Chapter 6

Pits and Pitfalls

7 September, cont.

THE DRIVE WAS HARDLY A LONG ONE, FOR MR. CRAWFORD'S FOSSIL site was among the cliffs below Charmouth about two miles from Lyme, and indeed, but a stone's throw from the heights of the Grange. And so, the penalty for cowardice being the loss of such a pleasure party, I bowed to Fate and allowed Mr. Sidmouth to hand me up onto the barouche's box, and waited stiff-backed while he settled himself beside me, and took up the team's reins. I had never before had the occasion to watch a gentleman drive four-in-hand, and must declare myself quite fascinated; his strong, broad fingers in their leather driving gloves seemed endowed with a particular sensibility, that read the intentions of each animal's mouth almost before it was itself aware of them. As we headed east up the long coastal road, however, the team picked up speed; and the effects of wind and motion so high upon an unprotected seat almost unnerved me. I would not allow myself the indulgence of giving way — no feminine shrieks, no pitiful hands clutching at Mr. Sidmouth's arm — but rather maintained a stoic appearance as I swayed beside him; and if my jaw was clenched and my fingers knotted, I pray he was too intent upon the road to spare either a thought.

“How fortunate that the weather is fine,” he said, after a time, “and yet, not too fine — not so very dry that we should have a cloud of dust before and behind. One wants a little rain at night, when one embarks upon a plan of driving.”

“Mr. Crawford is very good to think of us, and to endeavour to afford so many so much pleasure,” I said.

“Crawford is always bent upon pleasing. It is his chief fault.”

“His fault! Can goodwill and generosity ever be so considered?”

“When they lead to obligation, I believe they can,” Mr. Sidmouth replied. “Cholmondeley Crawford is a wealthy man, and may have the pleasure of doing as he likes; but some of those he entertains, cannot afford to treat him in a like manner, and the mortification of it goes unnoticed by the man himself. If the distinctions of rank have any value, it would seem that they should be preserved, if only to prevent embarrassment.”

“If this is a fault, then Mr. Crawford has chosen wisely,” I cried. “I should rather be charged with doing too much, of being too easy, than of being above my company. Pride is a quality I abhor beyond all things. However justified by the accomplishments of the possessor, it renders the power to do good, onerous when once bestowed. We none of us like condescension when it is offered.”

“Very true. Condescension, and officiousness — the unwonted interference of others in our private affairs.”

He spoke with an edge of bitterness, as if at a painful recollection; and unbidden, Captain Fielding's face arose in my mind. His opinion of Mr. Sidmouth was so very bad; and yet, so kind and generous a gentleman as Mr. Crawford counted the master of High Down among his intimate friends. It was a puzzle.

“And what is your fault, Mr. Sidmouth?” I enquired, bracing my right hand against the seat as the barouche rounded a ragged curve.

“Following my own inclination, when I should consider the needs of others,” he said, without hesitation. “You will notice, for example, that I drive to suit myself, rather than in deference to your fear of heights and speed. But having observed your hand clutching at the seat, I cannot persist; I must imagine the rest of the party to be similarly incommoded.” He sawed at the reins, and glanced over his shoulder at the four heads bobbing behind; all were engaged in animated discussion, the sense of which was drowned in the tumult of hooves and wheels; and none, to my eye, looked the slightest bit discomfited.

“To follow one's inclination first, is the habit of a solitary man,” I observed.

“And how then have I acquired it? For I can hardly be called a hermit.”

“I did not mean you wanted a household,” I replied. “Only that a household cannot claim the consideration that a family might.”

“Ah! The wife and children!” he said, with some amusement. “Yes — I admire your circumspection, Miss Jane Austen of Bath. It is rare for a young lady in my company not to broach the subject of marriage within an hour's acquaintance; and you have withstood the test now several days. But I fear my habits are not conducive to a settled life. For domestic bliss, you must search elsewhere.”

“I spoke but in the general way!” I cried, mortified. “I meant only to illustrate my point, by describing your situation.”

“But you have not described it as you should,” he replied. “For I do not live alone. There is my cousin Seraphine.”

I must have flushed hotly at the name, for his eyes, when they glanced my way, narrowed shrewdly.

“You have heard something to her discredit. I am sure of it.”

“Of your cousin I have heard little — and that, only praise. But of yourself, Mr. Sidmouth—” I faltered, and searched for a means of carrying on. “I hear such conflicting reports of your character, that I confess I know not what to think.”

“If you would draw my likeness from the opinion of men such as Percival Fielding, you cannot hope to capture it truly.”

“Captain Fielding appears all that is honourable,” I replied, stiffening.

“Appears! Aye, he appears to be a great deal.” At this, Sidmouth laughed with contempt, but his countenance was decidedly angry. “He has sunk Mademoiselle LeFevre before the eyes of all Lyme. The sorrow Fielding has caused — the pain — I tremble to think of it, Miss Austen.”

“How can you speak so!” I said, my attitude all indignation. I clutched involuntarily at the seat's edge as the barouche began to descend towards the Charmouth shingle. A broad sea vista was spread before us — breathtaking in the extreme — but I was too intent upon my thoughts to give it proper notice. “You, Mr. Sidmouth, who should have been your cousin's protector! You — who are responsible for reducing her to misery of the acutest kind! I wonder at your encompassing a man so honourable as the Captain — his motives all disinterested, his aims merely just — in the ruin of Mademoiselle LeFevre! Your own sense of decency, Mr. Sidmouth — of respect for the duties of a gentleman — must cry out against it!”

His countenance paled above his bitten lips, and his gaze, levelled as it was over the horses’ heads, became stony. “I would beg you to speak no more to me, madam, of Captain Fielding,” he said. “You cannot know what is toward between that gentleman and myself, and I shall not stoop to deriding him to others, as it has suited him to serve me.”

“I am glad to know you retain some claims to the honour of a gentleman,” I replied tartly; and so we pulled up before Mr. Crawford's fossil works, in silence and some confusion of emotions the one towards the other.

“MY DEAR MR. CRAWFORD,” MY FATHER EXCLAIMED, AS HE advanced upon that gentleman with hand extended, “I quite revel in this opportunity to view your pits! What industry, on behalf of science! What energy, towards the greater glorification of God!”

Mr. Crawford stood in his shirtsleeves (for the day was decidedly warm), his bald head shielded by a monstrous hat. The redness of his countenance testified to the energy with which he had been stooping and carrying the small articles of stone laid neatly to one side upon a blanket; and the weariness of the two men employed in his behalf, who worked deep in a quarry hewn from the cliff face with picks and trowels, spoke eloquently of the labour undergone. The heat was intensified by a smallish fire ignited near a bellows, where Mr. Crawford's men might repair such tools as required attention, on a crude sort of forge; and all about lay piles of rubble, the detritus of scientific endeavour.