“Hate me if you will, Mademoiselle. Believe what you will. It is no concern of mine,’” I rejoined, with an effort at calm. “I care only for the facts. Were you within the Grange's walls, the night of Fielding's murder?”

“Why should I answer you?”

“Because the more knowledge I have, the more likely that I will find the truth; and that can only help us all. Even did I prove your cousin guilty, we might draw comfort from the certainty. Would you rather continue in ignorance, and allow blind luck to determine the outcome?”

“No,” she said reluctantly. “Though you will understand that the truth makes not a particle of difference to me. I care nothing for your justice. I care only for Geoffrey. But if the world believes him guilty, he shall certainly die. I am not so wilful I do not see the danger.”

“Will you answer me, then?”

The need for hope and the desire to thwart me struggled for mastery in her face. “I was within the Grange all night. I did not stir beyond its doors, as the housekeeper, Mary, may vouch. You were correct, when you said we had guests abovestairs. She and I were much occupied in tending to them.”

“A smuggler's crew?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. You saw yourself what a friend my cousin has been to them.”

“A friend? Not their leader?”

She did not answer.

“How many horses are stabled at the Grange, Mademoiselle?”

“Eight,” she answered, without hesitation. “A matched pair for the curricle, and Satan, of course; four draft horses for the farm; and my own mount.”

“And do all bear the same sort of shoes?”

“Stamped with Geoffrey's initials, you mean? Of course. Any of the horses might have left those prints.”

“Any, that were the same size, and bore the same weight,” I replied thoughtfully, “for the height of the horse and the heft of its mount, must severely affect the impressions.”

“That is true!” she cried. “Geoffrey is a tall, well-built fellow, and Satan the same. Not every horse could make a print like that stallion's, when Geoffrey is upon him.”

“Not, for example, yourself.”

“No,” she replied, with a bitter smile. “My Elf is a dainty lady. The draft horses, however, with a man astride, might manage it.”

“There is also the curious affair, Mademoiselle, of the white lily.”

“Yes,” she murmured, her gaze shifting. “It is curious, indeed.”

“Have you any notion what it might signify?”

“I fear that I do not. It is simply one more confusion amidst all that is bewildering.”

“I wondered if it might not refer to the Captain's name.”

“His name?”

“Yes. Le Chevalier. The tide Fielding won from his service to you.”

She winced. “I do not pretend to understand you, Miss Austen.”

“A French flower for a French knight,” I said patiently. “Is not the fleur-de-lys a white lily?” A symbol of a country's trampled greatness, like the absurd tide Fielding bore. But what, then, was the significance of the flower left by the hanged Bill Tibbit?

“I wonder, Miss Austen, that you think you might affect the odds in this way,” Seraphine said, breaking into my thoughts. “For what can a woman do, in a proceeding so determined by men? Had not Geoffrey better stand his chance, in a world in which he is at least an equal, unlike ourselves?” But for the steadiness of her sombre gaze, I might almost have believed her to be mocking me.

“I have never been willing to admit that inequality,” I told her. “I spend the better part of my life endeavouring to redress it. But no matter. If all did but bend their efforts to determining your cousin's guilt or innocence, some resolution might speedily be found. I do but contribute my part, as I am sure Mr. Crawford will, and even Mr. Dagliesh.”

“I have seen enough of their parts today.”

“Their hands were tied.”

“Then I do not want their hands further in the matter,” she rejoined with animosity.

“Very well,” I said. “But that cannot prevent you from sharing what you know with me. I cannot emphasise enough, Mademoiselle, that some part of the conviction of your cousin's guilt arises from the general perception that he hated Captain Fielding. What possible reason can he have had, for doing so?”

In her look of contemptuous dismissal, I fancied I read the same disdain her long-dead mother must have shown the guillotine. “I am not inclined to tell you, Miss Austen, and certainly not without Geoffrey's approval. It would seem too great a betrayal.”

“And if your cousin dies as a result of your silence, you foolish girl?” I cried.

“He will not.”

“But of course he will!”

She shrugged, all of France in the gesture, and stared into the middle distance. I saw that whatever influence I had held over her mind, had begun to slip away.

“You were ready enough to speak this afternoon, before the coroner,” I threw out, in one final attempt. “You very nearly then revealed everything to do with your affairs, and gladly, in an effort to save your cousin's neck.”

“But as you saw, Miss Austen,” she replied with chilling calm, “my cousin did not wish it It was his words that stopped my mouth before Mr. Carpenter, and yours shall certainly never loose it.”

“Tho’ you hazard the risk of sealing his guilt?”

“Even so. I must trust in Geoffrey's determination of what is right; and further importuning must be useless. I must beg you to cease. We have spoken long enough.”

I saw from her looks that she was quite determined, and so I rose with a sigh, and turned for the door.

“You shall have but a few days for the consideration of your cousin's fate,” I said, “when every hour is precious. If ever you determine to seek some assistance with your burden of confidence, know that I stand ready to help you bear it.”

“And if you, Miss Austen, can ever admit what you feel for Geoffrey,” she replied, “then we shall both know where we stand. But until then, I believe I shall keep my own counsel.”

“And I shall pursue my own path,” I said, with some asperity. “For the cause of justice will not suffer indifference, Mademoiselle.”

“Justice, Miss Austen?” she said mockingly; and turned her head away. But her laughter followed me down the length of the passageway, and I confess it disturbed me more than I should like. There was too much of Eliza's knowing in it.

Chapter 18

The Sagacity of Fathers

21 September 1804, cont.

I FOUND MY FATHER ENSCONCED IN A DIM CORNER OF THE LION, HIS book open upon his lap. My mother had long since departed the inn to pay a call upon an acquaintance — an intelligence I received with some relief, as I had feared her too-eager canvassing of Seraphine LeFevre's affairs in so public a place. I could now avail myself of my father's advice without concern for interruption; and so, as he gathered up his things, I suggested we take a turn along the Cobb. A dubious proposition for one of my father's unsteady gait; but the day was fair enough, and the wind not of a strength to overwhelm. He appeared surprised at the suggestion, but ready enough to seize the opportunity for exercise; and thus we set off, companionably arm-in-arm.

“And so, Jane — what is your opinion of this sad business of Sidmouth's? I should enjoy a share in your thoughts at the present; for I know that your acquaintances among the great have taught you much about scandal and violence,” my father began. That he referred to Isobel Payne, and her nephew Fitzroy (who were even now upon the point of uniting once more the titles of Countess and Earl of Scargrave), I immediately understood.

“I fear that my singular experience of two winters past prepared me for nothing in the present case — unless it be a greater tendency to question the truth of everything I hear, and to assume that the persons appointed to safeguard the law, are little likely to look beyond the most obvious construction of events,”I replied. “But I would gladly share my intelligence, Father, if you will promise in return some measure of perspicacity.”