today.” Lizzy's gaze roved restlessly among the crowd, and her attention was immediately diverted. “Only look! Captain Woodford and my brother!”
“Captain Woodford! Uncle Bridges!” little Fanny cried, and sprang up from her perch near Miss Sharpe, waving a napkin at the pair. “Do come and tell us! How do the horses appear? Is the Commodore stamping to be off?”
“They have not yet approached the starter's mark, Miss Fanny,” Captain Woodford called jovially as he achieved the barouche, “but I have called upon your champion in his stall, and must declare him in excellent form! As worthy of the plate as any horse lately born. Ladies, your humble and devoted.” He swept off his hat with a smart military bow, and we murmured our salutations.
Captain Woodford is a favourite with Lizzy — and did I not believe calculation and cunning quite beneath the daughter of a baronet, I should declare that she intends to secure him for her little sister Harriot. Though well past his first youth and decidedly not handsome, being marred by an eye patch that covers half his brow, the Captain is blessed in possessing a sunny nature that renders all misfortune delight, and cannot fail of finding solace in the simplest of pleasures. In Captain Wood-ford's company one is always assured of good sense, good humour, and honest feeling. I like him the better for his eye patch, as being the outer mark of a life lived honourably in the service of his country.
The Captain is all admiration for Harriot Bridges's fresh countenance, while she is wont to blush at the first glimpse of his red coat. And as to rank or fortune, there can be no objection — for she is the daughter of a baronet, and must be possessed of a competence; while the Captain is the second son of a viscount, and holds an excellent commission in the Coldstream Guards, presently quartered at Deal against the advent of the French.
“Lord, Lizzy, but it is hot! Give me some ginger beer like a good sister, and pray do not be telling our mother in what state you found me.” Mr. Edward Bridges, Lizzy's younger brother, mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief by way of a courtesy, and accepted the glass that Miss Sharpe proffered. “Woodford and I are just come from a capital little cocking ring set up on the edge of the course, and a pretty penny we lost there, too. I shall depend upon your Commodore to restore our fortunes.”
5
Frances, Countess Jersey, was finally deceased by August 1805; but not before her ruthless methods had once enslaved the much younger Prince of Wales. —